A fearless magician

Is Dr. Ron Fouchier’s forced mutation of the A(H5N1) bird flu virus inside a laboratory a dangerous experiment that shouldn’t have been conducted in the first place? The “new” virus can be transmitted via air from human to human, although the experiment used ferrets to demonstrate this, making it much more deadlier than its predecessor. This otherwise-fascinating property is lucrative to rogue states and terrorist organizations that may desire to exploit its pathogenic capacity for hubristic gains.

At the same time, Dr. Fouchier’s experiment finds important employ amongst his peers as well because it demonstrates the effects of specific mutations, how changes to the protein sequence affect the pathogenic capacity of the virus, and possible directions for future research. In the age of terrorism, thus, what bears more priority than the other: scientific research aimed at better understanding, recognizing and tackling pandemics before they occur? Or the possibility that such experiments could fall into the wrong hands and complicate an already precarious security situation?

[caption id="attachment_21062" align="aligncenter" width="250" caption="Dr. Ron Fouchier heads the virology lab at the Erasmus Medical Centre, Rotterdam."][/caption]

Perhaps this is the only instance whereby precautionary measures can be disregarded in favour of going ahead with the experiment because, even though the conduction of the experiment in a dangerous environment can prove risky, it is not science’s obligation to back down in the face of threats posed by its findings. That terrorism raises such a question is as far as terrorism should be allowed to go, and upon consideration, it seems we must guard against terrorists by strengthening our armour, not halting the machinery that has made and still makes possible mankind’s progress.

However, the argument does not end there. One way or another, some responsibility does fall on the scientific community, especially the section that proposed to and did carry out this experiment, for the possibilities it has given rise to. In turn, this merits the question: was the experiment really necessary in the first place? When using experimental techniques to find newer solutions to old problems, solutions that are more progressive in terms of how many assumptions they make as part of the scientific method, researchers and those who fund them must be held accountable irrespective of a terrorist threat.

“It’s all about predicting what will hit you next. We want to predict earthquakes and tsunamis; we also want to predict what will happen with the bird flu virus,” Fouchier said about the killer-virus he’d created. “This work needed to be done.” For the moment, we must trust in the constructive tendencies of those who engineer our possibilities and not in the destructive tendencies of those who limit our choices. Terrorism is an integral aspect of the daily lives of men, women and children, and by stoppering scientific research, the best decision we will have taken is to secure our livelihoods for the present by persisting with caution and nothing else as defence.

Bill Brenner writes in CSO Online:

By mutating H5N1 into a more human threat, these scientists have given would-be bio terrorists something to salivate over. They say they did it because it could help them develop more effective vaccines in the future, but to me this falls into the category of things you just shouldn’t mess with, no matter how pure your intentions.

Why shouldn’t they mess with it? Yes, decisions cannot be made in a vacuum and scientists must pitch in with their bit to improve the situation around the globe, but to not do something just because it might fall into the wrong hands is the worst reason why it shouldn’t be done at all! If we don’t exercise our rights and also with it our powers to protect against risk, then we will have conceded defeat in a fight that, with each passing day, becomes a test of our resilience. The scientist may not be directly expected to pick up a gun and run to the front, but at the same time we must not expect that he will drop his tools and wait until the war is over.

[caption id="attachment_21063" align="aligncenter" width="450" caption="The H5N1, or bird flu, virus has devastated poultry populations across Asia since the mid-1990s. Even though it kills quickly when it takes hold of a human, it rarely every infects our species. Dr. Fouchier has changed that, however, although the specimen strain lies locked in a lab in Europe."][/caption]

The H5N1, or bird flu, virus has devastated poultry populations across Asia since the mid-1990s. Even though it kills quickly when it takes hold of a human, it rarely every infects our species. Dr. Fouchier has changed that, however, although the specimen strain lies locked in a lab in Europe.

Such research is not pushing the ambit of scientific ethics; if so insular a definition could be afforded, then almost all scientific research in microbiology, pathology and virology will have to be abandoned. Instead, the state must not hoist the responsibility of factoring in terrorist possibilities on the scientific community – unfair as it is – but must work with it to construct an environment in which science can work its magic fearlessly.

The sons of Moirai

When writing about any other such man, I would've been bland with my contrivances: an inherited fortune, an all-expenses-paid-for education, a world outlook that bordered on dilettantism while seeking out some moral higher ground to continuing to sleep with whores. No. He was not quite all those things—there was something different about him that may have never come across if not for a remark I overheard. He was a zealot, a man given to a cause, living out a straightforward life—debauchery notwithstanding—whose excesses were moderated with a sense of judgment spiked with spiritual devotion. He kept to himself most of the time, never indulging in small talk, and would often leave me wondered if he had nothing to complain about at all; whenever we met, he would ask me what I was writing about these days, whether I'd read any books lately, and with a sincere seniority, he would give me advice on what not to do in general.

I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.

Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.

The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.

That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.

The sons of Moirai

When writing about any other such man, I would've been bland with my contrivances: an inherited fortune, an all-expenses-paid-for education, a world outlook that bordered on dilettantism while seeking out some moral higher ground to continuing to sleep with whores. No. He was not quite all those things—there was something different about him that may have never come across if not for a remark I overheard. He was a zealot, a man given to a cause, living out a straightforward life—debauchery notwithstanding—whose excesses were moderated with a sense of judgment spiked with spiritual devotion. He kept to himself most of the time, never indulging in small talk, and would often leave me wondered if he had nothing to complain about at all; whenever we met, he would ask me what I was writing about these days, whether I'd read any books lately, and with a sincere seniority, he would give me advice on what not to do in general.

I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.

Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.

The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.

That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.

The world's hardest job

That Osama bin Laden was resident in a sprawling compound in Abbotabad, 60 km from Islamabad, 100 km from the Indian border and a much shorter distance away from a Pakistani military training academy, for five years without the knowledge of the local government or the ISI spells egregious news for Pakistan for two reasons:

1. If the government really had no knowledge of the world's most-wanted man living just outside the national capital, running the Al Qaeda while having half the satellites in the sky looking for him, then credit is due the terrorist who managed to dupe a country that, given its borders with India, Afghanistan and Waziristan (although a district inside the country, the tribes in the region nonetheless assert their jurisprudential autonomy), and ties with China, should have been more alert by the proverbial orders of magnitude.


2. The more likely reason is that either sections of the Pakistani government or the ISI (or both together) have been active in providing assistance to a notorious trans-national terrorist and have had a role to play in sheltering him for the last five years.

Either ways, there is only one position that is harder to hold than being a spokesperson of the UPA government in India: being a Pakistani diplomat in the USA.

The world's hardest job

That Osama bin Laden was resident in a sprawling compound in Abbotabad, 60 km from Islamabad, 100 km from the Indian border and a much shorter distance away from a Pakistani military training academy, for five years without the knowledge of the local government or the ISI spells egregious news for Pakistan for two reasons:

1. If the government really had no knowledge of the world's most-wanted man living just outside the national capital, running the Al Qaeda while having half the satellites in the sky looking for him, then credit is due the terrorist who managed to dupe a country that, given its borders with India, Afghanistan and Waziristan (although a district inside the country, the tribes in the region nonetheless assert their jurisprudential autonomy), and ties with China, should have been more alert by the proverbial orders of magnitude.


2. The more likely reason is that either sections of the Pakistani government or the ISI (or both together) have been active in providing assistance to a notorious trans-national terrorist and have had a role to play in sheltering him for the last five years.

Either ways, there is only one position that is harder to hold than being a spokesperson of the UPA government in India: being a Pakistani diplomat in the USA.

The world's hardest job

That Osama bin Laden was resident in a sprawling compound in Abbotabad, 60 km from Islamabad, 100 km from the Indian border and a much shorter distance away from a Pakistani military training academy, for five years without the knowledge of the local government or the ISI spells egregious news for Pakistan for two reasons:

1. If the government really had no knowledge of the world's most-wanted man living just outside the national capital, running the Al Qaeda while having half the satellites in the sky looking for him, then credit is due the terrorist who managed to dupe a country that, given its borders with India, Afghanistan and Waziristan (although a district inside the country, the tribes in the region nonetheless assert their jurisprudential autonomy), and ties with China, should have been more alert by the proverbial orders of magnitude.


2. The more likely reason is that either sections of the Pakistani government or the ISI (or both together) have been active in providing assistance to a notorious trans-national terrorist and have had a role to play in sheltering him for the last five years.

Either ways, there is only one position that is harder to hold than being a spokesperson of the UPA government in India: being a Pakistani diplomat in the USA.

The Miracle Worker

A car zipped past a few inches from his head, the quickly vanishing blue metal having all his attention. Bradley Johansson couldn’t believe his eyes.

Someone jolted him out of his reverie, and he came back to his senses, the subdued clamour of his environs rising up around him once again. The whores of the night mistook his incredulity for awe, feeling him up as he dodged one after another as he spanned the alley. Once on the other side, the walls fell off on either side to a long road, the sea frothing and foaming on the other side, beyond the low grille. He turned to his right and maintained his pace, not letting the wondrous decadence of New City turn him from his path.

The cars continued to shoot past him with their screaming blue and red lights, the buildings were also unfortunately aglow with similar hues. Stars were no longer a sight to behold, perhaps to even have romantic walks under, and the enchantingly platinum light of Anarion was nowhere to be found in the hearts of blacksmiths and poets alike. This was the misbegotten anarchy of an ill-advised nuclear holocaust, but nothing could be done now.

Or so they had thought, the gypsies and nomads of the world, agglutinating like sticky oil stains simply because nobody was an urchin if everybody were urchins. A smile lit up on Bradley Johansson’s smooth peachy face. He kept walking, but the more and more he thought about his task tonight, the less and less became the pain in his calves, the greater the eagerness to keep moving.

A cold but salty draft wafted his way and he breathed deeply, the saline pungency cloying at his lungs. Without missing a beat, his nose wrinkled as he reached within his coat, looking for the pack of Lucky Strikes he’d remembered at the last minute to bring along. When the cigarette was found, the lighter was not; frantic, he stopped and looked around, and just then, his gaze locked with a young girl’s, standing a few feet behind him.

She couldn’t have been more than 16 even though her height said otherwise, the depthlessness of her eyes being a giveaway. Or, he thought, she’s psychotic – they were quite common these days, what with crime being a pleasurable pastime for a small fee. Before he could ask, she reached a flickering Zippo to his lips, and he partook of the flame. Not a word spoken, not a word offered. He drew a deep breath, the fumes billowing in translucent clouds as he held himself from blowing into her face. Not that she would have minded, though.

She was wearing a tight T, the sleeves rolled back to her shoulders, slender bony arms tucked into the waistband of her beige hotpants. Muttering a word of thanks at someone who looked eager to begin a life of being a spoor, Bradley Johansson turned and began to walk again, toying with the damp cigarette while his mind began to whir again with a hairtrigger expediency that only came with indifference to one’s health.

Reflected in the mercurial faces of a hundred mirrors draped over the shoulders of a prostitute, he caught a movement of gold just behind him. Turning around suddenly, he saw it was the Zippo girl. Had he looked at her for longer than was necessary?

“What do you want?” She didn’t flinch at his sudden volte-face.

She said nothing as her hand slowly uprooted itself from some diamond mine at the meeting of her thighs and rubbed over her crotch, the grease from her fingers leaving a slippery track of peevish nights behind, like she didn’t care much for what happened there if only it brought a strange smile to her face.

“Not tonight.”

His eyes quickly sharpened into slits of anger, not quite appreciating the touch of milky white skin against his own, and the backhanded slap caught her squarely on a breast. She only smiled more, the mischievous glint of some bygone pain visible all too clearly. Bradley Johansson had an idea.

“It’s not just me tonight.”

She nodded. He continued to walk as if he didn’t give a damn – he didn’t – and was not surprised to notice the now-conspicuous tapping of her porcelain heels behind him. She could be a fitting gift to the man who was waiting for him at the end of this road; after all, there was some gratitude due him. A spar of doubt that had been spinning across his mind now came to the fore, but he dismissed it: none but he knew what he carried in his pocket. A minute more, the trees were already thickening on the seaward side to adorn a lush facade of blue-green tassels.

He sashayed mindlessly across the road, drunk drivers yelling after him and his consort. There was a subtle cleft in the sidewalk that pointed into the woods, and he turned into it. He should have known when she didn’t hesitate that she’d been here before, but it slipped past him as the tension in his guts tautened perceptibly when the shack became visible. Well, it was not so much of a shack as it was an old man sitting under a tarpaulin sheet that was strutted skywards by four wooden planks nailed into the ground.

“You have something for me.” It wasn’t a question.

“Plural.” She stepped out of his shadow, still as callous as she had been under the neon beams, the grease visible even under the dull glow of a bulb that hung from a wire that seemed to emerge from Hell. The old man smiled toothlessly, impetuous strands of spittle dribbling past his jowly chin. Voiceless in her obeisance, she stepped past her procurer and towards the “residence”.

In a second followed the stack of micrometre-thick mirabilium crystals, glowing with an electric blue shade of iconoclasm in the night’s grey tones, turning the skin on his fingers purple and the old man annoyed.

“What’re you doing?!”

Smiling, Bradley Johansson dropped them back into the bag that had held them and handed them over to the “party”, known only as Nigel in the trade. The mirabilium would be ground and recrystallized to erase the quarry-signature that would be etched into it by nature’s machinations, and then packed into the core of plastic explosives. Then, they would be redistributed to terrorists across the globe to be used as biological weapons going by the name of “blue bombs” – one blast and all things living would collapse dead in a quarter-mile radius.

With one last nod at the girl, already scarlet and perspiring with extraterrestrial anxiety, he turned around and walked back, slower this time, to the heart of New City, fumbling once more for another cigarette. Again, the need for a flame presented itself, but he was sure he’d find someone in a minute or so, someone who could never understand the pleasure of starlight but knew only the coming and going of nights by the coming and going of irreverent relationships. Soon enough, he was offered a light.

On her lapel, a sham of a red cross was stitched with a border of black. He smiled as the brand came to life, throwing a dull orange glow across her lips. “Doctor mirabilis, indeed!” Tonight, miracles would be worked to restore mankind’s stature in the eyes of the Captors, a deluge of death was going to descend on the non-believers, and the name of Bradley Johansson had to be screamed into the night with fitting ecstasy.

Their gazes locked, and he blew the smoke into her eyes. She smiled.