That got Peyton’s attention. “Surviving?”
“His words, not mine. He believes if the third world doesn’t catch up to the rest of the world, there will be a major catastrophe—an extinction-level event. He said that’s why our work is so important.”
“Interesting,” Peyton said. “Why does he think that?”
“The absence of space junk.”
“Space junk?”
“Probes from other civilizations. This was over dinner, so maybe he was drunk.” Lucas thought for a moment. “Actually, I don’t think he was drinking. Anyway, he said that the most disturbing revelation in human history is the existence of two seemingly impossible facts: one, that the universe is billions of years old; and two, that the moon is not covered with wrecked space probes from other advanced civilizations that came before us.”
Peyton was confused. “How is any of that related to an impending extinction-level event?”
“I don’t know. He said he and a small group of people knew the real truth about why there’s no space junk. He said they would soon test their theory. He was pretty cryptic about the whole thing, to be honest, and I guess we were sort of blown away by him, so we weren’t really asking a lot of questions. He’s kind of larger than life. And his check for $150,000 cleared, so, you know, we listened and nodded.” He paused. “Why all the questions about Desmond? Is he somehow connected to this? Is he sick?”
“Not that we’re aware of,” Peyton said, deep in thought.
“Was the food contaminated? Are people back in North Carolina infected?”
“No,” Peyton said. “We still believe this is an isolated outbreak. I’m just covering all the bases. Listen, you’ve been very helpful, Lucas. I’ll be right back, okay?”
Outside the hospital, Peyton, Jonas, and Nia washed off their suits and carefully doffed them. They entered the next tent, where Peyton pulled off her soaking T-shirt and toweled the sweat from her body. When she looked up, she saw Nia, standing naked as well, her body still coated in sweat, staring at her. Jonas was turned away, avoiding looking at the two women as he slipped on dry clothes.
“Are you going to administer ZMapp to Mr. Turner?” Nia asked. She stared at Peyton without blinking.
Peyton returned her stare. “Maybe.”
“I’d like doses for Dr. Kibet.”
In that moment, Peyton realized why the Kenyan Ministry of Health official had insisted she meet Dr. Kibet. It was already difficult to deny treatment to a person in need, and even harder when you had met the person.
“I can’t—”
“I will give him the dose myself. I ask only for the medication that might save his life. If we cannot save him, or at least do everything we can for him, it will be difficult to ask others to put themselves in harm’s way. It is also the right thing to do for a man who has put himself at risk long before your fellow Americans appeared at his door.”
Peyton pulled on a dry T-shirt. “I’ll have to make a call.”
She walked away before Nia could speak again.
Inside the main tent, she found Hannah, who sat at a long table typing on a laptop. The young physician stood when she saw Peyton.
“Do you have the results?” Peyton asked.
Hannah nodded. “All negative for Ebola. I took blood and saliva samples as requested.”
“Good. I’ll be right back. Get the samples ready for transport.”
It was 8:37 a.m. in Mandera; 12:37 a.m. in Atlanta. Peyton slid the satsleeve onto her phone and dialed Elliott Shapiro. She hated to call him so late, but it had to be done.
“Yeah,” Elliott said, half-asleep.
“Sorry to wake you.”
Peyton heard him rustling out of bed, his feet pacing across the floor, a door closing.
“It’s okay. What’s up?” His voice was still low.
“It’s not Ebola. The Kenyans tested everybody. So did we.”
“Symptoms?” he asked.
“All the classic symptoms of a filovirus. If I didn’t have the results, I’d say it’s Ebola or Marburg. But this thing moves faster than Ebola. Mortality rate looks to be high; no one has survived yet.”
Elliott waited.
Peyton tried to keep her voice even, professional. “Steven Cole is dead. Lucas Turner is infected. His condition is critical.” The steadiness seeped from her voice with the last words, and she took a breath. “This kid is dying, Elliott.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to give him ZMapp and fly him back to Emory. It’s what I would do if he were my son. But… it’s not Ebola. We don’t know if ZMapp will even help him, and we could be putting the entire continental US at risk.”
“And?”
“And we might save his life—and figure out what this pathogen is, and help find a vaccine or treatment.”
“Exactly,” Elliott said.
“It’s a bureaucratic nightmare.”
“You put him on a plane and focus on your job out there. I’ll deal with the bureaucrats. That’s my job now.”
“All right. There’s one more thing. The Kenyans have asked for doses of ZMapp to administer to a physician here in Mandera.”
“How many doses do you have?”
“Enough for twelve patients.”
“That’s tough,” Elliott said. “I want to say yes, but we may need the drug for our people if they get sick. We can’t make this stuff overnight.”
“I agree.”
“On the other hand, if we end up flying out of there with one dose left, we may have sentenced a man to death needlessly.”
“Yeah. It’s almost a no-win.”
“Do what you think is right, Peyton. I’ll back you either way.”
“God, you’re no help. I was hoping you’d make the call.”
“Making big decisions is part of your job, young lady. And those decisions are going to get bigger soon. I’m not going to be around forever. You’re going to have to run this place when I’m gone.”
“I don’t want your job.”
“Too bad. I’m going to insist they give it to you.”