Rivers of the Black Moon

By Andrew Goliszek

The world’s leading AIDS researcher has been brutally murdered in Edinburgh on the eve of a world-shattering announcement. What did he know that made him a target? If anyone holds the key to the secret he carried to his grave, it is Margaret Kreiser, his former lover and research associate.
James Macfadden, Scotland Yard inspector assigned to this case, meets with Margaret and both quickly become targets of the CIA, of corporate hitmen, drug cartel operatives, and others wanting to keep the AIDS discovery “classified.” What was found deep in the heart of the African jungle will affect millions, but no one will ever know unless Macfadden and Kreiser can stay alive long enough to unlock the secrets of the rivers of the black moon.

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Feb 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781509253906

Andrew Goliszek

During the past decade Andrew Goliszek has received several biomedical research grants and NIH-sponsored research projects in stress physiology. The author of two books of science fiction, he teaches biology, human physiology, and endocrinology at North Carolina A&T State University and lives in the Piedmont region with his wife and son.

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Chapter 1

December 11, 2022

Edinburgh, Scotland

The apartment had already taken on the putrid stench of death. Ripped open and eviscerated as if someone had dug through the intestinal tract, the contorted body lay surrounded by chaos: furniture overturned, pillows gutted, drawers emptied, carpeting pulled up, the ransacking seemingly desperate but futile.

One blinding flash of a police camera followed another as the grisly evidence was gathered. Outside, along the wet cobblestones of Church Street, a crowd had gathered around the black-and-white coroner’s wagon and turned as one to watch a tall, athletic man in his early forties exit an unmarked vehicle, enter the building, and bound up the two flights of stairs to the murder scene.

What do we have here? demanded Inspector James Macfadden, Special Investigations Unit of Scotland Yard, as he strode into the steamy room. He grimaced when the odor of rotting flesh assaulted his nostrils.

Inspector. Constable Nigel Brodish, Edinburgh police, was caught off guard by the sudden appearance of an official from the Yard’s international branch. We didn’t expect anyone from intelligence on the case. We’d been told it was a local matter.

Macfadden’s steely gray eyes zeroed in on the body. Afraid not, Constable, he said tersely.

Brodish peered at the body with greater intensity as if reevaluating its significance. It’s a nasty one, sir. If you ask me, it was a goddam animal behind this.

Macfadden lifted a handkerchief to his nose and walked slowly around the body. At Scotland Yard for nearly two decades, he’d seen it all, hardened by years of exposure and desensitization, assigned to the most gruesome cases until he could look at lifeless eyes and cold flesh and see nothing but a piece of evidence from which to pluck the clues that would lead to a final resolution. And though adept at hiding his emotions, the violent murders and terrorist bombings that indiscriminately tore innocent victim’s arms and legs from their bodies were something he couldn’t comprehend. Now, lying before him like a slab of butchered meat was yet another example of everything he hated about a degenerate society that would make someone do something like this.

With keen eyes, he outlined the body and stared at the dried blood that had soaked nearly half the carpet in the room. He spoke softly, trying to free his mind of needless words as he concentrated. Aye, an animal it was, Constable, but from the condition of this flat and the poor bastard’s dissected innards, I’d say it was an animal looking for something important.

He made a 360-degree sweep of the room before returning to the body, then leaned forward for a closer look at the stomach, which sat atop the chest in two finely cut longitudinal sections.

Has this body been moved?

No, sir, Brodish answered. Hands and feet are still bound, mouth gagged to prevent him from screaming. As you can see, there’s quite a gash on the left side of the head. No doubt the cause of death.

I’m not so sure, judging by the amount of blood. Macfadden drew a wide arc with his index finger, indicating where blood had spilled onto the carpet, then pointed to streams of dried blood that spread outward from the body and where pulses of blood had spurted as a result of pressure from severed arteries. This bloke may have been unconscious, but he was still alive when he was dissected. The heart continued to pump blood out into the room until it stopped. And by the contortions of the body, I suspect he might have come to before he died.

Brodish took a deep breath and swallowed hard at the thought of it. Poor bastard woke up and realized what was happening.

It’s obvious that whoever did this didn’t find what he was looking for, Macfadden continued. No, this was no ordinary animal, Constable. This was a careful, premeditated search for what must have been worth digging through someone’s guts for.

Microfilm?

Perhaps. A piece of paper. A small object. Who knows?

Macfadden removed his drenched raincoat, took out a pair of latex gloves, and snapped them on. Look here. Lifting one of the loose pieces of stomach, he removed thin slivers of glass and several threads of carpeting from the chest, placing them in the palm of his extended hand. These were stuck to the flesh beneath the stomach by body fluid, which means the body was the last place the attacker looked. And if he’d found what he was looking for in the stomach, he wouldn’t have dissected nine feet of intestines… probably had the bloke tied up while he searched the flat, then in desperation whacked him across the temple and decided to look inside one final place. No, it’s a safe bet nothing was found.

Macfadden signaled for the body to be taken out and, with his eyes to the floor, maneuvered carefully around debris that was scattered as if a windstorm had rumbled through.

Where’s the landlord? he asked, eyes still focused on the floor.

On holiday, Brodish answered. Neighbor says he left five days ago and should be back tomorrow.

Did you question the other tenants?

Only two. Neither heard anything. But they both work and probably weren’t home when it happened.

Yes, of course. Anyone who’d done this would have made sure no witnesses were present. Anything else?

They confirmed the name Richard Zarnoff, but not much else. Both agreed he was a strange sort. Kept to himself. They didn’t see much of him during the time he’d been here.

"What was he doing here?" The black body bag moved past them and disappeared through the doorway. Macfadden waited for a response as he walked to the window and looked down at the crowd.

All they know is that he was some sort of scientist. Spent some time in Africa, they found out during one of their conversations with him. He was planning to attend a scientific meeting at the Hilton next week before going back home to America.

Which is where? Macfadden turned back to Brodish and peered at him from atop the rim of his glasses.

Salt Lake City, Utah. He worked at the university medical center there.

Odd. Macfadden’s mind was now sifting through bits and pieces of the preliminary evidence, comparing what he’d just been told to what he already knew. According to Brodish, an American AIDS researcher named Richard Zarnoff travels to Edinburgh from Africa, rents a seedy room in an out-of-the-way section of the city, and lives in near seclusion for a month until being brutally murdered and mutilated a week before attending an international AIDS conference.

But there’s more to this, Macfadden reminded himself. Such as the fact that a few days before the corpse turned up, Scotland Yard had been informed by FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C. that a top American AIDS researcher was missing somewhere in Europe and thought to be carrying data that would turn the scientific community on its head. And what would the researcher’s name be but Dr. Richard Zarnoff, of course. And what better setting to stun the scientific world than at an international conference.

Whoever had done this to Zarnoff was no lone sociopath, Macfadden was certain. Have you talked to anyone else? he asked Brodish.

No, but one of the tenants suggested we try the local pub crowd. She’d heard from the regulars that a few pints loosened the bloke up a bit, if you know what I mean.

Right. I’ll go down and get a pint myself…maybe get lucky. Find out how many scientific societies are involved in this conference next week. Names of organizers, speaker coordinators, vendors, everything. If Dr. Zarnoff was going to present some of his work, I want to know what it was.

Right, sir. I’ll report to Scotland Yard as soon as I find anything.

Macfadden turned back to the rain-streaked window in time to see the coroner’s wagon pull out and head south on Church Street toward St. Mary’s Hospital, where an autopsy would determine the time and exact cause of death before the remains were sent back to the States. He followed the wet tire tracks with his eyes, then looked up at the leaden morning sky that hung over Edinburgh, wondering if it was all worth it: the gruesome bodies, the sickening smells and scenes of death, the failed marriage that grew as lifeless as the corpses he examined and finally ended with adultery during one of his investigative trips abroad.

Nothing in his secretive world made sense to him anymore, each case more vile and confusing than the last. It was as though his ordered world were losing whatever remnants of civility it had; and in each tortured body, every mutilated face and terrorist attack, Macfadden saw a growing social abyss and feared he was becoming more a part of the violence and the hatred than he’d ever imagined.

Will you be needing anything else from us today? the police photographer asked as he packed up.

No, Macfadden answered with a deep sigh. Just make certain I get a detailed report when you’ve finished.

Very good, sir.

The forensic investigative team remained busy, dusting for remaining prints, combing through every square inch of the apartment, gathering every piece of evidence it could pluck from the wreckage. Macfadden tiptoed carefully around the mess, took a last, cynical glimpse backward, and inhaled deeply the second he escaped into the hallway, though the foul air had already polluted his mind and, as if to remind him again of the vile nature of his work, had buried itself deep into the fibers of his tweed jacket.

Chapter 2

December 12, 2022

Luquillo, Puerto Rico

From a sprawling Mediterranean villa high atop the lush green hills overlooking the northern coast of Puerto Rico, Carlos Humberto Martinez was contemplating his future with Viracor, one of the fastest-growing pharmaceutical companies in North America. As senior vice president for research and development, Martinez had a personal financial stake in the development of a new drug that promised to revolutionize the future war on AIDS and guarantee Viracor billions in profits as a new pandemic was expected to sweep like a plague across virtually every nation of the world.

The last six months had seen a whirlwind of activity. With reports of a medical drug being leaked almost daily, and company stock skyrocketing in anticipation of a breakthrough treatment, Viracor was in the enviable position of becoming the leader in an industry at the cutting edge of global biotechnology. But, as with all business ventures in which profits and losses can mean success or failure, cautious optimism prevailed. Some in the industry refused to believe such a breakthrough possible. Others realized that the enormity of pharmaceutical profits meant fraud, corruption, and a corporate philosophy of winning at any and all costs. And today, as every global pharmaceutical company agreed, there was nothing any one of them wouldn’t do to be the first to stand at the threshold of a major new AIDS discovery.

Carlos Martinez leaned wearily against the white marble railing and gazed at miles of unspoiled alabaster shoreline. Bathers had already taken up residence beneath cabanas that dotted the landscape. In the distance, sailboats glided past one another in a stream of white canvases. The morning sun glistened low in the sky above the blue-green waters of Puerto Rico’s emerald coast and wove a jagged ribbon from the horizon across the gentle waves and on to the ivory beaches of Luquillo Bay.

For Martinez, it was almost too tranquil to think about anything else. Deep in thought, he stroked his thin black moustache repeatedly; and, like a handsome conquistador who’d battled his way straight to the top, he stood watch over what he considered his piece of the island, his well-earned place in the sun. But, as he finished his second cup of strong Puerto Rican coffee, the doorbell rang and tore him away from one of the rare quiet moments he was able to savor.

Senior Martinez, the young maid announced from inside an arched doorway. Dr. Vargas is here.

Dr. Juan Vargas, senior Viracor scientist and AIDS project administrator, had come at the urgent request of Martinez, suspecting that this early morning meeting was anything but a social visit. As was typical of an industry more secretive than most, there’d been rumors at Viracor of foul play and industry espionage. But as far as Vargas was concerned, they were simply that.

Rumors.

Research on the AIDS project had been going along splendidly. Data results were better than anyone had expected. FDA approval of Lyfusin (Lymphatic Fusion Inhibitory Factor) was only months away, and the scuttlebutt was that Lyfusin would be to AIDS what quinine had been to malaria. An unbelievable breakthrough, as one unnamed FDA official commented when asked privately about the new drug.

Martinez stepped from the warmth of the porch and into the palatial sunken living room, greeting Vargas with a firm handshake as they met in the middle of the room. The two had known each other since Vargas had accepted the position with Viracor in 1985. Back then, Martinez was a rising corporate star with a Harvard M.B.A., Vargas a young virologist with enough ambition and intellect to convince the company that he’d be the man to develop a treatment for what everyone had predicted would explode into a major health catastrophe.

Despite their disparate backgrounds—Martinez, a poor slum dweller who’d raised himself up from abject poverty by using his cunning to prove himself, and Vargas, a rich kid whose parents had bought their son’s way into the best schools money could buy—they quickly became friends, depending on each other to fulfill their collective dream of going down in history as members of the team that finally conquered AIDS. Nearly ten years later, they were on the verge of doing it. On March 17, 2021, Viracor had made an announcement that sent shock waves not only through an incredulous medical establishment but through the entire world community: a new drug that would not only keep AIDS patients alive and well for an entire lifetime, despite being infected with new strains of HIV, but that would eliminate the virus altogether in most cases.

Juan, thank you for coming, Martinez said. Please, sit."

I rushed here as soon as I received your message. Vargas’s small, delicate body sank into a plush sofa as the maid placed a tray with coffee and croissants on the table in front of him. Is something wrong? He stared intently into Martinez’s eyes.

Unfortunately, yes, Martinez answered, his voice almost a whisper. I’m not sure what to make of it.

What is it? Vargas leaned forward nervously, removing his thick glasses so as to get eye-to-eye with Martinez.

That’ll be all, Elena. Martinez sent his maid out of the room with a flick of his head and reached for his third cup of coffee. I’m afraid I have bad news.

The FDA! Vargas snapped, spitting croissant from his lips. I knew it. They found something wrong with the final test results. Not especially fond of an arrogant agency he thought bordered on incompetence, Vargas had referred to it disparagingly as the Federal Death Administration for its bureaucratic inability to approve drugs he believed would have saved lives if allowed to get to market.

No, nothing like that, Martinez assured him. The test results are fine.

What then?

Martinez hesitated, then looked Vargas squarely in the eye. Dr. Richard Zarnoff’s body was found in an apartment in Edinburgh, Scotland. Apparently he’d been murdered.

Vargas bolted forward, nearly sending the coffee tray crashing to the floor. Murdered!

Martinez nodded weakly, aware of how shocking his revelation must have been, especially since Dr. Zarnoff had been one of Vargas’s closest outside collaborators. It was Zarnoff, a professor at the University of Utah School of Medicine, who’d recommended Vargas for the position at Viracor. And it was the results of their joint immunological studies at the university while Vargas was a visiting research fellow that had led Vargas to eventually develop Lyfusin.

I know it’s hard to believe. We were shocked when we received the report.

When? How? Vargas settled into a state of disbelief as he thought through the possibility that the murder was committed by someone who must have known about Zarnoff’s involvement in the AIDS project or his previous work with Fort Detrick’s U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases.

Several days ago, Martinez replied. Seems that his apartment was ransacked and… He didn’t quite know how to explain the final details but went ahead anyway. His stomach and intestines were found dissected. Police say that whoever did it was looking for something Zarnoff had in his possession. They don’t believe anything was found. He paused for a second and asked, You have any reason to believe he’d be hiding something? Something you two may have discussed that didn’t seem important at the time?

Vargas stood up, lit a cigarette, and walked around the sofa, desperately trying to establish a motive for the killing of someone as innocently involved with Viracor as Dr. Zarnoff had been. If it happened to Zarnoff, he figured, it could damn well happen to anyone. He broke into a cold sweat and began shaking.

Juan, calm yourself. Sit down. Martinez poured half a glass of scotch and offered it to Vargas, who didn’t seem to care that daybreak was barely an hour old.

Thank you. Vargas threw his head back and downed the Chivas with one quick swallow. He asked, Was there anything in the report about why Zarnoff was in Edinburgh?

There’s an AIDS conference scheduled to begin December fourteenth. He was supposed to be one of the speakers. Surely you must have known.

Impossible! Yes, I knew about the conference, but he couldn’t be presenting any of our work. It’s still classified. Are you certain?

Quite. Strange thing is, he’d been in Edinburgh for a month. And before that he’d spent six months in the Congo. Are you sure you knew nothing of that?

Vargas shook his balding head and took quick drags of his cigarette. He knew there’d been secret American AIDS research going on in various parts of Africa until recently, but he didn’t know how far it had gone; didn’t even know to what extent Zarnoff was connected with it, if at all, though he now suspected he very well must have been.

Another scotch. Gone in a second, as if he’d done that sort of thing a hundred times before. Another cigarette. He now knew why he’d not heard from Richard Zarnoff since Zarnoff had left on sabbatical from the university. But what the hell was he doing in Africa? What in God’s name was he going to present at the AIDS conference? And why was he holed up in some seedy apartment a month before? The questions flashed through his mind, and by the time a third glass of scotch disappeared, he still had no answers but one clear possibility: Zarnoff’s secret work at Fort Detrick—which involved not only studies of HIV but a variety of viruses, bacteria, and mycotoxins that had significant biological warfare potential—had led him to a discovery in Africa that had cost him his life.

When was the last time Dr. Zarnoff sent a progress report on the research he’d been conducting? Martinez asked, still testing his friend as though he had a gut feeling the usually secretive scientist knew something and was holding back.

March, answered Vargas without hesitation. I examined his data and thought it was excellent. Exactly what we hoped for.

And his conclusions were?

That fusion with T-lymphocytes was significantly blunted in every case. We know that after initial infection, once antibodies to the virus are formed in the bloodstream, much of the subsequent HIV transmission within the body occurs when infected lymphocytes fuse with other, non-infected, lymphocytes. That way they avoid being attacked by the antibodies in the blood. Naturally, some lymphocytes burst forth from T-cells and destroy them, but we found if we prevent the fusion of T-cells, we could extend the lifespan of the T-cell population by at least tenfold, according to Zarnoff’s estimates.

So, the spread of the virus would essentially decrease to zero because any existing viruses would be contained within the boundaries of the originally infected T-cells. This is more than a treatment…it’s basically a cure. Brilliant.

Exactly. The cells are imprisoned, so to speak, and then die. Zarnoff’s research was conclusive. He showed that Lyfusin altered the cell membrane composition of glycoproteins enough to prevent T-cell fusion. That, along with the FDA clinical trials, clinched it. I can’t think of any reason why anyone would be after him. The research was over…the international patents had already been approved…production was scheduled to begin in July, and no one could possibly steal the product and duplicate it without everyone in the industry damn well knowing it.

Vargas sank back into the sofa and shut his eyes, praying that Zarnoff’s death was nothing more than an act of random violence, all the while suspecting it was anything but. He rubbed his temples and forehead, and for the first time since stepping foot inside the palatial villa considered the possibility that Zarnoff was about to make an announcement that would implicate the U.S. government in the AIDS pandemic.

So, exactly why is it that you called me here? Vargas questioned, almost suspiciously now.

Mr. Royce is having a special board meeting first thing Monday morning. Some of the bigwigs from New York will be flying down, and I’m supposed to present the marketing and PR strategies for the new product. I need you there to field any R&D questions.

That’s it? Vargas knew that Martinez would not have gone to this much trouble, would not have called him in at such an unusual hour, unless there was something else.

There’s one more thing.

Name it.

I’d like you to make sure Dr. Zarnoff’s name is nowhere in your personal files. Royce wants his work to remain classified, his identity expunged from your records. His outside involvement with the U.S. Army is not something we want to be affiliated with, especially if the man was into something he shouldn’t have been into. If his name comes up, you’ve not heard from him in years. If the police question you, deny having dealings with him since leaving the university. You’re not to discuss your work together, not to question his death, nor talk to anyone regarding Lyfusin. Understood?

Of course.

Vargas understood all too well. Something was not right. What about Zarnoff’s notes? he asked. His research may have been classified, but certainly he kept records.

That’s been taken care of.

How?

Never mind that. Our people made sure that any trace of his work with Viracor no longer exists. We’ve come too far, and we can’t allow anything he may have done without our knowledge to be linked to us.

I understand.

One more thing, Martinez added, his tone turning as somber as the mood in the room. Don’t leave the country. Mr. Royce feels that we need to maintain a low profile until this matter is resolved. I know I can count on you.

Of course. Vargas tried to sound convincing, though he couldn’t help feeling sickened at the thought of what he was being asked to do. As far as I know, Dr. Zarnoff is history. And we need to get on with our business.

Good man, Juan. I’ll see you at the meeting first thing Monday morning.

The minute Vargas closed the door behind him, Martinez picked up the phone and dialed Viracor security. He lit a Cuban cigar, a look of concern washing across his face.

This is Martinez, he announced. I want round-the-clock surveillance on Dr. Juan Vargas and a full report on his daily activities. Monitor his phone lines—both laboratory and home. Any unusual conversations or meetings and you report to me immediately. Especially if those conversations involve any knowledge he may have of Zarnoff’s recent trip to Africa.

Yes, sir, the voice on the phone responded crisply. We’ll get on it right away.

Martinez hung up, stuck the cigar between a set of perfect teeth that gleamed white against his tanned skin, and walked to the porch overlooking Luquillo Bay. His mistress, who’d just gotten out of bed and thrown a short robe over her naked body, strolled seductively over to him and slid her fingers around his waist.

Come back to bed, Carlos, she pleaded.

Not now, my love.

What’s wrong? Her long fingers made their way up his back, then kneaded his neck, where the usually supple muscles had knotted themselves into hard bundles.

Martinez didn’t answer nor turn to look into her beautiful eyes. Instead, he continued to stare at the crystal-blue water lapping the shoreline. It was a tropical paradise, he contemplated, a dream come true for a boy who’d grown up in the worst slums of Old San Juan and never imagined he would ever have anything like this. He was a king among paupers, and it was all because of Viracor. And no one, not even someone as dear to him as his friend Juan Vargas, was going to do anything to take that away.

Chapter 3

December 14, 2022

London, England

Inspector James Macfadden stepped out of his car and into a blistering northeastern wind. Pulling his lapels tightly against his chest, he rushed up the stairs of Scotland Yard and directly toward the office of Chief Inspector Charles Fitzhugh, who for the past two days had been on the receiving end of intense pressure from Parliament to solve a murder that was quickly growing into an international media event.

Marching through a lobby bustling with morning activity, Macfadden followed a maze of corridors that led him to the Criminal Investigative Division, then walked into the reception area of Fitzhugh’s grand office. He removed his tweed coat and gray fedora and tossed them on the leather couch next to the desk of Pamela Twiggs, CID’s executive secretary.

Hey, love. Chief Inspector in? Macfadden gave Twiggs a smile and a pronounced wink.

He’s expecting you, she snapped, glaring up from behind black-rimmed glasses. Go on in. And don’t call me ‘love.’  She twirled around and resumed pounding the keyboard in front of her.

Macfadden slipped past her bulbous frame and opened the door, walking into a meeting already in progress. Two figures turned in unison and followed Macfadden in with their eyes.

You’re late, Fitzhugh growled, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Lord Chamberlain is here to join us.

Stuart Chamberlain extended a thin hand, his dour expression fixed in stone. Though nearly seventy and at the twilight of his career, he remained an influential member of Britain’s inner political circle. Macfadden knew at once that the presence of such a high-ranking member meant only one thing: Richard Zarnoff was no ordinary victim.

Pleased to meet you, sir. Macfadden grasped Chamberlain’s stiff hand, which no doubt was unaccustomed to pressing flesh with commoners the likes of Scotland Yard agents. Didn’t realize Parliament had an interest in the case.

Chamberlain held out a copy of the morning’s London Daily. Take a look, he insisted, pulling his other hand away and glaring as Macfadden unfolded it. Seems the press has decided to make this a media event.

TOP AIDS RESEARCHER MURDERED

Dr. Richard Zarnoff, a prominent AIDS researcher at the University of Utah in Salt Lake City, Utah, was found mutilated in an Edinburgh apartment. The mysterious events surrounding his death raise questions about Dr. Zarnoff’s research and his possible connections to Great Britain. Police have been tight-lipped, but confidential sources suggest that Dr. Zarnoff may have been murdered because of discoveries he’d made about HIV, as well as evidence showing that new HIV strains could be transmitted through casual contact, much like other viruses. According to leading AIDS activist William Counselor, this kind of information would certainly have created mass hysteria and potentially dangerous reprisals against the AIDS community. Dr. Zarnoff’s death, it is speculated, may have been at the hands of elements that did not want that information made public for fear of panic and global chaos before more proof was made available…

What the hell is this? Macfadden asked, shoving the paper back into Chamberlain’s hand. Confidential sources? International hysteria? The bloody press is having a field day over this. We have no way of knowing what’s going on, and they’re making it appear as if the poor bastard was killed by radical AIDS activists who don’t want anyone to know of a new and uncontrollable AIDS virus heading our way. Give me a break.

Stories like this tend to escalate into diplomatic nightmares, Chamberlain countered sullenly. He spoke softly but deliberately. Don’t underestimate it, Inspector, especially if we’re seen as not pursuing it vigorously enough or are suspected of contributing to a cover-up, and especially if we allow the press to shape national opinion.

Chamberlain paused to look at the paper again, then threw it onto the table next to him. We’ve had ongoing discussions with the American State Department over this. Local authorities in Salt Lake City have confirmed that his home was broken into around the same time as his death, which was approximately Tuesday, the sixth. No evidence was found, but intelligence suspects it was no coincidence.

There may be something to the story, Fitzhugh added. "Dr. Zarnoff was a top man in a field receiving intense pressure from a world community desperate to find a cure as quickly as possible before deadly strains emerge. His death has set off a firestorm. God help us if