Tampered (22 page)

“Mine are both 4b,” Ellen said. “An outbreak linked to sausages in Brandon, Manitoba, and another involving dairy products in Sarajevo.” She opened a drawer of hanging files, walked her fingers along the tabs, and pulled out half a dozen sheets of paper stapled together. “Here are the printouts of my MLVAs.” She pointed to rows of lines and numbers. “This is what I'm calling the Camelot strain. You can see that Viktor Horvat's isolate is identical to all the samples from Camelot. And these over here, my controls from anywhere but Camelot, are all very different.”

“Check out my Michigan one. Do we have a match?”

Ellen put the papers side by side on her desk and compared them. “Not even close.”

“How about Brandon?” Manitoba was a long way away, but maybe Viktor Horvat had connections there.

“No,” Ellen said. She picked up the paper detailing the outbreak in Yugoslavia.

It didn't match, either. Of course not. Listeria isolated from a commercial dairy in Sarajevo could have nothing to do with Hamilton, Ontario. Linking Mr. Horvat with Mexico would be a much better bet, but no one had published any MLVA results from Mexico.

Ellen tossed the paper onto the desk. She closed her eyes and sank into her chair, deflated. Tongue-tied by disappointment, Natasha felt awful for having put Ellen to so much work, for having taken her away from her family — all for nothing.

For several moments an awkward silence hung between them. The wall clock ticked away the Saturday-night seconds, mocking their measly efforts.

Suddenly, Ellen sat upright, her eyes wide with renewed enthusiasm. She grabbed the Sarajevo paper and flipped again to the section outlining its results. Her lips mouthed noiselessly as her fingers traced every line.

After an interminable couple of minutes, fire flashed into Ellen's chalky pale cheeks. She raised the paper, waved it, then air-kissed it. “Bingo!”

“What?”

“They've used a different scale, so the lines look shorter and don't seem to match. But, hey, look at the numbers. Just look at them!”

Line by line, number by number, Natasha compared Ellen's Camelot printout with the Sarajevo paper. “Oh my God. They're . . . well, they're very similar.”

“Better than that,” Ellen said, her voice rising. “They're identical. Well, almost. Only a couple of numbers are slightly off.”

“What does this mean?”

“They're close enough to call them a match.”

“You're kidding.”

“Whatever came out of that dairy in Sarajevo last year made its way to Camelot Lodge. Can't tell you how, but there it is.” Ellen clipped the two papers together, the printout of her work and the CDC's analysis of the Sarajevo outbreak. She stared at them for a long moment.

The collective whirr of the computer, the refrigerators, and the incubators grew into a colossal whine in Natasha's ears.

“Horvat,” Ellen said. “What sort of name is it?”

“He's got an accent. Eastern European. Polish, maybe?”

“I used to go to a physio called Horvat. Sheryl Horvat. Told me her mother made the best Hungarian goulash.”

“How close is Sarajevo to Poland or Hungary?”

“No idea,” Ellen said. “I'm not up on European geography. But I do know they held the Winter Olympics in Sarajevo when I was a teenager. Those British ice dancers were amazing. Torvill and Dean. I watched the tape of their gold-winning free dance over and over. I never got tired of the music —
Bolero
. The cassette finally broke and my mother threw it out.” She looked wistful for a moment. “After that, Yugoslavia fell apart and there was a civil war.”

Natasha had never heard of any Olympics in Sarajevo. To her the place was synonymous with grade eleven history. The start of the First World War, the murder of Archduke somebody or other, and then a long siege in the 1990s. “Wayne Jarvie will know.”

“Who?”

“Our pharmacy go-to guy. He knows our Mr. Horvat.”

The man sitting across from Natasha at the Nitty Gritty Café the next morning was gorgeous. When she'd called Todd's uncle Wayne on his cell from Ellen's lab, he'd given her a phone number for someone called Al Mesic, said he was a nice guy, late twenties, a walking encyclopedia about Hamilton and its personalities. Wayne agreed to phone Al right away, tell him to expect Natasha's call. They'd set up a breakfast meeting.

Al smiled at her with his amber eyes, his dark-blond hair cut short and spiked as though he didn't care what it looked like but really did. And he had none of that designer stubble on his freshly shaved cheeks. The South Asian guys who let their heavy whiskers grow to stubble looked like terrorists, no matter how nerdy they really were. Natasha had seen them all, every unattached Indian guy under forty within a fifty-kilometre radius, paraded into the living room by her mother. It was going to be a nightmare when Mummyji started working her way through Mississauga, heartland of korma, tandoori, and masala dosa. She had a knack for finding computer geeks with bad breath. Of course, the hot guys didn't need Mummyji's help finding dates or wives.

Al Mesic didn't even
need
to look gorgeous. He could win hearts with his voice — warm and mellow, with just a hint of an accent that kept it disarmingly boyish. But why, she wondered, was a newspaper reporter from the
Hamilton Spectator
hiding his rich tones behind a word processor? He should be on TV, or at least on the radio. He could make you weak at the knees announcing the weather report — gloomy drizzle or full sun, it wouldn't matter.

Natasha had ordered a chai tea — she wasn't going to chance the foam of a latte — and the waiter came with their drinks and set them on the table. He paused and flashed more than a casual smile at Al. They seemed to know each other.

The waiter turned toward the kitchen and flashed his butt, cute and tense under his tight black jeans. He certainly wasn't flashing it at her. He'd ignored her completely.

“You're a regular here?” she asked Al.

He looked around, taking in the Andean posters and bright alpaca weavings on the terracotta walls. “Nice place. But no, this is my first time. My beat is more downtown.”

“I've done some reading on the Internet about Yugoslavia,” Natasha began, then paused, unsettled by the sudden frown on Al's face, the glow of anger in his eyes.

“Not everything on Wikipedia is accurate. There's a strong American bias, you know. And please, call it former Yugoslavia.”

“Sorry . . . um . . . I understand that the owner of Steeltown Apothecary, Viktor Horvat, is originally from . . . former Yugo–slavia.” Wayne had told her that much last evening, but hadn't mentioned Mesic's touchiness about his birthplace.

“Yes,” said Mesic. “Horvat was a pharmacist in the city of Sarajevo.”

“Now the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina? Did I pronounce it correctly?”

“Close enough.”

“They held the winter Olympics there in 1984, when it was part of . . . former Yugoslavia. But then President Tito fell —”

“Died. I suppose he fell, but first he died.”

“And then the country started breaking apart. There was civil war.” She paused but Mesic didn't interrupt, so she must be on the right track. It was a complex story, and she didn't know how much of it was relevant to her investigation of listeria 4b. “And then Sarajevo was under siege. I don't really understand that part.”

Mesic took a long draw on his latte and wiped his lips with the his finger. “It's complicated. So I'll give you the tabloid version.”

He explained that Slovenia and Croatia, two predominantly Roman Catholic states within the former Yugoslavia, broke away to form their own republics after Tito's death. That left Serbia, an Orthodox Christian state, as the dominant force in the rest of the brittle union that had been Tito's Yugoslavia. When the state of Bosnia and Herzegovina declared its independence, Serbian forces invaded, claiming that much of the Bosnian lands belonged to a greater Serbia. In simple terms, it became a war of Serb Christians against Bosniak Muslims with a few Croatian Catholics complicating the mix and suffering along with everyone else.

“And that's when the siege started?”

“The longest in modern times. Serb forces encircled the hillsides around Sarajevo. The blockade lasted from May 1992 to the end of February 1996.”

“Four years!”

“And not just a blockade. The Serbs bombarded the city with heavy artillery, rockets, snipers with rifles, you name it.” Sweat beaded on Mesic's brow. The colour drained from his cheeks. The cheery glow in his eyes morphed to anger. No, something stronger. Hate. “We had no electricity. No running water. Not much food.” He stared at his latte. “Just darkness, hunger, and terror.”

“You were there?”

Mesic nodded.

“And escaped?”

“With my mother. January 1995. I was fourteen.”

“And came to Canada?”

“After a few months in Austria. The Croats and Slovenes, our former brothers, wouldn't let us stay on their Christian soil. We were Bosniaks, ethnically Muslims but not religious in any way.” He made a face and shook his head. “We're descendents of the Muslim converts indoctrinated by the Ottoman Turks who invaded our lands five hundred years ago. But really, we're atheists. Can you believe it? I'd never seen the inside of a mosque, and suddenly I was hated for being Muslim.”

“What about Viktor Horvat?”

“I really don't know too much about his background, except that he's a Christian Croat who found himself in the middle of mostly Muslim Sarajevo under bombardment. He and his son survived the siege. As a pharmacist he would have been given special privileges. Anyone in health care was especially valuable.”

“Sounds like an endless nightmare.”

“Ten thousand deaths and sixty thousand injuries. Maybe more. And most of them civilians.”

“When did Viktor Horvat come to Canada?”

“I'm not sure. About five years ago, I'd say.”

“With a wife and children?”

“Just a son.”

“He left his wife behind?”

“Probably in a grave. Unmarked.”

“What happened to her?”

“Who knows? A rocket? A sniper? Childbirth under impossible circumstances?”

Natasha did the math in her head. “It's strange he would leave eight years after the siege ended.”

Mesic shrugged. “There could be many reasons to leave Sarajevo. Especially if you find yourself a hated minority in a city divided by ethnicity.”

“He's done very well here.” So many immigrant professionals were reduced to driving taxis or working on construction sites, but Viktor Horvat had Canadian certification and ran his own business. “Wayne Jarvie says Mr. Horvat has exclusive contracts with retirement residences and nursing homes throughout the city.”

“That's the Croatian connection.”

“How so?”

“The community sponsored his immigration. Set him up in a pharmacy.”

“Why?”

“So they could be served in their own language, by someone they trust. You get tired of always being foreign, especially when you're sick. You need someone who understands everything about you. Not just your language.” Al rubbed the few drops of coffee spattered on the tabletop beside his mug. Without lifting his eyes he said, “Maybe you know what I mean?”

Her mother would. Mummyji had been in Canada thirty years but said she still felt like an outsider. Didn't completely trust anyone who wasn't Hindu and from Punjab. Natasha's dad was the opposite. He felt more Canadian than someone whose family had arrived three hundred years ago with the Scottish explorers. From her dad Natasha drew her confidence and her courage to stand up to her mother's histrionics.

“But why is his pharmacy over on the West Mountain? You'd think he'd set up shop on the Stoney Creek side of the city. You know, in Little Croatia.”

“The building is owned by a Croatian millionaire. Horvat probably gets a big break on the rent. Besides, I imagine he delivers all over the city. Doesn't matter exactly where his store is.” Al sprinkled some sugar into his latte and stirred it thoroughly before tapping the spoon against the rim of the mug. There was something on his mind, but he was holding it back. Finally, he put down the spoon and said, “The Croatians aren't happy about Horvat's family troubles in Juarez. He's drawing the wrong sort of attention to their community.”

“That seems a little unfair. It's not Mr. Horvat's fault that he and his son are targets of extortion by the Mexican judicial system. It must be awful being a tourist in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Al picked up his spoon and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. “The Croatians know Vik Junior isn't innocent.” Al let that hang there for a moment. “Juarez is no tourist town,” he continued. “Punks like Horvat's son go there for only one reason. Well, maybe two reasons. And both are illegal.”

The idea of Mr. Horvat's son being guilty of the drug charges had never occurred to Natasha. And she still didn't know how Viktor Horvat's previous life connected him with last year's listeria outbreak in Sarajevo. She was certain that understanding the ongoing link between Viktor Horvat and Sarajevo was the key to pinpointing the source of Camelot's outbreak. One way or another, the pharmacist had carried the Sarajevo strain from his hometown to the Lodge. But how did he pick up that particular listeria in the first place? And how had he transmitted it to his clients at Camelot?

“Can we talk frankly for a few minutes?” she asked.

“I thought we already were.”

“If I share something confidential with you, will you keep it out of your newspaper?”

Al smiled, his eyes no longer sad. “I have to warn you. My job is to expose corruption inside City Hall. Starting with the city manager.”

“What does Viktor Horvat have to do with City Hall?”

“The city manager, Mike Sage, he's Croatian too.”

“That sounds like a British name.”

“His name used to be Zelenic. It means green in Serbo-Croatian. He may have changed his name, but not his allegiances, if you know what I mean.”

She'd never thought of it before, but it was amazing how changing your name could hide so much about you, alter the way people thought of you. She'd always assumed the city manager, caught in photo ops perfectly turned out in Saville Row suits, belonged to some posh English family. How would people have related to Natasha if she hadn't broken up with Bjorn, but had married him and become Mrs. Jorgensen? To start with, her mother would have had a stroke and never left her couch. Of course, her father would have laughed and said, “But Nina, at least our grandchildren will have what you always wanted — nice light skin.” If she introduced herself on the phone as Natasha Jorgensen from the health unit, would she be met with a different reaction because the person thought she was white? She supposed it depended on who was on the other end of the phone.

“Don't worry,” Al said. “I won't be writing anything until I have all the facts and my story is . . . iron-clad. And even then, my editor might refuse anything I write about Horvat.”

What did he mean? Was he guaranteeing the confidentiality of what she told him, or not? She asked him again, straight out.

He put down his spoon and pushed back his chair. “I'm not going to disclose anything without your approval,” he answered. He crossed his arms. “This is just a friendly chat. And that's a promise.”

Could she trust him? The pit of her stomach was telling her to be careful. Dr. Zol would never forgive her for sabotaging their investigation with a leak to the press. And rightly so. But she needed the tiny, specific details only an insider could give her.

She stirred more sugar into her tea, then tasted it. It was sweet enough. So was Al Mesic, she decided. She sipped again, took a deep breath, and told him everything about the gastro at Camelot Lodge. She started with last year's listeria outbreak in Sarajevo, which had been traced to dairy products. Then she told him about the identical strain infecting Viktor Horvat and sending him to intensive care with meningitis. Finally, her scribbler in hand, she showed him the details of the sustained listeria gastroenteritis epidemic at Camelot Lodge. She was careful to leave out any references to counterfeit medications.

“I remember when the milk stopped coming,” Al said. “I was eleven. Then we ran out of porridge and milk didn't matter anymore.”

“Well, the milk is flowing again in Sarajevo. Clearly, Viktor Horvat drank some last year.”

“Think so? I doubt it. Not with his son in that Mexican jail. I can't see how he'd have the time or money for trips to the old country.”

“Are they big on dairy products in Bosnia?” she asked.

“Not like here, but we do have cheese. Actually, quite a few different kinds. My favourite used to be
Travnicki
. It is a bit like feta, but tastes much better.” He held his nose and laughed. “But the smell . . . really terrible. Like wool socks that haven't been washed for forty days. It takes some getting used to.”

Natasha laughed with him, then thought for a moment. If Mr. Horvat hadn't travelled to the listeria, maybe it had travelled to him. “How often do you get food packages from Yugoslavia?”

“You mean from Bosnia and Herzegovina. The place of my birth is no longer Yugoslavia.” He looked wistful, then added, “Yugoslavia is where the bad guys live now.” He drained his latte and fished a packet of Nicorette out of his jacket pocket. A guilty look crossed his face. “I am trying to quit. You can either sing or smoke, but you can't do both.” He popped the gum into his mouth. “Food packages? I suppose. By mail, or when someone returns from the old country.” He laughed again. “But only if they get past the sniffer dogs at Toronto airport. I doubt that's possible with
Travnicki
, unless it's vacuum-sealed under ten layers of plastic.”