It was a private meeting. Very private. All the civilians signed another sheaf of papers before they began—American documents this time, confidentiality agreements. They had to promise that they would never breathe a word of this meeting to anyone.
Dame Constance asked the Americans to begin the briefing. The attack in New York had given them the jump-start on intelligence. Paul Oakley would follow. There were also American doctors from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and the National Institutes of Health, but Oakley had rank. He was the world expert on infectious diseases and had full clearance at Porton Down—Britain’s highly secret bioweapons research facility.
As the meeting settled down, a CIA officer signaled for the lights to dim. The first image on the screen was a man’s face. Mid-fifties, unshaved, a touch of cruelty about the mouth. He could have played the role of any Third World dictator.
“Moustaffa Gemeyal, the ringleader of the terrorist group Common Dream. Born in Cairo in 1959, emigrated to the UK as a teenager,” the CIA agent said. “He communicates with his followers via the Internet. He is what we call a ‘charismatic radicalizer.’ ”
The next slide showed Moustaffa crossing a city street in Cairo.
“Moustaffa’s home base is Egypt. We’ve been monitoring him for the last three years through his Internet communications. His message has always been antigovernment but has become increasingly violent. He was moved to our Terror Watch List about three months ago.”
The next photo was of Moustaffa on the aft deck of a large yacht with a dark-haired woman. The woman’s face was obscured by large sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat. But from the neck down she was clearly visible. The only clothing she wore was a jade green thong.
Moustaffa was standing next to her, his hand resting lightly on her waist as they spoke. They looked like an intimate couple, with their heads together, deep in conversation.
“Lady Xandra Sommerset, British citizen,” the CIA director said. “Worth about two billion dollars, mostly from her late father’s business investments. Mother Egyptian. Moustaffa is her current paramour.”
The next slide clicked. Moustaffa was poised on the swimming platform of the yacht, clad in a scant black swimsuit. He had an impressive, buffed body. The bulge in his Speedo conveyed an obvious virility.
“Moustaffa is a textbook narcissist—an inflated sense of self-importance, a firm belief in his own superiority, and a pathological craving for adulation.”
“It’s hard to believe a woman like Lady Sommerset would put up with that,” observed one of the MI6 officers.
“To the contrary, her psychology dovetails with his perfectly.”
“How so?” the British official demanded.
“U.S. psychologists have analyzed her interviews in the media. They have concluded she has a deep-seated inferiority complex. Chronically low self-esteem.”
“You mean magazine profiles. I’m sorry, but that sounds like American psychobabble to me,” the British official snapped.
“You may dismiss it, but psychological profiles are very often accurate predictors of potential action,” the CIA official countered.
“Like what?”
“Her insecurities would make her a perfect pawn for Moustaffa.”
The CIA officer moved to change slides.
“How long have they been together?” the British official persisted.
“Six years. And recently they have been inseparable. For the past three months they have been meeting frequently on her yacht at various places around the world.”
“And his organization?” asked Dame Constance, trying to move the conversation along.
“He has one point two million Internet followers globally who profess allegiance,” the CIA official responded. “They are only loosely affiliated with his movement. There is no official way to join his organization; there is only an online forum for discussion. We monitor the participants.”
“That is enormous reach!” Dame Constance remarked, taken aback.
“He presents himself as a messianic figure, a violent dreamer. But in reality he is a high-functioning sociopath.”
“How many people are directly under his command?” Dame Constance asked.
“We really have no idea how many people he calls on to execute his illegal activities. But I think we can safely assume that, for security reasons, his true inner circle is relatively small.”
The CIA official turned to his associate. He held out his hand for a file, took it, and riffled through it.
“Moustaffa makes most of his money in vector military weapons, small arms. But he is known to dabble in toxins—anthrax, microbial and other biological agents.”
“His customers?”
“He sells to anyone with enough cash. The first time we came across his name was in 1995, when we investigated the sarin-gas attack on the Tokyo subway. He was rumored to be a potential supplier.”
“Never proven,” the head of MI6 interjected.
“True, but you might find this interesting,” the CIA officer continued.
He punched the video button and a new image appeared—that of a brick mansion with a green roof. Two Soviet-era Ladas were parked out front in the snow-covered driveway.
“This dacha outside of Moscow is the former home of the nineteenth-century vodka merchant Pyotr Smirnoff and now the offices of the Main Directorate of the Council of Ministers.”
The image changed to an aerial shot.
“About twenty years ago, the same building was the headquarters of Biopreparat, the Kremlin’s biological weapons program—what was then known as ‘germ warfare.’ ”
“How is that related to Moustaffa?” the head of MI6 asked.
“Take a look,” the CIA director said dramatically.
The next photo, a close-up, showed a much younger looking Moustaffa getting out of a car in front of the building. He had longer hair and was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans.
“Great photo!” the representative of MI6 said. “Thank God for the Cold War. You people were really on your game.”
“Thank you,” the CIA officer said proudly.
“So even then Moustaffa was involved. . . .” Dame Constance pressed forward.
“As a young entrepreneur, he helped procure clandestine substances for the Soviets,” the CIA agent continued. “They had forty sites in Russia and Kazakhstan to develop various toxins, bacteria, and viruses. Everyone needed supplies, and Moustaffa was the point man.”
“His motivation?” she asked.
“Money. Moustaffa’s clients paid him huge sums. He was in it for the cash.”
“And now?”
“Same. His art-theft scheme has generated hundreds of millions of dollars over the last five years.”
“So why the political angle?” asked the head of MI6. “What is the messianic message all about?”
“We’re not sure. Perhaps he believes his own antigovernment propaganda. People with a narcissistic personality disorder often start believing their own fantasies.”
“Interesting point,” said Dame Constance. “But forgive me for not being convinced. What are the goals of his organization?”
“Moustaffa has various rants. All predictable. He specializes in conspiracy theories about big government. His group—Common Dream—is dedicated to overthrowing Western governments.”
“With an attack?” asked Dame Constance.
“Yes, we have been monitoring the web traffic and believe he will strike soon.”
“How soon?” she asked quietly.
The CIA officer paused dramatically.
“At the Sharm el-Sheikh World Economic Forum next week.”
There was absolute silence. Fingers stopped typing. The sound of pen on paper was suddenly arrested. Sinclair looked around at the faces in the room. For the first time since they began, expressions were bleak.
“As you are aware, the summit will host twelve heads of state, from European and Asian countries, as well as the U.S.
president and the UK prime minister.”
“How many people in total?” asked Dame Constance.
“We estimate fifteen hundred participants, maybe two thousand. Not counting the media. Bankers, business figures, and government ministers—and also this,” the CIA officer added as he clicked on an image.
It was a work of art—a highly detailed medieval triptych. The painting was entirely out of context, as if a random slide had been inserted in error. There was a murmur of confusion and shifting in the seats.
“This is not a mistake; take a closer look,” the CIA officer urged.
Sinclair leaned forward to examine the image of a medieval apocalyptic painting. Every inch of the surface was covered with people. Some were writhing in agony, others fleeing an advancing army of skeletons. A scene of utter devastation, with cities burning and ships dashed on the shore. The sky was purple and black.
“I assure you this is relevant. You are looking at Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s Triumph of Death. Oil painting on panel from 1562 depicting an outbreak of the bubonic plague.”
“Significance?” Dame Constance spat out with irritation.
“Stolen from the Museo del Prado in Madrid last week.”
“And . . . ?” she said impatiently.
“The work was shipped to the U.S. State Department—the original, I might add. The date of the Sharm el-Sheikh conference had been spray-painted on the front.”
There was silence.
“Sent by Common Dream,” the CIA officer concluded. “We can only assume it is some kind of warning from Moustaffa.”
No one moved.
“This will be a joint operation,” said Dame Constance. Everyone nodded.
“Gentlemen, please open a new case file. I propose the code name Operation Dream Catcher.”
The shuffling of papers and clicking of keyboards went on for several minutes. The news had mobilized everyone. The CIA director stepped to the front of the room again and called everyone to order.
“Measures must be taken to counter this threat. But I think it advisable to know what’s at stake if we do not succeed in thwarting the biological attack.”
There was a murmur of apprehension, and everyone settled down immediately.
“Dr. Oakley, we can begin. You have five minutes,” the CIA director said. “And, if you don’t mind, keep this in layman’s terms as much as possible.”
“Understood.”
Paul Oakley stepped up to address the group. He looked very young in his khakis and sweater. And, unlike the intelligence officer, his briefing didn’t start with a fancy slide show. He simply stated the facts. The calmness of his voice made the information even more chilling.
“Bubonic plague is the most lethal disease known to man. It is highly virulent and killed a quarter of the population of Europe in the fourteenth century.”
“Could we move directly on to weaponization of the plague?” Dame Constance asked impatiently. “We don’t have much time.”
“Certainly,” Oakley agreed, unruffled. “The United States worked with Yersinia pestis as a biowarfare agent in the 1950s and 1960s. It was never deployed and the program was terminated.”
Sinclair tried to concentrate, but his mind kept going back to Cordelia. Where was she now, and what was she doing?
“The Soviets had more success,” Oakley continued. “They developed a powdered form of the bacterium that could be sprinkled like talcum powder.”
“Did they use it?”
“There are stories of the Soviets trying to assassinate Marshal Tito of Yugoslavia with the powder. Nothing was ever confirmed.”
“Did they test it?”
“Yes, aerosols were tested on animals. It works. With an airborne exposure, an average person uses ten liters of air a minute, and a monkey a little less than half that. If a standard dose kills monkeys, it would also kill humans.”
“Besides aerosols, are there any other methods of disseminating the disease?” asked Dame Constance.
“Fleas,” Oakley said.
“You’re kidding,” the CIA agent burst out.
“No, I’m not. The Japanese army in World War Two reportedly dropped canisters of live fleas to spread the disease in Manchuria.”
“That seems very crude,” the official from MI6 said.
“But effective. Plague was transported primarily by fleas in fourteenth-century Europe. And fleas were also carriers during the Great London Plague of 1665. During that outbreak, each week, seven thousand people died.”
“Surely all that is ancient history,” the CIA officer said dismissively.
“Yes and no. The plague epidemic in China in 1894 eventually came to San Francisco via fleas on shipboard rats. As late as 1900, more than a hundred people died of flea-borne plague in California.”
“But Moustaffa is not going to drop fleas,” said the MI6 officer.
“Technologically we are beyond that. There are much better ways to spread the disease.”
“Well, we can’t sit here and talk about the theoretical. Of all the possibilities the attack could take, what is your best guess?” asked the CIA officer.
“An aerosol.”
“Is that possible?”
“The only thing that has stopped terrorists from doing that up until now has been lack of technical know-how.”
“And could Moustaffa have figured out how to release bubonic plague?”
“He’d probably opt for pneumonic plague. Not bubonic.”
“What’s the difference?”
Paul Oakley reached over and took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.
“I thought we’d get to that sooner or later, so I prepared a handout.”
They silently passed the papers from person to person. The photos were horrific. Patients covered with livid purple boils. Sinclair stared at the page, sick with horror. What a terrible way to die!
“If you look at photo A-1, these are classic symptoms of bubonic plague. You will note the buboes that give bubonic plague its name. Those are swollen tender lymph nodes in the armpit or groin,” Oakley instructed.
“So if this is bubonic, what is pneumonic plague?” the CIA officer asked.
“With pneumonic plague, there are no swellings. The disease is airborne, spread by droplet infection—transmitted when a person coughs. It spreads very quickly in a population.”
Dame Constance tapped her watch significantly.
Oakley nodded and delivered the final line of his briefing with chilling precision.
“The most important point is that the pneumonic form of the disease is much deadlier.”
“How deadly?” asked Dame Constance.
Oakley looked at her, his face taut with anxiety.
“Virtually no one survives.”
The Khamsin Motoryacht
CORDELIA LOOKED IN the vanity mirror and gasped. What a fright! There were streaks of dirt on her forehead and chin, and her suit was a mass of grease stains. She looked around the elegant bathroom for something to help her clean up.
There were delicate linen guest towels with blue anchors embroidered on them. She soaked one in hot water and lathered up a tiny bar of perfumed soap. First her hands and face. Her legs were filthy, knees encrusted with motor oil from crawling on the floor. She swabbed at the heavy grease until most of it was gone and threw the stained towel in the trash. Time to face the enemy.
Cordelia opened the door to find a young crew member in a white steward’s coat waiting for her. Not at all menacing.
“Your tea is in the salon, miss,” he said in an Australian accent. “Lady Sommerset will see you now.”
Lady Sommerset? That name was very familiar. Where had she heard it? Cordelia followed him through a narrow hallway to the aft salon of the boat, racking her brain for any shred of information.
A dark-haired woman looked up as they entered. Cordelia recognized her instantly. The famous Lady X! Lady Sommerset was the British socialite who was always in the tabloids. Still youthful in her
mid-forties, she had enormous eyes the color of burnished gold. She wore a magenta silk caftan, and her bare feet were tanned and festooned with gold toe rings.
Seeing her beautifully dressed and lounging on the cream-colored banquette, Cordelia felt a flutter of hope. Clearly this elegant woman would release her immediately. It was all a mistake! Those two thugs didn’t know what they were doing.
Lady Sommerset stood to greet her. Cordelia found herself thinking that pictures didn’t do her justice. She was beautiful and moved with an elegant grace.
“My apologies for your uncomfortable transportation.”
“I’d really like to know what’s going on,” Cordelia said.
“We needed Mr. Hannifin. You had the unfortunate luck to be in the wrong place,” Lady Sommerset replied. “I’m afraid I cannot change what fate has delivered to you.”
Her tone was charming, sympathetic, but the message was insane!
“Fate?” Cordelia gasped. “I was held at gunpoint!”
“Well, that’s all over now,” she soothed.
“You don’t understand. I was drugged.”
“Well, you won’t be treated like that on The Khamsin. The tradition of this ship is hospitality. So please, make yourself comfortable.”
Lady X waved airily for Cordelia to take a seat.
“I insist on being put ashore immediately!”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We need to keep you on board for a while.”
“Where are we headed?”
“Venice. I have a palazzo off the Grand Canal. When we reach the city, I will make arrangements for you to be returned to London.”
“I need to call someone, to let them know where I am.”
Lady X did not answer.
“Please, come sit down,” she invited. “I ordered some tea for you.”
A white-coated steward appeared, and he poured a pale green herbal-smelling concoction into a delicate porcelain cup. Cordelia suddenly realized how terribly thirsty she was. She accepted the tea and put in a spoonful of sugar. The infusion smelled a bit like mowed grass, but it made her feel enormously better. Lady X watched with a polite smile.
The Stolen Chalicel Page 21
