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| ALONE IN HIS MIDTOWN ATLANTA CONDO‚ Roy Edmonston waited for a messenger with orders from the Central Core. Balfour had alerted him earlier in the evening to expect a special delivery. The day their names were drawn by lot to review and approve project DEMISE‚ he knew Scheuer would resist the whole idea. They went back a long way‚ meeting while attending the University of Virginia. Scheuer was in the College of Architecture and he was in the College of Law. They met on one summer day in Washington DC at the Thomas Jefferson Memorial rotunda on the south shore tidal basin in West Potomac park. Scheuer was studying the circular stone structure for a paper he was writing on important buildings utilizing Georgia white marble in their design‚ and Edmonston was working at the Department of Justice as a summer law intern. Edmonston‚ who was sightseeing‚ noticed the University of Virginia logo on Scheuer’s knapsack. He walked over and introduced himself as a fellow student at U of V‚ starting a conversation that lasted into the night. They were seated at a small table at the Hay Market‚ a favorite lunch and dinner haunt for many working on Capital Hill. Scheuer had finished telling Edmonston about his youth in Germany and that his father died in the Ukraine during WW II as Edmonston poured scotch from a nearly empty glass into a fresh one the waiter had just delivered. He remembered it was at that moment when he gained a keen insight into Scheuer’s character. The conversation got around to people they admired. “You know‚” Scheuer said‚ his steely blue eyes shimmering from the flickering table candle‚ “Thomas Jefferson is my hero. I’ve read everything there is to read about him. I know you’re aware he did the architectural design work and supervised the University of Virginia construction; but I’ll bet you didn’t know he screened and hired the first faculty. And what’s even more amazing‚ he was seventy-six then.” “I didn’t know he hired the faculty‚” Edmonston admitted‚ “he must have had some strong ideas about what he wanted the university to stand for.” Scheuer stirred his martini with a toothpick‚ then speared a lone green olive‚ popping it in his mouth. “Strong ideas for sure. He was a most remarkable man. And there’s something else about him I’ll wager you didn’t know.” “You’d better beware‚” Edmonston said‚ grinning. “I know a lot about him.” “Okay‚ how about the trilogy of freedoms he wanted to base the university on?” Edmonston shrugged in resignation and nodded perfunctorily‚ then he turned his head back to signal for the waiter. “Ah ha!” Scheuer said‚ “I got you! I became an American citizen two years ago. I was caught up in the effort and read everything I could find on the founding fathers’ history. John Adams‚ Alexander Hamilton‚ and George Wythe‚ Jefferson’s teacher at The College of William and Mary all impressed me. But mostly it was Jefferson who drew my attention. I tried to put down everything he stood for during his life. I believed that if I emulated his principles‚ I couldn’t possibly go wrong.” The waiter served the night’s final drinks. “I don’t know how well this is known‚” he continued‚ “but Jefferson submitted federal legislation to abolish slavery in the colonies in 1784‚ eighty years before Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation.” Edmonston smiled‚ his fist lightly striking the table‚ “I remember reading that even Jefferson was a slave holder.” “Yes‚” Scheuer allowed‚ “but those slave families had been with his family even before he went away to College. Later‚ he didn’t have the heart to put them out. Many instances are recorded of him speaking out against slavery. He believed it evil and was successful in passing a law in 1787 prohibiting slavery in the Northwest Territory.” Edmonston was duly impressed with his new friend. He held up what was left of his last scotch in a mock toast. “You’re something Palmer‚ emulating Jefferson. Most people wouldn’t give that sort of thing a second thought. Scheuer smiled. “That’s because I intend to become a successful architect and builder. Emulating President Jefferson will assure that happens.” He got up‚ signaling for the waiter. Edmonston smiled. “Maybe I ought to take John Marshal’s head apart the way you have Jefferson’s.” “You’re making fun of me‚” Scheuer said‚ snatching the bill from the waiter before Edmonston could lay hands on it. “No‚ I’m serious.” Edmonston placed a tip in the waiter’s hand. “The more I think about it‚ why not try to repeat what was highly successful before. You know what they say: what’s past is prologue.” They left the restaurant and waited at the door for the attendant to bring Edmonston’s car around from the parking lot. “You know Roy‚ Jefferson’s skills as an architect and statesman are not the only reason I chose to adopt his ideals. I was drawn to him mostly because of his humanity. He was born to aristocracy; his mother‚ from among the first families of Virginia and his father a wealthy landowner and planter. But his every move in public and private life was aimed at protecting the common man’s rights. Once he wrote in a pamphlet from his natural rights theory: The God‚ who gave us life‚ gave us liberty at the same time; the hand of force may destroy‚ but cannot disjoin them.” Edmonston’s car arrived and they got in. A light mist that created a glistening cityscape of sparkling lights gave way to a steady rain‚ forcing Edmonston to move the windshield wipers control to high. He passed through a few back streets and entered onto Constitution Avenue‚ heading North toward Scheuer’s Georgetown hotel. “Roy‚” Scheuer said‚ “there’s another element to this equation. The Third Reich’s barbarity—it’s my heritage you know.” “But that wasn’t your fault.” “Oh yes‚ I’ll always bear the stigma and the responsibility every German has for the horrors of that evil time. It’s for each of us to make amends. I have chosen to follow Jefferson‚ does that make sense?” § Waiting for the special delivery‚ Edmonston sipped scotch‚ standing next to the great expanse of window glass that overlooked the city with its flickering lights. He glanced down at the boulevard below‚ thinking that the messenger may well be in one of those cars moving down the boulevard in front of his building. Throwing his head back‚ he gulped the scotch left in his glass‚ quickly fixed another and retreated to his great red leather winged back. A relaxing sensation from the liquor flowed over him. He closed his eyes and his mind raced back to the fateful day when he and his friends were thrust into a predicament that compelled them to make some grievous decisions about life and death. It began with what had been planned as a fun filled week at the Jockey Club in the Bahamas for Edmonston‚ Scheuer‚ and the ten other men. This was the Sande Group‚ named in honor of Earle Sande‚ a premier racehorse jockey and member of the Jockey Hall of Fame and the National Racing Hall of Fame. They chose him because‚ although starting as a broncobuster in the early 1900’s‚ he soon became a noted quarter horse rider and advocate before switching to thoroughbred racing in 1918. Once‚ keeping secret his injuries from a recent car accident‚ he rode Gallant Fox to a Belmont victory and a second Triple Crown sweep. He spent the off-season in the Bahamas‚ usually staying at the Landshead Resort near the capital city of Nassau. The Landshead was renamed the Jockey Club in 1960 and had become a shrine for horsemen and racing enthusiasts alike. Earl Sande was staying there when he died in 1968. Over the years‚ the twelve Sande Group members had become an elite circle of great friends‚ devoted to the advancement and breeding of the American quarter horse. There was no thought of the Central Core then. That was to come later. After a daylong tournament on the links at the club‚ they were gathered in a private hospitality suite for dinner. Wives and girlfriends hadn’t been invited on this‚ their inaugural overseas assembly. Before dinner they were standing around drinking‚ snacking‚ and making small talk. Not one knew that inside of ten minutes‚ the course of their lives would change forever. § Suddenly‚ the intercom buzzer from the lobby jarred Edmonston back to reality. He pushed up to a standing position and walked unsteadily to the intercom. “Yes‚ what is it?” A voice responded‚ “Atlanta Messenger Service sir‚ special delivery for Roy Edmonston.” “Okay‚” he said‚ “you’re in.” He pressed the access button and stepped back to wait. Soon the door chimes announced the messenger’s arrival. Edmonston squinted out the front door peephole. A blue uniform with a white and red Atlanta Messenger Service logotype. He opened the door. “Mr. Roy Edmonston?” “Yes.” “Please sign here sir.” Edmonston took a clipboard from the boy’s outstretched hand. After signing‚ the uniformed lad handed Edmonston an envelope. “Thanks. Here‚ this is for you.” Edmonston said as he handed him a folded ten-dollar bill. “Thank you sir‚” the messenger said smiling and turning to walk down the hallway to the elevator. Edmonston fixed another scotch before retreating to the comfort of his leather chair. He sat there sipping scotch and scanning the envelope‚ running his finger along the flap seal that he was in no hurry to open. His thoughts strayed back again to that fateful night in the hospitality suite in the Bahamas. It happened at a toast by Bill Jordaens of Carolina Food Handlers. When traveling in Portugal the year before‚ he had found a rare magnum of Ponta del Maguel‚ circa 1943. Before opening the prized wine‚ he bored the group with a speech about its origins‚ a little winery he found in Ponta Delgado on the southeastern coast of Sao Miguel‚ the Portuguese Azores capital. When he noticed the group was jokingly about to forgo his toast for their preferred cocktails‚ he finally opened the magnum. They were but a few moments from disaster. Edmonston’s mind voluntarily flashed away from oncoming calamity‚ finding himself still holding the envelope delivered by the messenger. He slipped a penknife blade under the flap‚ slicing the envelope top from end to end. Withdrawing a sheet of paper‚ he slowly unfolded it‚ noting the familiar Pracktl logo. There was a small silver key taped to the stationary‚ followed by a few typed words: Roy Edmonston and Palmer Scheuer‚ Project DEMISE‚ Hab-1‚ 2:30 p.m.‚ October 12. How ironic‚ he thought. Columbus first set foot in the New World in the Bahamas on October 12‚ the place our nightmare began. They had two days before they had to start their work. He closed his eyes again‚ his thoughts returning to that night in the Bahamas. After Bill Jordaens’ speech‚ he poured the old and expensive wine into twelve small red wine glasses and passed them around until everyone had one. They held their glasses high as he made their traditional toast. “Here’s to us‚ the greatest bunch that ever got together. May we always be true to the best traditions of Earl Sande—the most noted proponent for our beloved animal‚ the American Quarter Horse.” After the toast‚ the group retired to a dining room off the hospitality suite for a sumptuous steak and lobster dinner. The next day‚ several men didn’t show up for breakfast. That wasn’t unusual‚ but when others missed tee times at the golf course—that was cause for concern. As it turned out‚ before the day was over‚ the entire Sande group had fallen ill. The next day‚ the club doctor pronounced the malady a mild food poisoning. No one was terribly ill‚ but they readily agreed to cut short their holiday so they could look for medical attention from their physicians on the mainland. The group had quickly targeted Bill Jordaen’s old wine as the culprit because it was the only thing that every member had consumed. Jason Balfour‚ President of the Federal Reserve Bank in Atlanta‚ who was senior in age and the unofficial Sande Group leader‚ offered to have the bottle’s residue analyzed. About a week after their return from the Bahamas‚ no one was showing ill affects from their experience and they decided it was just a case of mild food poisoning. An old wine‚ long past its prime. Then the report came back from the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta where Balfour had sent the bottle and it’s contents. Dr. Max Pracktl‚ preeminent epidemiologist from the CDC and a research fellow with the World Health Organization personally returned it and urged him to quickly gather together all those who had consumed the wine. Balfour had his secretary contact the men and invite them to his lavish home near the Atlanta Botanical Gardens. It was a sprawling single-story ranch‚ with shake-shingle roof‚ cream-colored stucco walls‚ and a walkway of Bouquet Canyon stone. The men arrived and assembled in the game room over a period of an hour. Balfour’s butler Gerald had set up twelve high-back‚ hand-carved mahogany chairs with royal purple cushioning. He was passing out cigars and glasses of champagne when Balfour entered the room accompanied by a stranger to the group—a frail‚ elderly white-haired man appearing to be suffering from involuntary muscle spasms. Balfour assisted him to a green velvet overstuffed chair. Balfour turned and faced his eleven curious friends. “Gentlemen‚ please permit me to introduce Doctor Max Pracktl. He is an epidemiologist from the Centers for Disease Control and a research fellow with the World Health Organization. He has graciously given of his time to be here tonight. This is his second visit today‚ the first was this morning when he requested that I gather you together for the epidemiology report on the wine that made us ill. “Dr. Pracktl made it his business to personally deliver his report due to the grievous health consequences for those who ingested the Ponta del Maguel magnum’s contents.” Pracktl began by apologizing for his unnerving physical condition‚ confessing that he was dying from a rare form of Kuru‚ a degenerative nervous system disease. “Gentlemen‚” he said‚ “I’m here to bring before you a devastating issue.” The men had been sipping drinks and chatting during Balfour’s introduction‚ but Pracktl’s opening remarks captured everyone’s notice. His benevolent expression had turned grave. As though to emphasize the matter‚ the frail man stood up from the chair and supported by a cane‚ stood unsteadily before them. They put down their drinks and a stillness settled over the game room. He had their rapt attention. “This is a most lamentable situation and I must regrettably report that you have been exposed to a potentially deadly virus we’ve isolated in the wine residue. First‚ let me tell you something about this vicious family of viruses. Among the many nervous system diseases‚ a few causative agents replicate slowly in their hosts. Take for instance the disease I am afflicted with and yet another called the Creutzfeldt-Jacob syndrome. These are forms of progressive presenile dementia‚ much better known as Alzheimer’s disease. “The big difference is they replicate slowly and lead to far more damage to the central nervous system—usually resulting in a long‚ painful period of degenerating bodily functions until the end. So far‚ these viruses have proved resistant to known sterilization. “Today‚ everything known about these diseases has been gained from scientific experiments on diseased victim’s brain tissues. They showed a presence of abnormal patches or flat areas of plaque‚ better known as plasmic protein. Within those patches of protein are found infectious particles‚ only one-hundredth the size of the smallest known viruses. The particles are named prions for their discoverer‚ American neurologist Stanley Prusiner. So‚ it may be said that the disease we are considering here tonight is prionic in nature.” The members had grown ashen and stoic‚ unable to comprehend what had befallen them. “You gentlemen must be terrified‚” he said‚ “but you must steel yourselves‚ there is much more to the story.” Suddenly Dr. Pracktl began to shake uncontrollably and had to sit down. Continuing from his chair‚ he said‚ “Sadly you innocent men have become unwitting victims of a most cruel and inhumane scheme concocted by a most diabolical murderer known as Adolph Hitler.” A collective gasp filled the room. After a sip from a water glass‚ Dr. Pracktl continued. “In 1954‚ while studying at the University of Paris‚ I met a retired neurologist. Over a bottle of cognac‚ he told me a most bizarre story one evening.” The Sande group sat mesmerized. They were without expression‚ blanched by the doctor’s terrifying remarks. “The man told me that in 1943‚ during the Nazi occupation of France‚ he and a small group of scientists from the university had been collected by a special SS detachment and transported by submarine to a winery near Ponta Delgado in the Portuguese Azores. The tiny winery was in an isolated coastal area‚ so their beach landing went undetected by the Portuguese militia. After beaching rubber dinghies‚ the group quietly moved through the darkness to the winery. Several SS men stood guard over them while others in their unit‚ dressed as native Portuguese‚ stormed the complex‚ taking the owner‚ his family‚ and a few resident workers into custody and holding them in an abandoned outbuilding. Their intention was to make it look as though robbers had attacked. “Then‚ under threat of death by the young thugs who bragged they were from the Fuhrer’s private bodyguard regiment‚ the Leibstandarte SS Adolph Hitler‚ they were forced to prepare and inject deadly liquefied brain tissue into fifty wine bottles. The tissue cultures had been taken from Jewish death camp internees who had symptoms of many different neurological diseases. “After they had finished‚ they were made to carry a load of defiled wine to the beach where it was loaded onto the rubber dinghies and transported to the waiting submarine. Then the SS made them dig a trench in the dunes for what they knew would be their mass grave. There were to be no witnesses to what had been done. “They were standing at the trench’s edge and their executioners had leveled their weapons at them when suddenly‚ the Nazi guards were surrounded and captured by a Portuguese militia beach patrol. Then‚ two British fighter-bombers appeared from the horizon and attacked the sub before it could submerge. One bomb scored a direct hit and sunk the sub. “The man told me that he later found out that the wine had been destined to be smuggled into the great allied heads of state’s wine cellars. The idea was diabolically clever as it would take many months or even years for the victims to die and because the symptoms would appear to be the natural result of some prionic disease. Hitler evidently thought that in the unlikely event the Allies won the war‚ he would still have had the last laugh.” The Doctor showed signs of tiring‚ but he seemed determined to go on. “You’re probably wondering how this concerns you‚ since the bad wine went down with the submarine. Well‚ the Nazis poisoned more wine than they could handle and left some on the winery shelves. Ever since I heard the story I’ve lived these many years with that chilling thought. Then‚ last week the nightmare came to pass when I saw the Ponta del Maguel label on the bottle submitted for content analysis. Subsequently‚ we put the magnum’s contents under an extensive epidemiological analysis. We determined that a nasty prion invasion had occurred in the hermetically sealed container and the virus was still viable. A highly contagious virus that promises susceptible victims a lingering‚ pain filled period of degenerative motor and bodily functions‚ and eventually a dreadful death.” The members began to loose their unbelieving expressions. Some had retreated to the relative obscurity of the rear and were trying to mask tears with handkerchiefs. Yet others began to ask questions among themselves. The doctor carried on‚ “I know your feelings first hand and will be happy to answer your questions‚ but for the time being‚ please give me your attention and let me continue.” Balfour stood and asked for their cooperation. “As I have said‚” the old doctor continued‚ “you men have been exposed to a deadly virus. For some of you—a lucky few—there may be no consequences. Some may have missed the virus‚ or‚ your body’s immune system may be able to successfully resist and eventually destroy it. And‚ some of you may be fortunate and have a gene on chromosome number 21 and it will instruct the production of the enzyme superoxide dismutase. The enzyme has the natural ability to detoxify certain prions‚ which could damage brain cells. But most of you will not be so lucky. Most of you can expect to experience some early signs of neurological degeneration in as early as one year. The first symptoms will be an increasingly annoying inability to recall recent events‚ some involuntary muscular movements and balance problems‚ especially when your eyes are closed.” Balfour stood again. “But how will we know doctor? I mean‚ what are the chances our bodies will reject it?” “Mr. Balfour‚” the doctor replied‚ “only through an extensive program of mapping and typing your DNA and RNA gene codes would we be able to make such a prediction. There is no absolute certainty here. But we at least have early knowledge of your conditions.” “Is there a cure?” Balfour asked. “I’m truly sorry‚ but there is no cure. We know of no way to be rid of this virus once it has invaded an organism. In the advanced state‚ there is a prionic invasion into the brain cell nucleus.” Balfour walked over to Dr. Pracktl‚ who was slumped down in his chair‚ his body shaking with occasional tremors. “Sir‚ we don’t know whether to thank you or hate you; but we do respect you greatly for what you have done here tonight. We are aware that you could have just as easily kept your secret and nobody would ever know what happened to us. Your timely intervention may have given some of us a chance to avoid a frightful fate.” Charles Bradshaw‚ the Mayor of Atlanta‚ cleared his throat loudly from the rear. Everyone looked back. “Please excuse me Doctor Pracktl‚ but I can’t accept the bleak picture you have painted for us. Look what scientists have been able to learn about AIDS in a few short years. If one is found early to be HIV positive‚ there is ATZ that has been successful in postponing‚ possibly even preventing full-blown AIDS. Other new drugs are being tested and used with significant success and many promising pharmaceuticals are on the way.” “Yes‚” Pracktl replied‚ “but you must remember that with AIDS‚ there’s an ongoing worldwide epidemic‚ which threatens a lingering death for millions. Please remember that advancements in the knowledge of this disease have been made only because of a world confederation of renowned scientists with billions of dollars financing their research and a growing population of millions of HIV positive victims militantly fanning the fires of research. “Let me remind you that you’re only a group of twelve and an epidemic threat is not in the picture. No‚ I’m sorry gentlemen‚” the doctor apologized‚ “your situation just won’t rate as a priority on the national or international neurological research agenda. And paradoxically‚ the only avenue of hope for you who become victims would be a research project on the scale of those marshaled for AIDS‚ cancer‚ and heart disease.” The men in the room exchanged glances as the magnitude of the situation began to register. "I believe the group needs some time to absorb and digest the consequences of the abysmal turn of events‚ Doctor‚” Balfour said after observing the reactions of the others in the room. “As you surely understand‚ this is devastating to us.” He turned away for a moment‚ trying to manage a thick swallow. “Will you meet with us again—say in two days time—back here?” “Of course‚ I’d be happy to‚” Pracktl replied. The dispirited group lined up and shook the frail man’s hand. After he departed‚ mixed feelings of hopelessness and anger hung grouping the air. Bill Jordaens who introduced the deadly wine to the group had retreated to a large chair in a darkened corner and was sobbing with grief. That evening‚ he never stopped apologizing to his friends. Anger was evident in the group‚ but a quiet sense of camaraderie was slowly developing. Facing the group‚ Balfour spoke again. “I hope you’ll agree with me that for the time being‚ we must keep this a secret. No one else must know‚ not even our loved ones‚ until we know more about it. Let’s get some rest tonight and meet here again tomorrow night at eight. Agreed?” There was no dissent.... |
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