Viral Intent: An Alexandra Destephano Novel Book #3

by Judith Lucci

  Ted Scott nodded tolerantly. "Huh, have known that forever. Now, what about Tansill?"

  "He's OK. But I think he’s sort of an asshole too. I liked Andre Renou better, but of course, he's history."

  Ted agreed. "For sure, he went the same way as Governor Raccine. Good man, Andre, but totally dedicated to the Raccine camp. It's a shame we are judged by the company we keep, right?"

  "Yeah, how come you keep company with me?" Jack grunted.

  "Beats me, Francoise," Scott joked. “Now, what do you think about Tansill?”

  Jack thought for a moment. "As I said, he seems OK but he's pestering the hell out of me about the murders of Beau LaMont and Hayes Hunter.”

  Commissioner Scott nodded. "Yeah. You and me, both. Plus, I get it every week from the Mayor. Are we getting anywhere, Jack?"

  Jack gave an audible sigh. "No, sir. Not yet. Nothing. It's not for lack of trying. My guys have turned over the entire Vieux Carre and harassed the hell out of every crack addict and wino for miles around the scene. So have the feds who are involved because of Hayes Hunter, the Democratic Party Chairman. Nothing. It's just one of those murders, you know."

  "Yeah, I know, but it is hard to believe it was purely random. Do you think it was?"

  "Hell no! I absolutely do not think it was random. Just like I don't think those kids getting murdered in the wee hours of the same day in the same exact way was random. The perp is the same, no question."

  As Commissioner Scott considered the possibilities he asked, "So, what do you think it means, Jack?"

  Jack shrugged his shoulders. "I think someone is sending us a message. They are suggesting they can kill anyone - kids, punks, and nationally important people without leaving a single clue. They're getting by with it and will probably do it again. It is uncanny how clean the crime scenes were."

  "Crimes were vicious, too. There has got to be someone who knows something somewhere."

  "Yeah, you would think. But, they're not talking. Never fear, if they are out there, we'll get them. In the meantime, if they strike again, hopefully, they'll get careless and we'll get them on evidence at the scene if not before."

  "Good plan. Keep me in the loop. You know the Mayor's on my ass constantly as well?"

  "Huh, really? What a surprise. I was totally clueless that he was riding your tail too," Jack joked.

  "The bastard ruins my week, every week. Driving me nuts, just as you'd imagine," Scott offered.

  "No surprise there. Personally, I can't stand the man and I know you can't either but he's your first report. Just keep covering for me, Ted, and I promise you I won't kill the SOB."

  "I'd appreciate that, Jack. I worked hard getting you your job, you know, the job you didn't want and I had to beg you to accept," Scott teased. "Don't want you to end up in Angola Prison. It would be bad for my reputation."

  "Yeah, it would," Jack admitted. "In the meantime, I gotta go. I have a body down in the Quarter. First one this week and you know how I hate Thursday murders in the Quarter."

  The Commissioner shook his head. "Well, all good things must end. Let me know what you find. Don't forget, we have that final security meeting about this weekend today at five, downtown in our buddy’s office. We've got to coordinate with the secret service."

  "Oh my God." Jack sighed. "I hate working with the Feds. It's always a problem and they'll probably send some prick to be in charge. I'd like to miss that meeting for sure.” He shook his head and continued, "Maybe we'll know more from CCMC by then because I am afraid this viral stuff could add another huge component to our current security plan. If there is any chance of terrorism, we're on a slippery slope."

  Commission Scott groaned, "Yeah, I thought about that. Oh, I hope not but I've thought about it too. Hey, keep an open mind with the Feds, promise? Some of them are actually OK."

  Jack nodded. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll be there. Bell’s on. Good to see you, man. Next time, let's just meet at the bar and go drinking."

  "Got it." Ted Scott waved as he left the health sciences center parking lot. Francoise is a good man he thought to himself. Glad I pushed him into the job. Damn, I hope he is wrong about the stuff at CCMC. But…we'd better call the feds just to let them know what's going on. Some of the politicians are arriving as early as tomorrow.

  Chapter 9

  Mohammed Abdu, the thick-bodied official leader of the Red Jihad cell in New York City slammed down his phone in anger. Where was Nazir? Why wasn't he answering his phone? It was critical for him to know what was happening in New Orleans. He had seen some blip about a virus in a hospital on CNN, and it bothered him. He'd never trusted the Russians. Never. He had experienced enough of their duplicity in Chechnya to last a lifetime. The Russians hadn't changed a bit. They were always pandering to the enemy, sucking up and then pulling back. You could never trust them. Bastards. Mohammed's thick frame tensed with anxiety, his powerful hand crushed a plastic glass in anger as he contemplated the situation at hand.

  After some consideration, Mohammed dialed in the number of his second operation commander and lifelong friend, Omar Hassan, and barked into the phone, "As-salaam-u-alaykum. Come quickly. We may have problems."

  A few seconds, later there was loud knocking at the temporary Brooklyn flat of Mohammed Abdu. Omar Hassan, a devout Muslim jihadist of long standing framed the doorway. A tall man with a long beard, Omar was an eminent professor of Middle Eastern History at a Brooklyn University where Mohammed Abdu taught Middle Eastern Religion. Both men had been under the watchful eye of the FBI, for years and they were aware of the scrutiny of government officials. In fact, they often laughed about it.

  Omar's eyes were gentle, but piercing, as he stared at Abdu, his own anxiety increasing as he studied the wild eyes and lined face of his good friend. Mohammed Abdu's anxiety was palpable and since he did not upset easily, Omar Hassan felt significant concern. Omar and Mohammed had been friends all of the lives. Both were members of a Russian Muslim Jihad group based out of a Russian region near Chechnya. Both had experienced and suffered from the horrific crimes of the Russians and deceit of the former Soviet government but had remained faithful to the Russian Muslim quest for jihad. Omar had been a confidant of Osama bin Laden and his Al-Qaeda network and had participated in the planning and execution of the murders at the World Trade Center in New York in 2001.

  Mohammed Abdu had played a central part a few years later in the destruction of the U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. They had gloried in the deaths of over 3,000 Americans in New York, the destruction of US property all over the Middle East, and more recently, had celebrated the death of the American Ambassador to Libya. The duo had joyfully celebrated the Boston Marathon Bombings and more recently the work of the Red Jihad in Russia as they used suicide bombers to blow up a train station and other public transportation carriers.

  “Assalaim-u-alaimuk. What is it, my brother? What is wrong?" The concern in Omar's voice was unmistakable as he addressed Mohammed. He could read his friend's body language and Mohammed's distress and angst were clearly displayed. Some terrorists were expert at reading body language and visual cues, and Omar was one of them.

  "There is a viral outbreak at a hospital in New Orleans. I heard about it on the TV."

  "A virus? What kind of virus? Our virus is not ready yet. How can this be?" Omar was confused and noted a sick feeling in his stomach. "Are you sure, Mohammed Abdu?"

  "I don't know, I don't know," Mohammed Abdu replied with desperation in his voice. "It was not meant to be this soon, my brother. I am very troubled.”

  Omar nodded, his long beard moving up and down. "What of Nazir? What does he say?"

  "Nothing. He is not answering his burn phone. I put in our code but I have tried and tried. Later, I sent a courier to look for Ali and him. I cannot reach either of them. I am bothered by this."

  "Is is possible Ali perfected the virus and it has been released early."

  Mohammed Abdu shook his head. "No. Never. He was weeks, maybe months away
from perfecting what the Russians already have. It could be that Vadim has double crossed us."

  "If that is true, it is bad for us because that would mean we have lost control of the mission." Omar Hassan's concern was etched onto his thin, ascetic face, but his dark eyes remained calm.

  "Yes, I know that. If so, our work here is done. I hope we are wrong," Mohammed lamented.

  "I wish the same. We will see. Let me know. I must go," said Omar, looking back at a very apprehensive Mohammed Abdu. "Get some rest, my brother. We will know soon enough.” Omar softly closed the door.

  Mohammed Abdu repeatedly dialed Nazir's burn phone without success. Finally, he texted Ali's cell phone. He typed in his coded message but knew he probably wouldn't hear back. He’d had little to do with the younger brother of Nazir but knew him to be an untouchable asset for the cell. The young man was a brilliant scientist and had managed to clone a virus that was practically endemic to New Orleans that the Russians had held for years. However, the other leaders had wanted another attack immediately, an attack in the United States to quickly follow the attack in Boston. Another attack would show the war-mongering Zionists that terror was everywhere on American soil. Boston, New Orleans, San Francisco, Las Vegas. It would not stop until it was over. Praise to Allah.

  Chapter 10

  The early afternoon traffic was bumper to bumper on Jefferson Avenue as Jack left the medical complex. A free-floating fear consumed Jack as he drummed his fingers on his padded steering wheel at a stop light. He’d felt his anxiety level escalate as he reviewed the situation at CCMC. A bioterrorism threat to an open city such as New Orleans only hours before a political convention could only mean major trouble. The person who had died had worked for the Democratic Party and the person in the intensive care unit worked at the hotel where many of the politicians were staying. They had both been at the same place. He picked up his cell phone and called Alex. She answered immediately

  "Commander, I just left you. What's up?”

  Jack could hear the smile in her voice.

  “You didn’t kill the Mayor on the way out, did you?” she quipped.

  "Nah, I wanted to but Ted wouldn’t let me. Maybe later,” Jack offered.

  Alex smiled to herself. I love this man. He’s a lot like my grandfather. He’s made of good stuff. “Good,” she offered up. “I don’t think you’d last long in Angola. You have a lot of enemies there.”

  “Funny, that’s what the Commissioner said. Hey, I'm sitting in traffic and thinking. Do you have any idea what the guy did that worked for the Democrats? You know, the political operative that passed away?"

  "No idea. Why?” Alex's voice was worried and displayed her curiosity.

  "I don't know exactly but I got real bad feelings about this bioterrorism threat over there. I just wondered if he was an aide or special assistant to some big political muck and if he could have been sought out to infect others, maybe as a warning to his boss."

  Alex mulled over Jack's words. "Let me check it out and I'll get back with some specifics. Frankly, Jack, I'm worried too. Dr. Charmaine admitted to Robert and me that she is concerned about the rapid escalation of cases. We now have seven potentials with three of them confirmed as viral hemorrhagic disease but the type is unspecified. The guy in the intensive care unit has taken a nosedive but they have managed to resuscitate him once again. It seems like his lungs are giving out. Dr. Charmaine isn't sure why. In fact, she's puzzled because it's not typical."

  "Is it Ebola?"

  "They're not sure. They should know soon. She is meeting with Robert and me in a little while when things calm down over there. CDC is sending in another physician by helicopter which makes me think they are looking for a big outbreak.”

  “Now, that’s not good to hear, Alex. Keep me posted, will you?”

  “Yeah, but I have to go. My grandfather is calling on my cell phone. He’s probably having a fit because of the viral outbreak. He’s due here tomorrow.”

  “Oh hell, he’ll probably abduct you and take you home to Virginia. I’ll wait to hear,” Jack said, as he clicked off and began to search for a parking place.

  Parking in the French Quarter was worse than usual. He couldn’t find anywhere, legal or illegal. What is happening down here? Jack was getting agitated so he picked up his cell phone and speed dialed Jason.

  Jason’s voice was distant, controlled. “Commander, where are you?

  Jack was immediately suspicious. “Searching for a parking place. But screw that. I’m just coming down. How’s it going? You sound uptight as hell.”

  A large sigh on Jason’s end of the phone confirmed Jack’s supposition.

  “Yeah, it’s tense. The State Police are here and they are calling in the FBI. Oh, and the Mayor is on his way.”

  Jason Aldridge’s voice was muffled, and Jack was having difficulty hearing due to background noise.

  “So,” Jason continued, “it basically sucks down here.”

  “I’ll be right down. Hang tight, dude.” Jack cursed under his breath. It seemed like all hell was breaking loose.

  Jack surveyed the police vehicles and obvious undercover vehicles around the scenes. Holy shit, what in the hell was going on? Jack knew his blood pressure had just jumped 50 points. As he tripled parked and walked toward the scene, an ominous feeling and a sense of déjà vu overcame him. He knew what he would find before he ever saw it.

  Jack walked another block until his anxiety overpowered him. Finally, he saw him. Mary, Mother of God. It is exactly like before. The exact same location. A well-dressed man was hanging upside down from an ornate wrought iron balcony. It was the same balcony. It was another hideous murder and it was unbelievable it was happening again. This is too soon. Generally, they had a little time between the murders. Sometimes months and oftentimes years. But not now, not today. What the hell?

  His shoulders slumped in defeat and he was overcome with guilt and remorse. He was culpable and to blame. It was his fault the monster had struck again. Weak and dizzy, he thought he would black out. Then he spied Jason and Detective Vern Bridges, the night detective who had been called in as well. This revived him for a moment until he was swamped by the press who closed in on him and seemed to suck the last breath out of him. He moved quickly, before they pissed him off, and he felt revived from adrenalin flush.

  “Commander Francoise, what can you tell us about this murder? What’s going on? Why are the State Police involved? What’s going on at CCMC? Is the dead man upside down? Will you be making a statement?”

  Jack muttered, “No comment, no comment,” repeatedly until has was rescued from the press by several uniformed officers and escorted inside the crime tape where he was hailed by Jason and Captain John Houser of the Criminal Division of the Louisiana State Police. Jack was pleased to see John Houser. The two were old friends.

  Captain Houser pumped Jack’s hand incessantly. “Commander Francoise, congratulations on your promotion. I heard they forced you into it. How’s it going? What’s it like to be a big cheese?” John Houser teased as he continued to pump Jack’s hand endlessly.

  In spite of current conditions, Jack gave John a big grin and said, “You tell me! You are the State Cheese. What the hell are you doing here? Can’t you just take care of your part of the State? We’ll handle New Orleans.”

  John Houser shook his head, “Hell no. The rest of the state is boring next to this hellhole. What’s going on down here?”

  Jack gave him perplexing smile and retorted, “What the hell isn’t. Let’s go take a look,” he suggested, gesturing toward the body that had been painstakingly and grotesquely wired to the balcony. “By the way, Vern, who is the victim?”

  “You ain’t gonna like this, Commander.”

  “Oh, shit, Vern, who is it?” Jack snapped, dreading the reply.

  “It’s a Republican Congressmen from Arizona. He is apparently the darling of the Republican Party. Name's Benjamin Blankenship. He came in town yesterday for the convention this weeken
d. Last seen mid-morning having coffee and beignets at Café du Monde. He was alone and reading the newspaper.”

  “What the hell, did anyone see him leave? He couldn’t have vanished into thin air.” Jack’s voice was impatient and his temper was short. Shit, a politician. This situation was getting out of hand. He looked over at John Houser, grateful for his old friend's presence and help.

  “Commander, we’re checking. We’re questioning every derelict we can find, every crack addict on the streets and everyone in the Congressman's traveling party. So far nothing.” Vern’s voice matched the impatience noted in Jack’s voice.

  “Who was he traveling with?”

  “His aide and his wife. Also several political staffers. Wife’s pretty torn up. Sedated at the Hotel Burgundy. Two little kids at home with their grandparents. This just sucks. We’ve gotta find this son of a bitch.”

  Jack shook his head sadly. It was a hell of a way to die, much less to tell your children, even when they grew up. “We’ll get him. It will take a little time, but we will get him. The bastard will screw up and we’ll nail him. That’s a promise,” Jack pledged with more bravado than he felt. Get back Jack had returned. He had earned that nickname the hard way.

  Vern Bridges shoved an evidence bag with a small piece of paper in it at him. “Commander, we found this on the victim.”

  Jack donned a glove and pulled the paper out of the bag. Jack read the note aloud. The threat was chilling.

  “I’m back. Watch for me. I’m everyone you see and I am everywhere you go.”

  “What does that mean?” questioned Jason Aldridge.

  “Exactly what is says,” Jack replied. “The bastard isn’t finished. He still has work to do. We'll get the son of a bitch." Jack ended on a ferocious note, was quiet for a moment, and then scratched his head as he put things together and said, "I don't like this. Somehow, this is turning out to be very political. LaMont, Hunter, and now this guy? We’ve got to figure this out. I’m gonna ask for a special task force to study these murders. I want the state, the FBI, anybody that can help. The murders are politically motivated.”