Spy Zone

by Fritz Galt

  Vic Padesco, his head bowed meditatively over folded hands, spoke for the first time. “Or is it a prelude to something bigger than we ever imagined?”

  “Bigger?” the president repeated. “How big?”

  Vic related the World Health Organization’s press release about an epidemic in India. “The scary thing is this: our scientists have now concluded that the epidemic was intentional.”

  “How do we know that?” the president demanded. “It could have spread naturally, like the Hantavirus.”

  “Not this one. This parasite came from one of our own laboratories at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta.”

  “We gave terrorists the goddamned disease?” the president said, his index finger jabbing down and rattling the conference table.

  “Someone must have taken it, sir. Removing a biologically volatile, genetically altered organism from one of our laboratories is no small feat. It had to be intentional. That same someone might also be behind the coup attempts around the Indian Ocean.”

  “How could these things possibly be related?” the president asked.

  Vic cleared his throat and offered a geopolitical explanation. “They could threaten and control all shipping lanes in the Indian Ocean, from the Cape of Good Hope to the Suez Canal to the Strait of Malacca. This would create a commercial vacuum among the nations of the Indian Ocean, and isolate Europe from the Far East. The islands we’re talking about today are well positioned geographically to control major shipping lanes. Economic failure in the region will lead to unrest. Muslim extremist forces will move in.”

  He ticked off the suffering countries that rimmed the Indian Ocean: “South Africa, Kenya and Tanzania all currently reeling from the terrorist bombings from the Capetown disco to our two embassies. Don’t overlook the large Muslim populations already living there. There’s Madagascar, always an economic and political basket case. Then you’ve got the Gulf States, the hotbed of Islamic fundamentalism, barely keeping a lid on their underground movements and playing footsie with terrorist organizations. Take a look at the terrorist training camps in Afghanistan, Tajikistan and Pakistan. Who sponsors those camps? Gulf money. Need I say more?”

  Vic looked around the table. He had everyone’s attention.

  “Where does that leave the biggie, India?” he continued. “The malaria epidemic will weaken it. It will bring the country to its knees. Heaven help us if this form of biological terrorism exterminates large swaths of their population.”

  He paused for breath, and then plowed on.

  “Now, are we still talking terrorists? You’ve got unstable regimes from India eastward. Bangladesh is already Muslim. You’ve got crazies in Cambodia, SLORC running a military dictatorship in Burma, Malaysia is knee-deep in corruption, and then you have the largest Muslim country in the world, Indonesia, with grenades and fire bombs exploding on the streets as we speak. Is the Indian Ocean region stable? Hell no. And there has never been such chaos as exists today.”

  The room was so silent, the president could hear the vacuum cleaner at work a floor above him.

  “There’s your vacuum, gentlemen,” he said.

  The group laughed, and the tension was momentarily broken.

  The president continued in a more ominous tone. “In fact, you could say the vacuum is supplied from here. What are these fanatics rebelling against? Maybe they don’t want to grab land as much as they want to grab the moral high ground. If our culture represents a moral vacuum as much as they think it does, then we have in effect weakened any country to which we have exerted our influence, cultural or political. Could you say that the American dream has sown the seeds of its own demise?”

  Nobody spoke for a full minute, taking time to reflect.

  “Hell no, with all due respect, sir,” Adam said. “We’re not the culprits. Look at all the countries around the world falling to Islamist totalitarianism. We’re the victims.”

  “Adam,” the president said softly. “There are more than two players in this giant game of Risk. Remember that we’re the small chunk of land in North America.”

  Vic spoke less impetuously than the secretary of state, and his deliberateness gave his words more weight. “Gentlemen, the real threat to the United States is not the disposition of territory in the Indian Ocean. The war could be right here in the Caribbean and it would not amount to horse poop. Our problem is the weapons involved. These groups have purposely created an epidemic. Do you realize what that means?”

  “Weapons of mass destruction,” breathed Park Bunker.

  “Exactly. Tiny mosquitoes could wipe out the entire United States,” Vic said.

  The president jumped to his feet and strode around behind the backs of the chairs. “We’ll have to get INS to round up every known immigrant and traveler from India in the past few months.”

  Everybody nodded solemnly.

  The president clasped his hands firmly behind his back, his forehead furrowed in thought. “But that isn’t enough. Is it.”

  Hugh Gutman volunteered, “I suppose we’ll just have to wipe out every damn mosquito.”

  “That’s right,” Vic said. “But all diseases are potential killers, not just those borne by mosquitoes. We need a war on disease. Diseases that are communicated in any way, shape, or form.”

  “We need a Panvaccine Pill,” the president mused.

  “How I wish,” Vic said. “But to be realistic, I would charge our science advisor to chart a course for immediate and unlimited allocation of resources to tackle this problem.”

  Park coughed. “Don’t forget the nuclear and chemical weapon threat.”

  “Precisely,” the president said. “Terrorists have more than terror at their disposal these days. Weapons of mass destruction, whether they be nuclear, chemical, or biological, could too easily fall into the enemy’s hands.”

  “In conjunction with the Russians, we’ve drawn down the number of our nuclear warheads,” Park said.

  “But we can do more,” the president insisted.

  “We’ve eliminated our stockpile of chemical weapons and gotten nations to agree to the Chemical Weapons Convention,” Trimble added.

  “But we haven’t even gotten Congress to ratify the damn treaty,” the president said.

  “The president’s right, men,” Vic chimed in. “We’ve learned from the past that we can’t fight weapons of mass destruction by escalating the supply of such weapons. And we can’t fight WMDs through trying to eliminate them. There will always be a Saddam Hussein lurking around some corner. And now, terrorists are poised to coerce India, which has a nuclear program…”

  The president spoke evenly and quietly. “We’ve got to use both our diplomatic ingenuity and our scientific know-how to blunt the effectiveness of these weapons, if not neutralize them completely.”

  “Bold words, Mr. President,” Park said.

  “That’s the road we’re taking. So don’t just sit there. Get moving.”

  The president towered over the table, and his eyes fell on Hugh Gutman. “We’ll start with combating the epidemic in India.”

  “I haven’t looked into the epidemic personally,” Hugh said, apparently having heard of it just that morning. “I consider it CDC business.”

  “Well, make it your business, too,” the president said between his teeth. “In the meantime, until we can find vaccines, I won’t tolerate the use of such insidious weapons. Wolf, send in whatever men you need to track down the killers in India and bring them to justice. They’ve broken all sorts of international conventions.”

  General Wolf Kessler stood and saluted across the table.

  Adam cleared his throat. “You’re forgetting our responsibility to the UN, sir. And we’ll need to build a coalition of our European partners and the Arab League, before we move in.”

  The president then did something out of character. He stooped, leaning forward against the conference table, until he was eye-level with the others. Then he spoke quietly. “I’m not declaring war, I�
�m not stepping on anyone’s toes, and I’m certainly not trying to make friends at this point. We’re subtle, we’re fast, and we’re slick. I expect each of your agencies and departments to coordinate on this. Get the vaccines, grease the palms of other countries, and, damn it, go into India and extirpate those bastards.”

  With that, he straightened and left the room.

  Chapter 19

  Vic Padesco looked over the remaining members of the National Security Council. They had heard their orders loud and clear.

  Their orders were less ambiguous than President Reagan’s wink of an eye consent that enabled his underlings to illegally sell weapons to America’s mortal enemy at the time, Iran. That sale had been initiated to buy back American hostages in Lebanon, with the profits from the sales illegally funding Contra rebels in Nicaragua.

  President Charles Damon couldn’t look the press in the eye and deny that he had given an order to “go into India and extirpate those bastards” who were using biological weapons, nor could the men sitting around that table deny that they had heard the orders, should they be called to testify before Congress.

  “First we’ll need a legal finding,” Park said.

  “Forget any findings,” Vic said. “I’ll brief Congress.”

  The remaining members of the Security Council didn’t look him in the eye, a sure sign that they didn’t believe him. He wasn’t even sure what he would do himself, other than take responsibility for handling a feisty Congress that was itching to find fault with the president on his squeaky clean term.

  “We’ll need someone to manage this,” Adam said with resignation.

  “We’ll use your Coordinator for Counterterrorism,” Vic said. “He’ll activate the INS, the CDC and the Department of Justice to round up recent arrivals from India and quarantine them immediately. He’ll be the liaison between Hugh and Park, channeling intelligence on the disease to those in the military operation. And he’ll brief us each time we meet.”

  Adam nodded and remained silent.

  To Vic, it seemed the men acted like he was dragging them into dangerous waters, a place where Congressional watchdogs were more vicious than the terrorists that American troops would face.

  He turned to Hugh. “You’ll activate Robert to channel funds into disease research. Take the funds from HEW or NASA or somewhere. I don’t care where.”

  “Who’s Robert?” Hugh asked.

  “He’s the president’s science advisor.”

  “So we’re diverting funds,” Hugh said.

  “You’re damned right we’re diverting funds,” Vic said.

  Hugh nodded and scribbled down a note.

  Vic looked around the room. All issues were covered. And so were all asses. Defense was responsible for capturing the terrorists. The CIA was responsible for battling the disease. And the State Department was responsible for coordinating the military and intelligence efforts.

  Now, would they march?

  It was dusk when the plane carrying Multan Malik, Camille, the rescued Americans and Alec reached the island of Mauritius.

  As they zoomed low over the coast of that Indian Ocean nation, Alec realized that the flight path didn’t put them in position to land. Instead, they were surveying a battleground.

  Numerous fishing vessels cast long shadows against governmental buildings, and a new wave of ships approached at full speed out of the setting sun. Smoke and gunpowder billowed from at least five modern downtown buildings. The streets were swept clear of cars and people.

  Suddenly, an orange flash punctuated the gloom. In that instant, he saw a wave of well-equipped soldiers trudging ashore. From the hordes of soldiers, Port Louis seemed under attack by a coordinated expeditionary force.

  The twin-engine executive jet he was riding in dipped a wing and gained altitude to clear the steep mountains that surrounded the city. They were heading to the airport. He tried to imagine the scene on the ground at Sir Seewasoogar Ramgoolam Airport.

  However, they continued banking until they circled completely and were heading back over the city. Not going to SSR after all.

  He spotted Multan Malik heading forward from the back of the cabin. The businessman entered the cockpit and shut the door.

  Moments later, Alec felt a rumbling sensation beneath his seat. It sounded like landing gear being extended.

  The aircraft veered slightly to correct its course, and the cockpit door swung open under its own weight. He could see Multan pointing to a landmark on the ground.

  The rumbling noise stopped. He heard a loud click, and the aircraft swooped upward as if it had dropped a great weight. Perhaps they were jettisoning fuel for an emergency landing. He looked uncomfortably at the Americans he had evacuated from Comoros.

  The pilot jerked a hard banking turn to the right. Seats creaked as passengers sank deep in their cushions. Children began to cry.

  Alec looked back at Camille. Her face radiated a satisfied smile.

  Seated at a window, Alec had a full view of the ground. Troops swarmed through the gloom and surrounded the Presidential Palace. Gun smoke billowed from bursts here and there.

  Then, as if he were watching a video from a bomber’s perspective, the front of the palace was obliterated in a flash of light. That was followed by more smoke. Their plane had dropped a bomb.

  He heard whoops of joy from the cockpit as Multan celebrated the strike.

  Alec turned away from the window with a groan. Shortly after dropping the final, decisive bomb on Mauritius, the plane he was traveling in would land with the leaders of the opposition. Another great photo opportunity for Multan and his militants.

  Damn. Alec just couldn’t get it right.

  Chapter 20

  Natalie listened to a flight attendant recite a prayer from the Koran over the airplane’s speakers as the wheels touched down.

  She was arriving at Quaid-i-Azam International Airport in Karachi, Pakistan. It was nine o’clock in the evening of the same day that she had received her orders.

  Franklin Duffy, the U.S. Ambassador to India, had given her explicit instructions. She would negotiate the release of America’s Ambassador to the United Nations, Lucius Ford, whom the Afghan regime was holding captive.

  Frank had said that although news of Ford’s capture would remain secret, she “could add something critical” to the negotiation. It was her chance to kick-start the New Initiative. But she would have to keep that under wraps as well.

  In Karachi, she would meet with contacts from the consulate, switch flights and immediately leave Pakistan for Afghanistan.

  She took a deep breath and stepped off the plane. Karachi felt cooler, but smelled exactly like Bombay. The two cities could be identical twins.

  As she entered the arrival hall, two Western men with alert eyes engaged her. Having been married to a CIA operations officer for over ten years, she could spot operatives without much effort. Nevertheless, she accepted the U.S. diplomatic credentials they showed her without objection.

  The men whisked her through the departure hall.

  “Oh, how attractive,” she said, her eye on full-length Muslim garments displayed in the window of a duty-free shop. “I’ll need one of those.”

  She left the two men standing outside the store and ran her hands over the various silky fabrics for sale. She had her choice of anything from hot pink with no head covering, to a black nun-like outfit with a snap-on veil.

  Natalie surprised the sales clerk by choosing the traditional black robe with veil.

  “Would you like to try it on, ma’am?” the woman suggested eyeing her uncertainly.

  “No. Just throw it into a bag for me.”

  She rejoined the two men and they walked briskly to the boarding gate where a flight was leaving for Kabul, Afghanistan. Beyond scratched windowpanes, she studied the unlit hulk of an Ariana Afghan Airlines plane. She was surprised to see that it was a Boeing 727-228 passenger jet.

  After the war with Russia, she didn’t expect to see a Tupo
lev or Ilyushin. Who were Afghanistan’s friends anyway? Then she remembered that for a brief period, Afghanistan had been a friend of America’s after the U.S. supported the mujahideen in the Afghan War against the Soviet Union. That was before the Taliban fundamentalists swarmed over most of the countryside, conquered Kabul and adopted a strict anti-Western bias.

  “Don’t worry about the plane,” the older American told her. “It may be old, but it got here somehow and it should be able to fly back.”

  The other man, who had watched her suspiciously from the moment she arrived, finally confronted her.

  “I served in Kabul in the late Sixties,” he said in a gravelly voice. “I can’t endorse the State Department sending a woman in there.”

  “What don’t you approve of? My outfit?”

  While living in Bombay, she had adopted the salwar kameez and dupatta, a form of dress that was cool in the summertime, colorful, and fit well with the local culture. At present, she was wearing a dark red salwar kameez with the dupatta wrapped over her hair.

  “They might object to your dress, but that’s not my point,” the man said. “I just don’t think that a woman can do much of anything in Afghanistan. It’s a society that isn’t friendly to women. How could a white American woman have any influence or even personal security in an Islamic state such as Afghanistan?”

  She glared at him and let him dig himself a little deeper into his hole.

  He continued unabashed. “Their government and all its organs are male dominated and controlled. Women have only one role to play, and that is to serve under the men, in all ways possible.”

  “I see,” she said. “Male organs.” She didn’t quite believe his overreaction to her trip to Kabul, so she waited for his punch line.

  “Have you ever seen a woman negotiate with the Iranians, face down the PLO, or take on Muslim fanatics?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “You’re looking at one.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I do Islamic states. I do warmongers and dictators. I do assassins and kidnappers. I even do nuclear terrorists. But what I find hardest to deal with is guys like you who don’t even begin with a rational premise.”