Tom was about to give up when finally, after what seemed like an eternity a window opened and the already familiar list of files appeared. One by one, Tom clicked on them, each time waiting until the ancient device decided to display the plan text at crawling speed. After the third, it stopped and displayed an error message. Whatever was open, would likely be all he was going to get out of the machine. Tom began to read.
CHAPTER 12
◆◆◆
“BITE. Someone’s got a sense of humour.” Tom shook his head and retrieved the memory stick from the frozen computer.
There were more files, medical research notes, but he had seen enough. He turned off the monitor and sat in the dark, unsure what to think or feel. The question of what happened after the last transmission was a rhetorical one. He and his fellow survivors had seen, felt, and lived through it for several weeks, long and painfully enough to confirm the projections in the file were true.
Tom smirked. From Ebola Vaccine to Tantalus, as much as a certain sarcasm was undeniable, project BITE couldn’t have been named more appropriately. He gazed at the memory stick in the palm of his hand. He had always known the files would come in handy.
There was a reason Dr. Xiao had saved them on the drive the way he had back at the facility, probably just before he met his untimely demise. The DoD’s refusal to either comprehend or acknowledge the full extent of, let alone comply with the request in Dr. Xiao’s last message, had left him no choice but to preserve the evidence in the only way still available to him at the time.
Whatever would happen going forward, Tom knew he had to make sure the truth was not only preserved, but the doctor’s research handed over to the right people. What that meant in the context of the apparent free-for-all that had ensued in the wake of the virus’ spread, was another issue altogether. He pocketed the stick and closed the wardrobe. With both the proverbial smoking gun in his possession and Anna’s immunity bearing the key to a true vaccine, he would have to tread even more carefully than he already had.
CHAPTER 13
Half asleep, the operator tapped the red light on the wall near his head. Annoyed it was still blinking he sat up and keyed the PBX station next to the monitor on his desk. Cold air from an AC unit hit him with an icy blast. Shivering, he turned up his collar, wedged the receiver between cheek and shoulder, and fumbled with the remote. The CO’s voice crackled to life at the other end of the line.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” He had never been the warm kind, but now he sounded unusually cranky.
“I’ve got a new lock on the EUPHARM asset, Sir. You said to inform you immediately if transmission resumes.” Perhaps reminding the CO of his own instructions would help avoid one of his usual tirades whenever he was called after hours.
“What’s the location?” The Lieutenant’s strategy worked. The CO’s voice normalized.
“Hard to believe, Sir, but it’s Mombasa.” He had confirmed the coordinates twice and even triangulated the point of transmission on the enormous map mounted on the wall behind him.
Outside a starry Djibouti night above the dry expanse of the Grand Bara, belied his very existence in the small space of the shipping container.
Assets had been pouring in from the south, exchanged for reinforcements heading back down the coast. Their stories had become increasingly strange, and when the first units returned from the battle to establish a safe zone, the tales had turned downright petrifying. Cooped up in drone control, thankfully, he rarely saw life outside. Reduced to a virtual experience, he had as close a relationship to the monitors as with any living human being. And that’s how he preferred things to be.
The soft controls of the joystick in his hand felt more powerful than any gun had, and he relished frequent replays of his most memorable strikes. Despite what people, civilians, were saying, there was honour in his profession as much as there was in honest hand-to-hand combat. If anything, he had come to view himself as evolved, risen above the brutish beings that traded bullets in endless firefights, sometimes using their bare hands to subdue the enemy. His was the power over life and death at the press of a button. A clean, sterile kill, executed with an almost graceful precision, yet with the kind of decisive force, others stood in awe of. He was, in a way, a ruler of the world in his own right.
But as of late, he had been tasked with babysitting some corporate property gone astray. Tracking and tracing what someone with not enough sense, too weak or too careless to keep safe, had let slip through their fingers. Far beneath him, the Eupharm mission was but a mop-up job for someone else’s mess. An affront to his omnipotence.
He rolled his eyes. There was nothing but static on the line. The CO never had been a quick thinker.
“What are your orders, Sir?”
He could hear muffled voices at the other end. A woman’s voice, complaining about the sleep disruption before being shushed. Then the CO came back on.
“No change, son. Log it and keep monitoring as long as the signal stays live. I’ll report it to brass in the morning.”
A click confirmed the CO had put down the receiver. ‘And a good night to you, too.’ He frowned and opened the Eupharm surveillance log file.
Zooming in on the signal, his finger hovered over the weapons control panel. It would be so easy. A single press of a button and he could return to the work he was ordained to do. Nobody would be the wiser. Tapping his finger on the desk next to the button array, he revelled in the rush of ultimate power. Then he crossed his arms. Why risk his job to make this menial thing go away when he could just pretend it didn’t exist? Nobody ever doubted what was written in the file. It was as unassailable as he was himself. He looked at the watch on the drone camera’s HUD overlay. 2330HRS.
He pulled on the joystick and flicked a number of switches. The image blurred as the drone’s angle changed, and it rapidly gained altitude until the coastline disappeared beneath the clouds. Another switch and the red light stopped flashing. ‘Screw you, Eupharm.’ He grinned and extended his middle finger.
He was God once again.
CHAPTER 14
Tom laid down beside Anna, stroking her hair as she slept peacefully for the first time since the events in Nairobi. Yet, as much as he tried it himself, there was something keeping him from precious sleep. A nagging thought like a Mosquito around the ear, refusing to go away. Something about the family portrait in Omar’s office had struck a chord with him. The old man had barely commented on his family throughout the afternoon and evening. Initially, Tom had appreciated that painful memories were not something anyone would ordinarily want to be reminded of, let alone talk about. And yet, Omar put his on display for all visitors to see, almost as if pride was his motivation, not grief. If there was any chance of sleep at all, Tom knew he had to take another look at the painting. If nothing else but to put his mind at rest.
Carefully negotiating the dark stairway to the downstairs living area, Tom felt an unease he couldn’t explain. Repeatedly checking over his shoulders, he stayed low and felt his way along the wall until the single beam of light emanating from below the door to Omar’s office showed him the way. The house was completely silent now, and the noise of his carefully placed footsteps seemed to amplify in his ears. He could feel his heartbeat and blood pulse through his neck as he got closer. Having reached the solid wooden door, he stood in the dark, eyes focused on the light trying to detect any movement inside. Nothing. After a few moments, he placed his hand on the golden door handle. Composing himself and trying to control his breathing, he felt the cool metal as he pressed it.
The door was lighter than it looked, and his heart skipped a beat when it opened far more easily than he had anticipated. Having to shift his weight to keep it from swinging open, the frame creaked as he leaned against it. If anyone was inside, they now certainly knew he was there. Again pausing for a moment, Tom waited for a voice, a noise, or any other indication that Omar or one of his sons was still in the room. Once again, nothing stirred. He had come up w
ith all manner of explanations should he be confronted, but as he entered, he found himself alone, with just the light above Omar’s workbench illuminating the room.
Relieved, Tom carefully closed the door and made his way over to the enormous desk, its dark wood expanse menacingly dominating the gloom at the far end. Tom stood in front of it and inspected the large family portrait on the back wall. The Omar depicted in the painting was a much younger version, a man perhaps in his late forties with a full head of hair and more muscular than he was now. The woman by his side, his wife, was much younger than he and her skin almost white. It was not unusual for artists to lighten skin colour in this part of the world, where for some odd reason a lighter skin was considered a thing of beauty. But this here was no artistic license. The woman in the painting was definitely much whiter, perhaps even of European origin. Flanked by their children and with Omar sitting on a throne, they looked regal, almost aloof and unapproachable. Members of a clan, they were depicted as close to aristocracy as it got. And yet the painting emanated a darkness he could not quite put his finger on, but once which roused his curiosity even more.
Inspecting the space, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There was a filing cabinet next to a large glass display featuring a variety of silverware and memorabilia gathered over time. Photographs of his sons holding sports trophies and extended family posing together for group shots. Omar’s rich heritage on display.
Next to the cabinet stood a tall bookshelf with several copies of the Quran and rows of faux books, presumably to lend the shelf and, by virtue of the fact, the rest of the opulently furnished room the desired gravitas. Tom was about to focus his attention on the workbench, when his eyes caught a small, non-descript volume, its plastic spine, unlike its leather-bound neighbours, unusually cheap in appearance. Tom gingerly pulled it out, careful not to disturb the rest of the shelf’s contents. Despite what he was doing, being accused of snooping around and potentially losing their host’s cooperation was the last thing they needed. Holding it in the direction of the light, he could see that indeed the book was not only laminated in plastic but that it was, in fact, an old photo album.
The first pages contained faded black and white images of Somali village life the way it once had been. Smiling people posing with their children, along with herds of goats and camels in front of rough brick houses. The next pages seemed dedicated to portraits of Omar’s extended family. Some names were written in Somali, while others had scribble in Arabic across them. There were withered postcards sent by traveling family members from all over the world; greetings from cultures as different from their own as could be.
Paris. London. New York. A beach. A restaurant. The Statue of Liberty. Tom flicked forward to the centre pages. Here photos were in colour, showing parts of Kenya in what looked like the 1990s. Omar in a dark suit and sporting a beard, standing next to a Bentley and clearly bursting with pride. More of the same followed: family dinners and celebrations, photos of houses and streets.
Again Tom flicked forward towards the end, where a number of papers seemed to protrude from the edge of the pages. To his surprise, the first was a newspaper clipping of the infamous 7/7 attacks in London, where a man had blown himself up on a train, killing 26 people. Tom felt goose bumps creep across his arms. Why would anyone, let alone Omar keep such a memento? He hastily scanned through the remaining pages. There were more clippings, more attacks, many of them much closer to home. A grenade attack in Mombasa, Westgate Mall, and a host of other stories outlining plots and foiled attempts. Tom’s mind raced. What was the significance of this? What was the connection to the composed old man who had hosted them so graciously? He turned to the last page and dropped the album. His skin felt clammy and his pulse thumped as his eyes darted back and forth between the last of the clippings and the family portrait. He had felt something was off all along, but had been unable to put his finger on it and yet here it was as clear as day.
On the last newspaper cut-out, next to the headline warning Kenyans of yet another bomb plot, was the image of a woman in her 30s. A white woman in Hijab, smiling into the camera. Omar had been somewhat elusive when it came to talking about his family and apparently for good reason. The international press had labelled her ‘The White Widow.’ Not only the author of all these attacks, she had also been a willing participant in many. Not only was she wanted by the FBI and every other law enforcement agency, but reportedly she was hiding somewhere in East Africa or the Middle East. Not only that, but she was also the same woman that smiled down at him from Omar’s family portrait right behind his desk!
Details slowly started coming back to Tom as he jogged his memory. Her story was as infamous as her acts were evil. Accused of causing the deaths of more than 400 people, she had even sold her story to a British tabloid a few years earlier. Tom fell into one of the visitor’s chairs. It all made sense now. Omar’s nonchalance in the face of Jimmy’s inappropriate behaviour, his success as a businessman in contrast to the hideout he was living in. Even his remarks about war and conflict. There was only one conclusion to be drawn, and it put all of them in danger. Jimmy knew about Omar’s little secret, there was no doubt about it. And with the White Widow being Omar’s wife, his connection to Al-Shabab was almost certain. The question remained what this meant for their business arrangement and, by extension his, Anna’s and the other survivors’ safety. One thing Tom knew for certain: it was time to get out. His hand shook as he bent down, retrieved the album and tried to put the shuffled photos back in order, before quickly returning it to its place on the shelf.
Turning back towards the workbench, he could see a stack of passports, neatly arranged in a small plastic tray. He stepped over and inspected them. Omar had given each of them different nationalities, names and details, just as he had said. His work was immaculate, and knowing what he did now, Tom knew why the man had gotten into the business. Transnational terrorism was heavy on logistics and means for evasion of authorities the key to freedom of travel. No doubt Omar’s business extended far beyond this small outfit, not least as he had mentioned that imports and exports were his speciality. Tom grabbed the passports and quickly stuffed them into his pocket. If, for some reason, they needed to make a rapid exit – and from what he gathered, the chances were growing by the moment – then he was not going to leave anything to chance. Casting one final glance over the room, he turned towards the door. And froze. Footsteps approached in the hallway outside. Someone was coming his way and with determination. Tom was close to panic now. The room offered no hiding places, except for the large desk.
He sled under it just as the footsteps came to a halt outside the door. Tom wanted to blend into the carpet. Pressing himself against the inside of the desk’s thick wooden supports, he could make out the bottom of the door. It opened slowly and then closed again as two boot-clad feet entered the room. He could feel the sweat soaking his shirt and dripping into the small of his back. Under normal circumstances, he would have leapt out and fought, made his way out by force. But he had Anna to consider. His eyes grew wide, and he held his breath as the boots made their way to the edge of the desk. Then, inches away from him, they stopped. Tom tensed, readying himself for what would come next.
“Y’all need to get better at this hide and seek shit.” Jimmy’s head appeared under the desk, looking Tom straight in the eye.
“You scared the bejesus out of me, Jimmy!” Tom wiped his forehead and wrestled up a wry smile.
“You’re lucky it was me and not Omar or his sons.” Jimmy held out his hand and helped him up. “If they found out you’ve been snooping around you’d end up hanging from a butcher’s hook somewhere, that’s for certain.”
“So the question is then: what brings you here in the middle of the night, Jimmy?” Tom straightened himself out, brushing dust from his trousers.
Jimmy cocked his head and flicked his tongue in response.
“Always figured you for a smart fucker, Tom. But now you’re asking plain stupid quest
ions.”
Tom could feel a familiar anger rising within him. He was in no mood for cat and mouse games. He clenched his fists and could see Jimmy’s hand move ever so slightly, closer to the holster by his side.
“Relax, Tom. I’m just looking out for my interests. Just like you are looking out for yours. And besides, ain’t nobody gotta know you were here tonight, so I suggest you get on back to bed.”
Tom hesitated. He had known Jimmy for many years, and although he knew the man to be the master of shady deals, his demeanour was out of character. He decided there and then not to let it go. Not until he knew the truth. Defiantly he sat back down in one of the visitor’s chairs, leaned back, and crossed his arms.
“So Jimmy, tell me: what are your interests then? Seems to me there is more to this whole thing than just the occasional passport run.”
Jimmy’s features darkened. His brows furrowed, he took a step forward, pointing his finger squarely at Tom’s chest.
“Listen, man, I have told you all you need to know. I can already see you got the product in your pockets, so for your sake and that of your little girl, let’s leave it at that. Now, I will say it one last time: I suggest you go on back to bed. Pretty please, and with sugar on top.”
With that, Jimmy flicked open the pistol holster’s safety latch and gripped the gun’s handle.
“You are some asshole, Jimmy,” Tom hissed through gritted teeth. “You were doing alright, and I was ready to just walk out of here. That was, until you mentioned my daughter. That is low, even for you.” He leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees.
The Virophage Chronicles (Book 2): Dead Hemisphere [Keres Rising] Page 27
