The God Gene: A Novel

by F. Paul Wilson

  3

  MAXIXE, MOZAMBIQUE

  A dangerous fellow, this buyer-man.

  Mahdi Mahdi knew little about him beyond his first name—Marten—and a guess that he was South African. But Mahdi had sensed the danger the instant he laid eyes on him. Dangerous … not desperate-dangerous like the badaadinta badah he worked with far up the coast in Somalia. This bearded bald man was crazy-dangerous.

  But then again, he shouldn’t be surprised. Who but a crazy and dangerous man would want to buy what Mahdi was selling?

  Mahdi’s father had started out a poor fisherman on the Galmudug coast who came to earn a much better living after he joined the local band of badaadinta badah. Mahdi grew up among the pirates, but his father made him go to school and would beat him if he neglected his lessons. So Mahdi learned many things. One was a smattering of English. Which was why he had wound up here with this crazy-dangerous Afrikaner.

  Mahdi was not a violent man but he had come prepared with a five-shot .32-caliber revolver—not a terribly deadly weapon, but effective at close range. He’d never had a chance to reach for it, however. As soon as he’d entered this cinder-block box of a house on the western edge of Maxixe, the crazy-dangerous Afrikaner drew a much bigger pistol and shoved it in his face.

  “Empty your pockets onto the table,” he’d said in a voice Mahdi recognized from their numerous phone conversations over the past few days.

  With shaking hands he complied, producing his revolver and knife along with his phone, money clip, and the keys to his rented truck.

  “You weren’t planning on using that, were you?” the buyer-man said, gesturing to the revolver.

  He spoke too rapidly for Mahdi. “From our phone calls you know my English is poor. Please say again.”

  The buyer-man repeated, slowly this time.

  Mahdi shook his head. “Only defense. I did not sail all this way to shoot you.”

  “Sail?”

  “In my dhow.”

  “Why didn’t you drive?”

  “Too many borders.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course. Considering your cargo, that was a wise choice.” He pushed the keys back, adding, “You’ll get the rest on your way out.”

  The Afrikaner shoved his own pistol into his belt and stared at Mahdi.

  “What?” Mahdi said, feeling uncomfortable.

  “I believed I was dealing with Somali pirates. You don’t look like a pirate to me.”

  “We are not pirates. We are coast guard. Badaadinta badah means ‘savior of the seas.’”

  “Spare me your euphemisms.”

  Mahdi did not know this word but let it go. The Afrikaner’s dismissive tone exposed his contempt. A white man who thought he was better than the black man. He’d encountered such before.

  But he was right in a way. Mahdi was not a true badaadinta badah. He belonged to the local group but had never boarded a freighter. He left that to the whooping warrior types with their Kalashnikovs and their speedy little skiffs. His work began when they returned with their loot and their ransom money. He sold or traded off the former and hid the latter.

  Some of that loot sat in the truck outside. He’d never thought he’d be able to dispose of it, but then weeks ago whispers began filtering up the coast of a man who might want to buy “pesticides” in bulk. Normally Mahdi would have ignored them, but the whispers mentioned a preference for a product of “Syrian origin.”

  Mahdi knew exactly what the man was looking for, and could supply it.

  During the revolt, under pressure from the UN, the Assad government started reducing its stockpile of chemical weapons. They kept their stock of chlorine, not banned in itself except when used as a weapon, but shipped off their organophosphates for storage in ally states.

  Some of Assad’s supply had wound up as loot in the hands of Mahdi’s band of badaadinta badah. It seemed a good idea at first, but everyone became afraid of it. And if the Al-Shabaab madmen roaming the Somali countryside ever got their hands on that poison, only Allah knew what horrors might follow.

  Mahdi and his fellows had buried the canisters and tried to forget about them.

  But Mahdi remembered where and made contact with this stranger. They’d settled on a price—a remarkable five thousand U.S. each for two canisters. The buyer would call back with a delivery date. All good. Not only would the canisters go far away from Somalia and Al-Shabaab, but Mahdi would make a handsome profit along the way.

  Then, four days ago, a call from the buyer with a time and place for delivery. Mahdi had set sail immediately. And here they were …

  “Well, let’s see what you brought me,” the Afrikaner said.

  He led the way outside to where Mahdi had parked his rented 1994 Toyota pickup next to the buyer-man’s newer but equally dirty SUV. The squat house stood on an overgrown wooded lot surrounded by stinkwood and bushy ironwood trees. A hundred feet away, a dirt road ran by the far end of the unkempt driveway.

  Mahdi untied and lifted the blue tarp that covered the bed, revealing two aluminum canisters painted dark green. Each had two sealed ports on the top end.

  “They look like beer kegs,” the buyer-man said. “How do I know they’re not filled with Heineken?”

  Mahdi had never seen a beer keg. He was a Muslim, yes, though not devout. Still he did not drink alcohol.

  “They are not beer. They each contain one hundred liters of very strong VX.”

  “So you say. But you’re charging me ten thousand dollars U.S. for fifty-some gallons of liquid, and I have only your word that it’s VX.” He gestured to the canisters. “Where are the biohazard symbols?”

  “I painted over them—in case I was stopped.”

  The buyer-man nodded as if this made sense.

  Mahdi was looking at the canisters as he spoke and noticed that some of the paint had scraped off right over a yellow biohazard icon. He pointed to the scratch.

  “Look. You can see there. Just a bit of the symbol.”

  “Maybe so. But it still doesn’t mean there’s VX inside. I’m going to need proof.”

  Mahdi’s gut clenched. Proof? He didn’t like the sound of that.

  “How do I prove it?”

  The buyer-man’s smile held no humor. “You do not prove anything. I prove it to myself. Oh, and by the way—where is the rest of my purchase?”

  Mahdi pointed to the Toyota’s cab. “Hidden under the front seat.”

  “Good. We’ll get to that later. Wait here.”

  He stepped back through his front door. Mahdi guessed it was a rental house—perhaps rented just for this meeting. Even the poorest hut in his home village showed more personalization than this place. The buyer-man reappeared clutching a flimsy plastic shopping bag. He walked around to the side of the house and returned almost immediately with a cage. A large brown rat circled within.

  “Maputo is a wonderful city,” he said. “You can buy almost anything in its back-alley bazaars.” He gestured to one of the canisters. “Open it.”

  Mahdi backed away. “No! I will die!”

  “All right then, just loosen it. I’ll do the rest.”

  “No … I…”

  The big gun reappeared in the Afrikaner’s hand. “If you don’t open it, I can’t test it. And if I can’t test it, I’ll have to assume it’s not VX, which means you’re trying to cheat me. No one gets too curious about a gunshot in this neighborhood.”

  Not seeing any alternative, Mahdi broke out in a sweat as he stepped toward the truck. He reached over the tailgate and placed both hands around one of the large, boltlike plugs screwed into the top of the nearest canister. His moist palms slipped a few times before they finally caught and he felt the bolt give a little turn. He turned it again, then backed away.

  “It is loose.”

  Wearing bright yellow dishwashing gloves which he must have pulled on while Mahdi was working the bolt, the Afrikaner unscrewed it the rest of the way and dropped it on top of the canister. Then he pulled an odd plastic tube from the
shopping bag.

  “Never seen one of these before, I bet,” he said, holding it up.

  A rubber bulb was attached to one end of a ten-inch plastic tube that tapered almost to a point at the other.

  “No, I—”

  “It’s a turkey baster. Do you have turkeys in Somalia?”

  Mahdi didn’t know this word “turkey” so he shook his head.

  The Afrikaner dipped the end of the turkey baster into the canister and suctioned up enough VX to fill half the tube. It looked like water. Mahdi prayed it was the real thing, that he hadn’t been duped.

  The buyer-man pulled a clear plastic bottle from the bag. He transferred the VX to the bottle then firmly fastened a spray attachment to the top. He tossed the baster aside and adjusted the nozzle to a thin stream.

  “There,” he said, holding up the bottle. “A history lesson for you: Organophosphates were originally developed as pesticides, but reclassified as weapons of mass destruction once they proved as deadly to mammals as insects. The most toxic nerve agent ever synthesized, and it’s odorless, colorless, tasteless.” He smiled. “Do you know what ‘LD-fifty’ means?”

  Mahdi shook his head, his mouth so dry he could not speak. Finally, he managed a “no.”

  “It’s a scientific term. ‘LD’ stands for ‘lethal dose.’ A chemical’s LD-fifty is the dose at which fifty percent of the test subjects die. Can you guess the LD-fifty of VX for human beings?”

  Mahdi shook his head.

  “Don’t even want to try?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Ten milligrams.” He hefted the spray bottle. “Spray just ten milligrams of this innocent looking stuff on a hundred humans and fifty of them will die.”

  Without warning, he directed a stream through the wire mesh at the rat, pumping the handle three times, soaking the fur on its left flank.

  “There. That was more than enough to kill a human. The rat doesn’t have a chance … if this is VX.” With his free hand he pulled out his pistol again and stepped back. “So … either the rat dies or you do.”

  Knowing his lifespan depended on what happened next, Mahdi trembled as he watched the rat in horrid fascination.

  “H-how long will the VX take?”

  “Not long. It’s quickly absorbed through the skin. But I hate to call it VX.” He turned to the cage. “Dear rat, you’ve just been sprayed with O-ethyl S-two-diisopropylaminoethyl methylphosphonothioate. Isn’t that a beautiful name? Why settle for a colorless abbreviation like VX when the full name has so much more character?”

  Mahdi had no watch and wished he could check his phone to keep track of the passing time, but it sat on the table inside. He would leave it if he could and buy a new one in town. He wanted very much to be far, far away from this man.

  The rat began to twitch.

  “See? The acetylcholinesterase blockade is spreading, causing uncontrolled muscle contractions. After a series of normal contractions, the supercontractions start, effectively paralyzing the victim.”

  The rat’s breathing became rapid. Soon it was trembling all over.

  “Eventually the supercontractions hit the diaphragm, and when the diaphragm stops working…”

  Suddenly the rat went into a prolonged fit—Mahdi had seen an epileptic seizure once and this was much like that, only worse. It ended in the stillness of death.

  Mahdi let out a long, slow breath. The VX had worked … horribly. What an awful way to die, even for garbage-eating vermin.

  “Seems like you brought me the real deal,” the buyer-man said. “Lucky for you.”

  Mahdi asked the question he hadn’t dared ask himself. “What do you plan to do with two hundred liters of this?”

  “Do?” The Afrikaner gave him that long stare again. “I’m going to save the human race … save it from itself.”

  Mahdi had been right about crazy-dangerous. The words of a madman.

  “I do not understand.”

  “You wouldn’t. It’s complicated. As is our present situation.”

  Mahdi didn’t like the look in his eyes. “W-what do you mean?”

  “I mean, you know I have this weapon of mass destruction. At least that’s what the UN calls it. If you rat me out”—he nodded toward the still form in the cage—“and I use the term advisedly, I’ll spend the rest of my life rotting in a Mozambique prison.”

  Mahdi backed away. “I would not do this! I brought it here! I will rot right beside you!”

  “Good point. Still…” He raised the spray bottle.

  “No! Please!” His bladder threatened to empty. “My people! They know I am here! They will come for you!”

  Not true. His local badaadinta badah had no idea where he was, or why. They had abandoned the VX, so Mahdi had considered it his for the taking. This was a private side deal. But the threat seemed to make the Afrikaner think.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “You’re just as guilty as I. And I don’t want to have to go about my business constantly looking over my shoulder for pirates.”

  Mahdi’s knees bent but didn’t buckle. His bladder unclenched.

  “You are a cruel man.”

  The Afrikaner shrugged. “Not really. Just cautious. And to that end, I’m going to need a little insurance…” He pulled out his phone and motioned Mahdi over to the truck. “Lower the tailgate and stand there.”

  The Afrikaner stepped back and took his picture with the VX.

  “Good. Now load it into the back of my car.”

  The canisters were heavy but Mahdi managed to place both of them in the back of the SUV.

  “Give me my money,” he said, his voice shaking as he slammed the gate shut. “I want to leave.”

  “Our transaction isn’t quite complete. Bring the rest inside and we’ll settle up.”

  Mahdi grabbed the package from under the Toyota’s front seat and followed the Afrikaner into the house. The crazy man pulled a manila envelope from a drawer in the table.

  “It’s all here, but feel free to count it.”

  Mahdi wanted to do just that, but the urge to be away from this man was stronger. He pointed to the table.

  “Give me my things.”

  The Afrikaner took the small revolver, emptied the shells from the cylinder, then pushed it and the rest across the table.

  He smiled and said, “A pleasure doing business with you.”

  Mahdi hurried out and gunned the pickup down the driveway at reckless speed. He wanted to be far, far from this man as quickly as possible. Ten thousand U.S. for something he’d wanted to be rid of anyway had seemed like such a wonderfully profitable opportunity. Now he wished he’d never heard those “pesticide” whispers.

  The two hundred liters of VX were bad enough, but Mahdi had also sold him two bricks of C-4 and four detonator caps.

  What was this madman planning?

  SATURDAY

  May 21

  1

  THE MOZAMBIQUE CHANNEL

  Abilio Batalheiro steered his Hummingbird north along the Madagascar side of the channel. The twenty-year-old copter was cruising five hundred feet above the waves at a comfortable one hundred miles an hour. No need to climb higher over open water like this.

  Toliara lay behind to the south. And ahead … who knew?

  Abilio had learned to fly in Mozambique’s Air Defense Force, and after an honorable discharge in 2011, he had invested all his savings plus some borrowed cash in this used Hummingbird. Now he eked out a living making express deliveries and ferrying passengers—mostly government officials—up and down the central coast.

  Over the years he’d flown some strange charters, but this might be the strangest: the three passenger seats full—one with a human, the other two with heavy aluminum canisters—all headed nowhere.

  Well, not exactly nowhere. The passenger had given him GPS coordinates, saying they would find an island. But Abilio knew the names and locations of all the islands of the Mozambique Channel, and knew they’d find nothing there. G
ranted, he’d never flown this area of the channel, but why would he? Why would anyone? The Madagascar coast held little of interest along these latitudes. No one came here because it offered nothing but open water.

  His fare, a thin, gruff, bearded Afrikaner named Jeukens, had shown up late yesterday afternoon at Inhambane Airport looking to hire a helicopter he’d heard was available for charter. He’d arrived by taxi after ferrying across the baia from Maxixe in a single-sail dhow. With three kilometers or so by boat versus a roundabout sixty-kilometer car trip, most chose the water route. He wanted to be flown to an island at a specific set of coordinates. Abilio had assured him there was no island there but the man had insisted.

  No point in arguing. The man was paying cash, and an all-day charter like this was rare, so Abilio shrugged and took his money. You wish to charter a flight to nowhere? Bom. Abilio will take you.

  Jeukens had arrived on time at first light this morning, but not in a taxi. He’d driven the long way around with the two canisters in the back of his SUV. Abilio had asked him what was in them but he’d brushed him off, saying they were part of a scientific experiment that he wouldn’t understand. No matter. Cash was cash.

  Abilio helped him load them aboard and strap them into the rear seats. The Afrikaner sat in the front passenger seat with his backpack on his lap, his skinny arms tight around it as if loaded with gold.

  They’d taken to the air and flown directly into the sunrise, straight across the channel to Toliara on Madagascar’s west coast.

  Officially Abilio’s Vertical Hummingbird 260L had a range of 375 miles; by moderating his speed he could squeeze 400 out of the tank if need be. Toliara was a solid 500 miles from Inhambane Airport, however. No way could he make that with the Hummingbird’s standard equipment.

  But years ago he’d fitted his bird with a twenty-gallon auxiliary tank that extended his range an extra 130 or so miles. So, after topping off both tanks in Toliara, he and the Afrikaner had headed north.

  His passenger’s voice crackled in the little speakers of Abilio’s headset. “There it is. What did I tell you?”

  The unmuffled roar of the Hummingbird’s six-cylinder engine along with the chop of its whirling blades made normal speech impossible. Even shouting was only sporadically effective. Headsets connected through the dashboard were the only way to go.