by Jack Mars
On the page were a number of black circles, drawn in marker, in no discernible pattern or order. There were no labels or words or numbers; just small circles, hand-drawn in such a way that to Reid it looked like a game of connect-the-dots. There were twenty-five in all, many of the circles crowded closely together in the lower left corner of the page, with a number of others spanned further out along the right side.
“What is this?” he asked.
“No idea,” Maria told him. “Like I said, it was the only thing that looked strange, so we took it.”
“Did you share that with Interpol?” Watson asked.
“Not yet. I snapped a photo; I’ll send it to Baraf.” She twisted slightly in her seat and added, “But if we happen to figure out what it is first, that would be very helpful.”
“Barnard?” Reid murmured. “What’s your take?”
“I can honestly say I am at a loss, Agent.” The doctor pushed his silver glasses up his nose. “Perhaps the dots connect to form a shape, or a symbol, or… or a map?”
“A map.” Reid stared at the page until his eyes lost focus. Dots on a map . “Like the Manstein Plan,” he muttered.
“Sorry?”
“In the early forties, German war plans were transmitted in pieces,” Reid explained quickly. “If any single piece was intercepted, it wouldn’t make any sense. But together, they formed a complete plan of attack. This could be a piece of their attack, their jihad.” He shook his head. “But if this is a map, it’s not anywhere I recognize. Once we’re on the plane, we could try overlaying it against maps of Europe, start with the Iberian Peninsula where the first outbreak began and see if we come up with anything that makes sense—”
“Good lord,” Barnard interrupted suddenly. His eyes widened behind his owlish glasses. “Agent Steele…” He snatched the page from Reid’s hands and flipped it around. “What does this look like to you now?”
Reid lost his breath for a moment. Suddenly the arrangement of the dots made a lot more sense—but not at all in the way he had hoped. “It’s the western half of the world,” he said quietly.
Maria twisted again in her seat. “What?”
“Here.” Reid traced his finger along the cluster of dots now in the upper-right corner. “Europe. If this dot is Barcelona, then this would be Paris, London, Brussels, Berlin…” He ran his finger along the page to the other side, now on the left, over the dots that were spanned further apart.
“The United States.” Barnard’s voice was slightly tremulous, and for good reason. Fourteen of the twenty-five dots were focused in what would be the US on the map, from Miami up to New York, and several more on the West Coast.
Reid’s throat ran dry. He couldn’t tell if it was coincidence or purposeful, but the largest of the dots was unmistakably over where the nation’s capital would be. Washington, DC, was a target—and only a twenty-minute drive from his new home, just over the Potomac from his daughters. He didn’t want to imagine the horror of his girls falling ill with such a fatal virus. His mind reeled back to Barnard’s description of the symptoms—fever, nausea, internal bleeding. Fall sick in the morning and be dead before sundown .
If the virus found its way to the United States before he could stop it, and it was released in DC, his own children could be dead before he even returned.
“Maria, we need to get that photo to Langley and to Baraf,” Reid said suddenly. “Every city on this map needs to be aware that they’re a target.”
“Already on it.”
“Barnard, I want you to get on the phone to the CDC and tell them what we’ve found.”
“Of course.” He gulped. “What… what should I tell them? We don’t know when this will happen, or how—”
“I overheard the two Syrians in the hotel right before they ran,” Reid explained. “One of them mentioned the Imam, and said that ‘today is the day.’ Now I don’t know what that means exactly, but we have to assume the worst.”
“Another attack,” said Watson.
“Right. So we can only relay what we know and try to be ready for anything…”
“And now we have a deadline to find our Mahdi,” Maria added ruefully.
Carver’s phone chimed. “We’ve got a location. The last call came from Marseille.”
Reid blinked in surprise. “Southern France?” He shook his head. “No, that can’t be right.” Marseille was barely three hundred miles from Barcelona. Reid had assumed that the perpetrators would be as far away from the virus as possible, and that the virologist would have long fled from France. Either he had been wrong, or they were being fed another red herring, much like his suspicions with Barcelona. Was this Mahdi just that smart, or simply a lunatic?
Maybe both , he thought. If that was the case, they had mere hours to locate and interrogate an intelligent psychopath armed with twenty-four vials of a deadly virus he intended to unleash on the entire western world.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Claudette returned to the flat in Marseille to find a most welcome sight. Imam Khalil sat on her sofa, wearing a soft brown suit, his legs crossed at the knee. In the kitchen were four other followers, the Imam’s entourage that had accompanied him from Greece three days earlier.
She beamed as she hurried to him, dropping to her knees and taking his hand.
“Darling girl,” he said, gently squeezing both her hands in his. “Is it finished?”
“It is.” She gestured behind her, where the Syrian driver Abad followed into the flat carrying the steel containment box that held twenty-four hermetically sealed vials of the mutated smallpox virus. Behind Abad came Rami, the wiry, lean-faced killer. She did not like Rami; he took pleasure in the pain of others, but the Imam had assured her that he was nothing more than a means to an end, and would not be following them into utopia.
“You have done so well.” Khalil gently stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “And Adrian?”
“He is… also finished.” Claudette had not yet processed her feelings about Adrian’s death. She had grown fond of him over their year together; perhaps she had even loved him, in her way, but he had lost the faith. He had turned his back on not only the Imam and Allah, but on her as well, and had tried to unmake his promise. And that was simply unforgivable.
“Abad, the kitchen.” Khalil switched from French to Arabic. “Bag them both. Use caution.”
Abad carried the steel box with both hands as he crossed into the small kitchen. Upon the counter was an identical box, emblazoned with the biohazard symbol, and two brown leather tote bags. The Syrian carefully lowered the box with the virus into one bag, and the second box into the other.
Claudette watched him curiously. “Two, Imam?”
“Yes, my dear.” He turned to Abad and the other four Syrians mulling about in the kitchen. “Leave us,” he ordered them. “Wait outside.” The five filed out wordlessly, followed by Rami.
Once they were gone, Khalil sighed and lowered his voice. “Regretfully,” he told Claudette, “the news has reported a false alarm in Athens. Two of ours were killed in a chase.”
She gasped. “Marwan and Hilal? Dead?”
“I’m afraid so. But do not weep for them; they are with Allah, peace be upon Him.”
“But… the map…” If the authorities found the two men at the hotel, they would likely have found the map of the Imam’s intended targets.
“Yes, I’m certain Interpol has it. We cannot concern ourselves with that now. Our people are in place; the virus is ready. The plan continues. There is only one thing that can stand in our way now.”
Claudette furrowed her brow. “What is it?”
Khalil smiled sadly. “Me, dear girl. They will come looking for me, and they might even find me. That is why we have prepared two identical boxes. I will take the empty one and lead the authorities away from here, to the coast. You will take the virus and carry out our plan.” His warm gaze met hers. Though his eyes were a soft brown, nearly the same hue as the suit he wore, she had always
found it difficult to hold his stare. “Do you know why?”
“Because I am the Imam Mahdi,” she said quietly.
“Yes. You and you alone can bring redemption to the world. Bringing Adrian Cheval to me was the first step; now this is the last, and only you can take it.” He leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead. “I must leave soon to divert the authorities from you. This is the last time we will see each other, Claudette. But before I go, will you pray with me?”
She gripped his hand tighter, holding back the threat of tears for this selfless man who would give himself for her, for the cause. “Yes, Imam. Of course.”
Khalil lowered himself from the sofa and sat on his knees in front of her, facing her, as they each closed their eyes and prayed silently. Claudette prayed for the strength and fortitude to do what she must. She prayed for the safety of the Imam, and for the success of their holy mission.
“Thank you.” Khalil opened his eyes and smiled once more at her paternally. “Go with God, peace be upon Him—and peace be upon you, Claudette.” He rose slowly to his feet, and then crossed the carpet to the kitchen, where he hefted one of the two brown bags Abad had prepared. “Wait thirty minutes after I leave, and then depart. You will go alone; Abad and the others have their instructions. Remember, under no circumstances should you open this box. The virus must arrive intact.”
“Of course, Imam. And… and thank you.” Her voice was nearly a whisper.
He smiled at her once more, for what she knew would be the final time, and then left the flat. Claudette remained on her knees on the carpet for several minutes. She would never again see the man who had saved her life, who had brought her back from the brink of suicide and gave her purpose. But soon, it would not matter. They would be together again in utopia.
At long last she rose, planting her hands on the sofa for an assist—and she felt something hard between the cushions of the sofa. It was the Imam’s cell phone, a simple and outdated flip phone that he used to communicate with his followers. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he sat, she reasoned. For a moment she panicked, thinking he might need it, but he was already gone. There would be no way to contact him now, and the plan was already in action.
She left the Imam’s phone on the coffee table, and her own beside it. Neither of them would need it anymore. Then she headed up the stairs to the loft, changed her clothes, and prepared for the final step. When she was ready, she took one last look around the flat before lifting the brown tote bag and slipping the strap over her shoulder.
Then she too walked out the door, leaving it unlocked, and heading for the railroad yard where she would enact the last stage of the plan.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
“All right, listen up.” Riker’s commanding voice came through the speaker of Watson’s phone so that the five of them on the Gulfstream could hear her. Reid glanced down at his own screen as an update came through, an ID photo of a pretty young woman with fiery red hair.
“You’ve just received a photograph of a Ms. Claudette Minot,” Riker told them. “The cell signal of the number you found in Athens traced right back to her apartment in Marseille.”
Reid frowned. The young woman did not fit into their profile of the virologist, other than being a French citizen. “What does she have to do with this?”
“Ms. Minot is a former aid worker with the Service de l’Action Humanitaire , a French humanitarian organization,” Riker explained. “A few years back she signed on for a year-long stint, and they sent her over the Syrian border to help with the displacement crisis. According to her profile with the organization, she witnessed a sarin gas attack on an elementary school and it affected her to the point of attempting suicide. But it would seem she recovered, and converted to Islam.”
Barnard nodded knowingly. “She fell in with our missing Imam.”
“That’s correct, Doctor,” Riker confirmed. “Ms. Minot has an estranged brother in Paris; he says she came back from Syria a completely different person, indoctrinated by someone that she referred to only as ‘the Imam,’ some self-proclaimed holy man peddling a tailor-made offshoot of Islam. Minot mentioned the Imam several times to her brother, even tried to convert him. When he resisted, they stopped talking.”
“Whatever the Imam had to say must have been exactly what she wanted to hear,” Maria reasoned. “Do we have any bead on him at all?”
“I’m afraid not,” Riker admitted. “It’s not enough to go on, and getting anything from the Syrian government is near impossible.”
“But I think it would be safe to assume that our Mahdi and the Imam are likely the same person,” Reid offered. “The missing link between the Syrian boy in Barcelona and the virologist.”
“Exactly,” said Riker. “And speaking of, Ms. Minot has had a flatmate for the last year or so—a young Frenchman named Adrian Cheval, former virology student of Stockholm University who was expelled for forgery and unsafe practices.”
Reid let out a long sigh. Time was running short, but the pieces were beginning to fall into place. “So the Imam indoctrinates the girl, and she involves the virologist.” There were two missing links , he thought.
“Right. And all three phones are active,” said Riker. “The mystery number and Minot’s trace back to her flat. Cheval’s is showing as three blocks east. We’re uploading coordinates to GPS currently.”
The intercom overhead crackled and the pilot’s voice resounded through the small cabin. “Five minutes to wheels-down in Marseille.”
“Does Interpol have all this info?” Carver asked. “The French police?”
Riker hesitated. “It took a bit of digging to find this out,” she said. “We’ve only just gathered the intel now.” Reid understood precisely what she was suggesting—that they were purposely holding back the information, even if only temporarily. But he didn’t have to say it aloud because a moment later, Deputy Director Cartwright’s voice came through the line.
“What happened in Athens was a complete disaster,” he said. His tone was not friendly. “The media is having a feeding frenzy with it and Islamic terrorist involvement is on everyone’s lips. To compound matters, we’re shutting down mass transit and establishing CDC presence in every city on your target map. Police and emergency services are on the highest alert, and that makes people nervous. Simply put, things are not good here. A whole lot of folks are panicking, and we cannot afford another mess on our hands. There are five of you and three of them. Get in there, immobilize, interrogate. Find the virus. Put an end to this, quickly and quietly. Got it?”
“Yes sir,” Watson murmured.
“Yes,” said Maria.
“Good.” Cartwright paused a moment. “Now let me talk to Steele.”
Watson passed him the phone. Reid almost groaned aloud; he knew he was about to catch hell for his stunt-driving in Greece.
He took the phone off of speaker before answering. “Yes?”
“Zero.” Cartwright suddenly sounded a lot less stern and a lot more tired. “You give me ulcers. You know that?”
“I know Athens could have been handled better,” he said by way of answer. He stood and made his way to the rear of the plane’s cabin as it dipped lower in altitude.
Riker scoffed, and then her irritated voice boomed through the phone. “Could have been handled better? That is quite an understatement, Agent.”
“I’m sorry,” he said halfheartedly. “We needed intel, and—”
“Do you have any idea,” she interjected, “how difficult it is to convince Interpol to continue cooperation with us when we’re killing key suspects? Do you know the effort involved in keeping the CIA’s name out of the media when something like this happens?”
“I… can’t say that I do.”
“People watch the news, Agent Steele, and people talk,” she continued harshly. “Our perpetrators may have seen it. And when you leave a trail of bodies behind, it’s only a matter of time before they realize that the trail leads back to them. Then t
hey panic. I don’t think I need to describe what could happen after that.”
Reid gritted his teeth. She was right, but he wasn’t at all willing to admit it. He was a professor, a CIA agent, a father of two, and in no way appreciated being spoken to like he was a petulant teenager who had crashed the family car.
“I was told to handle this by whatever means necessary—” he began.
“Not by me,” Riker interrupted again. “I won’t tolerate this kind of behavior on my team. Are we clear?”
Reid felt his face flush with anger, but he stifled it and managed to grunt, “Yes.”
“Good,” she said simply. “Then we’re done here. Get to work.”
“Wait.” Reid threw a glance toward the front of the plane. No one seemed to be paying him any attention—but three of his four companions were CIA agents, trained to make eavesdropping not look like eavesdropping.
He ducked into the small bathroom before he continued. “My girls. Have they been moved to a safe house?”
Silence reigned on the other end of the phone. For a moment he thought that perhaps Riker had already ended the call. “Cartwright?”
The deputy director cleared his throat. “Kent, I spoke with Thompson myself. Everything is fine there. But we don’t have an agent to spare. All hell is breaking loose here, and now we have a list of targeted cities… we just can’t spare the resources.”
Reid closed his eyes and again shoved down the urge to protest in anger. “But you’re evacuating VIPs, right? The president, the cabinet, high-level officials… they’re getting out of Dodge, I bet.” He knew that protocol for a suspected attack on American soil was to first secure the heads of state. “It wouldn’t be any big issue for you to put them on a plane…”
“Agent Zero.” Riker spoke up. “While I appreciate your concern for your daughters, our focus right now needs to be on the well-being of every American. As much as I would like to make caveats for you”—Reid very much doubted that she would—“it would be irresponsible of us to use resources to make exceptions. Your fellow agents have families. I have people back home. Deputy Director Cartwright, Director Mullen… none of us expect anyone to go out of their way for our loved ones.”
