Shadow of Eden (11 page)

“Oh yes. Much.”

“Did she use any street drugs?”

“No, never. I think she smoked some pot in college.” She smiled faintly, “But none recently.”

“What about medications?”

“Well, quite a bit, I’m afraid. She has bad allergies and takes Claritin. She took lots of Advil and Tylenol for her headaches, also Eden for her weight. She took bus—or butt—something or other for her nerves.”

“Buspar?” Steve suggested, scribbling everything down.

“That’s it.”

“Anything else?”

“Vitamins, lots of them. Bee pollen, Q ten or something, multivitamins and St. John’s wort, and some energy formula. I forget what it was called.”

“Can you bring them in for the nurse to write them all down?”

“Okay, if you think it will help. Oh, yeah, she took an asthma inhaler, but I have no idea what the name is, and some nasal spray for her allergies, some cortisone or something.”

Steve looked at the list. “That is quite a lot.” He capped his pen and put it back into his pocket. “I’m worried about her, Edith, and I don’t know what’s causing this yet.”

“She’s only twenty-four. She shouldn’t be sick. It should be me.” She held her daughter’s hand.

Steve nodded. “I know. Our children should never get sick.” Opening his black bag, he laid out his equipment for his exam. He checked her eyes, facial muscles, sensation, and hearing. Her twitching caused some problems with muscle testing, but she had no clear-cut weakness or reflex abnormalities. As he put his instruments back into his bag, his fingers touched his thimble-sized jar of camphor, making him recall Dr. Walker’s comment about Captain Palmer’s loss of smell.

“Shirley, can you smell things?”

“I think so.”

“How do things taste?”

“Awful. I can’t taste anything.”

Holding his open jar of camphor under her nose, he said, “What do you smell?”

She sniffed, gingerly at first, and then inhaled more deeply. “Am I supposed to smell something?”

Steve sniffed himself just to make sure. Yes, still strong, like Mentholatum.

Shirley had twitches, delusions, and headaches, but nothing on exam except myoclonus. She also had no readily identifiable cause of her illness and, like Captain Palmer, Shirley had lost her sense of smell.

Outside, at the nurse’s station, he wrote an order to move her to the Intensive Care Unit and, after double-checking the chart, he ordered a brain MRI.

He figured he already knew what it would show.

Chapter 21

S
ecretary Resnick arrived ten minutes late to the White House National Security Briefing to find CIA Director George Bingham already in the process of updating the President on the China situation. Quickly taking a seat, she saw with some surprise that Dixon looked unusually tired. His hair, normally combed with that Dab-O’-Brylcream look, appeared like he had just rolled out of bed.

“All independence groups,” Bingham continued after acknowledging her arrival, “and all non-sanctioned religions, democratic movements and otherwise have disappeared from sight. Field assessments say most have stopped all activity, presumably for fear of being killed. Nothing like a good purge to quiet dissent,” he added dryly.

“But, we have lost contact with so many—even their Internet communications have stopped—that we are wondering if many of them really were deep sixed by the PRC. In particular, we have found no public sign of any recognized Falun Gong leader and there have been no reports of members practicing their signature exercises in public. They are literally scared for their lives and, to that extent; the massacre has apparently had its intended effect. China’s walking the tight wire of telling its people the FG killed its own, yet relying on the key leaders of the movement to know what really happened. Quite remarkable if they pull it off. Plausible deniability on a national scale.”

Bingham glanced down at his notes. “Analysis of the government situation indicates that top level discussions continue at the Zhongnanhai compound. This mirrors activities seen every time there has been a major policy change or internal crisis, including Tiananmen, the death of Mao and Deng, and the dumping of Zhao. Either they’re consolidating their initiative begun in Hong Kong or there’s an internal power struggle. Since the massacre was such an irrational and aggressive action, I must conclude that there is an irrational and aggressive element at the top and that the late nights in Zhongnanhai indicate significant dissent or factionalism.”

“Mr. President,” Bingham swept his gaze around the room. “I am worried the Chinese government is not currently in control of itself. This instability has enormous risk for us, just as Russia’s did during their early transition of power to democratic rule. Mr. President, I do not know who is currently in charge of the government, nor do I know who is in charge of the nuclear trigger. I recommend, and Mark and August agree, that we go to DEFCON three as a precaution.”

Vice-President Sullivan leaned forward. “DEFCON three? Why?”

DEFCON stood for Defensive Condition and described the five levels of military alertness with particular relevance to a nuclear confrontation. Level 5 indicated normal peacetime activity; each lower number indicated increased military alertness, leading up to war at DEFCON one.

President Dixon did not react overtly, leading Linda to surmise that Bingham had already briefed him. This had enormous State ramifications. Why had she not been consulted ahead of time?

Defense Secretary Mark Painter answered the Vice-President. “We’ve conferred, George, Augie, and I, and it is definitely the best move at this time. We’re seeing some pockets of military activity in China that corroborates what George is saying. I can go into more detail if you want, but we may be overdue for a raised DEFCON stance. While I don’t think there is any overt threat to the United States; if you recall, when Russia shot down the Korean Airliner, we had strong indications that Russia was trying to provoke us into launching a limited pre-emptive strike. We got up to DEFCON two before the situation was diffused.”

“Why not DEFCON four? Why skip to three?” Vice-President Sullivan inquired.

“Much stronger message to the Chinese, reflecting our uncertainty and unease about China’s leadership,” Painter said.

“Okay, but—”

“At DEFCON three,” Painter said, “we put them on notice that they need to carefully consider their next move.”

“Well, I agree with your concern,” Sullivan said after a pause, “but I’d like to know more detail, especially what the fallout could be.”

From a security standpoint, Resnick knew the DEFCON move made some sense, but on the other hand, an elevated DEFCON status, even at a low level, would feed the PRC’s legendary communist paranoia. Not to mention squawking NATO members, who hadn’t been notified ahead of time, as well as Russia and China’s other neighbors. No doubt raising the DEFCON status would cause a ripple of international concern; if only she had been consulted before the meeting.

Sullivan turned to her. “Linda, what do you think?”

Before she could answer, Dixon spoke up. “As God is my witness, I authorize DEFCON three.”

Resnick blinked in surprise as the President cut off discussion. It seemed obvious that he had been briefed ahead of time. This smelled like an organized
fait accompli
.

“Linda,” The President said, apparently moving on, “how can we hurt those bastards? I don’t want any panty-waisted embargoes or UN shoe pounding; give me something painful. Short of dropping the big one, of course.”

Linda dropped her eyes to her papers, inwardly fuming from the DEFCON decision. She had nothing that would fit the President’s request, except . . . “I got a call just before I came,” she began. “That’s why I was late. It was from Zhou Lishin, Taiwan’s US ambassador. He wants to set up an urgent summit between you and President Quin Shi Lai.”

“The China thing, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir.” She paused, choosing her words. “I think they are going to declare independence.”

The room froze at her words.

The President recovered first. “About fucking time.”

“Sir?” Linda was shocked President Dixon would even contemplate such a move. “There’s no way we can support it. It would irreparably damage relations with—”

“Oh, come on now, don’t spoil my fun. That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. Does China think they can just murder thousands and skate? Is that the sort of friend we want to play with? I’d just as soon throw them out of the sandbox.”

“Administrations come and go,” Linda countered. “The Chinese people hate the government for what they did. This is an opportunity for us to exploit and enlarge. But if we recognize Taiwan and support their bid for independence, that will unify the Chinese people and the dissenting factions within the Chinese government against us, and stifle any reform movement.”

“And let the world know that any important country can just slaughter its own and we will continue the status quo? That’s the O.J. fucking Simpson bullshit. ‘I’m rich and I can get away with murder’.”

Linda carefully composed her response. “Remember what George said about the probable turmoil at the top levels of Chinese governance. I have looked over his reports and agree. There’s foment there and we can help it along in ways favorable to our interests, if we stay out of it.”

The President stuck out his bottom lip in thought. “I get your point, dammit, and I have to agree with you, although acting like the goddamn French in public policy really pisses me off.”

Linda had not remembered the President swearing so much since he lost the Iowa primary.

“In the meantime,” Dixon continued, “please make arrangements for the visit as soon as possible. If you want to cancel my trip to Utah and Oregon next week, whatever it was for, that’s okay with me.”

“Just having their President here will create a firestorm with China,” Linda warned.

“China cannot dictate the guest list of the President of the United States.” Dixon was animated now. “If the Taiwanese President wants to come, then make it a very public state affair. I want it known to God and all the world that Taiwan is our friend.”

Chapter 22

S
teve plopped his feet up on his office credenza and leaned back in his chair, his morning energy having worn off. As he had expected, Shirley’s MRI scan looked identical to Captain Palmer’s. While examining the images, that same déjà vu feeling had come back. After a long period of thought, he still had failed to identify when and where he had seen that MRI pattern before. Perhaps it was a false recollection. Or maybe not; he couldn’t be sure.

The pile of open textbooks on his desk, the result of his research into Shirley’s illness, stared back at him. He called a halt to his reading as the jet lag finally slammed him into a wall. Maybe a call to Walker would wake him up. He punched Marty’s number up on his cell.

“How’s Captain Palmer?” he asked, after exchanging the usual pleasantries.

“About the same, still no diagnosis. Spinal fluid showed a slight white count, six, all lymphocytes. Everything else was normal. Still waiting on the MS panel and some esoteric stuff.”

“I’ve got a little surprise for you,” Steve announced.

“What’s that?”

“I found another case.”

“Another what?”

“Just like Captain Palmer’s. A young female—”

“The same MRI pattern?” Marty’s booming Welsh voice deafened Steve.

“Identical.”

“Clinical presentation?” Marty demanded. “What about that?”

“The same, right down to the delusions and twitches,” Steve said.

“Anosmia?”

“Couldn’t smell camphor and complained about taste. And so far, my work-up is negative.”

“Well, blow me down. What the hell’s causing this? So far the Captain’s stumped our infectious disease guy and our neuro-toxicologist, but I got one hell of a differential. Until I get an answer, I’m going to get every one of my NIH colleagues to come have a look and we’re going to drain this poor chap of every drop of body fluid.”

“Marty, can you send me your complete records on Captain Palmer? I want to compare them.”

“Right-o. And get me yours, but for the life of me, I can’t think of anything that would connect them. He’s a healthy fifty-four old male living on the east coast and she’s a young woman in Phoenix.” Dr. Walker sighed, “How in the hell do you put them together?”