Retribution (9 page)

“This will probably be our last meeting, brother.” The doctor sighed.

“I understand.” From here, God would take Yousef down a different path. He would be alone. His family would live even more of a nomadic life than they had lived until now. They would constantly be on the move. No one would be trusted.

But that was the future. He still had much to do in the present.

CHAPTER 11

 

W
illiam Parker saw Scott standing next to the door to the flight line, nervously looking at his Rolex.

Parker didn't like it. No one could afford to be nervous in this business.

Parker continued to watch for a second as Scott stared at the giant jets as they taxied by the FBO. An Air France Boeing 777 rolled by. As it did, Parker could see over Scott's shoulder the pilot going through the final takeoff checklist, reaching up and flipping switches. The gigantic wings, full of fuel, passed above them as the aircraft moved by.

“Mr. Scott.”

Scott turned around to see Parker standing in front of him.

“It's good to see you.”

“Let's step outside.” Parker pointed to the door to the flight line.

As the two stepped outside, the roar of the Air France jet engines was deafening. The engines threw up a hot wind that blew past them.

“So, are you in?” Scott couldn't disguise his impatience.

Parker could read the tension in his voice. No doubt Scott was already imagining trying to talk the British into the backup plan, one they wouldn't like. A UAV would try to follow the real Zabara to the meeting in the mountains of Pakistan, and then, at just the right moment, a Hellfire missile would be dropped from a high-altitude jet out of sight to those on the ground. MI5 would lose a valuable asset, and all who knew Zabara would become suspect to the jihadists. Still, it would probably be a fair trade-off, but they'd vastly prefer the Parker plan.

“Yes,” Parker said at last.

“Good. We're a bit struck for time.”

Parker nodded. “But we are going to do it the different way I suggested before.”

Another jet, this time a much smaller, triple-engine jet, colored in plain white, taxied by and, with it, another roar of the engines. Again, the engines kicked up a blast of hot wind and the smell of kerosene followed. The roar of the engines, however annoying, would also make it impossible for anyone to overhear the conversation.

“I need to meet with Dr. Stewart as soon as possible.”

“The meeting with the CDC has been set up for now. They're already waiting for you.”

“Good. Are you getting an idea of what this involves?”

“Given your interest in the CDC, I would surmise that you will carry a very bad bug into the camp and release it, and as a consequence Mr. Yousef will become sick and quickly die.”

“Right. Or, failing that, it should flush your target out into the open. If Yousef gets sick and has a doctor near him, he'll likely be told that the only thing that can save him will be very special antibiotics at a high-end hospital. That should limit the number of places he could run to. Meanwhile, if the bug works quickly enough, or if the doctor misdiagnoses him, he dies in his camp.” Parker paused. “Along with hundreds or thousands of others, if you don't mobilize shipments of vaccine and antibiotics into the region quickly enough.”

“We'll take care of that,” Scott said. “But what about you? Being that close to a germ like that?”

“You're right. I'll need the right antibiotics available. Having them there will be your job, Mr. Scott. I will need the right team there, very nearby, so that I can reach them quickly.”

“We can do that. Like I said, our resources are unlimited.”

“About my team . . .”

“Yes?”

“I want my gunny on it.”

“You mean Moncrief?”

Parker nodded.

“Done. Now we need to get you to London and have you become Zabara as soon as possible. As soon as we have you in place, we will figure how to get you together with your team.”

“What about
your
team, Mr. Scott?”

Quickly, Scott explained that he'd spent the last twenty-four hours putting the various pieces in place. First, he'd established a command center in London, near where Parker would be living. An ops center would be created at a nearby British air base, where the support team would assemble and be trained. And they'd already started planning for a command center in the eastern mountains of Afghanistan. This one would have to be mobile, able to move at the last moment, as they learned where exactly “Sadik Zabara” was going to meet Yousef.

“Make sure you include the best infectious-disease physician you can get,” Parker said. “And I'll need him near the meeting point.”

Scott nodded. “Now the bad news.”

Parker smiled, waiting.

Scott returned the grin, obviously relieved to see that Parker, like any good operative, had assumed that there would be bad news.

“It's about the time frame.”

“Tell me,” said Parker.

“Sadik Zabara finally got his summons from Yousef. They're to meet in ten days.”

CHAPTER 12

 

“H
ello, Mr. Jones.”

William Parker turned from the wall of framed diplomas when he heard the voice behind him. Dr. Paul Stewart's voice held more than a faint hint of sarcasm when he spoke the words
Mr. Jones.

“Hello, Doctor.” Parker extended a hand, but the doctor took a seat without shaking hands.

Yeah, he doesn't like this at all.
Clearly the scientist assumed this visit, ordered from above, was not for the benefit of either Dr. Paul Stewart or the American public.

Dr. Stewart was an older Buddy Holly look-alike, complete with out-of-date black-rimmed glasses and gelled hair. His plaid shirt and khaki trousers, both wrinkled, with worn Rockport shoes showed that he cared more about what was growing in his petri dish that day than what others thought about his appearance.

“You would think they could come up with something better than
Jones
.” Parker offered a conciliatory smile as he said the words.

“Yes.”

He sighed inwardly at the tone of Stewart's one word.

“Sometimes it may save someone's life to not know too much, Dr. Stewart.”

“Yeah, right. You've made your point.” The doctor held up his hands, as if in submission. “I understand from our director that I am to help you in any way possible. In fact, she was emphatic in saying that you have free license to ask anything.”

Parker had heard from Hernandez that this man was well respected by the others at CDC. Dr. Stewart had one particular interest that had caused Parker to ask for him.

“I appreciate that,” Parker said. “Let me ask you about Neisseria meningitidis.”

Stewart leaned back in his chair, for the first time showing some comfort with the situation. This, Parker knew, was because Steward was the world's leading expert on meningococcal disease, a deadly, vicious process of infection in the fluid that surrounded a person's spinal cord and brain, the effects of which were particularly cruel. Those victims who did not die often suffered brain damage that was permanently debilitating. And those who did not suffer brain damage frequently lost limbs, fingers, and toes. A lucky patient would only be deaf for life. And this would be only after a quick and aggressive treatment from several powerful antibiotics. The body had to be flooded with the drugs for someone to stand any chance. But it had to be the right cocktail. Several bugs could cause the infection, some viral and some bacterial, but the nastiest was the Neisseria bug.

“Okay,” said Stewart, “what exactly do you need to know?”

“Can it be contagious?”

Stewart chuckled. “Very much so.”

“Can it be contagious even to those who have lived in the meningitis belt?”

“You are well read, Mr. Jones.”

The layperson rarely knew of the meningitis belt. Parker had done his homework. A zone that crossed over the countries of mid-Africa from Gambia on the west coast to Ethiopia on the east coast, it suffered epidemic outbreaks of meningitis every so often. Both central Africa and certain islands in the Pacific would have rampant outbreaks of the disease. Many thought that if one survived living in the meningitis belt without catching the disease, the immune system would be particularly well equipped.

Dr. Stewart stood. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

Parker followed Stewart out of the office, down the hall, and across to a single elevator that was marked with several signs that warned of limited access. Security cameras were on each corner of the lobby surrounding the elevator. Stewart flashed his pass at a magnetic reader and led Parker onto the elevator. He pushed the button for the sixth floor.

“Have you ever been in a bio lab, Mr. Jones?”

“No, sir.”

Parker noticed that Stewart had dropped the sarcasm. He imagined that he had been judged as not being one of those insufferable visitors from the Pentagon or the CIA who didn't seem to have the capacity to respect Stewart or his work.

“Well, in that case, you're going to start right at the top.”

Paul Stewart was not remarking on the elevator trip. As the doors opened on the sixth floor, Parker was confronted with two armed guards behind a Plexiglas security stand. Again, several red signs warned of limited access. Another sign warned of restricted access to Biosafety Level 4. Parker had read enough to know this was the maximum-security biological laboratory. The very worst bugs were kept in Biosafety Level 4.

Stewart signed in with the guards as they gave the unrecognized guest a stern look.

“This is Mr. Jones. Putting aside his unusual name, he has direct authorization.”

“Doc, if you don't mind, we would like to call on that.”

The man stood immobile and stone-faced. He was clearly not an ordinary security guard. At a glance, Parker could tell that the man had been trained to kill and knew how to do so without conscious thought. His pay would be at the highest level possible of any security guard in the United States. No doubt he'd passed endless evaluations, background checks, psych testing, and training before he stood his first day's watch.

“Certainly.”

Parker didn't mind. If it were easy for a Mr. Jones to get in a Biosafety Level 4 lab, it would be easy for others. This security was appreciated.

The guard made a call, then gave the thumbs-up. “Okay, Dr. Stewart.” A vault-like door clicked and swung open, allowing the two to walk onto the biological lab floor. It was far simpler than Parker had expected. At the end of the hallway they passed through a door that led to a small room with lockers.

“We will now climb into a level-four suit,” Stewart said.

The outfit was straight from a
Star Trek
movie, with an oversized hood and a thick, greenish-blue padded material that was not particularly light. It seemed to add twenty or thirty pounds to Parker as he walked around the change room. Stewart strapped tape around their wrists and ankles. They stepped from the locker room to another, with multiple showerheads and a hose coupling for each of the suits. He felt the rush of cool air as Stewart helped connect the hose.

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” Parker was surprised how well he could hear Stewart when he spoke.

“The shower will come on shortly. It will spray the suit with a disinfectant that should, we pray, kill anything. Hopefully, you don't have any leaks in your suit.” This was the first bit of humor that Parker had heard from the scientist. “One more pressure test and we are done.”

Again, Parker felt air coming in to the suit.

They entered the laboratory through the vault-like door. It was far smaller than Parker had imagined. There were several glass cases with gloved portals, and inside he saw trays of seemingly harmless vials of different colored liquids. The thick Plexiglas window had a frost coating inside the cabinet.

“You see this one over here?” Stewart pointed to a small, pink vial that had some marking on it Parker could barely make out. “Ebola. That vial could wipe out New York City,” Stewart said in a flat, matter-of-fact manner. “Twelve million easy.”

It had not made an impression upon Parker until he stared down on the small, seemingly harmless container of pink liquid. The laboratory contained vial after vial of liquids, each with the same lethality. As he glanced across the room, he realized that the bacteria and viruses in that one room could devastate much of the planet's population.

“Here's your friend.” Stewart stuck his hands into the glove portals and lifted a smaller, bluish liquid vial. It was marked with a numeric code. “Neisseria.”

“Dr. Stewart, let me ask you a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“A hypothetical.” He paused. “A specific, highly contagious bacteria that could be combated by the rarest of antibiotics. The carrier need be infected, highly contagious for a period of time, but curable. And the bacteria must be able to infect even those who have lived in the meningitis belt and may have developed their own immunity. Would that be Neisseria?”

Stewart hesitated, as if wondering whether he should even answer the question. As a scientist, he would have one opinion. As a physician, another.

“We found a particularly virulent form of bacteria that seems to have the contagious qualities of serogroup A.” He walked over to a round stainless-steel container while he spoke. He lifted a thick, vault-like lid and as he did a white frozen vapor came out. Inside, he pulled out a much smaller vial, marked with several numbers. It too contained a pale blue liquid that seemed so incapable of causing harm.

“We call this NM-13. It came from a small village called Xudun somewhere in northern Somolia. A person infected with this would be highly contagious for a twelve- to thirty-six-hour period. It is actually indeige-nous to this one place in the meningitis belt. With the right stuff at exactly the right time, it can be nonlethal. And thus, not even classified as a biological weapon. But without some very specific antibiotics, he would suffer a horrible and nearly unimaginable death thereafter.”

“Survivors?”

“Odds are very, very few. Probably the black plague descendants.”

“I don't understand?” Parker kept looking at the pale blue liquid.

“A very few that are the great, great grandchildren of the survivors of the plague seem to have a super defense mechanism, but they would have to be from eastern Europe. Otherwise, no.” Stewart paused as if he were an accountant tallying up the numbers. “No survivors.”

“How would it be transmitted?”

“Saliva. A cough, a sneeze, a shared glass.”

“And what of the carrier?”

Parker could tell that Stewart felt uncomfortable with the questions. The physician was tugging at his conscience. He was committed to do no harm. Parker imagined that Stewart sensed where this was going and who the carrier was, and he didn't like the choices this conversation was giving him.

“I don't recommend this, Mr. Jones. The period of incubation could be much shorter and the damage irreversible. I would not recommend that any human being knowingly be exposed to this beast.”

“But with the right battery of antibiotics, do you have a probability of stopping it?”

“Yes, you probably have a seventy to eighty percent chance of stopping it if you pour on exactly the right antibiotics within six to eight hours of the infection.”

“Thanks, Doctor.” Parker paused for a moment. “Let me ask another question, if I may.”

“Sure.”

“Have you ever been to Afghanistan?”

“No.”

Parker smiled. If his life depended upon the right antibiotics at the right time, then Dr. Stewart would be making his first trip to Afghanistan soon. His screams of protest might be heard all the way up to the bio lab, but the director would remind him that a paragraph buried deep in his contract stated that in times of a national emergency he was commissioned as an officer in the Army medical corps. More important, she would stress that the call came directly from the highest authority.

Oblivious to the reason for the question and the smile, Stewart offered a last warning:

“You need to understand that although NM-13 has a seventy to eighty percent chance of being stopped, it also has a twenty to thirty percent chance that nothing will work.” Stewart's tone became somber. He stood directly in front of Parker, so as to allow no escape, and looked him directly in the eyes. “Once that packet is open and you feel it in your hand, you have, at the outside, twelve hours before you started with a headache that you wish you could find a gun to blow your brains out with, then your neck will feel like it had been welded in place, and then you die limb by limb, piece by piece.”