Spy Zone

by Fritz Galt

  He hesitated. “I’m listening.”

  “His name is Abu Khan from Bombay. He operates out of Afghanistan. He obtained a mutant form of malaria that he’s spreading all over India. The people there are dying because of it. He is trying to create a vaccine so he can survive in India and control it.”

  “Why has he done this?”

  “He wants to spread Islam and destroy the Hindus. He wants to control India through her Muslim and Sikh populations, forming an entirely Muslim-controlled subcontinent under Islamic law. He calls it a new Moghul empire.”

  “How did you learn all this?”

  She hung her head and explained. Earlier that year, as she was teaching at a terrorist training camp near Abu Khan’s camp, she came to know him personally.

  “Will this information help you?” she asked. “Will it help us?”

  He shook his head. Her revelations were mind-boggling in their implications and as complete in every detail as he could ask for. But he wasn’t satisfied. “I need more than that,” he said. “I need you to help us. To participate. To stop his plot.”

  “Alec,” she said, searching his eyes. “That’s why I’m here.”

  He looked in her sea green eyes. He had risked everything: his life, his career, the futures of Comoros and Mauritius and the general stability of the region, for that moment. Still, he had no way of trusting someone with such shifting allegiances. She was either a creature built of contradictions or an inveterate liar. Yet she was his only option.

  “If you can get in close to him and undermine his operation,” he said, “I’ll try to get you immunity from Comoros and Mauritius sedition laws.”

  “Of course I can infiltrate his operation,” she said confidently. “I have what it takes.”

  For the first time in a long while, he believed her.

  Chapter 32

  Watching movers stuff the last wrapped pieces of his belongings into a shipping crate, Alec punched in Mick’s cell phone number.

  A dejected voice came over the phone. “Yeah?”

  “Mick. It’s Alec.”

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “I’m calling from Mauritius.”

  “Well, I’m not in the Maldives right now,” Mick said. “I’m in southern India.”

  “Where’s Mariah?”

  “Still in the Maldives with Dr. Simon Yates. We’ve got bad news. Simon says we can expect a relapse at any moment. We may lose her before the end of the year.”

  “Good God. I’m sorry, Mick.”

  “Well, don’t feel sorry yet. We still have a chance to save her.”

  “Is Natalie with her?”

  “She’s in the States.”

  Odd that she wasn’t with her daughter. Maybe she was in the States working on Mariah’s behalf, though she would have had to circumvent the quarantine on travelers to India.

  He took one last look around the apartment. All his stuff was gone.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I might have some relevant news for you. I think Mariah’s got a new strain of mutant malaria,”

  “I know.”

  Alec was surprised. “It’s being spread over India by an Islamic extremist.”

  “I know that, too.”

  He turned off the final set of lights. Mick was amazing. He already knew most of what had taken him months of dangerous digging to unearth.

  “His name is Abu Khan from Bombay,” Mick said.

  “That’s what I heard. But Mick, he intends to take over India and form an Islamic state.”

  “Got that already.”

  Alec kicked some scrap cardboard aside. “So exactly why are you in India?”

  “I’ve been chasing Abu Khan all over creation. Almost caught him tonight.”

  Alec paused at his front door. He felt both a day late and a dollar short. Or was he? “You mean he’s hard to nab.”

  “That’s right. I don’t have any official help from the Indians or Americans. It’s just me taking pot shots in a swamp.”

  “Would it help if I brought over one of Abu Khan’s former cohorts whom I’ve turned to work for us? She might be able to infiltrate his operation and bring him out in the open.”

  “That would be nice.”

  Whew. He stepped outside.

  “The only problem is that I’ve got to find him first,” Mick said. “Abu Khan has disappeared with Congressman Butler’s daughter. Abu also took an important vial with him. It contains a vaccine that not only can prevent malaria world-wide, but that can be adapted to cure all existing cases of malaria. All I have left is Abu Khan’s brother, Rajiv, the only scientist alive who can take the vial of vaccine, mass produce it, and turn it into a cure for people like Mariah.”

  He locked the apartment door with a firm click and handed the key over to a fellow American Embassy officer.

  “I’m heading for our military base on Diego Garcia right now,” he said. “I’ll contact you from there.”

  “Right-o.”

  Waiting for him in the embassy van was the slim form of his lover, also packed and ready to go.

  Natalie stared through her dusty car window at the Texan motel’s dilapidated façade. It was an unlikely place to transfer terrorist secrets.

  The faded sign, leaning off a pole alongside the empty state highway, read “Desert Jewel, Vacancy.” The word “No” before the word “Vacancy” had been permanently taped over with electrician’s tape.

  The motel may have been built for tourists traveling between El Paso, Texas, and Big Bend National Park along the Rio Grande. Beyond the detached cabins lay the nearly dry riverbed. Most guests were probably illegals.

  Fake boughs of holly hung above the office door. A Santa statue was propped up against a corner of the front porch, an electrical cord reaching in vain for a wall socket.

  She stepped out of her rental car and slammed the door. Dust settled on her bare legs and miniskirt.

  Inside the office, the nameplate on the desk read, “Vijay Patel, Manager.”

  Another Patel from Gujarat running another motel in America. She sighed. She had seen the long lines of visa applicants outside the consulate in Bombay, many of whom were Patels from Gujarat claiming as a sponsor some sort of relative in America “in the hotel line.”

  She hit the bell on the counter. It slid under her hand and revealed a white, dust-free circle where it had sat.

  It was her big moment. She had successfully infiltrated the terrorists’ communication link in Atlanta. Maybe she could move on to the next cell.

  A pudgy man with hair in a slick, black permanent emerged from behind a curtain. She caught a glimpse of the apartment beyond.

  “You’re Vijay?” she asked.

  “How may I help you?” he said, without responding to her question. His brusque refusal to acknowledge his name would infuriate many people, but she had seen this before. He must have been a recent arrival.

  “I only need some information.”

  He frowned and looked back and forth and around her as if she were invisible and he were a busy man.

  “They say that you can send me to Abu’s parents,” she said.

  His yellow eyes landed on her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m worried about the Moghul Project.”

  He stiffened. “A woman?”

  She nodded.

  His eyes didn’t move away from hers, while a hand slid below the counter. Her heart jumped, but she didn’t flinch. His hand emerged without a gun. Instead, he snapped his fingers.

  A young Indian woman in jeans stepped out from behind the curtain. Her large dark eyes flashed inquisitively at Natalie.

  “Do you see this woman?” Vijay Patel said, his face still fixed on Natalie.

  At first she didn’t know if he was directing the question at the young woman or at herself.

  The woman drew up to the counter and stared at Natalie. Perhaps she was supposed to give Mr. Patel visual confirmation that Natalie was the cor
rect contact in the communication link.

  The young woman’s eyes roved over Natalie in a dubious way.

  Natalie’s heart sank.

  “Do you see this woman?” Vijay Patel asked again.

  “Yes, Father,” the young woman said, pulling a pair of rubber gloves off her hands and slapping them onto the counter.

  “You don’t need to spend the rest of your life cleaning toilets. You could be like her.”

  “Who is she?”

  “This woman is performing a valuable duty, defending our homeland.” He straightened even more than before. “Madam, you are supposed to fly to Faro, Portugal, and meet Abu’s parents there only.”

  He gave a slight bow, smiled obtusely and led the young woman back into the apartment.

  Faro, Portugal? How would she know who Abu’s parents were? And why couldn’t Wassim Shaikh have told her this?

  “I told you to call me ‘Fred.’”

  “All right, Fred. Here’s the latest news,” Mick said into his cell phone from the side of the road in Kerala. He related all that he had learned in the past two days, ending with, “In short, your daughter’s being held by an Islamic terrorist who’s in the process of killing off India.”

  “Wonderful,” Congressman Fred Butler said. “And I know what he wants with Keri.”

  “Has he contacted you?” Mick asked.

  “Yeah, indirectly, I guess. An hour ago, I got a phone call from a guy who told me to be in Panjim. I had to go downstairs and buy a friggin’ map to find out where he was talking about. It’s the capital of some pipsqueak Indian state called Goa. You know Goa, like boa.”

  “I know the place,” Mick said, having been there many times. Since the resorts by the sea were a short hour’s flight south of Bombay, he had spent several vacations there with his family.

  “The guy told me to be there in two days,” Fred said. “I thought I’d kill some time here before heading south.”

  Mick could imagine how the congressman intended to kill time. “Why does he want Keri?” he asked.

  “Oh that. For the money. Some old Indian called me and told me to pay a personal ransom of three million dollars. Can you believe that? I talked him down to two.”

  “Where can you get that kind of money?”

  “Oh, that’s no problem. I’ll just raid my war chest.”

  Naturally. “At least the call established Abu’s whereabouts. We’ve got a time and a place.”

  “Listen, just between you and me, Micksters, let’s forget about the whole malaria thing. I’ll get my daughter back, I’ll leave India. I won’t cause you any more problems. I promise.”

  “It’s not that easy, Fredsters. Your daughter may already have the disease. You may already have the disease. And only Abu’s got the solution. We’ve got to catch him, and this is our only opportunity. Are you with me?”

  There was a pause on the line, then a loud smack that momentarily dulled the phone line.

  “What was that?”

  A moment later, he heard the congressman come back on the phone. “Damn, another mosquito tried to bite me.”

  “So are you with me?” Mick repeated.

  “Malaria, you say. Is it lethal?”

  “In this case it is. Fevers, chills, coma, then death. Death comes quickly if you’re lucky.”

  “A manhunt is so low-tech. I wish I could just sign a bill and make these suckers go away.”

  “You had your chance.”

  “Okay. I’m yours. How do we catch Abu?”

  “We’ve got to do more than just catch him. We’ll need to infiltrate his organization and recover the vaccine before we apprehend him. I’ll need reinforcements in Goa at once.”

  “What kind of reinforcements are you talking about?” the congressman asked.

  “I could use a company of CT operatives and some high-speed launches, but a high-powered sniper rifle should suffice.”

  “I’ll get you the soldiers, the boats and the rifle.”

  “Fine. Send ’em to Goa where you’ll find me. Here’s my brother’s phone number. Contact him, as he’s got a way to infiltrate Abu’s operation.”

  Mick clicked his phone off. They just might have a chance, if the congressman could get his dick out of Bombay’s Red Light District.

  Chapter 33

  Congressman Fred Butler sat back in an overstuffed chair at the Taj Hotel, his window open to the bay.

  Below him the evening was taking shape. Cars beeped at every opportunity and pigeons flapped their awkward-sounding wings. The arching Gateway of India was already illuminated, the enormous monument casting a shadow over hawkers, snake charmers and a monkey performing to a loud, spinning ratchet instrument. Beyond the Gateway lay an enormous body of water, often obscured by haze, but clear at the moment. Pinpricks of lights outlined ships gliding silently in and out of the harbor. In the gloom of an epidemic, India was still hard at work.

  “Sugar,” he called into the darkness of his room. “What time have you got?”

  A woman’s form appeared from the bedroom of his suite. The thin veil of her sari was back-lit by a lamp and revealed her naked form beneath. “The clock says half past six.”

  “Right,” Fred said. He calculated the time on the East Coast. India was a half hour off the rest of the world. It would be seven-thirty in the morning. President Charles Damon would be awake.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the consulate. “Get me Lou,” he told the consulate operator.

  “He’s in his residence, sir.”

  “This is Congressman Fred Butler. I pay your salary. My daughter has been kidnapped, and I’m paranoid as hell. If Lou Potts can’t get me a direct line to the President of the United States, I’ll have your hole of a consulate permanently closed down before you can say, ‘Severance Pay.’”

  He slammed down the receiver and waited in the semi-darkness.

  The woman approached him, city lights now playing on the glittery yellow fabric of her garb. Her young face was pierced and painted. A stud shone from each pierced nostril and costume jewelry hung from her ear lobes. Around her forehead hung a thin golden band that drooped in the center, dangling a jewel-encrusted pendant between her eyes.

  His eyes strayed down the folds of silk past the intricate henna pattern on her arms to her bare feet. Her heels were held tight together, her toes pointing outward. He studied the various rings that adorned her dark toes.

  He reached down and lifted one of her ankles into his lap. She balanced on one foot, a smile drifting over her red-painted lips. His large fingers pulled apart each toe. He studied the smooth pink toenails and the pink underside of her foot. It was a powerful foot, toes permanently splayed from wearing chappal sandals all her life.

  The telephone rang.

  It was Lou Potts, calling personally. “The White House is on the line, sir.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” The line clicked several times. Fred cleared his throat. “This is Congressman Fred Butler. I need to speak with Charles immediately.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. The president is unavailable right now. May I take a message?”

  “With whom am I speaking?”

  “This is White House reception.”

  “Get me his personal secretary.”

  “One moment, please.”

  He waited for several seconds before the same voice returned. “I’m sorry, she is not in the office yet.”

  “Then let me speak with his chief of staff. This is important and vital to national security.”

  A few seconds later a husky voice came on the line. “Hi, Fred. Bernard Jackson here.”

  “Listen Bernard, I’ve got to talk to the president. I need some military cooperation on my daughter’s case.”

  “Now Fred, you know that we can’t send troops into a kidnapping situation.”

  “Well, if you can’t send troops, then how will you guys save my daughter?”

  “The president is taking great personal interest in your case, but unfortunatel
y our hands are tied at the moment with other problems.”

  “Other problems? Like what?”

  “Like India.”

  “Well, that’s where I happen to be right now.”

  “And I would be advising you to take the first plane out of there, if India weren’t under quarantine.”

  “What quarantine?”

  “We’re clamping down on our borders. Nobody who’s traveled to India in the past six months is allowed to reenter the United States.”

  “My wife did,” Fred argued.

  “I see,” Bernard said calculatingly. “Your wife reentered the United States.”

  “You’re damn right, she did. On a military transport.”

  “I see,” Bernard repeated.

  “Wait a minute here. What’s going on. You’re not going to throw her into a holding tank, are you?”

  Bernard came back, grave and low. “Fred, you’ve been exposed to a dangerous strain of malaria. I advise you get used to that country you’re in. You may be there for quite some time to come.”

  The phone clicked off.

  Fred slowly lowered the handset into its cradle. His eyes fell on the foot still resting on the crotch of his pants. He smiled. He could think of fates worse than living in India. And he couldn’t imagine a fate better than his wife imprisoned in a hospital’s isolation wing.

  “One moment, sugar.”

  He grabbed the phone again to let Mick know that he was unsuccessful in reaching the president.

  Natalie was mid-flight between El Paso and Washington, DC, when she pried the airfone handset out of the seat back in front of her.

  “You don’t mind if I make a call, do you?” she asked her seatmate, a young serviceman in uniform.

  “Not at all. You won’t disturb me, ma’am.”

  Airport security had been exceptionally tight in El Paso. The only passengers interested in flying anymore seemed to be military. And this particular recruit didn’t look all that happy, either.

  She punched in Mick’s cell phone number.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, it’s you, Natalie.”