Sour Puss (3 page)

3

A
s luck would have it, Fair got to meet Professor Forland before the evening presentation. He’d been at Kluge Estate to check on a mare, and Patricia Kluge and her husband, Bill Moses, asked him to please stay for the small luncheon that would include the professor and a few local vineyard owners.

Leaning forward across the mint-green tablecloth, Professor Forland held the guests at the informal luncheon spellbound. “We have knowledge that mycotoxins have been used in warfare and are probably being used now. Substantiating the information proves difficult, as there is much at stake politically.”

“What? Arousing the nation, you mean?” Hy Maudant, a transplanted Frenchman, asked, his English enlivened by a seductive accent.

“Not just the United States, but verifying chemical-warfare attacks calls an entire complex of international relations into play. There are those who will deny that Iraq used them and those who simply sit the fence. Naturally when all is resolved the fence-sitter wants the best deal on oil and wants to rebuild Iraq.” Bill Moses wasn’t cynical, just realistic.

“But did Saddam use mycotoxins?” Toby Pittman, a former student of Professor Forland’s, now proprietor of Rockland Vineyards, asked earnestly.

“I believe he did.” The diminutive professor pushed his thick glasses further up on his nose, as they had a habit of slipping down. “On January nineteenth, 1991, during the Persian Gulf War, I believe an Iraqi aircraft penetrated our defenses and sprayed aflatoxin over Seabees and the Twenty-fourth Naval Mobile Construction Battalion near the port of Al Jubayl in Saudi Arabia.”

As an undergraduate at Virginia Tech, Toby displayed such brilliance that he secured a teaching fellowship as a graduate student. His thesis adviser was Professor Forland.

After completing his Ph.D., Toby assumed he would start as a lecturer to undergraduates. His classmate, Arch Saunders, not as gifted as Toby in Toby’s estimation, also was awarded his Ph.D.

When no offer to stay on at Tech was forthcoming, Toby approached his adviser, who told him, truthfully, there was a budget crunch. What Professor Forland didn’t tell him was that after working closely with Toby for three years, he felt the young man lacked mental stability.

When Toby found out, a few days after he’d packed up, that Arch Saunders was offered the position, he was beside himself. Two years later, Arch left to work at a large vineyard in Napa Valley. Somehow, that seemed like another slap in the face to Toby. Arch repudiated what he, himself, wanted.

Out on his own, Toby worked like a dog to make a success of his vineyard. He often wondered what his life would have been like if he’d been given the job at Tech along with a regular paycheck.

“I’ll spare you the denials and the subsequent explanations by our government.” Professor Forland tenaciously kept on his subject. “Perhaps what threw off authorities about this event, what led to denials, was the fact that our intelligence people were still back in the mustard gas or anthrax stage of chemical warfare. How could they admit they hadn’t kept pace with what Saddam was really doing, which was developing various toxic substances in dizzying array?” Professor Forland shrugged, then continued. “But the fact remains that fungal toxins are easier to produce than anyone can contemplate without feeling deeply depressed.”

“How easy?” Rollie Barnes, rich and aggressive, had been invited to the small gathering because of his large plans for Spring Hill Vineyards. He betrayed his nervousness by cracking his knuckles under the table.

Accompanying Rollie was his newly hired vineyard manager and partner, Arch Saunders. It seemed to Toby that Arch had come back from California to taunt him.

Fair was polite to Arch and vice versa, but neither man warmed to the other. When Harry and Fair divorced, she’d enjoyed a brief affair with the outgoing, good-looking Arch. He fell hard. She didn’t.

Arch burned gas driving back and forth from Blacksburg to Crozet. When Harry broke off the affair, he resigned his position and burned more gas hauling to California. He flourished there, learning even more about soil, grapes, sunshine, and rain and how they combine to form magic in a glass. Arch steered clear of entanglements, which may have been a good thing since he had so much to soak up.

He had returned to Crozet only two weeks ago.

“A bright student of chemistry, of agriculture, could figure this out. Now, figuring it out means you have to assemble the laboratory to produce the mycotoxins. Still, the knowledge is well within the grasp of a good student.” Professor Forland’s bushy eyebrows darted upward. “The trichothecene mycotoxins are fungal toxins. The molds attack corn, barley, rye, oats, millet, even straw and hay. If a bright soul had access to lab equipment or the money and determination to build his or her own lab, he could distill the trichothecene mycotoxins from the mold. A lethal dose for humans need only be from three to thirty-five milligrams, depending on the severity of the toxin. For instance, T-2 is the most potent. A ridiculously low dose would kill someone. Unfortunately not without prolonged agony.”

“Has this happened?” Fair thought it revolting that so much of human intelligence was harnessed to produce pain instead of alleviating it.

“Yes, I think so. You can’t lock up knowledge. It’s been tried over the centuries and, sooner or later, it leaks out.” Professor Forland leaned back in his chair as dessert was served. “Can I prove other nations have used chemical attacks in the last twenty years? Not conclusively. Do I believe Saddam deployed them when he was in power; do I believe the former Soviet Union used chemical warfare in Chechnya? I do.” The professor compressed his thin lips until they disappeared.

Toby Pittman spoke up, eager to shine, especially with Arch present. “There was a case in 1944 when thirty percent of the population of the Orenburg district near Siberia came down with sickness because they ate tainted food. It wasn’t chemical warfare, just moldy grain. I think it was alimentary toxic aleukia, or ATA.”

Professor Forland smiled indulgently at Toby. “I commend you for remembering after all these years.”

Hy Maudant, no fan of the intense Toby, nor the more congenial Arch for that matter, piped up, “Ah, well, I can see you covered a lot of ground in your classes.”

“Well, I did, and as you have occasionally asked for my monographs, Mr. Maudant,” Professor Forland pointed his finger good-naturedly at Hy, “you know that we study fungi and insects as part of our preparation to go to war for the health of the grape.”

“Which brings us back to our original table talk, the health of the grape.” Bill genially prodded them, although he, too, was fascinated with this discussion about chemical warfare.

“Before we get back to that, Professor, how many countries have developed chemical warfare using fungus?” Rollie found himself morbidly curious.

“Obviously Iraq, but really they benefitted from the work of the former Soviet Union, work that began in the 1930s. It’s reasonable and will someday be proven beyond contest that any client state of the Soviet Union’s had access to the substances, and even to the scientists who produced it. That means that the communist forces in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia as well as Afghanistan used it on insurgents. It will all come out in the wash, as they say, but the victims remain victims, and the dead remain safely dead.”

“What about us?” Fair raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Meaning?” Rollie was wary of Fair because he was blond and handsome; Rollie was neither.

Arch prudently kept quiet, letting Rollie talk. He glanced once at his old classmate Toby when Toby rolled his eyes. Toby thought Rollie a perfect ass and Arch a fool for going into business with him.

“What have we developed?” Fair replied. “I doubt we’ve been twiddling our thumbs.”

“We are advanced in these matters, but exercising restraint. That’s the policy.” Professor Forland sounded unconvincing.

“Meaning we haven’t sprayed Al-Wherever with mycotoxins?” Fair thought about the animals who suffered for these killing agents and devoutly wished the leaders who could be so cruel to man and beast were sprayed themselves.

“No, we have exercised restraint,” Professor Forland repeated.

“I find that hard to believe. It seems that if men have a toy, a weapon, sooner or later they have to use it.” Patricia, who had quietly taken all this in, spoke at last.

“History would support your thesis.” The professor smiled amiably at his hostess.

“Is there no vaccination against these bioweapons?” Bill asked.

“No vaccination exists against mycotoxins. There is a vaccination for anthrax and for botulism toxin but none for these mycotoxins.” Professor Forland reached for wine, the Pinot Gris with a seven percent Riesling, a product of Hy’s vineyards. He tasted the liquid, smiling broadly. “Fortunately, our grapes are not used for any such nefarious purposes.”

“But couldn’t it be done? Couldn’t some of the fungi that attack grapes be used for chemical warfare?” Fair wondered.

“Yes. Any fungus could potentially have a lethal application if reduced to its most potent form, but the molds that attack the grain crops are available, the technology has been around for decades. There’s no need to besmirch our beautiful grapes, our thriving viticulture, with such a dreadful misuse of our knowledge.”

“Having said that, Professor, what is the health of our vines?” Bill was determined to bring them back on course.

“So far so good.” The professor held up his glass, nodding his head toward Hy. “Very good, I might add.”

“A modest effort.” Hy smiled. “I’ll be most interested in your opinion,” he swept his eyes over the others, soliciting their opinions, too, “of my estate mix—that’s what Fiona and I call it.” He mentioned his wife, whom he loved deeply without feeling the need to be faithful. “We age it in French oak. It’s my baby.” He inhaled deeply, then smiled again at Patricia. “You’ve had success with your Simply Red.”

“Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc.” Bill happily supplied the information.

“We thought about using casks from Hungary but decided against it.” Patricia exhaustively researched the different properties of oak, even hickory, from around the world.

Arch listened pensively, then said, “I was down in North Carolina last week visiting an old friend who sticks to Concord grapes”—this made the others smile, since they considered the Concord lowly—“and he swears the sharpshooter is becoming cold-resistant.”

“We’ll see about that!” Professor Forland’s mouth snapped shut at the mention of the insect pest. “That would be like the bubonic plague to grapes.” He frowned. “In the thirties, the sharpshooter destroyed the vines of entire states. A very nasty customer.”

Toby, happy to contradict Arch, however, said slightingly, “It can’t happen. It would have to mutate.”

“Or be genetically altered.” Professor Forland stared into his wineglass. “That would take a twisted genius.”

“Let’s not yell before we’re bitten, gentlemen.” Bill interjected a note of color. “I fear late frosts more than the bugs.”

“Indeed,” Hy replied.

Patricia lifted the mood. “You know, I was reading the other day about resveratrol, which is an antioxidant that helps prevent heart attacks and cancer, too. Red wine is the best medicine. Pinot Noir contains 5.01 milligrams per liter. We should market our wines using this information. Think of it as a little medical pizzazz.”

“Ah.” Hy liked this. “What about Beaujolais?”

“It’s got 3.55 milligrams per liter,” Patricia quickly replied.

“You read carefully.” Professor Forland was impressed. “Cabernet Sauvignon from Chile contains 1.56 milligrams of resveratrol per liter, yet Cabernet Sauvignon from California contains only .99 milligrams per liter. The medley—the magic of soil, sun, temperature, elevation, drainage, and the skill of the vintner—can never be quantified.”

“But we can taste it,” Arch added.

“Indeed.” Hy sounded self-satisfied.

“To the vine.” The professor toasted them all.

4

. . .
delivery.” Professor Sidney Jenkins finished his remarks concerning bacteriological agents via cattle.

He followed Professor Forland, who listened with great interest. “If I might ask a question before the audience does. You’ve detailed how bacteria and viruses can be developed in labs and even how they can be delivered. But what do you think are the chances our cattle will be infected?”

Inclining his balding dome, the fortyish Professor Jenkins said, “Highly unlikely. Terrorists can strike more fear and disruption into our system if they aim directly for humans.”

Rita Nicolas, former head of the Virginia Angus Association, raised her hand and was recognized. “While I agree, Professor Jenkins, infecting even a few thousand beef cattle would create a negative economic climate for cattlemen immediately.”

“Yes, and that is one of their goals—not just to harm cattlemen, but to bleed us dry, if you will.” Professor Jenkins nodded.

The audience, standing room only, contained soybean farmers, cattlemen, poultry farmers, and other interested parties. Local doctors and nurses had also turned out in large numbers.

All the large vineyards were represented: Kluge Estate, White Hall Vineyards, Prince Michel Vineyards, Veritas Vineyards, King Family, Mountain Cove, Rockland Vineyards, White Vineyards, Spring Hill, and many others.

Dr. Donald Richardson, a leading breeder of polled Herefords, a gorgeous type of cattle bred without horns, asked, “Are there protocols in place should an outbreak occur in cattle?”

“Yes, Dr. Richardson,” Professor Jenkins acknowledged the dermatologist with whom he’d spent many an interesting time at various polled Hereford conferences and auctions, “the problem is, we really won’t know how effective they are until we are under siege.”

“What are the chances of grapes being tainted?” a tiny woman asked Professor Forland.

“I would think terrorists would be much more successful if they destroyed hops,” he replied.

This drew a laugh from the audience, since beer drinkers far outnumbered wine drinkers nationally.

Arch Saunders, a slight potbelly growing on his tall frame, stood up and said, “Professor Forland, you’ve discussed fungus and virus as agents. Are there other ways to kill crops, any crops, outside those you mentioned?”

Professor Forland pushed his large black-framed glasses to the bridge of his short nose. “There are. I hasten to add, they are not my expertise, but a casual knowledge leads me to believe that our enemies have access to Agent Orange, and to various other types of defoliants. As Professor Jenkins has reminded us, it’s not access to these substances that’s the real issue. Face it, they have them. The real issue is, can they deliver these agents where they will create the most harm? Unlike Professor Jenkins, I think they can. Let me modify that. I think they can create chaos to vegetation, to crops. Perhaps it is more difficult to infect or kill enough stock. Certainly Professor Jenkins would know far better than I, but in terms of, say, corn, it’s not that impossible or even unthinkable if you have determined, well-trained people. We’ve been concentrating on mycotoxin contaminants, but let’s reflect on our own history: the boll weevil.” He paused as his audience sat utterly silent. “Insects are easy to disperse, they reproduce at a rapid rate, therefore they spread at a rapid rate.”

Hy Maudant quickly spoke. “Indeed, Professor, but each insect has an Achilles heel. As you know, the sharpshooter,” he cited the terrible pest to grapes grown south of Virginia, “can’t endure frost. So South Carolina can’t grow the type of grapes we can here in Virginia. We’re safe. Any insect that would be unleashed could be stopped fairly quickly once you identified the vulnerability.”

“Correct.” Professor Forland pursed his lips. “Unless, monsieur,” he acknowledged Hy’s origins, to the delight of the audience, “the insect has been genetically altered.”

“Can’t do it,” Toby Pittman called out.

Professor Forland replied, “If not today then in some not-too-distant tomorrow.”

“We do know that insects as well as viruses become adaptive.” Professor Jenkins addressed the issue. “Look at how the protein shell of the AIDS virus mutates. And a more virulent AIDS strain developed, possibly in response to the drugs. It’s one of the reasons, to date, that no effective vaccine has been developed. All that can be done now is to try to limit the virus once a human is infected.”

“What are you saying exactly?” Big Mim wanted it in plain English, although she was capable of understanding what they were saying. She also knew many people would be embarrassed to ask for that. She was above embarrassment.

“I’m saying it is possible to create a supervirus. It is possible to create a bacteria resistant to conventional treatments. It is also possible to develop a superinsect.” Professor Jenkins ran his hand over his dome.

“Has it been done?” Fair finally spoke.

“Nature is already doing it,” Professor Jenkins flatly stated.

Emily Schilling, who specialized in exotic breeds of chickens, raised her hand, was acknowledged, and said only two words, “Avian influenza.”

Professor Jenkins audibly exhaled. “H5N1. Julie Gerberding, Director of the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, said in 2005 that there is a real risk of avian influenza—bird flu—transforming into a global threat comparable to the great influenza epidemic of 1918, which killed between twenty and forty million people.”

The whole audience gasped as one.

Professor Forland added, “I believe Shigeru Ome, the World Health Organization regional director, was even more dolorous in his pronouncements. And if we know anything about virii, we know H5N1 will evolve, as well. There may well be H5N2s, etc.”

Professor Jenkins nodded in agreement. “Rural southeast Asia lacks the means to halt the potential threat. It’s spread by poultry traders and unfortunately has been found in wild birds in China.

“Consider these two factors quite apart from the social disorganization caused by wars, tidal waves, the Khmer Rouge, etc. The first factor is that chickens are used as currency in Cambodia for many rural people. The second factor is it’s one of their few affordable sources of protein. The third and most disturbing factor is that chickens die when infected with H5N1. Waterfowl do not. Ducks calmly go about their business, seemingly uninfected, but they spread the virus through their droppings.”

Jim Sanburne, mayor of Crozet, asked, “Then what triggers an epidemic?”

Both Professor Jenkins and Professor Forland simultaneously answered, “Opportunity.”

The two men looked at each other, smiled, then Professor Jenkins elaborated. “To date, the people who have died from H5N1 have handled infected or dead chickens or have handled human corpses. Within a few days of contact, the person develops a fever, coughs violently. They die in about ten days, and the percentage of those who die once infected is a very high seventy-two percent.”

Another collective gasp in the room prompted Professor Forland to soothingly amend Professor Jenkins’s statements. “But the virus doesn’t easily spread from birds to humans or humans to humans. You must have direct physical contact.”

“True,” Professor Jenkins said, then added more gloom. “But each time H5N1 finds a human host it has an opportunity to evolve into a more communicable form.”

“Is there a vaccine?” Big Mim inquired sensibly.

“The French have manufactured a vaccine. Sanofi-Aventis SA is the company responsible. We are testing it here. The British are stockpiling Tamiflu. It’s proven effective.

“Obviously, tracking human cases is a top priority, but the areas where the outbreaks have occurred make that extremely difficult,” Professor Jenkins finished.

“Could terrorists harness H5N1?” Fair asked.

“If it evolves into a more communicable disease, I think they could. The delivery would be easy. Send infected people into major cities before those people show signs of the disease. That gives them maybe a two-day window.” Professor Jenkins folded his hands together.

“That’s monstrous!” Hy blurted out. “They would deliberately infect a man or woman and deliver them to Paris or London or New York?!”

“Hy,” Professor Forland calmly replied, “they flew stolen commercial airliners into the Pentagon and the Twin Towers. They’ve killed people in London’s subway and on a bus, as well. The terrorists considered themselves holy suicides. Why would human time bombs, if you will permit the description, be any different? They would willingly die of the Asian bird flu.”

“So we’d better stockpile flu shots, too.” Jim thought of his responsibility to Crozet.

“Remember the last flu-shot shortage in 2004?” Harry felt as uneasy as everyone else.

“Yes,” Professor Forland grimly replied.

Professor Jenkins shifted in his seat. “Let us remember that biological warfare has been with us since siege warfare. Besiegers would toss decayed corpses over the town walls in the hopes of spreading contagion or fouling the water supply.”

“And let us not forget that Lord Amherst, for whom Amherst College is named, gave blankets to the Native Americans that carried the smallpox virus for which they had no resistance.” Professor Forland shook his head in resigned disgust. “Smallpox and anthrax are always a danger.”

“You’re saying terrorists could break in to labs and use our own developments against us the same way they used commercial airplanes.” Harry cut right to it.

“It is possible,” Professor Jenkins conceded, “but why break in to our labs when they can use their own? They have them.”

Professor Forland quickly interjected, “Our labs currently investigating such possibilities enjoy security. The problem is if some doctor or technician goes off on their own, a Unabomber of agriculture. That person could cause considerable distress, because we don’t think of one of our own behaving in such a fashion.”

“He’s right. Our attention, thanks to the media, is focused on Muslim terrorists, on bombs, radiation, anthrax. Those are immediately understandable and, I guess, exciting in a way. Agriculture is only exciting if you’re a farmer. Let’s face it, city dwellers wouldn’t know a boll weevil if they saw it, and most of them couldn’t tell the difference between tent caterpillars and a yellow swallowtail-butterfly caterpillar. We aren’t on their radar screen, but they all demand cheap food,” Pittman sarcastically said.

“Which makes it more dangerous, because they aren’t prepared,” Aunt Tally piped up, her voice still strong and clear.

“Well—yes,” Professor Jenkins agreed. “Many of you remember when Dutch Elm disease swept the East Coast. People in big cities saw the trees die but it didn’t register, in any way at all, that this would compromise oxygen. Think of it, that many trees dying in that short a time span means there is less photosynthesis. Less oxygen is being produced. Therefore pollution in the big cities becomes more pronounced. These basics do not occur to people who work in buildings where the windows don’t open.” He said this with a half smile, but it was obvious the ignorance distressed him. “Nor did they replenish their trees. While industry and cars cause pollution, removing trees exacerbates the problem.”

“Do either of you think we are more in danger from an American crackpot than a true terrorist?” Tracy Raz, an ex-Army ex-CIA man, asked.

“Who knows?” Professor Jenkins threw up his hands.

“I’ll take that on.” Professor Forland became animated. “We are in far more danger from foreign terrorists than homegrown. Number one, they are highly trained, motivated by political and religious concerns, and well funded. An American may be highly trained, they may have some hideous motivation that makes perfect sense to them. To date we’ve suffered a few isolated crackpots. It’s not inconceivable that sometime in the future an extreme religious or political organization could fund such activity. Right now that appears unlikely. But I think it’s much harder to guard against a well-organized group with an expressed purpose.”

The discussion rolled on. Jim Sanburne could add up the time spent in meetings, conferences, and lectures in years. He’d been mayor of Crozet since 1964. He leaned over and whispered to his daughter, “Never seen anything like this.”

A glow of enthusiasm lit Little Mim’s face. “Isn’t it wonderful to see people so involved?”

“Sooner or later even the laziest son of a bitch wakes up when the Yankee soldier tramps through his potato patch.” Jim chuckled low.

“Daddy.” She pinched his arm.

Blair Bainbridge, born and raised in the North, leaned past his fiancée, looked at his soon-to-be father-in-law, and whispered, “Who won the war?”

“No one. The North thinks they won, but it was the worst thing that ever happened to this country.”

“Killed the nascent wine industry in the South,” Hy Maudant, a keen student of wine history worldwide, turned and whispered from his seat in front of the Sanburne clan.

“If you were an agriterrorist, what crop would you attack?” Jim shrewdly asked the Frenchman.

“Wheat.”

“Ah.” Jim nodded.

“And you?” Hy asked.

“Since you took wheat, I’ll take corn.” Jim smiled genially.