Executive orders - Tom Clancy [285]
Saleh? the physician asked.
yes. A word, a gasp.
You came here how? I must know if I am to help you.
There was no mental hesitation, no consideration of secrets or security. He paused only to take a breath, to summon the energy to answer the question. From Baghdad. Airplane, he added unnecessarily.
Africa? Have you visited Africa recently?
Never before. The head turned left and right not so much as a centimeter, the eyes screwed shut. The patient was trying to be brave, and largely succeeding. First time Africa.
Have you had sexual relations recently? Last week or so, MacGregor clarified. It seemed so cruel a question. One could theoretically get such diseases through sexual contact-maybe a local prostitute? Perhaps there was another case of this at another local hospital and it was being hushed up ?
It took a moment for the man to realize what the man was asking, then another shake. No, no women in long time. MacGregor could see it on his face: Never again, not for me
Have you had any blood lately, been given blood, I mean?
No.
Have you been in contact with anyone who had traveled anywhere?
No, only Baghdad, only Baghdad, I am security guard for my general, with him all time, nothing else.
Thank you. We're going to give you something for the pain. We're going to give you some blood, too, and try to cool you down with ice. I'll be back in a little while. The patient nodded, and the doctor left the room, carrying the blood-filled tubes in his gloved hands. Bloody hell, MacGregor breathed.
While the nurses and orderlies did their job, MacGregor had his to do. One of the blood samples he split into two, packing both with the greatest care, one for Paris and the Pasteur Institute, and the other for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta. They'd go out via air express. The rest went to his lead technician, a competent Sudanese, while the doctor drafted a fax. Possible hemorrhagic fever case, it would read, giving country, city, and hospital-but first he lifted his phone and called his contact in the government health department.
Here? the government doctor asked. In Khartoum? Are you sure? Where is the patient from?
That is correct, MacGregor replied. The patient says that he came here from Iraq.
Iraq? Why would this disease come from there? Have you tested for the proper antibodies? the official demanded.
The test is being set up right now, the Scot told the African.
How long?
An hour.
Before you make any notifications, let me come over to see, the official directed.
To supervise, the man meant. MacGregor closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the phone. This putative physician was a government appointee, the son of a longtime minister, and the best that could be said for this professional colleague was that while seated in his plush office he didn't endanger any living patients. MacGregor had to struggle to keep his temper in check. It was the same all over Africa. It was as though the local government were desirous to protect their tourist industry-something Sudan singularly lacked, except for some anthropologists doing digs for primitive man down south, near the Ethiopian border. But it was the same everywhere on this lush continent. The government health departments denied everything, one reason why AIDS was so out of control in central Africa. They'd all denied and denied, and they would keep denying until what percentage of their populations were dead? Ten? Thirty? Fifty? But everyone was afraid to criticize African governments and their bureaucrats. It was so easy to be called a racist-and so, better to keep quiet and let people die.
Doctor, MacGregor persisted, I am confident in my diagnosis, and I have a professional duty to-
It can wait until I come over, was the casual reply. It was just the African way, MacGregor knew, and there was no sense in fighting it. This battle he could not win. The Sudanese health department could have his visa lifted in minutes, and then who