Nikolas was wild-eyed and terrified. "We genetically engineered a new strain." With Stoker's weight on his chest, he struggled to speak. "We increased the number of antigens likely to trigger Guillain-Barre syndrome. Through trials, we found out our bacteria increases the virulence of Guillain-Barre a hundredfold. With this strain, many more develop the Guillain-Barre syndrome."
"Yes, the trials in Mexico?"
Nikolas looked confused as he wondered why Stoker would ask an obvious question. After a few quick, panic-filled breaths he croaked out, "Yes. I thought that was a foregone conclusion."
"I was here, in Chihuahua. You certainly remember, yet again, a bunch of your men being shot up in the desert outside of town?"
Nikolas nodded his head rapidly.
"Just take a moment to reflect on how your wannabe terrorists were killed by a grenade."
Nikolas was speechless. The fear that he was pinned by a man with the skill set, track record, and justification to kill further gripped him with horror.
Stoker continued. "Let’s reflect again on the plight of some of your lackeys. Your biologists cum terrorists training in the Mexican desert? The lab technician at Hospital de Los Santos? Your guys in La Sotolería? And, your guys who lost their trucks to grenades on a dirt road northeast of Chihuahua?" Now Nikolas's body was trembling uncontrollably. But, Stoker didn't care as he roared, "Yes! That was me! And now, here you are, attacking the United States of America." Stoker looked at Ahmadi as if to suggest she ask the next question. But, he remained on top of Nikolas pinning him to the concrete floor.
"The Campylobacter," she said. "Are there any more targets in the U.S.?"
Nikolas was now in the throes of a full-blown panic attack. He could not control his frantic erratic breathing. But, he managed to push out raspy, whispered responses between short, poorly controlled breaths. “You’ve shut down my hundred plus people working in hotels and convention centers. Our attacks on NASCAR and NCAA football games are quashed. As are the sandwich shops, my hotel, and the mist machines. The empire I built over more than a decade, you dismantled in days. There are no more targets."
Rivera picked up his phone and called Bojangles as he stepped out of the interrogation room. Bojangles answered from the FBI field office in Chicago. Ahmadi followed Rivera, listening as he gave Bojangles the thirty-second summary of all they had learned from Nikolas, so far. "I need you and your hackers to follow the money," Rivera said.
"Yes, sir," said Bojangles. "We'll figure out as many transactions and trails as we can."
When the phone call ended, Ahmadi asked Rivera, "What's Mr. Bojangles doing?"
Rivera gave her an unexpected answer, "Hush my little. Watch the master."
They stepped back into the interrogation room, where Stoker no longer had Nikolas pinned. He had him sitting on a Spartan four-legged metal chair.
"What else?" Stoker asked Nikolas.
"That's all!" responded Nikolas.
"You mean that's all for the biological attacks. What about other attacks?"
"There are no other attacks."
Stoker frowned. "That's not true," he said in a quiet voice, almost a whisper. "Your government probably chose you for a few reasons. I'm sure they've praised you for your aptitude. You have a face that can pass for Greek. But, there's something else your government recognized—that I recognize. And, they would've withheld this information from you, for a good reason. You're a psychopath."
Rivera chimed in. "Oh, you're cool under pressure. You planned out every exact detail of this broad-reaching attack. You've rehearsed these answers a dozen times so you can keep us from finding out about the other attacks."
Stoker retook the lead by saying, "How do you treat people around you? When we went to rescue Rivera on your sailboat, you told us we were there to kill two men. There was no remorse in your voice. I suspect you had your son killed in Saudi Arabia, for most likely two reasons. Number one, to help foster more trust in us. And, number two, he might have known too much since he was your oldest son. He was working in the business, and he may have told us things you didn't want us to know. You married an American woman years ago in preparation for these attacks. I would say that qualifies as a bit unhealthy. Wouldn't you Dr. Rivera?"
"Perhaps, just a bit," Rivera answered sarcastically.
Nikolas stared blankly. Stoker got up in his face and grabbed his chin. Nikolas winced. "Ouch!"
"You know. We reserve some very appropriate colorful medical terminology for special people like you. You're a full-fledged psychopath. You know it. I know it. But, not everybody knows it. So now that I've made myself clear, it's countdown to check and mate."
"And, why does all of this matter?" Ahmadi asked and continued. "Because it comes down to deception. You've shared a lot of truth with us tonight. But, as a certified psychopath, you're using select truths as a smokescreen to hide other facts."
Stoker leaned in toward Nikolas, faced him with only four inches of distance between their noses, and looked the terrorist straight in the eye. Nikolas looked away, his eye movements glancing around the walls of the room. Stoker spoke. "You know, you really like to do things from afar," Stoker accused, "and watch people squirm. That's really what you like, isn't it? But, now, I'm in your face and in your brain. You're the one doing the squirming. But now, I'm the puppeteer, and you're the marionette. It's time for you to dance." Stoker poked him hard in the chest. "Hey! Am I getting you into that discomfort zone yet?"
Stoker grabbed Nikolas's chin. "Hey Nikolas," Stoker wrenched his chin to force Nikolas to look at him. "If you look away from me one more time, I'm going to start pulling your wings off—like you used to do to flies when you were a kid, as a young budding psychopath."
It was true. Nikolas had pulled wings off flies and tortured random dogs roving the neighborhood. When it was time to kill one of his sisters' chickens, he was more than up to the task. He had used fists, wits, threats, and blackmail to dominate his schoolmates.
"You see?" Stoker said. "I've got it. I've got you nailed. You like the control. You don't like being controlled like this—especially from someone four inches from your face."
It was true. Nikolas would've preferred physical pain to this emotional pain. Stoker had perfectly pushed all Nikolas's right buttons.
"You're hiding other information from us," Ahmadi said.
"There is something else," added Stoker. "What facts are you hiding in that twisted brain of yours?" Stoker was beating Nikolas at his own game. The psychiatrist knew Nikolas could neither feel psychological pain nor experience joy. "We want to know, what's driving you?"
"There’s nothing else."
Stoker rapped his knuckles hard on Nikolas's forehead. "Knock knock."
Nikolas’s face registered both surprise and pain. But, his tone of voice vacillated between victimhood and hostility. “What's that for?"
"Oops, it looks like nothing else is there. I'm just verifying it. If there's nothing else there, I'm just verifying the void."
Stoker thought, That'll rattle him off balance a little bit.
"I have no other tricks up my sleeve," Nikolas said. "Now please," he pleaded," go and use this information to save lives and reduce misery."
"The FBI and the medical community are already doing that," Ahmadi answered. "We need you to tell us the rest of your plot." Then she had a brilliant idea—an angle only an Iranian mind could think of. "Who's your bonyad director?"
Nikolas frowned as he froze. "This is where my transparency ends. If I told you about him, I would be dead within a week. My family would be, too."
"No, no, no," Ahmadi replied. "This is where your transparency really begins."
"I second the motion," Rivera said.
"Done!" Stoker said. "The motion's carried."
"Your bonyad must've been a very helpful source of funding." Ahmadi turned to Stoker. "A bonyad is a type of charitable or not-for-profit organization in Iran. Some of the bonyads deviate from their noble intent. They sta
rt to champion causes and get into funding activities such as global terrorism, establishing a caliphate, and imposing Sharia Law on the rest of the world."
Stoker understood immediately. "If we knew who your bonyad director was, the United States intelligence community could target him. We could tie his activities to these two biological warfare attacks—as well as the other attacks you've been shrouding in your psychotic form of transparency and honesty. We just need to follow the money."
Nikolas sat with a stoic look on his face and said nothing.
"Who says you'll be dead in a week?" Stoker jumped up, grabbed Nikolas by the collar and picked him up like a rag doll, spun him around and slammed him into the wall. With one fluid motion, Stoker grabbed his right forearm and pulled it around Nikolas's back. The pop of Nikolas's shoulder dislocating echoed through the interrogation room, followed by his blood-curdling scream.
"Alireza Pour-Mohammadi!"
"What was that?" Stoker said as he kept him against the wall.
"He's a demon! Alireza Pour-Mohammadi."
Stoker looked back at Rivera. "Hey amigo, check out that name with Bojangles. Ask him to get us a profile. Tell him to get us as much financial data as he can dig up."
"That’s right. When we follow the money we learn," Rivera said as he texted Bojangles.
Find all you can on bonyad director Alireza Pour-Mohammadi in Tehran, especially his money trail. Do your magic.
Stoker turned back to Nikolas, who writhed in pain as he still had his face and body pinned against the wall. "You’d better be right about this."
After two minutes, Rivera's phone vibrated. He read the text from Bojangles and reported to the group. "Nikolas's info about his bonyad director checks out with Bojangles—so far. He's got a good start on a money trail, which includes a couple of decades of bank accounts and business transactions."
"That damn Bojangles, always gets the details right," Stoker said. "How does he do it?"
Then, with his muscular right arm and hand, he pulled Nikolas back toward him. He manipulated Nikolas's arm forward, placing his hand over his heart, and thrust his arm upward, forcing Nikolas's humerus bone back into his shoulder socket, reversing the dislocation. Nikolas's face concocted to a grimace and he let out a short scream.
"What's the rest of the story?" Stoker demanded again. "The part you're omitting?"
Nikolas's mind went wild. He'd already felt unbearable pain. And he could only imagine what else this Stoker would use, in this safe house in Mexico, to traumatize him into submission. But, he had trained for this moment.
In his youth, the Iranian intelligence machine had identified him. They had been screening promising students, and Nikolas profiled as a dyed-in-the-wool brazen psychopath. He was incapable of feeling sadness. And he felt no joy. His dominant emotion was a driving lust to dominate and control people. Even as a child, he had a knack for manipulating people. And the Iranian intelligence recruiters noticed how Nikolas flourished. He had an instinct and propensity toward verbal harshness, exploitation, and deception. But, they young psychopath wasn't the typical bully, who would back down from a confrontation. When provoked, he sometimes sidestepped the challenge. But, most of the time Nikolas fought with uncanny skill and instincts. His fists of fury were just a tool in his grander manipulative scheme. He would not be controlled—and never defeated.
Yet, Nikolas could feel physical pain. And, at this moment he was beyond the brink—the moment of his most profound physical pain. Now it was time for the lies. He had dozens of premeditated falsities he was ready to spew. The first lie to leave his mouth was a new story he had concocted when he first learned about this Dr. Stoker and his South Dakota roots.
"Do you remember the Hutterite chicken farms in your home state of South Dakota?
"The ones who lost their flocks to the avian flu?"
"Yes. That was not a phenomenon of nature. It was my man-made epidemic. That was our first trial run," Nikolas lied. Stoker knew it was a lie. The South Dakota Department of Health verified the source. "The avian version. It's a little like the trial run you stumbled into in Chihuahua."
"Are you saying you're going to unleash bird flu on the United States?"
"No, I'm saying I already have. Just days after we released the Balamuthia amoeba at Burning Man." Nikolas was lying about the avian flu, hoping to throw them off the trail of the truth. "Now that we introduced our Campylobacter jejuni and Balamuthia mandrillaris into the United States, we've turned our attention to Midwestern chicken farms. We're infecting chicken farms and wild bird populations through their water sources. Just wait. The headlines about Avian flu are only about a week away."
"They've kept me in the dark about anything else. All I know is it has something to do with a shipping container."
It was a weak deception, and Stoker frowned.
"How do they plan to use this shipping container?"
Nikolas channeled his torment and used the pain to contort his emotions to a pitiful and tearful state. "It will be some kind of biological attack. I don't know details," he said as he willed himself to break down emotionally. Between sobs, he continued his lie. "I don't know anything else. I don't even know which biological weapon they are planning to deploy."
"Let's confer in private," Stoker said to Ahmadi and Rivera, as he motioned toward the door.
Stoker, Rivera, and Ahmadi left the interrogation room.
Stoker looked at Ahmadi. "Another biological attack?"
"Using a shipping container?" Ahmadi said. "That could be land or sea-based?"
"Let's not get too focused on the shipping container. The shipping container is a lie. But, it's pointing to an element of truth. The truth being two things. One, he's lying about this. And, two, there is going to be another attack."
"He's definitely lying. But, how do you know he's lying?" Rivera asked.
"Listen Rivera. I know. We're being hustled about the shipping container. I'm from South Dakota, and I'm in constant contact with the Department of Health. This story about the chickens and avian flu is full of holes. I don't even want to go there. It's bullshit." Stoker furrowed his brow and held up his hand. "But when he spilled the beans on Alireza Pour-Mohammadi, his bonyad director, that was the truth."
• • •
Within an hour Bojangles uncovered an obscure bank account and a transaction for $49,000,000. "I found a wire to a boat broker in Indonesia,” he said. “But, from there the trail goes cold. The broker's not answering my good old-fashioned phone call. But, we have a CIA operative in Indonesia about to pay the broker a visit."
"Good work Bojangles," Stoker said. "We need your help finding that boat. Get your butt in your F-22 and fly to Pensacola Naval Air Station. Use their fancy computers there to find a $49 million boat coming toward the United States. I want you to move as fast as you've ever moved before. I mean, pretend it's a footrace, and you're ditching me in the streets of Chicago."
"Roger that," Bojangles said. "I'm already running toward my plane. But, I'm a little surprised you're making suggestions—before I think them in my own mind."
"I'll get the president and joint chiefs on the phone," Stoker said. "We need to bring them up to speed, and they'll make sure you get priority in the skies."
Bojangles was gone, so Stoker called the direct number the president had given him. After a quick sitrep from Stoker and Rivera, the president issued orders to tighten up security and vigilance along the Eastern Seaboard and the Gulf of Mexico. And the president made sure Bojangles was welcomed with all access to Pensacola Naval Air Station.
"You know," Stoker said, "I'm going with my gut. You're going with your brain. I think we're both right. If we're going to find out the truth from Nikolas, we'd better—"
Rivera interrupted him. "Get him into an fMRI machine with Dr. Bocelli."
"Exactly," Stoker said. "Let's do it."
CHAPTER 29
Belizean Coast
Tropical Solace sat securely anchored off the coast of Be
lize. With the false passengers safely shuttled on a tender to Belize City for a day of supposed eating, drinking, and entertainment. A flatboat that looked like a smaller version of a barge approached Tropical Solace and anchored aft of the boat's stern. Crew members from Tropical Solace extended cables from the aft Lido Deck seven levels above. The crew of the small barge sent three disproportionately large anchors to the ocean floor before attaching a 270-foot long ramp to the cables and signaling for the men on the Tropical Solace Lido Deck to raise one end of the ramp to reach them seven decks above. Once the slope was set at approximately thirty degrees, a sixty-ton special transporter military vehicle pulled up to the front of the ramp. Its contents were enshrouded in military camouflage netting. The eight-axel Wanshan transporter fired up its engines and lumbered up the ramp to the Lido Deck.
Fifteen minutes later, the flatboat sailed away. The crew of Tropical Solace secured the transport vehicle and its payload to the deck with heavy chains. Then they covered the transporter and payload with the retractable rain cover roof. A plane or satellite observing from overhead would look down on Tropical Solace and see a normal looking cruise ship.
When the passengers returned from their day trip to Belize, Tropical Solace departed on a northward heading along its registered float plan. Twenty-five hours later, Tropical Solace approached the Gulf of Mexico.
• • •
Hospitals were so overwhelmed and ventilators so scarce that family members and friends of newly diagnosed Guillain-Barre syndrome victims were now using Ambu bags to hand-ventilate patients. Keeping someone breathing twenty-four hours per day was a lot of work. After a few minutes of squeezing an Ambu bag, most people's forearms started to burn. Friends and family teams were taking shifts. Four to six people would rotate, usually every fifteen minutes. Forearm muscles became fatigued in a short period of time. President Riddell mobilized military reservists and National Guard units to provide shifts of Ambu bagging. For a month, major league baseball, NFL, and, NBA practices and games were canceled. Teams went to hospitals to take shifts and help people breathe. The viral news clip of the week was an interview of last year's NFL MVP. "How did it go?" a news reporter asked the athlete as he walked out of the hospital late one night.
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