by Jenifer Ruff
“You’ll always be a risk to society,” said Dr. Cooney. “One misplaced cough, or if you ever cut yourself and shed a drop of blood, any exchange of bodily fluids, and someone could die.”
“So, I’m stuck in a quarantine cell like this until the World Health Organization or the CDC come up with a cure?”
Dr. Cooney lowered her eyes before meeting Amin’s imploring look. “A cure could take years. Big pharma isn’t going to get involved in this. There’s not enough money in it, not with E.C.1 basically under control.”
“So, even once I prove I’m innocent, I’m still stuck here?”
“Well, not here exactly, but someplace like here. We’re going to need to study you.”
Amin dropped his head and closed his eyes.
“I know that’s hard to hear, and I’m sorry. Just let me know if you have any questions.” She paused. “Oh, and you have another visitor. She can speak to you from outside the plastic.”
Amin lifted his head in surprise, eyebrows raised. He’d already spoken with his attorney, and his parents said they wouldn’t be back until the day after tomorrow. They were meeting with a few other legal representatives, just in case. “Who is it?”
Dr. Cooney shook her head. “I didn’t ask her name. A good friend, apparently.”
Amin thought he detected a smile in Dr. Cooney’s eyes, but that might have been wishful thinking.
“I’ll see you soon,” she said, exiting through the heavy plastic sheets.
“You have to keep the cuffs on,” said the FBI agent. “Even though your friend is staying on the other side of the plastic with me.”
Amin nodded and sat down on his bed. Was a friend really waiting to see him, or were they screwing with him?
Amin looked up when he heard footsteps. The marshal had returned and he wasn’t alone. Amin’s mouth fell open. He could not have been more surprised if Kareem had returned from the dead.
She wore a long-sleeved black T-shirt and jeans. “Hi, Amin,” said Isa.
“Isa?” Amin blinked. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“I got your email.”
“My email? I know I wrote you one, before all this, but I didn’t think I sent it.”
“You did.”
Amin wasn’t sure what to say. There really were no appropriate words. Under normal circumstances he would have been embarrassed about the email, but relative to his current situation, it was nothing. Their eyes met and held without speaking.
“You’ve really got yourself in a mess, haven’t you?” Compassion filled her eyes.
Amin smiled slightly, for the first time in days. He couldn’t help himself. He had nothing to lose. “And I thought my chances with you were all over when I realized I was carrying a roll of toilet paper around when we spoke. This . . . well . . . it’s worse. I guess you really do sort of like me.”
Isa nodded, her smile was sad, but still, it was there. “This is definitely worse than the toilet paper.” She shook her head and smiled again, in spite of herself. “The FBI has already had a—how should I say it—a few words with me. I know you’re innocent. What can I do to help?”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Los Angeles
November 11th
Traffic moved smoothly through the palm tree lined Los Angeles streets. The notorious LA traffic had all but disappeared. Fewer people walked the sidewalks. Those who did wore surgical masks or scarves over their mouths and noses. Wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, a young man walked briskly to a car carrying a grocery bag, perfectly normal looking aside from his gas mask. Men like him had capitalized on the prevailing fear, charging hundred percent mark-ups to deliver bags of food from the grocery stores still open for business. The Governor had declared a state of emergency for Southern California and implemented a sundown to sunrise curfew to prevent looting. Military personnel patrolled the business areas wearing helmets with face shields. Grim expressions conveyed their worry.
Rick stopped at a red light and waited, alone, at the intersection. Trash spilled over the sides of a dumpster surrounded by a two-foot pile of garbage. Sanitation crews weren’t willing to risk their lives for their jobs. Everyone was afraid of becoming infected. With a silent killer on the loose, there was one natural response—fear. No way to know who might already be sick and who might be next.
Rick’s cell rang.
“Dad,” said Rick, with a grin, excited to speak with his father. For once, he actually possessed important information the Senator did not have.
“Are you okay?” said his father.
“Yeah.”
“I wish you had let me get you out of there.”
“No one allowed in or out of Southern Cali, which includes me. Most everyone is holed up inside their homes anyway.”
“What is it like?”
“Apocalyptical. Deserted. Eerie.” He shook his head and looked around while he drove. “You know, I expected an FBI career to be interesting, but the past few weeks have been unreal. Insane.” He didn’t say frightening, no need to increase his father’s worry. “We thought E.C.1 was contained until my boss finally went home and all hell broke loose.”
“His wife’s death is a tragedy. It’s also a PR disaster for the agency.”
“Maybe, but her friend is to blame for this current nightmare.” Rick gritted his teeth thinking about Reese. “She’s not responsible for the outbreak, obviously, but she’s responsible for the chaos. The CDC allowed her to make calls to her family while she was in isolation. She texted pictures. A few images of her looking like hell with bruised and bleeding gums next to a pretty hot before picture went viral.”
“Big mistake, and heads rolled over the incident,” said the Senator.
“Well, she’s dead now. And so is the man who was sleeping with my boss’s wife. It’s really awkward for everyone who knows Quinn. All the E.C.1 deaths are spread out like a web from his wife and her friends. The media and news shows are salivating.”
“It’s a shame they’re sensationalizing this thing. E.C.1 is under control. The media is acting irresponsibly. The bans and curfews should be lifted by the end of the week, if not before.”
“Doesn’t matter, Dad. Even though everyone who had exposure to the virus was isolated, the terror is escalating here. Nothing short of a miracle cure or vaccination is going to stamp out the fear. The CDC and the World Health Organization are scrambling. Hey, Dad, gotta go. I’m at work now. Took me less than half the time it usually takes to drive here.”
Rick was still thinking about the incredible events of the past week when he entered the FBI office. “Morning, Jayla,” he said, passing her desk. Her braids were gone and her hair was surprisingly short, making her look like a different person altogether.
“Hold up,” said Jayla. “I’ve got something for you to do. From Rashid.”
Rick turned around quickly and walked back to Jayla’s desk. He knew he’d been pushed aside for a bit. Quinn had probably told everyone to keep him occupied with unimportant busy work. Until Quinn returned, he didn’t expect to have much to do. And Quinn’s return hinged solely on being lucky enough to have avoided infection.
“Kareem Sarif’s belongings have been shipped here. They’re going to remain in our evidence storage room, but first everything needs to be labeled and cataloged,” said Jayla.
Rick nodded. “Okay.” Not exactly high priority work, or they wouldn’t have let him do it alone, but something.
“We have to dot all the I’s and cross all the T’s on the case. Our records will be analyzed by a special commission. They’ll determine what could have or should have been done differently. And I don’t think it’s going to be kind to us. Poor Quinn.” Jayla shook her head. “Anyhow, the box is waiting in the evidence room.”
“I’m on it.” Rick walked straight to the evidence room and located the box. The neon stickers stuck to the outside indicated the box and its items had been decontaminated. He put on gloves and began to empty the contents. A pile of clot
hes. A keychain with a virus symbol. A toiletry bag. A bottle of pills—they already suspected the pills were morphine based on Kareem Sarif’s blood tests. A bar of soap wrapped in a cloth. A container shaped like a stick of deodorant, its label in Arabic. Two travel-sized shampoo bottles filled with a cloudy liquid, presumably Syrian shampoo.
Ken popped his head in the door, startling Rick.
“How is it going?” he said. Ken had been strangely nice to him in Quinn’s absence.
“Fine,” said Rick. “I’m labeling Kareem Sarif’s stuff.”
Ken surveyed the items on the table. “This crap might sell on the black market some day for millions. Like Hitler’s things. Know what I mean? Kareem Sarif’s deodorant available to the highest sicko bidder.”
“Right.”
“I don’t want him to ever have that attention. I’d like to throw all his shit into the incinerator,” said Ken.
“I’m not throwing anything away.”
Ken raised an eyebrow and frowned. “I wasn’t serious. I said I wanted to. There’s a big difference. Don’t throw anything away.”
“I know.”
“Just label everything, enter it into the computer, and then put it in storage. Don’t make any mistakes. Let me know when you’re finished. You can help me with some data.”
Rick nodded and Ken left.
Rick stared at Kareem Sarif’s belongings without moving. He felt unmotivated. Uncertain. Exactly how the terrorists wanted him to feel, as if his everyday tasks didn’t matter anymore, as if everything he did or planned to do was futile and inconsequential. Well—enough! He wasn’t going to give them what they wanted. Even though his tasks seemed insignificant, he would do his job as if it mattered. Pressing his shoulders back, he carefully labeled everything and entered the information into the computer. He put the pills, the deodorant, the soap, and the shampoo bottles in a separate bag. He didn’t take them to the storage room with the other items. He walked them to the lab for testing. Just to be thorough. Just to cover all the bases.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Syria
November 12th
From a distance, the compound looked like a modest American subdivision aiming for privacy with a tall stucco wall. Located in the middle of nowhere, it was essentially hidden, and far nicer than the average Syrian community. After traveling miles without detection, the Special Operation Forces soldiers moved cautiously toward the wall, disguised in burkas that covered their machine guns but not their heavy boots. They scaled the back wall with ease and in silence. Once inside, they saw the building with the arched stone entrance, the structure Amin had described as Al-Bahil’s main office. The black Mercedes he mentioned was parked in front. Nearby was a large school surrounded by new playground equipment. So far, everything matched Amin’s report of the IS compound. They had found it.
“Don’t forget, Kareem Sarif slept with someone from the compound on the night before he left. The infection may have spread. Don’t let anyone get close to you,” the commander whispered.
One of the men finished taking the pictures needed in case they had to return. They assumed their practiced formation.
“Let’s do it. We’re going to capture Al-Bahil alive.” The commander led his team toward the building but stopped after a short distance. Crouched down and hidden, he signaled to his men, touching his finger to his ear. Something wasn’t right.
There was no noise.
He pointed to the carrion birds circling the skies overhead.
They crept forward again, their backs against the side of the building. Their guns protruded out in strange shapes under the burka fabric. One of the men gestured toward an unmoving body on the ground, then a second body and a third. Each showed signs of death from E.C.1.
“They can’t infect us if they’re dead, as long as we don’t touch them,” said the commander, needing to reassure himself as much as his men.
Alert for any movement, they entered the building without making a sound, muscles tense, hearts pounding. Large drops of sweat slid down the commander’s face. They cleared room after room, all empty except for the body of a teen-aged girl inside a large bedroom. Her blood had stained the white sheets around her head. The king-size bed resembled a giant modern art canvas with deep red paint.
“This way to the stairs,” whispered a soldier.
The scent of death grew stronger as they descended to the underground bunker. At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy, locked door blocked further entry.
The commander listened for over a minute for any sign of life behind the door before signaling for his men to back up against the walls. He fired his gun, shattering the lock, and slammed the door open. His men had their weapons ready.
The heavy door opened into a waiting area. Two large men dressed in black clothing sat slumped against a wall, one on each side of an open door. The one with the bullet wound in his head still held a gun. Splattered brain matter covered the wall behind him. The lifeless, jaundiced eyes of the second man stared straight up at the ceiling.
On the other side of the door, a vomit-covered body lay sprawled across a velvet chaise. A black flag wound around his hands. A deep scar ran down one side of the man’s bruised face, from his temple to the edge of his thick black moustache.
“That’s him.” The commander sighed, clenching his teeth in disappointment. “I sure don’t think Al-Bahil intended to infect his compound. But once the symptoms start, it’s too late to do anything about it.”
“At least he got what he deserved,” said one of the soldiers.
Everyone was dead.
Epilogue
One year later
Amin sat uncomfortably straight on the plush couch, trying to remember how to look relaxed. Chin up. Shoulders down. Unclench his jaw. Stop his knee from bobbing up and down. A bright, hot light shone above him. He glanced down at his hand, wrapped around Isa’s. He looked up and smiled at her, then turned to face the interviewer, ABC News Correspondent Virginia Foster. Please just talk about the foundation, he said to himself.
“Action,” said a voice behind him.
Virginia’s face suddenly lit up with a professional smile. “Welcome everyone. We’re here with Amin Sarif, founder of the Islamic Peace Foundation and the cousin of deceased ISIS terrorist, Kareem Sarif.”
Amin felt muscles twitch reflexively around his eyes but he didn’t let his expression change.
“First, let me congratulate you on your recent engagement,” said Virginia.
“Thank you.” Amin and Isa smiled at each other. Isa lifted her hand and a square cut diamond sparkled under the set lights.
“Amin, before the bioterror attack, you were not a public figure. Am I correct?” said Virginia.
“No, I wasn’t. Far from it. I was a financial analyst at a bank.”
“Considering the objective of your recently-established foundation,” she glanced down to read from a card, “to spread the truth and peace of the Muslim religion, did you feel personally betrayed by last year’s bioterror attack on our country?”
“Yes. I felt betrayed, as you suggested, and horrified. But a few bad apples do not spoil the entire bucket. I believe Allah gave me certain experiences to provide a platform to share my message with the world. Islam is a beautiful, holy, peaceful religion.”
“You say a few bad apples, but to put it in perspective, millions of ISIS militants claim to be Muslims.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, you’re correct. And my foundation is trying to reach them.”
“Just how will your foundation reach them?” Virginia tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.
“The same way ISIS and other extreme factions reach them. The internet via social media. With movies, videos, and ads aimed at those searching for a higher purpose. Each time the terrorist groups produce something new, we target the same audience, counteracting with Allah’s true message of peace.”
“Hmm. And you think that will be effective?”
“Yes. I hope it
will be effective. The alternative is to do nothing. My unwitting involvement in a terrorist attack has inspired me to do what I can. I mentioned the media, but of course, if we find more effective methods to counteract their movement, we’ll use those methods.”
“I understand your foundation has lots of international support, both financial and with the media. Congratulations on your successful campaign.”
“Thank you. Let me say that Isa’s father has a lot to do with it.”
“So, let’s talk about the events that led you to start your foundation. Your cousin, Kareem Sarif, was an esteemed microbiologist before he became radicalized, before he engineered the E.Coryza 1 virus that killed hundreds of people in southern California. Is it true that you were in Syria with him just before he came to America to spread the fatal virus?”
“Yes.” His jaw tightened. “My cousin was a brilliant scientist. His life’s work was developing vaccinations and cures for virulent diseases. What happened to him shows how powerful ISIS is. They’re able to manipulate and brainwash intelligent people.”
Virginia’s smile faltered before she found it again. “In spite of the foundation you’ve established, and your cooperation with law enforcement, some people are having a hard time believing you didn’t know what was happening, that you didn’t understand this attack was coming. What do you want to say to those people?”
Amin shifted his weight in his chair. Isa squeezed his hand. He had answered that question countless times. He could channel a sense of calm and purpose and hold on to it, at least until he was away from the public. “I can’t make anyone believe me, but it’s the truth. I didn’t know what Kareem did to me, or what he planned to do to my country.”
