So, you must be the
doctor.
And you must be the
traitor.
The first speaker was seated with elegantly
crossed legs on a battered kitchen chair set next to an old kitchen table. Both
table and chair were pushed against the wall of a bare, damp room. The only
natural light came from a barred slit of a window, high on the narrow wall
opposite the only door. The second speaker had just entered through that door,
his arrival heralded by a rusty fanfare as the door's external bolts were
withdrawn. Now that he was inside, the bolts squealed back into place behind
him.
I know you're a doctor because they said
they'd send one to give me a check-up before I was let out on my little trip.
What makes you think I'm a traitor? What have they told you?
Nothing, or next to it; they never do, of
course. I've been to this part of the estate only a few times, mainly to see to
the injuries of people who are being...questioned. I have to say that you're in
a lot better shape than most of my patients. All of them were traitors or
double agents. It appears to be what this part of the estate deals
with.
As the doctor spoke, he opened his bag and took
out a bottle and syringe. The man at the table looked on with cool
detachment.
I prefer to think of myself as being
imaginative with respect to the concept of loyalty, he said. And
the reason that these goons haven't so much as creased my Gieves & Hawkes
suit is that I have something that they want. I always do whichever side
I'm temporarily playing for. So, a check-up? Is it running on the spot or
drop-and-cough?
Neither. I understand that you're going
on an overseas trip.
Yes. When the powers-that-be discovered
that I'd been pursuing alternative employment they were rather miffed. In
return for no hard feelings, I am to arrange to meet my significant other
my handler in a place where he can be lifted and brought home for
a chat. On the whole, I'd say that I'm rather good value for
money.
You'll need to have a jab before you go.
Roll up your sleeve.
Very well. I've never needed a jab
before. Visited the place several times.
This is different.
Ouch! A little heavy-handed there, old
chap. Need to work on the old bedside manner.
Now that's done, there's something you
need to know. The serum I just injected contains an active pathogen. It's a
genetically modified version of a tropical disease. The symptoms initially
resemble a heavy cold: fever, headache, sweating. Twenty-four hours after they
start, the body's immune system goes into irreversible overdrive, resulting in
death. The technical term is a cytokine storm.
My God! Are you mad?
No, and neither are your employers. They
don't trust you and they think you might do a runner instead of delivering your
handler. Given the circumstances, you can hardly blame them.
But why would they kill me? What about
bringing my handler in?
That will go ahead as planned. Only you
can cause your death. If you try to make a run for it, the disease will run its
course. The time taken to characterise the virus is much longer than the
incubation period and the process is only useful in determining what the
patient died of. There is no physician in the world who could examine you and
provide any advice more useful than 'take two aspirins and call me in the
morning'. After the third day, you will not be calling anyone in the morning.
Your only hope is to play ball, do what you've promised and get back here for
the antidote before the disease is too far developed. How long will your trip
take?
A day to get there, a day to execute the
plan and a day to get back.
And you leave tonight? Hmmm...best not to
dawdle.
It was the same room and the same man was
sitting at the same chair. This time, though, he was pale, unkempt, covered in
a sheen of sweat and clearly terrified. The door opened and the doctor
entered.
Thank God you're here, the man
said, rising from his chair. You took your bloody time. Quick, give me
the antidote. I'm dying.
I understand the mission went
well.
Yes, yes. Hoo-bloody-ra and God Save The
Queen. I did what I was told and now the other side want me dead. Hurry up,
damn you.
Hurry up? Oh yes, the antidote. I'm
afraid that I wasn't strictly honest with you the last time we spoke. There is
no antidote.
What? Are the bastards going to kill
me?
No, no. If they were going to do that,
I'm sure that there are people who'd want to do it personally. I understand
that some of your treachery cost the lives of our operatives and
agents.
Then why did you give me that bloody
tropical disease?
Another economy with the truth. What I
actually injected you with was a sample of the new strain of influenza that
will be arriving here this winter. Unpleasant for a few days but ultimately
harmless for a fit man like yourself.
What? Do you mean it was all a trick? I
could have made a run for it?
Any time you wanted.
But I feel terrible. I ache all over, I'm
covered in sweat and my head is poinding. What can you do to help
me?
Help? Well, you could take two aspirin
and call me in the morning.