The Consultant

by TJ O'Connor

  The plastic veil and freezer served as a makeshift laboratory containment vestibule. The freezer had been meticulously modified to provide protection similar to a Level II biohazard lab. The plastic was sealed top to bottom and side to side with additional plastic sheathing overhead to form a sealed cube around the butcher’s room. To the right side was an aluminum-framed doorway and a heavy Plexiglas door that led into an inner vestibule and access through the freezer door into the lab work area. The vestibule was the last line of defense against any accidental contamination.

  The hiss of air being sucked into the cube prevented any limited escape of the materials the doctor was working on inside. Simply, the vacuum pulled air in and did not allow air out. The hiss also told Caine the doctor’s homemade biocontainment protocols were functioning and he breathed easier.

  Several more moments passed when the man inside the freezer—clad in a bulky biohazard suit with an air tank mounted on his back—turned and saw Caine waiting. He momentarily returned to his work. When his task was done and the stainlesssteel cylinder he’d been examining was resealed and secured in the pneumatically sealed chest, he exited the freezer, secured the door behind him, and exited into the vestibule. It took him another five minutes to cleanse his protective suit beneath a portable shower and carefully clean himself off before exiting into the basement where Caine waited.

  “I was not expecting you, Caine.” The man was a tall, cleanshaved Arab pooled in dampness from working in the bio suit. Sweat formed dark pools across his body, stained his shirt, and drained down his face and neck. He was about fifty with dark, intelligent eyes. He wore running shoes, clean blue jeans, and a polo shirt. Everything about the man was professional and neat like a man who belonged in an Ivy League classroom, not an abandoned country meat locker.

  He spoke with a thick, Persian accent. “Caine, what of the young man? The one who carried the cylinders?”

  “He is not your problem, Doc.” Caine measured the man’s worry across his face. “It was fast and quiet. He did not suffer.”

  “Suffer? He was exposed for only a short time. He suffered for hours before they moved him to the farm.”

  “He did not suffer long after I took over the problem.”

  Doc, whose real name was Hosni Al-Fayed, professor of bioengineering, shrugged. “Why are you here? Is my family all right?”

  “Yes, they are fine, Doc.” Caine threw a chin toward the makeshift laboratory. “You made your arrangements with Khalifah, Doc. Not me. But I’m looking after your interests.”

  “What of my family?”

  Caine nodded but said nothing.

  Doc walked to the side wall where a small table and chair sat. On the table was a tray with a thermos and cup. He poured a cup of tea and turned back to look at Caine. “Then what?”

  Caine ignored the question. “Khalifah doesn’t want you wasting time testing the second shipment I brought yesterday. You are to prepare it for use by tomorrow night. The day after at the latest. After it’s loaded and prepped, no one is to touch it again. Do you understand?”

  “Does he understand that if I do not test it, I cannot be confident of the correct mixture and composition of the shipment to water and air? How will I know if—”

  Caine flashed up a hand. “Use the same mixture you have already prepared for the first shipment. It will be fine.”

  “But what of Saeed?”

  Caine held Doc’s eyes. “It’ll be fine, Doc. Trust me.”

  “Saeed has my family.” Doc’s eyes fell. “What choice do I have?

  “None.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Day 3: May 17, 1745 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Noor Mallory’s Residence, Frederick County, Virginia

  THANK GOD FOR the Greeks or whoever invented wine. It had to be them. They needed a diversion from Aristotle philosophizing all the time. My diversion was a nice fifty-dollar Cabernet. I hoped it would ease the nerves that twisted my gut during my evening with Noor and Sam. For many years, we’d been family and strangers at the same time. It would take all my wit and charm plus a few glasses of wine to make the night pass. Sometimes, my wit and charm were a little overkill—no, no, it’s true, really. The wine was my fallback plan.

  I bought two bottles.

  Sam toyed with the barbecue grill while Noor and I sat nearby. We tried to cover the missed years, the important ones anyway. She was born in Sãri, Iran. Her father was a university professor in veterinary medicine and her mother a Canadian grade school teacher working at the Canadian mission in Tehran. She and her mother visited Toronto one holiday when she was a child. Noor never left and stayed to attend a private school. It was the only hope for a good education and her escape from the clutches of a grueling society. From Toronto, she came to the States to attend college. Years passed and she became a citizen. She met Kevin in DC in the nineties at a charity event or something. They married three years later. Unable to have children, they adopted Sam six years ago after he’d lost his parents. He was thirteen. They became a family, and I hadn’t known they were even married. Details stayed protected behind a veil of faint smiles and changed topics. Noor was a private person.

  More wine, please.

  My past was a blur for me. The same places. The same missions. Sand, mountains, bullets … blood. Noor wanted to know it all. What countries I’d traveled. What I thought of their people. She still had memories of and a longing to return to Iran. Strangely, our connection was not Kevin. It was her Middle Eastern heritage and my travels. She spoke eloquently about being Iranian in a country where Iranians were the enemy and all things Middle Eastern were suspicious and dangerous. Kevin had always seemed immune to those nuances, even when they adopted Sam. Noor was raised a Westerner, educated in New York, and her mother had wished her Iranian roots would fade. She resisted and still did. She was proud of her heritage. Proud of her people, not their government.

  “Noor, how do you like it here?”

  “Sometimes it is good.” She took a long sip of wine. “Sometimes it is not. Like this morning at the café, people can be …”

  “Ignorant,” I added, lifting my glass. “It’s the first stop on the way to bigotry.”

  She nodded. “Yes. It has always been that way.”

  “I’m sorry. People get afraid.”

  “As do I.” She flashed a hand in the air. “There is fear enough for us all.”

  Fear is a terrible thing. Something that didn’t need reason or justification. Fear was its own truth. It made good people act badly, and, too often, made bad people act treacherously.

  Sometimes, fear was just an excuse for blind hate.

  Me, I’m impartial. I lived and worked with Middle Easterners on their home turf. Many were close friends. Often, I shared meals with their families and participated in local traditions. Unfortunately, I also killed some. Bad ones, of course. Those who deserved it. Those who were a stain, a disease, on their own people as much as others. Those who inflicted as much physical pain as emotional. Their people had to endure it all. Like Noor, who had to endure the distrust and hatred for something she had no part in. Those who brought hatred—brought the killing and violence and chaos—deserved what they got.

  That was my business. My business paid well.

  Noor said little more about her family—and for good reason. Her mother had traveled to Tehran many years ago to bring her sisters and brother back to Toronto. She never returned. Noor was alone. Now, more than ever. For her reminiscence, she brought out her wedding album. It stung that I was neither informed nor invited. My absence from the pictures sent waves of regret churning inside me.

  Got any bourbon?

  Silence shielded my embarrassment after a few broken, choked words. Sam had been quiet, too. In fact, he hadn’t said a word to me since I’d arrived. He’d offered a cursory nod and went about preparing the grill. But, when Noor and I quieted down and scanned the album, he turned and abruptly entered the conversation.

  “So, Hunt
er, you’ve killed our people? Muslims?”

  “Sam!” Noor’s eyes exploded. “That is enough.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I started to formulate a clever retort. No, not this time. “I’ve killed terrorists. Insurgents. Lots. I didn’t ask if they were Muslims. But many were.”

  He sat very still and silent. I don’t know what he thought I’d say, but he wasn’t expecting honesty.

  I turned to Noor. “You wanted to tell me something at breakfast and wouldn’t. How about now?”

  “Yes, now.” She contemplated her wine glass for the longest time. Just when I thought she would change her mind, she looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. “You hurt Kevin very badly by staying away. He said you would return only in a box. He made excuses about your relationship. He was hiding things. Perhaps that you are CIA.”

  “I’m sorry, Noor.” Jesus, Hunter, is that all you got?

  “You’re sorry?” Sam’s face fogged with coldness. “What do you want anyway? I don’t trust you.”

  Time to let the genie out of the bottle. “Trust, Sam? You want to talk about trust? Good.” I filled Noor in on what I’d not been able to tell her at breakfast about Sam’s reaction to Fariq and Azar at the café. Then, about him being at the college dorm earlier when Bobby was assaulted. She needed to know.

  His face was steel and his eyes sent daggers through me.

  “Trust goes both ways.” I added, “If you’re in some kind of trouble, Sam, tell me. I can help.”

  For a moment, I thought he was going to open the secrets jar. Instead, he did what he’d done before. He retreated into the house.

  Noor looked after him with tears trailing down her cheeks. “He has been like this for months. I do not know what to do.”

  I refilled both of our glasses and slid my chair closer to put a hand on her shoulder. I tried to console her the best I could. “I’m not much good with kids, Noor. Or moms. Dogs, now I’m good with dogs. Oh, and camels. Definitely camels.”

  She allowed a brief giggle and wiped her cheeks.

  “He needs to come to terms with all this.”

  She shrugged and took my hand in hers. A gentle gesture that sent chills up my arm to every synapse in my body. “All right, Jon Hunter.”

  “He’ll be fine.” For a long time we sat there sipping wine and making believe silence was a language. She finally released my hand after forever and that small gesture of compassion changed things somehow. Three days ago, we were strangers. This morning, adversaries. Now, with a touch and soft voice, something else. I glanced at her after what seemed like an hour. Confusion swelled in her eyes and worry softened her face. The air between us was thick with remorse … confusion … pain. There was no good time to ask the tough questions, so I just did.

  “Noor, why did Kevin reach out to me after all these years?”

  Her fingers whitened around her wineglass. “I do not know.”

  “I think you do.”

  “No.” The word was a whisper. She gazed at the house’s back door. “I am worried about Sam. Before we adopted him, he was troubled. His mother killed his father in a drunken tirade over another woman. He watched it all. She was imprisoned, of course. Sam went to a facility. Not many adopt Iranian children. He did not do well there. He was ten then, and for two years he did not speak.”

  “How did you find him?”

  “Kevin.” Her eyes looked empty. “He was on a case at the children’s home. One of the staff was killed. He met Sam there and later we adopted him. He needed someone. We needed someone.”

  “Kevin did that for me when our folks died.” I decided it wasn’t the time or the place to ask about Sam being Kevin’s murder suspect. “Did Kevin and Sam do well together?”

  She nodded. “Kevin got through to him. It took a while. Sam is a good boy. A great boy. He will be a good man in time.” The tiniest of smiles touched her lips and then faded abruptly. “I pray this does not start it all again. He hated the medication. I am unsure. Perhaps he needs them now.”

  “We’ll work on it, Noor. You and me.”

  She looked away for a long time with nothing in her eyes. She was far away, thinking, deciding. Then, something began to rise to the surface. “Kevin and I—we—our marriage—it has been empty for a long time. We stayed together for Sam. I am not sure it was the right decision now. Once, I loved Kevin. I did for a long time.”

  “It’s all right, Noor.” No other words would form. “It’ll be all right.”

  Sam returned from inside the house, served steaks and potatoes off the grill, took his plate, and dropped into a chair opposite Noor. We all took a few silent moments to eat. After half the meal and another half bottle of wine, Noor reopened the discussions.

  “Jon, the evening he was killed, Kevin spoke with Victoria at about eight. They spoke for a long time, and I think they argued. He left right after.”

  “What did they argue about?”

  She shrugged. “He did not say. He never did. We had not spoken much for months. He came and went at all hours. Most of the time, he worked with her, too.”

  She accented “her” with thick, oozing jealousy.

  “They slept in separate rooms,” Sam blurted out, unconcerned that he had violated a secret. He caught her glare. “You did.”

  Their marriage was over. Kevin knew. She knew. I’d pursue that another time. “How was he the night he was killed? I mean, was he okay?”

  “I do not know. Kevin was secretive. He was in his den, working. I brought him a beer. He was reading files. He acted strange when I walked in.”

  “How so?”

  Noor took a long swallow of wine. “He scolded me that I should knock. He jumped up and came around the desk like he did not wish me to see what was there. He ordered me from the room.”

  “What could he have been hiding?”

  “I do not know.” She shrugged again. “He was so odd the past few months. I did not know him. Ever since he discovered something about your parents’ death.”

  Wait, what? “My parents’ death? What was it, Noor?”

  “Nearly a year ago, he discovered that the man who killed your parents in the automobile accident was a foreigner. He was an Iraqi refugee. Something in Kevin changed. He brooded about it all the time, and once, when he had too much to drink, he yelled at me that foreigners took his life away. They took you away. I did not understand.”

  Jesus. “I didn’t know any of that, Noor. The guy was a drunk driver and hit our folks late one night. That’s all we ever knew. What difference did it make after so many years?”

  She shrugged. “None. But, it did to Kevin. He was so worried about money and began hating his job. He said he never finished college because of that man. He began blaming everything on that man. He blamed others, too.”

  “You and Sam?” I dared a glance at Sam, but he looked away. “You were once …”

  “Yes, Jon. I was once a refugee. One day we were happy. Problems yes, but happy, I thought. The next, I was one of ‘them.’”

  Sam started to speak, but Noor’s eyes silenced him. He returned to his steak.

  She wiped her eyes and changed the subject. “Have you learned about Khalifah or ‘G’?”

  “Yes, some.” I took a chance and told them about the note on my car and my meeting with “G” in a couple hours. I shouldn’t have. Good tradecraft meant keeping everything closely held and secret. But right then, with them sitting in front of me, honesty was the only thing that might finally bridge the gaps between us. “I’m meeting him later. I hope it leads to Kevin’s killer or at least Khalifah. Artie’s people have nothing. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  Sam grunted. “You’re meeting him alone? Shouldn’t the cops be there?”

  “No. If he wanted to go to the police, he wouldn’t have reached out to me.”

  He looked away. “You’re no cop.”

  “Enough, Sameh.” Noor’s words cut. She looked to me and her eyes had a question. “He has a point, Jon. If the police have
not learned anything, are you all we have?”

  All we have? “Yes. But Artie will come through. He’s on our side.”

  “Great,” Sam grunted. “You didn’t do so good with Bobby last night, did you?”

  I looked at Sameh and the air between us froze. “Actually, Sam, I did just fine. It turns out I was right. Bobby was hiding something. He took photos at the river before the police arrived. Those photos may have evidence about your dad’s murder. Maybe even why he was murdered.”

  “This is true, Jon?” Noor asked, putting a hand to her face. “You may have evidence? What is it?”

  I shook my head. “Not sure yet, but it’s in the photos. A missing backpack that I’m sure had money in it.”

  “Why didn’t Bobby tell me?” Sam snorted, pushing himself from the table. “I’ve called him twice this afternoon, and he’s not answering.”

  He better not be. “I have him somewhere safe for the night until I can set up protection. Azar and Fariq seem too interested in getting their hands on him. He’s safe for now.”

  “That is good, Jon.” Noor leaned over and took my hand. The gesture drew Sam’s ire and his arms snapped closed. She ignored him. “I wish you to stay here.”

  “Absolutely. At least until this is over. After, we’ll see.”

  Noor’s touch was warm and tender. Needful. It all unnerved me. It scared me to death. She scared me to death.

  She smiled a warm, comforting smile. “Good. I want you to move in.”

  Ah, what? “No, no. That won’t work.”

  “Yes, of course. We have a small apartment above the garage. It is not much, but you would be close. You could have meals with us, too.”