by Ann Massey
Biocide.com
THE BIOCIDE CONSPIRACY TRILOGY
Book Two
Ann Massey
Copyright © 2020 Ann Massey
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-6485686-3-6
epub version - Smashwords
Categories: Fiction, Action & Adventure; Fiction, Espionage
First published in Australia 2020
Length: 56,000 words
Ann Massey has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. The moral rights of the author have been asserted
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.
The author has no responsibility for the information provided by any author websites whose address you obtain from this book. The inclusion of author website addresses in this book does not constitute an endorsement by or association of such sites or the content, products, advertising or other materials presented on such sites.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that which is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
Massey Ann
Biocide.com
For my daughter, Emma
CONTENTS
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
FOR A TASTE OF THE THIRD BOOK IN THE TRILOGY
Jihad
One
Two
OTHER ANN MASSEY BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY
Before You Go
ENDNOTES
Prologue
In a sprawling refugee camp in East Africa
“Raspberry, strawberry, apple jam tart, tell me the name of my sweetheart,” chanted the matchstick figures, but they sang in the Somali dialect I’d become familiar with. The stick-thin girls brought to mind the emaciated factory workers pictured before the soulless British factories that filled the canvases of artist, LS Lowry. But these children waiting their turn to jump rope were surrounded by the desolate barren terrain of Tent City.
“A, B, C, D, E, F...” This was her fifth repetition of the alphabet and as Zahara’s leathery feet pounded the brick hard sand, my mind drifted away to another sun-burnt country where my sisters and I had skipped to the same rhyme under a blazing sky. Ever since I’d heard that my application to transfer from Hagadery, a refugee camp at Dadaab in East Africa’s grasslands, to a frontline hospital at Suruç a Turkish town close to the Syrian border, had been approved, my own home had been on my mind.
I love my family and yet in the six years I’d worked at Hagadery, a sprawling refugee camp in East Africa, I could count the number of times I’d been home on the fingers of one hand. Now that I was off to Suruç, I couldn’t see me going back any time soon.
“You’re out, you’re out.” The girls lilting high pitched voices put an end to my reverie.
“I am not,” shrieked Zahara, standing her ground. “Nala pulled the rope.”
“I did not. Ask Miss?”
Nala, well over six feet tall and thin as a blade like all Somalian refugees, failed in an attempt to hide her grin. If I’d learnt one thing in my six years at Hagadery, it was to avoid refereeing girlish disputes. I blew the whistle threaded on a ribbon around my neck. “The next game is the last and then it’s time for tables.”
I ignored their grumbling. “Ashanta and Fatima take over from Nala and me.” I dropped the rope and waited for the girls to organise themselves. “All in together girls, very fine weather girls, when it’s your birthday please join in ... January, February ...”
I smiled, feeling contented, as the girls continued. Introducing the old skipping rhymes I’d learnt from my mother was my most successful teaching strategy.
A small boy tugged at my shirt tails, “Please Miss you’re to come to the office, pretty damn quick.” My heart skipped a beat.
“Thank you Akushi.” I knew his name but I didn’t know every child’s name. How could I? There were over 105,000 children between three and seventeen years of age in the camp. However as a floater, I helped out where I was needed. I was frequently in the office but not as often as Akushi was. He’d been a fixture there since his birth. His mother was one of the lucky ones with a job. For without basic literacy and numeracy skills refugees find employment hard to come by. Girls are particularly disadvantaged. Impoverished Somalian parents don’t see the benefit of educating their female children. Girls as young as twelve are married off. A child bride’s future is grim, which is why I spend my time-off teaching girls denied access to Hagadery’s overcrowded school.
I removed the chord attached to the whistle from around my neck and handed it to Nala. “You’re in charge ... tell the girls to recite tables two to twelve.” I waited until they were up to “eight threes are twenty-four,” and then I left them to it.
As I cut through row upon row of the dusty uniform tents made of the blue plastic sheeting provided by the United Nations, I didn’t pause to exchange greetings with the refugees as I usually did. I was worried that there was a hitch processing the paperwork for my transfer. On an anxiety scale of one to ten I’d have scored a ten and that’s not like me, I’ve always kept a tight rein on my emotions ... but that had changed when I met Karim.
It happened on my first day in Tent City. Feeling like throwing-up after picking my way through rotting piles of trash and human waste on my way to the staff canteen, I carried my lunch of African porridge over to an empty table. Inside the canteen the putrid odour filled the airless tent and permeated the muddy grey millet-based mush I was supposed to eat. I knew if I took even a mouthful I’d vomit. I was wondering how I could possibly stick out one day in this hellhole let alone three hundred and sixty-five, when a stunning guy wearing a white coat over ripped jeans and carrying a heaped-up bowl, asked if he could share my table. My tongue tripped over itself in my haste to say yes, of course.
I’ve always thought that men from the Middle East are drop-dead gorgeous ever since I saw Omar Sharif in Lawrence of Arabia, one of
my family’s vast collection of videos. The exotic stranger smiling down at me could have been Sharif’s double, but with a lethally dangerous edge like the Arab sheiks on the covers of ripped bodice romances, the ones who are always making off with virgins with waist-length hair.
Very tall, wide shouldered and long legged, he wore his long dark hair on the top of his head in a man-bun — a look I’d never been keen on, but Dr. Al-Karim Farouk could have sported a hairstyle like Donald Trump’s and still look sexy. His darkly olive face was not perfectly proportioned in the way that Michelangelo’s statue of David is — it was too strongly shaped with high cheek bones, an aquiline nose and a square and determined jaw. But his sculpted features were redeemed by large eyes of a brown so dark that in some lights they appeared black. He was also blessed with brilliant white teeth and a full sensual mouth. I later learnt it was capable of glowering angrily when the hospital’s supply of essential drugs was reduced. But he was all smiles on the day we met.
“It won’t be long before you’re wolfing the porridge down like Oliver Twist and asking for more.”
I blinked. He may have looked like a genuine, dyed in the wool Arab, but the moment he opened his mouth, it was clear he was no such a thing.
I said, “Oh, you’re an Aussie ... I am too.”
“I know you’re Beth Godson. I’m Dr Farouk, your mentor ... it’s my job to help you settle in.”
I was on the point of saying there’s really no need I’m not sticking around but just in time I paused. I’d had plenty of boyfriends at Uni but none had made my heart flutter as it was doing now. Poised for the big leap, I said, “Great, there’s so much I want to ask you.”
“Ask away.”
I smiled at the memory. Aid workers came and went, but six years on, Karim and I were a fixture. Or so I’d thought. I was stunned when he announced he was applying for a transfer to a war zone.
We’d slipped out of camp. I was lying with my head on his chest in the moonlight on a blanket on the ground, reveling in that warm and fuzzy post-sex sensation. Suddenly anxious, I’d asked why he wanted to go elsewhere when he was needed here.
“Here I can be replaced. Beth, there are plenty of doctors and nurses volunteering to work at Hagadery. But it’s impossible to get replacements for the 1500 doctors that have left Syria.” He proceeded to paint me a picture of what it was like living under siege in the war-torn city of Aleppo, being constantly in fear for your life.
The strength and determination in his voice shook me. He cut to the quick in a way that left me feeling deeply for the trapped civilians in besieged eastern Syrian. But I must admit that it was purely selfish reasons that pushed me into saying, “I want to go with you ... that’s if they’ll have me.”
My concern was legitimate. Karim, a doctor with over a decade’s experience patching up the wounded, was a shoo-in. But I was a floater, a kind of glorified gopher. Occasionally, I was called on to help out in the infirmary but I didn’t have any formal medical training.
I was over the moon when Red Crescent, the Muslim equivalent of Red Cross had accepted me. Their acceptance only made the Syrian government’s refusal to give me an entry visa so distressing. What made the knock-back even worse was that at the same time, Karim’s visa came through. For though Syria refused to issue visas to Western Aid workers, Karim was born in Egypt and had dual Australian and Egyptian nationality. That made the difference.
I was devastated. I tried not to show it and urged him to go without me. Karim wouldn’t hear of it. “I’m considering relocating to a field hospital in Suruç, a Turkish town close to the Syrian border. It’s as close as I can get to Aleppo with you by my side,” he’d said, smiling for the first time since my visa application was denied. “You will come with me?”
I’d agreed as soon as the words left his mouth.
If he’d asked me to cross the Pacific in a two-man kayak, I wouldn’t have hesitated. That’s how crazy I was about him.
A few days later our transfers were approved. And that was why I dreaded going to the office. I’m not usually a worry-wart but I felt certain my reassignment had fallen through. Exactly why, I couldn’t imagine, for both my work permit and visa had been approved by the Turkish authorities. Nevertheless, I dragged my feet as the admin building came into view.
* * *
It was not what I’d expected. After my father ended the call, I sat with my elbows on the desk biting my thumbnail, dazed, and anxious. I was still sitting there when the usually discreet manager finally returned. He saw my face and said, “Is it bad news from home?”
I nodded my head. “It’s my mother. She’s very ill. My father said I must return right away.”
“Did you know she was unwell?”
I shook my head. “Apparently, Dad wanted to phone me weeks ago, but Mum wouldn’t let him.”
“Now, now don’t cry, there isn’t time for that. The WHP[1] supply truck arrived this morning. It’s going back to Nairobi as soon as the shipment has been unloaded.” He leaned across the desk and picked up the phone. “Jafari, tell the WHP truck driver to wait. He has a passenger.”
He put down the receiver and flipped open a teledex and then punched a number into the phone. “Hello? Air Mauritius? I want to make a reservation on the first plane to...” He looked at me enquiringly.
I said, “P-perth,” fighting tears.
“To Perth[2], Australia in the name of Miss Elizabeth Godson.” He picked up a pen. “What time does the flight leave Nairobi? And the flight number? Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
He put the phone down and tore his notes from a scribble pad and handed it to me.
“It’s six hours to Nairobi by road. Your flight doesn’t leave until this evening at seven thirty ... you’ll be there in plenty of time.”
I said, “But I’m meant to be in Suruç in ten days...”
I couldn’t go on, choked by the enormous lump in my throat.
“My dear girl, let me worry about that. You hurry off and pack your bag. Mustn’t keep the truck driver waiting, my dear.”
“But I’ll have to let Karim know that I can’t go with him.”
“Dr. Farouk left for Ifo sometime ago. There’s an outbreak of measles in our sister camp. He won’t be back today.”
I swallowed and blinked back my tears. “If I write him a note, could you please give it to him when he gets back?”
“Yes, of course. There’s pen and paper on the desk and I’ll ask Jafari to find you an envelope.”
I waited until he’d left. Then I picked up the pen. We’ll only be apart for a short while my love. Once my mother is back on her feet, I’ll join you in Suruç...
One
Eighteen months later
“How long will Mo be in the States, Mr. McLeod?”
“Beth, how old are you now?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Well, don’t you think it’s time you called me Doug?”
It certainly was. Douglas McLeod’s sheep station was adjacent to my family’s. When you live on the edge of the Great Sandy Desert[3] neighbours are few and far between. By rights we ought to have been close, but my dad disapproved of him. And he wasn’t the only one. His own father, General Mungo McLeod a decorated WWII hero, had left him a white feather in his will, the traditional sign of cowardice.
The first time I heard the story, over a decade beforehand, I’d asked my mother how anyone could do that to their own son.
“You’ve got to understand how humiliating it was for General McLeod having a conchie[4] for a son. Much worse than for other parents whose sons refused to submit to the draft ... on account of him being a general and a war hero.”
“But attitudes to Vietnam draft dodgers shifted years ago,” I’d argued. “Look at Mohammed Ali ... everyone thinks he was a hero for going to jail for a principle.”
My father had looked up from his paper. “You’re talking through your hat, Elizabeth. McLeod and Ali wormed out of their patriotic obligation to
serve."
It wasn’t just my father who had thought that way. Doug McLeod was persona non grata throughout our community. Now returning to the Pilbara after a gap of ten years, nothing had changed. My father objected whenever I mentioned calling in on him.
I felt disgusted with myself. All it would take was a word from me for Doug’s neighbours see him for the hero he was. Even someone as judgmental as Dad would relent if I told him that Doug had saved my life and more. But how could I? I was gagged by the Official Secrets Act.
I’ve never spoken of the events of that summer so many years ago, not even to Karim. Likewise, I hadn’t told my parents when they returned from the internment camp where the local population had been sent; ostensibly to protect them and other inhabitants of the region from the path of radioactive PM1 particles[5] coming in on a side wind from the Indian Ocean. Along with the rest of the community, my parents believed the government line.
At my mother’s funeral, which took place two months back, several of our neighbours had praised the government for the swiftness of their response to a potential disaster. Not much happens out here, not enough to fuel a monthly newsletter ... a decade on and the evacuation was still a hot topic. As usual, I bit my tongue, though I’d longed to blurt out the truth.
“I’m not sure how long Mo will be gone,” replied Doug, when I finally got to see him. “He’s attending a training course on the new fighter the air force bought from the Yanks.” He smiled as proudly as if Mo were his own son. He’s been promoted to Flight Lieutenant.” He glanced over at a photo of Mo on the sideboard. Who'd have thought back then?”
“He always wanted to emulate Tom Cruise in Top Gun[6].” My eyes misted. That was happening a lot of late.
Doug said, “Well I just hope he’s more careful with military vehicles than he was with mine.” Mo had come to my rescue in Doug’s ultra-light[7] when I was being hunted by a special task force who’d abducted my family at gunpoint. In his attempt to evade capture, Mo had wrecked two utes[8], a motorbike and Doug’s precious ultra-light.
I reached for the photograph on the sideboard. It had been taken at Mo’s passing-out parade and bore little resemblance to the sullen youth who, years before, had been sent to work on an isolated sheep station by order of the Juvenile Justice Department.
