Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller (11 page)

For a moment, Najid did nothing, but when the
muted ring sounded through the quiet ward and the Italian raised
the phone to his ear, Najid pulled the trigger. A spray of blood
exploded from the back of the Italian’s head. The phone hit the
floor as the doctor fell on his back.

Najid smashed the phone with the heel of his
rubber boot, crushing the glass, and rendering it useless.

Najid looked at Dr. Littlefield. “Your
phone?”

He pointed to the exam room. “It’s in there
in the drawer on the right. It’s not a satellite phone, and there’s
no service out here.”

Najid motioned to the man with the machete,
who turned and walked hastily into the exam room. Najid turned his
attention to Austin.

Austin didn’t need any instructions. He
immediately reached under his apron and into his pocket, sure that
he was leaving plenty of virions on his clothes. He was already
infected, so what did it matter? He dropped his phone on the floor
and stomped on it.

“Good boy,” Najid turned away from Austin,
said something in Arabic, and motioned toward the patients and the
few African nurses. A few of the HAZMAT men went to work checking
patients and their bedding for phones, showing no concern for the
people themselves—pushing them aside, rolling them over, throwing
blood-stained pillows and blankets out of their way. The phones
they found were immediately destroyed.

“Why are you calling me?” Zameer asked.

Najid hesitated, looking for the right words.
“An emergency.”

“What kind of emergency would you need my
help with?”

“I need our special friends.”

There was a long pause. When Zameer spoke, he
used a scolding tone. “You should not be calling me about this. You
know
who listens.”

“I know.” Najid knew there’d be some
posturing and he was prepared to be patient—through some of it.

Zameer snorted. “Yet you call.”

“As I said, this is an emergency.”

“Tell me what you need so I can end this call
before a drone flies over and kills my family.” Zameer was not
pleased.

“You are not
with
your family,”
replied Najid.

“You know which family I mean.”

“I do.” Najid was arriving at the end of his
patience. “I need
all
of our special friends.”

Zameer forced a laugh. “You’re insane.”

“I am not.”

“It cannot happen, my friend. You know of
their importance to
his
plans.”

Najid paused before answering. “I do.”

“And you ask as though you have the right.
You may have a rich father—”

Najid felt a boldness rise in his chest. “A
very
rich father who may not live through the month. A
father whose wealth I already control.”

“Why do I care about the wants of a rich boy
who plays at hating the Americans, but rolls in their money?”

Najid thought about having Zameer killed by
one of his contacts in the ISI, Pakistan’s intelligence agency. “I
will get
his
approval. But I need our special friends on an
airplane before the sun sets tomorrow.”

“That is impossible.” Zameer laughed again.
“I told you. This is not for you to decide, but him.”

“He will agree.” Najid did little to mask his
impatience. “I have a man on the way to speak with him now.”

“After your man speaks with him, I will be
told in the usual way, and if he wants our special friends to go to
you, they will. That is the end of it.”

Najid pretended to think about his next
statement but he knew where the conversation would go before he
dialed the number. “I will pay you fifty-thousand US for each.”

The offer had the desired effect. Zameer was
speechless.

Sensing that he had found the sweet spot,
Najid continued, “I will have the cash put in your hand personally
to do with as you wish. It can be in your hands as early as
tomorrow if you deliver our special friends to the airport in
Lahore, dressed in the clothes that you received them in.”

“Their Western clothes?” Zameer asked.

“Yes.”

Zameer paused, “Even if I wanted—”

“Do not play that game with me. You want the
money. Let us not disrespect one another with lies.”

“Do you know how much money we’re talking
about?” Zameer’s skepticism was apparent.

And with that question, Najid knew the deal
was done. The rest was a matter of running through the pretense so
that Zameer would be able to sleep with a clean conscience. Najid
said, “I know
exactly
how much.”

“It won’t matter,” Zameer answered. “He will
have me killed before I have a chance to spend any of it.”

“I told you. You’ll have his permission
before our special friends board their planes. I merely pay you now
for expediting the process.”

“Time is that important?” asked Zameer.

“It is.”

“American money?”

“Yes,” Najid replied flatly.

Zameer confirmed the only real detail. “To
have them in the airport at Lahore, we would have to leave
tonight.”

“You are being compensated for just such
inconveniences,” Najid answered.

“I don’t know.”

Najid had other calls to make. “Yes, you do.
Don’t haggle with me. Take the money or I’ll call someone else who
will. I do not threaten, but I must have this done today. You know
as well as I that the next person I call may not have your degree
of moral certitude. He may shed his morals and put a bullet in your
skull to get his hands on that money. You, my friend, will make
sure that this is handled as we discussed, with
his
blessing.”

Rattled, Zameer said, “I will do it.”

“You will need to act quickly to get our
special friends down from the mountains and to the airport in
Lahore. The first flights leave at noon. Do not be late.”

Christoph Degen sat in the summer sun on the
balcony of a room he’d rented for an amount that would seem obscene
to the average Swiss man or woman. Those thoughts bothered him from
time to time, but Zermatt—one of the most beautiful little mountain
towns in the world—filled the valley below the hotel. Green
mountains rose to the right and left and framed the Matterhorn in
picturesque perfection down past the other end of the valley.

From where he sat he could see part way down
the main road through Zermatt. He’d watched his wife and two
daughters stroll the street, gawking in windows as they started
their day of shopping. They were happy. He was happy. Summer
holidays in Zermatt were magical.

And then the phone rang. Degen took the phone
from his pocket as it rang the second time, saw who it was, and his
vacation time—for the moment—became irrelevant. “Good afternoon,
Mr. Almasi.”

“Mr. Degen,” Najid Almasi answered.

“What can I do for you today?”

“What is the value of my father’s
portfolio?”

“It will take me a moment to pull up that
information on my computer.” Degen walked back into his room and
sat at his desk. His laptop sat open where he’d left it. In a
condescending tone, Degen added, “You
are
aware that you can
access this information from your computer.”

“As can you.” Najid was used to the way many
Europeans still talked to Arabs, as if they weren’t educated at the
same schools. “Tell me the number when you have it.”

Najid heard the sound of fingers on a
keyboard, a pause, and then Degen’s voice. “Seven hundred and
thirty-seven million in US dollars. Do you need the exact
amount?

“I need you to liquidate the portfolio.”

“Mr. Almasi. I don’t think—”

“Stop.” Najid said it harshly enough to cow
Degen immediately. “Before you go on, you
are
aware that I
have complete control of my father’s portfolio?”

“Yes.”

“You
are
aware that I may do whatever
I see fit with this portfolio?” Najid could be very abrupt when he
wanted something—when he needed something.

“You are the client, Mr. Almasi. Whatever you
wish. However, as your financial advisor, it
is
my duty to
advise you in these matters.”

Najid’s patience was already worn thin by
previous conversations. “In this matter I do not need advice. I
need expeditious action to follow my instructions.”

“You do understand that liquidating your
portfolio will result in losses on some of your investments. If
you’d allow me some time—”

Najid was tiring of the interaction. Degen’s
was one of a dozen calls he had to make. “I do not have time today
to convince you to do what I ask you to do. Will you do it, and do
it now?”

Degen didn’t answer immediately. He was
evaluating his options, or so Najid figured. Either Degen would do
as Najid wished, or his superior at the bank would. “I can
liquidate most of it. Some of your father’s portfolio is traded in
foreign markets and cannot be liquidated until those markets
open.”

“I understand.”

“Shall I leave the proceeds in your account
or transfer them to another bank? You understand that for transfer,
it is not necessary to sell.”

“That is not my purpose. How much of the
portfolio can you convert to gold and silver?” Najid had already
thought the problem through and had a plan to financially position
his family well for the expected outcome.

“Gold stocks are on the upswing, with the
Ebola epidemic in Africa driving—”

“You misunderstand, Mr. Degen. Listen
carefully. Convert the entire portfolio to cash. Retain thirty
million in cash in the account, as I will be drawing on that amount
in large transactions. I’ll expect that those transactions will
come through you personally, and you will see that they are paid as
quickly as possible.”

“And the rest?”

“Convert it to physical gold and silver—I
want at least seventy percent in gold. The gold and silver are to
be delivered to my father’s compound by noon, three days from now.
Earlier if possible. Precious metals that cannot be in my father’s
compound by that deadline, do not purchase.”

Degen gasped. “I understand that you fear the
Ebola outbreak, Mr. Almasi, but this step is not necessary.”

Najid thought about scolding the man, but
chose another tack. “My father is an old man. He doesn’t understand
the modern world. This is his wish. Like you, I carry out his
instructions without question.
Without question
.”

“But the losses—the expense of physically
transferring all of that gold?”

“Pay what is necessary to get the gold to my
father’s compound before noon, three days from now.”

“It will be expensive.”

“I understand. You will also raise a hundred
million in cash, or as much as you can by selling in-the-money call
options. I want American-style options that expire in ninety
days.”

The breath flowed out of Degen in an audible
rush.

“You will make commission on this?”

“Yes, Mr. Almasi,” replied Degen
uncomfortably.

“You will make an enormous sum, will you
not?”

“I will.”

Najid said, “Then smile when you look in the
mirror, as you profit from the ignorance of a man with too much
money.”

Degen wondered which ignorant man Najid was
talking about, himself or his father? “Mr. Almasi, may I speak for
a moment?”

“Quickly.”

Degen took a moment and proceeded in a calm,
measured voice. “Despite the epidemic, the market has been bullish
all year. Selling these call options means that as the prices of
the underlying securities rise over the next three months, your
losses will mount. The analysts at our firm assured me on a
conference call just this morning that the trend will remain
positive. With the losses you’ll take in converting the accounts
into physical gold and silver bullion, and the potential losses
that you’ll incur in a rising market, your father’s total portfolio
could sink to a fraction of its current value.”

“Mr. Degen, thank you for your counsel. One
thing we must both keep in mind as we carry out my father’s wishes
is that this is
his
fortune. You do not have a fortune. You
have not earned one. Neither have I. My father did, through shrewd
choices. Perhaps it is you and I who are being foolish by
questioning his judgment.”

“My apologies, Mr. Almasi.”

“I’ll leave it to you to select the specific
financial instruments you sell. Your goals are to raise as much
cash as possible and to convert that cash to gold and silver
bullion that you will deliver to the appointed place by the
appointed deadline.”

“As you wish.”

“I will call periodically for updates.” Najid
hung up the phone.

In the next call, Najid bribed the right
people to get two shiploads of food aid bound for East Africa
redirected the relatively short distance to his father’s compound
on the eastern shore of the Red Sea. Arms dealers were next on the
list.

One woman in the back of the ward had been
bleeding so severely through her nose for the last few hours that
she no longer had the strength to hold the towel to her face.

Dr. Littlefield stood beside Austin in the
center aisle watching. The woman in the next bed over had been
groaning softly with what was presumably the last of her energy.
She started to spasm, vomited black, and the bed around her pelvis
turned red with her blood.

Dr. Littlefield didn’t move. But in a soft,
clinical voice said to Austin, “The lining of her stomach died. Her
body sloughed it off. That’s something you don’t normally see
except in corpses that have been dead for a few days. That’s why
it’s black.” Dr. Littlefield looked at Austin and his eyes were as
hopeless as the people dying in row upon row of mats and beds.
“Most of these people will die just like that, and there’s nothing
we can do—not one goddamned thing.”