by Bobby Akart
Her mother’s career was considered stellar until politics got in the way. Her efforts accelerated research efforts on diagnostic and treatment approaches for the Ebola virus in West Africa. But when a single patient, a Liberian man, entered the United States and was diagnosed as having the Ebola virus, a media firestorm erupted. The man, who later died, was the first of several Ebola-infected individuals from both the medical community and ordinary travelers who entered the country.
Mac’s mother warned Homeland Security of the potential threat that more infected visitors posed to the health of all Americans. She was instructed to back off from creating an unnecessary panic. As Ebola began to spread in Africa and more cases were being reported in Europe and Central America, General Hagan took her case to the American people via a media interview with Good Morning America.
Pundits largely credited this interview with kicking off the delirium in the U.S. known as Ebolamania. Barbara thought that the potential for a deadly outbreak was being underreported. She also chastised the media for not reporting the practical steps everyone could take to avoid contracting the disease. By the time the interview had replayed in living rooms and on the Internet across the country, the media had created a frenzy.
All Ebola, All the Time was the phrase used by one CNN executive. The amount of ink spilled or computer bytes used on a story should be proportionate to the real impact on the public, but such was not the case with Ebola. No media outlet could restrain itself by reporting the facts without overexaggerating the entire story of the virulent disease. It was fake news on steroids.
The end result of her proclamations on Good Morning America that day was the resignation thrust before her by the President’s Chief of Staff when she was called to the White House for a tongue-lashing. She resigned and the Hagans found a quaint retirement home in Coos Bay, Oregon, where they lived a nondescript life.
The irony of the entire affair, one which infuriated Mac to this day, was that after her mom’s interview, not a single Ebola-positive person entered the United States and no one died of Ebola on American soil.
“Mom, I need to run something by you that’s not public knowledge,” started Mac. In her mind, there was no better advisor in the world on the potential spread of infectious diseases than her mom.
Chapter 30
Day Thirteen
Refugee Camp near Izmir, Turkey
The Quran promises that fighting the unbelievers, the infidels, will satisfy the breasts of a believing people and remove the fury in the believers’ hearts. It further encourages Islamists to fight them as Allah will punish them by your hands and will disgrace them and give you victory.
Prayers in the name of Allah provided Sayid and Adnan Ismat the inner peace required to carry out their task of infecting the entire camp of over two thousand Syrian refugees. They would draw their strength from the words of the Quran, inflicting the disease created by their brothers upon the children of Allah.
The commitment of jihadists was difficult for Westerners to comprehend. Holy war, in whatever form it took, was an integral part of Islam. The word jihad occurs in the Quran in one hundred sixty-four verses. Jihad as a form of war was sanctified by Mohammed as a special and divinely blessed activity. True believers in Islam, it was taught, considered it both a duty and an opportunity to gain in divine favor.
Throughout the centuries, Islam’s greatest philosophers, from the Persian Avicenna to modern author Ahmad al-Misri, exhibited a consistent feature of the writings of the finest minds in Islam—Islam must conquer the world.
The Ismat brothers, and thousands of others like them, were prepared to die for this belief. They had taken the steps necessary to protect their families. They’d made their peace, and now they were prepared to wage jihad against the infidels.
ISIS was more than a bunch of thugs running around the desert, shooting at people and blowing themselves up in marketplaces around the globe. They were astute readers of the political tea leaves as well.
When a narrow majority of Turks voted in a constitutional referendum to grant President Erdogan sweeping new powers, it was obvious that the fragile accord between the European Union and Turkey regarding the detention of migrants was coming to an end.
Rumors were circulating through the camp that the refugees would be told to leave within days. Turkish military had been more active in the area and one soldier confided to Sayid that the refugees would be escorted into Izmir and instructed to take specially commissioned ferries into several ports in Greece.
After prayer, Sayid announced to his team that the time had come. Upon the completion of their task, they would move quickly to another refugee camp to the north, which would be closer to the Bulgarian border. From there, the men would fly to Stockholm, carrying the weapons of jihad within their bodies and looking for the delicacies of Swedish women to pass along their disease.
That evening, American Baptist missionaries were escorted into the camp by a handful of Turkish soldiers. As complicated and sensitive as the situation was in the Middle East from a geopolitical standpoint, so was it tricky for Christian organizations that sent missionaries into Turkey to lend aid to the refugees.
Missionaries in the Middle East have always faced government restrictions on their activities, especially on any attempts to convert Muslims to Christianity. Instead, their tactic was to provide love, kindness, and assistance to those in need, hoping to show the refugees a better way of life.
Adnan, the younger of the brothers, initially scowled and made derogatory remarks at the Christians as they entered the camp. His older brother, a more seasoned ISIS operative, tamped down his brother’s attitude and convinced his team that the missionaries provided an opportunity.
Every evening, the missionaries brought packaged food, toiletries, and empty water containers that could be refilled by the refugees who worked in the fields during the day. Sayid befriended one of the elderly men and offered his assistance. He was now considered an able-bodied assistant, who even expressed an interest in learning more about Christianity, a lie which he begged for forgiveness from Allah daily.
On this evening, Sayid and his brothers would add poison to the empty water containers from the vials provided to him in Raqqa. Only a drop was sufficient, he was told. He told his brothers that these one hundred bottles of death would kill thousands here, tens of thousands in Greece, and hundreds of thousands around the world.
“Tomorrow,” he promised, “we will continue our holy war in another camp just like this one.”
“Allahu Akbar.”
Chapter 31
Day Thirteen
Greek National Intelligence Service
Athens, Greece
Intelligence services are by nature opaque. Their natural tendencies are toward autonomy, secrecy, and a strict avoidance of checks and balances that beset other government agencies. Within the global intelligence community as a whole, there was an unwritten understanding that at times, international cooperation transcended the wishes of the executive branches of their particular governments. While some might consider the concept of the deep state a conspiracy theory, when it came to intelligence agencies, working in the shadows was the only way to be effective.
Hunter traveled to Greece, knowing that his counterparts at the Greek National Intelligence Service, or GNIS, would be cooperative in his investigation. The intelligence game was a matter of give and take, as well as identifying common purposes. The war on terror had created many alliances as radical Islamic jihadists became global enemy number one.
Hunter’s contact at the GNIS, Georgios Doukas, was a longtime operative and a master at information gathering. He was an old-school, gumshoe detective who’d started his career knocking on doors and asking questions. As the technological age advanced, Doukas applied his well-honed detective skills using the tools that were provided him. He had a nose for intelligence, because to be a good detective, you had to think like a crook, a terrorist, or any other immoral and unethical person.<
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“Hunter, welcome back to Athens,” shouted Doukas up the sweeping stairwell leading to the bottom floor of the GNIS complex in Central Athens. Doukas, a balding, pudgy man, would not instill fear in anyone at first glance. Ask any of the famous politicians he’d brought down for corruption who were associated with the former Velentzas crime family, which had its roots in Athens, but tentacles spreading as far as New York. Doukas shouldn’t be underestimated. He earned the nickname Dr. Detective in his homeland for his efforts.
His latest test was an element of the Allied Democratic Forces, an ISIS affiliate of Ugandan origin that had recently made headlines in the Democratic Republic of Congo. In the midsize city of Beni, a government spokesman reported that over fifty bodies were found mutilated by machetes, believed to be the work of the ADF. It was the latest in a string of attacks that left over six hundred people dead.
The killings drew the attention of the Greek government and its Ministry of Public Order when it was revealed that two Greek scientists on loan to the International Medical Research Centre in the former French colony of Gabon were among the dead. The research scientists performed the majority of their work in the lab located in Franceville, so it was odd that they would be among the dead in DR Congo, some two hundred miles away.
It was this death and the possible connection to the destruction of the BSL-4 lab in Franceville that piqued Hunter’s interest. A bioterror connection was beginning to form and the Greeks might have uncovered a piece of a much larger puzzle.
“Yassou, Doc!” greeted Hunter as the two men embraced each other followed by a hearty handshake. “It’s been years, my friend.”
“Yassou to you, as well. Your Greek is rusty. It is an improvement over the days when you could only manage to say Állo oúzo parakaló.”
The two men laughed as Doukas patted Hunter on the back and led him down a darkened hallway.
“Well, after that visit, I’ve sworn off ouzo for life. I lost brain cells over that weekend.”
“We had much to celebrate,” said Doukas. “Taking down the resurgent Revolutionary Nuclei required an incredible effort by both of our countries. It is still talked about in these halls.”
“Speaking of which, I see you’re still working in the dungeon.” Hunter chuckled. He genuinely liked Doukas and it lifted his spirits to joke with the man who was twenty years his senior.
“Your arrival is most timely. We’ve apprehended one of the scum who participated in the Congo massacre. If you will indulge me, I need to have a conversation with him.”
Visions of his prior visit to Athens immediately entered Hunter’s mind. Hunter had interrogated bad dudes in the past with relative success, but the unobtrusive Doukas was the master whose skills were on a whole other level. His techniques and results were legendary in the intelligence community around the globe.
“Sure, I’ll wait until you’re finished with him,” said Hunter, who began to drop back as Doukas reached a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. Two officers of the Hellenic Police stood expressionless at the doorway.
“Not a chance,” said Doukas, motioning to Hunter to catch up. “I’d like you to be with me for the interrogation. Do you think you can play bad cop?”
“Of course, I suppose. But isn’t that your job?”
“Oh, it will be,” replied Doukas. “But better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, right, old friend? Just follow my lead.”
Doukas turned to the guards and gave them instructions in Greek. They immediately summoned two more officers from a nearby office and the four of them led Hunter and Doukas into the darkened room, where Hisham al-Moustafa hung from the ceiling with his hands shackled to a steel ring. The terrorist was completely nude and struggling to keep his footing. He scowled but failed to make eye contact. Despite his vulnerability, he was going to be a tough nut to crack.
Without speaking a word, Doukas reached into his pocket and pulled out a key ring. He made his way behind Moustafa and opened a door, which squeaked on its hinges, adding to the eerie effect of the silence in the room.
The medical-style implement tray was wheeled around in front of Moustafa. The normally shiny tray was rusted and stained with the blood of a prior interrogation. The tools of the trade were arranged haphazardly on top. A variety of scalpels, snips, saws and scissors stood at the ready.
Doukas circled the man, studying his facial expressions. “I have allowed you two days to live until my associate arrived. He has been busy with your associates in Libya. Their days are over, but not before your activities were exposed.”
“You know nothing, infidel,” hissed Moustafa.
Hunter didn’t need to play a role. This piece of crap had active intelligence that could tie the Greek scientists to the Franceville explosion and possibly elsewhere. ISIS was up to something, and Moustafa might have the answers.
He reached under the medical table and retrieved a surgical mask and protective gloves. Clipped to the underside by Velcro was a pair of clear protective eyeglasses. After donning the gear, he looked like someone who was about to get bloody. And he was.
“Why did you massacre the people in Beni?” demanded Doukas.
“I will say nothing to you,” replied Moustafa, who attempted to spit in Doukas’s direction but was unable to do so because of the dryness of his mouth.
Hunter picked up the scalpel and grabbed Moustafa by the hair to hold his head still. He poked the scalpel towards the man’s left eye and whispered, “Your mouth is dry. Are you thirsty?”
And then, without warning, Hunter sliced off the tip of the Libyan’s nose, causing blood to gush over his moustache and into his mouth.
Moustafa screamed in pain and the guards inched forward. Doukas had a look of shock on his face, as Hunter had gone off script. Hunter wasn’t sure if the interrogation tools were really covered in blood, or if they were only used as props. But the net effect was that Moustafa now had the requisite look of fear on his face that generally prompted loose lips.
Doukas seized the opportunity after shooting Hunter a glance. “Why did you kill those people? Answer me or my associate will continue!”
Defiant, the terrorist stuck his chin up and began to blow air from his mouth to keep the blood from entering. He muttered some form of curse words in Arabic, which prompted Hunter to reach back and land a punch directly on the man’s nose. The sound of breaking cartilage and bone overshadowed the loss of the tip of the nose. Mustafa was now drenched in blood as it flowed over his beard and down his chest and groin.
He moaned in agony from the excruciating pain, but managed to talk. “I am a soldier. I follow orders as given to me by Allah.”
“Allah-schmallah,” Doukas yelled in his ear. “Why?”
Hunter picked up a large set of pliers and walked closer to Moustafa, his hand held low near the man’s genitals. The terrorist’s eyes grew wider and he began to babble.
“They couldn’t be allowed to talk. They had to be silenced!”
Hunter stepped closer as the man attempted to twist his body to avoid the pliers.
“Why!” demanded Doukas.
“The experiment. The experiment. It failed with them. That’s all I know.”
Hunter stopped. A connection!
“What experiment?” screamed Doukas.
“I don’t know. I am but a soldier. This is all I know.” Mighty Moustafa began to choke on the blood pouring out of his nose and stretched in a desperate attempt to wipe the bloody mess from his face.
Doukas looked toward Hunter and shrugged. Hunter nodded, affirming that this was probably all the terrorist knew. If Hunter’s hypothesis was correct, it was likely Moustafa’s superiors wouldn’t have disclosed any more than what they just heard. Besides, Hunter really wasn’t interested in twisting the man’s penis around and around, although he knew it might elicit more conversation.
Chapter 32
Day Thirteen
Hellenic Centre for Disease Control and Prevention
/> Athens, Greece
Mac was deep in thought as she rode in the taxi from the Athens Airport into the city. The twenty-mile ride gave her an opportunity to take in her surroundings. She’d never been to Athens and had preconceived visions of massive ancient structures dotting the landscape in ornate Greek architecture. As they approached the city, her visions were doused.
The city’s streets and sidewalks were covered in garbage. Mac, who had conversed only briefly with her English-speaking driver, had to know what was going on.
“Sir,” she addressed the elderly gentlemen, “is there some type of garbage collectors’ strike? I have visited many European cities and I’ve never seen so much trash on the streets.”
“I am sorry for this bad first impression, miss,” he replied. “There are many reasons for the mess, but a strike is not one of them. To put it simply, Greeks are not interested in recycling and the refugees are not interested in cleanliness.”
“Wow, it’s so much,” said Mac, still amazed at the amount of refuse littering the landscape.
“Yes. One-third of our twelve million population lives in Athens. We’ve added nearly a million more in recent years, flooding in from Turkey, Syria and Libya. Greeks have no desire to recycle and the government is slow to create new landfills. The immigrants have no intention of remaining here permanently because there are no jobs. Therefore, they treat our once beautiful city as a temporary layover. They do not understand that the saying when in Rome, do as the Romans applies only to Rome, not Athens.”
Mac laughed at the man’s joke but then noticed the seriousness of his face and realized he might not be joking. She decided not to pursue the conversation further.
