Marco.
Henry said nothing. That was not a part of his life he cared to share.
* * *
—
AN HOUR BEFORE DAWN, on the last day of hajj, the sleepy pilgrims awakened to the roar of hundreds of helicopters filling the sky. Most of the pilgrims were packed and ready to leave later that morning. The hajj tour buses were waiting to take the travelers to the airport, but by the time the muezzin called for prayer, Mecca was surrounded by tanks and jeeps. Soldiers were stationed at roadblocks, erecting fences and unfurling curls of razor wire. The pilgrims had become prisoners.
While Majid and Colonel al-Shehri prayed on the promontory overlooking the city, Henry observed the encirclement of the city from their camp in the Mecca hills. Instead of praying, he reflected on all that he had done wrong. He was wrong to have gone into the Kongoli camp so poorly prepared, taking along the barest protection, thinking only of getting home as quickly as possible. He was wrong to have allowed the driver, poor Bambang Idris, to accompany him into the camp, not knowing what awaited them. He was wrong to have let Bambang out of his sight until he was certain that the man had not been infected. He was wrong not to insist that the driver be quarantined and forbidden to leave the country. All of these things weighed on Henry’s conscience. He couldn’t afford to waste mental energy castigating himself in this manner, but he couldn’t forgive himself, either, and he knew he never would.
And now, at his urging, three million people were surrounded and held captive. Many would die. Eventually the disease would find its way out of the city. In any case, it was already seeded in the avian population and would soon appear wherever the birds touched down. At best, Henry had only slowed an inevitable history-shaping pandemic. Governments would fall. Economies would collapse. Wars would arise. Why did we think that our own modern era was immune to the assault of humanity’s most cunning and relentless enemy, the microbe?
As the prayer ended, Majid entered the communications tent. He appeared physically burdened by the message he was about to deliver. “Brothers and sisters, we have been chosen to make a great sacrifice,” he said into the microphone. As he spoke, his words were being translated into dozens of languages and broadcast from loudspeakers stationed throughout the holy region. He explained about the contagion that had spread through Mecca. “It is our duty to prevent this thing, this terrible disease, from spreading. Remain calm. Your needs will be taken care of. Food will be supplied. Doctors and nurses will attend the ill. We will protect you. But you must not try to leave.”
Henry watched the pilgrims gather at the edge of the city, staring out at the troops in their vehicles and at the gun emplacements. Even as Majid was speaking, a young pilgrim began walking forward—defiantly, headed toward a space that had not yet been fenced. Nervous soldiers watched him approach.
“I repeat,” Majid said. “Do not attempt to leave.”
Suddenly, the young pilgrim broke into a run. Behind him, other pilgrims surged forward. And then, Henry watched as the young man’s body was ripped apart by machine gun fire. The horde of pilgrims came to an abrupt halt. The sound of their wailing carried all the way into the hills.
“May God forgive us,” Prince Majid said. “May he accept our painful sacrifice.”
II
Pandemic
17
The People Will Not Forgive
Jill hadn’t heard from Henry in forty-eight hours, which was unusual; he was almost always in touch every day, especially when he knew she was worried about him. Now she was beside herself with anxiety and still the phone hadn’t rung. There was not even an email.
Finally, she sent a text: “Ok?”
Eventually, the reply: “Yes. Sorry. Later.”
That evening after the kids were in bed she found a report on MSNBC about the boy who was shot to death in Mecca. He turned out to be the nephew of an ayatollah in Qom. The outraged Iranian authorities were making threats and demanding justice, although what justice might be in this case was not clearly stated. On CNN, a reporter named Nadia al-Nabawi inside Mecca said that hospitals weren’t giving out any information about the disease or the number of patients or even the fatalities. “They tell us informally that they don’t want to create panic, but the absence of reliable information has people wondering what’s going on, and who to believe.”
Henry finally