All the medical claims swamped health insurance companies. Some health plans were refusing to pay hospitals for the respiratory assist baggers' work. But every patient or family was willing to pay out of pocket for their life sustaining services. Rare were the cases when thousands of dollars prevented a patient from choosing death instead of life. Almost everyone used savings or loans to help pay for this non-traditional medical service.
Even though hospitals were overflowing, the Guillain-Barré and Balamuthia amoeba-infected patients were dragging them down financially. Hospitals suffered from having virtually all their beds full of break-even infectious disease cases instead of lucrative surgical cases.
Back in Tehran, the bonyad was cashing out on some financial moves they had made sixty days ago. Based on advice and analysis from Nikolas, the Bonyad had purchased stock in ventilator manufacturers and select drug companies. They also bought short-sell options on many of the Dow Jones Industrial stocks. Within a few days, their investments quadrupled in value.
• • •
Allie Stoker slept in a drug-induced coma. She was unaware of her airlift transfer from Chicago to Bethesda, Maryland. She thought nothing. She sensed nothing. With her father, mother, and sister at her side, a ventilator breathed for her and a nasal-gastric tube delivered food to her stomach. An I.V. supplied her with medication, hydration, and some critical nutrients.
Troy called at least twice each day. "Here's the irony," Stoker explained to her parents and sister. "Allie's excellent health worked against her in this case. She has a very robust immune system—robust enough to execute a vigorous attack on the nerves in her body. This is a disease that can affect healthy people, even more, thanks to their strong immune systems."
Troy was also considering that this engineered version of Campylobacter jejuni was weaponized, and even more potent than other Campylobacter jejuni strains. It created a hyper-immune response. But, he elected not to share this information with Allie's family. It was knowledge that would not help them. It would just introduce unneeded anger. Perhaps he could share the factoid once Allie had recovered.
"What's her long-term prognosis?" her mom asked the rounding pulmonologist at Bethesda Naval Hospital one evening.
"When we bring her out of the coma, she'll be weak. Her legs may be feeble, almost paralyzed. But, after a few months, most of her strength should rebound. Her nerves will heal themselves. For a little extra help, we’ll have Allie go to physical therapy. Most people recover completely. Let's be faithful and optimistic that she'll have a similar recovery." Then he backed toward the door awkwardly. "I'm sorry to cut our visit short. Our hospital is more than full. And seventy percent of our patients are Guillain-Barre syndrome victims. So, I must go."
• • •
"I'm cold," Z said to his nurse. "Am I dying?"
"No, Z," she responded. "We think the miltefosine is starting to work on the amoeba infection in your brain. You're fighting a good fight. To help all your organs rally, we're taking you to the intensive care unit. Your lungs need some help, so we'll put you in a medically induced coma and put you on a ventilator."
"Why are you doing this?" he asked. He was only half with it.
"You know, we're just going to put you to sleep so we can keep you breathing well. Drs. Stoker and Rivera have the latest updates on your condition, and your medicine seems to be working. But, we must let your brain rest a bit," She gently placed her hand on his forearm. "Do you understand this?"
Z nodded his head. He closed his eyes and appeared more content.
• • •
It was Stoker's idea. He wanted to watch Nikolas reunite with his family to see if he could observe negative tell signs—abnormalities in their interactions—within his family. And, Stoker insisted Nikolas’s family be kept in the dark about all the treacheries he had carried out. So, the FBI removed his prison garb, and they put on some clothing retrieved from Nikolas's closet at home. Then they arranged for the reuniting in a conference room at the FBI field office in Chicago.
Stoker, Rivera, and Ahmadi brought the family into the conference room first and invited them to sit down. The plan was for Stoker to act as an observer. Ahmadi led the conversation. "Your dad's on his way up in the elevator," she told the family.
As Nikolas exited the elevator in handcuffs and leg irons, six guards and two FBI agents accompanied him. Two other guards were brandishing twelve-gauge shotguns. They proceeded for a few feet before they stopped. "Okay Nikolas," said one of the agents. "We're going to remove your handcuffs and leg irons. But, we want you to know these guards are ready to maim or kill you if you do anything stupid. You got that?"
"Yes. I understand," Nikolas replied. Then they walked down the hallway to the conference room.
As Nikolas entered, he smiled and held out his arms. "My dear family. It is so good to see you." He walked toward them gesturing for them to stand and embrace him.
The kids hesitated, glancing at their mom briefly. When Mrs. Antoniou gave a barely perceptible head nod, they stood up. They did not move toward their father. Instead, they waited for his steps to close the gap between them. As he embraced them heartily, they returned reluctant hugs. As Nikolas tried to hold them a little longer, the kids pulled away from his embrace. Stoker noticed every move, every reaction, and every nuance in their behavior.
Then Nikolas turned to face his wife. "Hello, my love," he said as he leaned into her and embraced her. "It's so good to see you back here, safe and sound, in America." Then he kissed her right on the mouth—a brief but accentuated kiss.
"Hello Nikolas," she said. "It’s good to be back."
Stoker was not surprised to see how Nikolas could successfully feign affection for his children. After all, it was expedient for the moment. But Stoker suspected this psychopathic father felt very little genuine emotion for his wife and children. Stoker actually felt bad for Nikolas. A genetic shortfall had combined with adverse childhood experiences to deprive him of the ability to form relationships or feel true joy and satisfaction in life. Instead, he could only experience lust, hatred, and the compulsion to dominate and win. His only functioning emotional capabilities were almost like a lizard brain. The quest to yield power over people was Nikolas's core motivation in life. And it was no fault of his own. Yet, Nikolas was accountable and responsible for his small misdeeds as well as his gigantic murderous scheme.
After the initial hugs and greetings, everyone sat down in chairs around the conference table, except for the two FBI agents. They remained standing by the door. Mrs. Antoniou noticed their sentry-like body language, and she turned to her husband. "Nikolas, who are these men?"
"They're my bodyguards," her husband lied. Stoker was not surprised how quickly Nikolas could manipulate situations for his benefit. "When you were kidnapped, my security people at the hotel insisted I surround myself with increased protection."
CHAPTER 27
Chicago, Illinois
The two FBI agents exchanged brief smiles. Ahmadi had instructed her men to allow certain lies to let him save face with his family. They had to keep Mrs. Antoniou and the children in the dark about Nikolas and his horrific crimes. The truth about their husband and father would sting soon enough.
Stoker was also watching the family, noticing the subtle interactions. Little things bothered him. So far, he was convinced Mrs. Antoniou and her children were just innocent, kind, and decent people. The family was clueless about the evil that lurked inside Nikolas. They had no idea his hotel and other businesses were near-silent mavens of terrorism and villainy.
Agent Ahmadi spoke. She directed her question to Mrs. Antoniou. "Will you please tell us what you remember about the afternoon you and your children were separated from your husband? What happened when you were kidnapped?"
"It was a whirlwind tour of Eastern Europe and the Middle East. We landed in Istanbul, Turkey and Nikolas led us on a two-day tour of amazing historical sites. Then we flew to Tehran to learn about the history of the Persi
an Empire and cap off the trip with two days of skiing at Dizin ski resort."
Stoker interrupted and asked the kids a question. "How was the skiing, guys?" Their faces lit up, and they both gave short enthusiastic answers. Stoker found this interesting. Until now all the kids had been more inhibited and quieter than he would expect, considering they were just reunited with their dad.
Stoker’s subtle nod suggested she continue with her questioning. "Let's talk about what happened as you were returning from the ski resort to Tehran. You had a van transporting you and your luggage, correct?"
"Yes," continued Mrs. Antoniou. "We were just leaving the ski resort when a Mercedes SUV ran us off the road. The next thing we knew, three men were pointing guns at our car. They tore Nikolas out of the car, struck him a few times, and rushed him away. Then they ordered the children and me out of the car and into the SUV. They took us at gunpoint to a helicopter, tied up our hands and feet, and flew us to Saudi Arabia. They held us captive there until you rescued us a few days ago."
"While you were in captivity, I bet you had time to think. Did you remember anything important while you were in Saudi Arabia?"
"One thing jumped out at me when I woke up one morning," Mrs. Antoniou said. "There were two times in Iran when Nikolas seemed to understand Farsi. He may not have realized it, but he followed a ski resort employee’s instruction spoken in Farsi. Another time, he nodded his head at our driver after he spoke in Farsi. I didn't realize it at the moment. But, when you're locked away, imprisoned, you start to recall a lot of details."
"Kids, do you have anything to add?" Ahmadi asked. Both kids shook their heads. They let their eyes travel around the room, but neither of them looked at their father. "You guys were so much more talkative yesterday," Ahmadi said. "Why so quiet today?"
After an uncomfortable pause, the oldest daughter spoke up. "I guess we told you everything, already."
Stoker asked, "How did you feel about this?"
They all shook their heads and said, "We don't know."
"What do you mean by that?"
"We have no idea why we were in captivity. We also wondered why our father could visit us? It seemed odd he could come and go, but we could not."
Stoker noticed the non-congruency of the family's statements and body language. The bonding with Nikolas was questionable in Stoker's mind. And, he made a mental note of this. "Thank you. I'll be talking with each of you again later."
Stoker, Rivera, and Ahmadi stepped out of the room and into the hallway. "What's your assessment, amigo?" Rivera asked Stoker.
"Let's just quickly look at this whole story. Nikolas came to the United States years ago. He marries an American wife. I believe there are questionable circumstances around the kidnapping of his family. It's awfully bizarre he could visit them while they were in captivity. Without giving you all the psychiatric terms, the father-child interactions are totally dysfunctional. I don't see or feel any bonding between them. I mean, look. There's no perceived grief, on Nikolas’s part, about the son being killed. And, the circumstances around the son's death are not making sense in my brain."
"This all feels strange," Ahmadi said. "Has this all been planned? Did he contrive this storyline? I don't understand this, because he seems to change his emotions when he's with his family."
"Exactly," Stoker said. "His thoughts are not congruent with the portrayal of his emotions when he’s with his family. And, he manipulates his emotions to change with each situation. It just means we cannot trust anything this SOB, Nikolas, says."
Rivera responded. "Let's face it. He's a psychopathic chess player! Let's keep this hot mess walkin' so we can see what he's really plottin'."
• • •
The cruise ship Tropical Solace made its final departure from Fort Lauderdale, Florida. But there were only a few passengers aboard—and this little band of passengers didn’t consist of tourists. They only posed as such. During shore excursions, they had easy characters to portray. They were to act like tourists, eating, dancing, and taking in the sights. But back on the boat, they would be working.
For almost thirty years, this cruise ship had hosted hundreds of thousands of guests on their pleasure excursions in the Caribbean and Mexico. But now, she had reached the end of her serviceable life. Metal fatigue was haunting the great beams, decking, strakes, girders, and brackets of Tropical Solace. After this cruise, she would be on her way to a ship-breaking yard in Bangladesh, where she would be disassembled and her steel recycled.
As the vessel made its way to the first port of call in Mexico, this small group of passengers was much more subdued. No alcohol was served. The twenty people on board were all members of Hezbollah or the Iranian military. They had boarded using fake passports. When Tropical Solace docked in Cozumel, twenty people got off for a day of tourist fun. But that night, ten additional passengers—this time Yemenis—boarded the ship. These technicians possessed a specialized and deadly skill set. They would follow any orders their engineers and senior officers issued. But, they were still in the dark about their mission and how they would use their abilities, to a horrific end, over the next few days.
When any ship approaches Belize, it nears the second largest barrier reef in the world, the Belize Barrier Reef. Cruise ships can be harmful to this natural wonder. The reef has the potential to do crippling damage to cruise ships as well. Instead of coming into a port and tying up to a dock, cruise ships visiting Belize set anchor a few miles out to sea. Then smaller, more ecological friendly boats, or tenders, come and pick up groups of passengers and ferry them into port. When Tropical Solace set anchor in Belize, only twenty people boarded a single tender. Leaving Tropical Solace offshore, created the ideal environment for sneaking atrocious cargo aboard.
• • •
The news stories were getting more frantic. Hospitals were beyond capacity. Doctors, nurses, respiratory therapists, and other medical personnel were run ragged by the long hours and continuously urgent pace.
Members of the general public who did not understand the diseases started to over-react. Across the country, there was a run on home improvement stores to buy plastic. Some people assumed the pathogens where highly communicable, and they sealed off their homes refusing to go outside. Others naively purchased and wore surgical masks as they commuted, shopped, or circulated outside of their homes—for two illnesses that were virtually noncommunicable by breathing, coughing, or sneezing.
The society crippling problem with these illnesses was their duration. With even a minority of the population contracting one of the diseases, the hospital stays of thirty to sixty days filled up all hospital beds for long stays. Millions of people needed to get into the hospitals. However, very few were in any condition to leave.
Then there were the financial waves. These were not shockwaves. They were more like a series of tsunamis. Families scrambled to come up with deductibles and copays. Hospitals were submitting large claims to health insurance companies. Health insurance companies were drawing on their reserves. Many health plans filed claims with their reinsurance companies, the companies that insured the health insurers. These losses sent negative financial ripples throughout the world. Much of the reinsurance money came from Europe and Japan. The world was shocked to learn that Indian financiers were heavy investors in American reinsurance companies. A probable worldwide recession appeared suddenly on the near horizon. The major stock indices continued their long, protracted ramble downward. Precious metals skyrocketed.
• • •
He opened the door without knocking. Bo Jansen, whose aviator call sign was Bojangles, dropped his duffle bag on the ground before him. "Colonel Jansen reporting for duty." He had thick, black hair, which he wore a little long for someone with his military rank.
"Get your butt in here, Bojangles," Rivera said.
"I've taken countless orders from thousands of officers," Bojangles responded. He stood about six feet two inches tall and well-muscled for his age of fifty-five. "But, you
are not going to dictate where I put my butt."
"Fine with me," Rivera taunted. "Stay out. I'll email you a sitrep and your orders."
Bojangles remained standing in the doorway. "I was enjoying a perfect summer in Boston, training for marathons, flying F-22s, and pounding out some really cool genetics research way above your pay grade. Now you've messed everything up."
"Don't blame me," Rivera said. "Blame an amoeba."
"Balamuthia mandrillaris," Bojangles responded as he stood unusually straight from his normal relaxed position. Then his face became somewhat intense. "Balamuthia mandrillaris. Found in freshwater and soil. Most of the time it causes a form of encephalitis that is amebic and granulomatous in nature. It's rare and has a very high morbidity rate, north of 90 percent. I recall case studies of two survivors, a four-year-old and a 64-year-old, who survived with a regimen of some pretty heavy-duty antibiotics, antimicrobials, and antifungals. The key to beating this pathogen is making a quick diagnosis and rapid treatment."
"You've become even more of a pain in the butt since you earned a Ph.D., Doctor Bojangles," Rivera said.
"What's going on?" Bojangles asked Rivera. "Why did you call in a genetics and stem cell specialist to deal with an amoeba?"
"It's your totally awesome IT skills we need," Rivera quipped.
"And, it helps that you know the world of biology so well. Because we've detected some scary stuff going on out there in the world of biowarfare," Stoker interjected.
Rivera stood and gestured toward Stoker. Let me introduce each of you. "Dr. Troy Stoker this is Bo 'Bojangles' Jansen. He's an F-22 pilot and geneticist. But, his ongoing hobby is information technology."
"Nice to meet you in person," Stoker said as he extended a handshake. "I'm Troy Stoker."
"Indeed, you are," Bojangles answered awkwardly. "According to the brief I read, you're the psychiatrist who infiltrated the governor's cabinet in South Dakota and broke up a huge meth ring."
Silent Strike Page 30
