by Fritz Galt
“Bug spray,” Lou said. “Break out your bug spray.”
“‘The disease lies dormant in humans for several weeks. As many as five hundred million Indians may already be infected with it. It is predicted that victims will begin to show symptoms within the present month. Symptoms are the rapid onset of fever followed by shaking, chills, headache, nausea and anemia, then shock, kidney and liver failure, coma and ultimately death.’”
“My God,” Peter Sloan said. “We could all be infected.”
Lou sat down and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Why didn’t we know about this sooner?”
Natalie waved the cable in the air. “‘The World Health Organization has only today recognized the prevalence of this pernicious disease,’” she read. “‘Scientists had not identified this strain of malaria until now.’”
“What is the WHO doing about it?” Luke asked.
Natalie shook her head. “Forming a task force,” she said. “They haven’t even begun to study the organism yet.”
People looked at each other. Who would be first to exhibit symptoms?
“Okay,” Lou stood and slapped his hands against his thighs. “It seems we have two problems to deal with. One: Congressman Butler and his family are missing. Two: half of India will die in the next month. We have to split up on this. I want two volunteers to work on the Butler case. The rest of us can take on the malaria problem. Any volunteers for Congressman Butler?”
Nobody raised a hand.
“All right, then I’ll assign people. Luke, you take Peter and get us back our congressman. The rest of you, please adjourn to my office.”
As the young vice consul and security officer began consulting in the Emergency Control Room, the others followed Lou.
Climbing down the steps to the consul general’s office, Natalie felt like she was swimming in the ether. Events had transpired so quickly, she was beginning to forget who and where she was.
It took several minutes for Lou to straighten his desk, sign some letters in his inbox, move them to his outbox and collect his thoughts. At last he looked up at the seated officers.
“Okay, what do you think is happening here?” he asked.
The officers floated several suggestions.
“Incompetence of the WHO,” Constantine Wexler suggested. A career Consular officer, he had spent most of his career assisting American citizens in Africa, where WHO’s impact, or lack thereof, was most keenly felt.
“Contamination, mutation and cover-up,” Larry Windecker volunteered. He knew only too well the survival instincts of large organizations.
“Germ warfare waged by Pakistan,” Howard Cohen said grimly. In the Pakistani city of Lahore and in Bombay, he had gained first-hand knowledge of the underhanded tactics employed by the two nations in their undeclared war.
Lou nodded, and said, “Whether intentional or not, this thing amounts to genocide. There’s no saying who will benefit directly from it, but somebody will. It’s up to us to paint the picture of what this place will look like a year from now.”
“I suppose the Chinese would benefit,” Howard Cohen speculated, “And of course the Pakistanis. I wouldn’t put it past either one of them.”
“So we might be talking warfare,” Lou said. “That’s a pretty sight. Two armies wearing gas masks and fighting over a pile of corpses.”
“We’ve got to consider it, Lou,” Howard said. “We have to establish whether our leadership will commit our troops.”
“Troops?”
Risking American lives brought home the immensity of the problem to all of them in the office. America could become engaged with an invisible enemy on a battlefield of germs, or America could stand back and watch in horror as innocent civilians died in agony.
“Iraq was nothing compared to this,” Lou said, to put some perspective on the holocaust at hand.
The office fell into a stunned silence.
“Okay, I’ll bring it up with the secretary of state,” Lou finally said. “Adam Trimble will paint the picture for the president and the secretary of defense. They’ll want to formulate a policy right away.”
“Forget the political picture for a moment,” said Carl Knox, Head of the Consular Section. “We’ve already got American citizens’ lives at stake. We have tens of thousands of American citizens resident in our consular district alone.”
“And what can we do for them?” Lou asked, shooting a look at Natalie. “We can’t exactly ship them back to the United States, can we.”
“The most we can offer is heroic life-sustaining measures,” Natalie said. “Like what we did for Mariah.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that,” Lou said. “We’ll fly in doctors and medical equipment. We’ll set up a mobile hospital if necessary, just for American citizens. Carl, you’ll be our liaison with State Disaster Relief on this.”
Carl Knox nodded and wrote down some notes.
Lou looked around the office. “Okay, what haven’t we covered?”
“Ourselves,” Natalie said.
“Well, there’s not much we can do about our own health at the moment, is there?”
“I’m not thinking about our own health,” Natalie explained. “I’m wondering what we can do personally to help the scientists track down the disease.”
“Like what? Offer ourselves as guinea pigs?” Howard asked.
“If necessary,” she said. “Or, we could be the ones to collect information and samples and send them home. I doubt if you’ll find many scientists willing to set foot in India right now.”
“Okay,” Lou said. “You’ll be our contact with the World Health Organization, the Centers for Disease Control and other medical establishments. I’m sure there’s more we can do besides damage control.”
“I already have a few ideas of my own,” she said.
She was juggling several schemes in her mind. Her idea to offer the Indians America’s counter-terrorism assistance in return for nuclear disarmament might just fall on receptive ears. With the congressman’s daughter missing and the country soon to convulse in panic, terrorism had already raised its ugly head in India, against Americans and Indians alike. Possibly she could suggest to the Indians a link between the new disease and terrorism.
She stood up and smiled grimly. “I think the congressman’s case is the key to all of this. I think I’ll start there.”
She left a roomful of astonished faces and returned to Peter and Luke, who had resumed trying to track down the Butler family.
Grabbing a pen and notepad, Natalie sat and called the crime inspector who had broken open the case about the stash of submachine guns and explosives near Crawford Market and the terrorist heading for the Taj Mahal Hotel.
The inspector answered the phone on the very first ring. When she identified herself, he told her that the informant, an old man, was being held at the station for questioning.
“What have you learned so far?” she asked.
“The old man’s son is a militant. He operates in Kashmir and Afghanistan.”
“Who does he work for?”
“An organization called the International Islamic Relief Organization. This is a front funded by Osama bin Laden.”
Natalie was busily writing down every word. “What’s the son’s name?”
“He was born as ‘Abu Mohammed Ali Khan.’ The record shows he also travels under assumed names. We found a false ID with his picture on it signed ‘Harnarinder Singh’ from the Punjab. Indian Airlines and Air India records confirm he has traveled under both identities and purchased his tickets with cash.”
“Where has he traveled?”
“Domestically, he’s frequently in and out of Bombay as well as Srinagar, Jammu and Madras. Lately, he has also traveled to the states of Rajasthan, Gujarat, Madhya Pradesh, Tamil Nadu, Karnataka and Kerala. He gets around. Internationally in the past year, he’s flown to Dubai, Khartoum, Karachi, Islamabad, London and Lisbon.”
“No kidding,” she said. “But what is his tar
get?”
“The old man hasn’t the foggiest. Nonetheless, he reports that Abu left the house this morning past with a motorcycle and two submachine guns. Our inspectors have been to his house. There they uncovered explosives and guns similar to the ones he took. They were rolled up in carpets shipped from Kashmir this morning only.”
Natalie heard some raised voices over the telephone.
“What was that?”
“The old man wants to speak to the American Consulate.”
“Put him on the phone.”
“That’s not quite by the book, madam.”
“Nor is terrorism. Put him on.”
A moment later, an old voice croaked over the line. “I hear that America is offering a five-million-dollar reward for bin Laden’s head.”
“It’s up to twenty-five million dollars now,” Natalie said.
“I want a piece of it,” the feeble voice said.
“We don’t have bin Laden yet,” Natalie said. “But you certainly can help. What can you tell me about your son?”
“He’s part of a so-called Moghul Project.”
“What’s that?” she asked, picking up her pen again.
“I don’t know only. He says it’s involving a deadly disease, it’s very complex, and that it’s bringing me Allah’s freedom.”
“What deadly disease?”
“He didn’t say. He mentioned it today only when he raided our family with his weapons. Allah could have borne me more deserving sons. I never wanted him.”
Natalie grimaced at the change of subject, but decided to try to follow the old man’s weaving train of thought. “How many sons do you have?”
“Okay, okay. He’s not my real son. Abu is married to my daughter only. His real parents are living in Europe.”
“Where in Europe?”
“The south of Portugal. They are filthy rich.”
“Where does their money come from?”
“Abu’s father is in the diamond line. He made his fame and fortune here in Bombay.”
“Does he fund his son, Abu?”
“I would guess so.”
“Good. What are his parent’s names?”
“The father’s name is Hashmimi Mohammed Khan. His wife’s name is Pushpa. She’s not a Muslim.” Then the man added as an afterthought, “Abu also has a brother.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“I’m not wanting to drag his good name into this business. All I will tell you is that he has a good soul, and he is living in America.”
She stared at her notes. She had learned a lot from the man. “One last question,” she said, curious about the old man’s intentions. “It’s not the reward money for bin Laden that you’re after. Why are you telling me this?”
After a pause, the man replied, “Abu is a bad man, and he has treated my daughter poorly. I’m wanting their marriage to end.”
“There’s no legal way for her to get free of him.”
“I know,” the voice quivered. “I’m wanting him dead.”
Fred Butler awoke beside his wife, Linda, to the wail of a citywide air-warning siren.
He looked around the room and tried to identify where they were.
The honk of taxi horns below his window brought back memories of the previous night. A cab driver had recommended the Marine Plaza Hotel for Chinese food. After a meal at the revolving restaurant and several drinks in the bar, they had decided to stay the night at the hotel.
But he would have to notify Keri at the Taj.
He rolled toward the phone, called the Taj Hotel and asked for his hotel room. To his surprise, a police inspector answered.
“Where’s my daughter?” he asked.
“Where are you?” the inspector responded.
“Na-ah,” Fred said. “I’m not giving you any information. That’s strictly classified.”
“Is your daughter there?”
“No. Isn’t she with you?”
“Sir, you’d better get back here as soon as you can,” the man said. “Your daughter disappeared yesterday.”
“What?”
The phone clicked dead.
Fred shot a look at Linda.
“What?” she echoed sleepily.
“Keri didn’t show up yesterday.”
“That’s just like her,” Linda complained. “She’s been fooling around again. Spending the night in someone else’s bed. We paid good money for that suite.”
“Take a look at us,” Fred said, pointing to the strange room where they lay.
She broke into a mischievous smile. “And it was worth it,” she said, feeling for her husband’s naked backside.
“But how about Keri?”
“She has gone on escapades before.”
“Still, something in the police inspector’s voice tells me something is wrong,” Fred said with a frown.
Linda shot up in bed. “What police inspector?”
“I suppose it could be worse,” he mused. “This could be Nigeria.”
“Jeez no,” she said. “Don’t even bring up Nigeria.”
An image of the shaman to whom Keri had attached herself while on a junket in Africa flashed through his mind.
“She’s a big girl,” he said at last. “The police are only doing their job.”
“Do we have a few more minutes?” Linda asked.
“Yeah. I need you to wipe this lipstick off my face,” he said.
“There’s no more lipstick,” she said, and kissed him, one hand rubbing his bald spot.
He hesitated, wondering if they should head back to the Taj right away.
“C’mon, Fred. Concentrate,” Linda said, and pulled him toward her breasts.
He yawned and began to perform the exhausting task once more, his mind concentrating on what treasures might lie beneath the colorful, swaying saris on the street.
Chapter 15
Aware that Camille had taken command of the militia on the beach, Alec decided to find his way into the capital city of Moroni and inform Ahmed Harouna, his CIA informant at the Bank of America, at once.
He dressed without showering, grabbed his passport and money and slipped out of his room. He saw that the soldiers had vacated the beach, so he followed their footprints along the water’s edge.
Swinging his sandals over a shoulder, he began to trot on the white powdery sand to the end of the resort.
There, he became vaguely aware of a motorboat approaching him from the sea.
Unwilling to turn and identify himself to the boat’s occupants, he veered into the coconut palms and grabbed one of the bicycles parked by the road.
He pedaled through narrow lanes of vendors to a heavily rutted dirt road that zigzagged down the spine of the island.
A motorized trishaw with an empty back seat sputtered past.
“Hey,” he shouted, and waved both hands for help.
The young man slowed down just enough for Alec to jump onto the wooden back seat.
“Moroni,” Alec said, and let his bicycle roll and fall off the road.
The man didn’t even ask for money. Apparently bumming rides was a way of life on the island.
After several bends around the steep mountains, they reached a main, paved road. The trishaw picked up speed, but not much more than Alec could have attained on the bicycle. He debated if he should take over the vehicle altogether. How silly to worry about civilities when a national coup was most likely underway.
Then a triangular shadow crossed the road.
Alec looked up. A parasail loomed overhead. A camouflaged soldier was trailing him, pulled by a speedboat just offshore.
“Good Lord,” he said. “It’s Camille.”
Bullets from her submachine gun erratically kicked up dust from the single lane road. Alec’s vehicle veered and nearly tipped over.
On the parasail’s next pass overhead, a row of bullets perforated the road in a straight line toward Alec. He felt hot lead burn through his sleeve. He stood up in the back seat a
nd jumped toward a ravine.
Falling, he released his breath. He relaxed his muscles, protected his head and let the world spin out of control.
The rotation slowed as he reached the bottom of a valley. There, a stand of houses sat under a shady canopy of trees.
He rolled up to a smoky fire and stopped against a man’s bare feet. He looked up the dark, lean legs. A machete was poised overhead, ready to strike him.
“I come in peace,” Alec said.
“Phone call for Natalie. It’s the ambassador on the secure line.”
She took the call at once.
“Natalie, this is Franklin Duffy in New Delhi.” She recognized the warm voice. “We’ve got an immediate crisis for you to handle,” he went on. “We don’t have time to move your household effects up here. I want to send you on to Kabul tonight.”
“Kabul?” She waited for an opening in the conversation when she could tell him that she actually intended to go to the Maldives and take care of Mariah.
But his torrent of words wouldn’t stop.
“They’ve got the U.S. Ambassador to the UN. The Taliban kidnapped him this morning.”
She found a seat and took it. “And you want me to go in there and get him? What am I, the Green Berets?” She noticed Peter and Luke staring at her.
“We don’t need military assistance for this sort of thing,” the ambassador said. “It happens often enough in Afghanistan. As you know, the Taliban are already holding eight other hostages from a relief program. They merely want us to negotiate for him. I want to send you.”
She cupped a hand around the mouthpiece of the enormous secure phone/fax console. “I’m sure he isn’t travelling alone.”
“He is alone. The Afghans sent his entourage back to Islamabad without him.”
“Doesn’t State have a hostage negotiating team?”
“This is our chance to meet with the Taliban regime. That calls for a diplomat, and you’re our man, so to speak.”
“Mr. Ambassador, isn’t this highly irregular?”
“I normally wouldn’t send in one of our overseas-based diplomats if I didn’t think you could add something critical to the negotiation,” he said. “And keep the entire matter under wraps.”
