by Bobby Adair
“And the mortality rate?” asked Najid.
“Of this strain—if it is a new strain—mortality can’t be known until the bodies are counted. Marburg, the only other Filovirus we know of, kills a quarter of those infected. Ebola Zaire is a vicious strain and kills ninety percent. Other strains kill as few as sixty.”
“With medical treatment will the mortality rate drop significantly?” Najid asked.
“Anecdotally, I must say yes, but Ebola, as frightening as it is, is rare. It hasn’t been studied enough for us to know the effects of treatment for certain.”
Najid eyed the doctor. “So only one in ten might be alive at the end.”
Dr. Kassis gestured to the hospital doors behind them. “You see how it is here. A disease that infects so many so fast does not have to do all the work of killing on its own. There are people in there who with good medical care might survive, but the medical staff and the facilities are overwhelmed. They have run out of everything they could use to treat these people. Many of these will die of secondary infections and causes. The death toll may surpass ninety percent wherever the disease attacks third-world populations.”
Analytical as always, Najid couldn’t help but ask more questions. “That makes sense to me, but is there medical data to back this up?”
Dr. Kassis looked at Najid. “How much do you know of Marburg virus?”
“I read much about these viruses on our trip here. However, I am certain that my knowledge is shallow. Please, tell me what you know.”
“Marburg virus was originally discovered in Germany—in Marburg, of course. So even though the virus was completely new to the doctors and the patients involved, of the thirty-one people infected, only seven died, nearly twenty-three percent.” Dr. Kassis concluded with half a shrug. “Modern country. Modern facilities.”
Najid leaned against the porch railing. “So it is not as lethal as Ebola.”
“No.” Dr. Kassis leaned on the railing beside Najid. “In Durba, in the late nineties, an outbreak of the familiar strain of Marburg and a new strain killed eighty-three percent.” The doctor pointed southeast. “That was in Congo, during a period of upheaval. People had little or no access to medical treatment. Again, in Angola in 2005, during one of the incessant civil wars, Marburg killed ninety percent. The people had no access to medical care. In my opinion, medical care makes all the difference in the survivability of these diseases.”
Najid smiled behind his mask, both for the fact that Dr. Kassis took the risk to volunteer an opinion, and for confirmation that he’d done the right thing in bringing the doctor to treat Rashid.
The doctor continued, “Imagine what will happen with Ebola, with its sixty to ninety percent mortality rate, when the number of cases overwhelms the fragile medical systems of the Third World.” He gestured at the closed doors. “As is happening here. It frightens me.”
“What of this experimental drug, ZMapp?” Najid asked. “I read they are treating infected American doctors with it.”
Dr. Kassis nodded. “And they seem to be responding well.”
Najid snorted disdainfully. “But there is only enough for a few Westerners, while Africans die by the hundreds. By the thousands tomorrow. Perhaps by the millions soon.”
Najid continued to speculate. “And all while the West hides on the other side of the oceans, hoarding their supplies and doctors, frantically working to mass produce their vaccines and treatments. It appears they may even succeed. All while they wring their hands and shed their crocodile tears over dying Africans and dying Arabs.”
The doctor nodded.
“At the end of it, months from now, the disease will reach their shores—that is inevitable—but by then they will be prepared. Over here, most of us will already be dead.”
“That may be true,” Dr. Kassis agreed.
“They will get what they’ve always wanted.”
The doctor took a moment to adjust his mask that felt like it was slipping down his face. “What’s that?”
“Africa, the Middle East, probably even China, and more. Everywhere Islam or communism is strong, the people will suffer and die, leaving the world to the West. That is what the West has always wanted—unchallenged power to exploit the resources of the world. Those of us who remain will be too weak and too few to do anything about it.”
Dr. Kassis adjusted his goggles to cover the top edge of his surgical mask. “Sadly, I can’t disagree with your analysis.”
“What would you do if you were me, I wonder?” asked Najid.
“I can’t—”
“Answer me honestly, Kassis. If only this one time in your life. Tell me what you would do.”
Kassis scraped the toe of his rubber boot on the concrete again, grinding into nothingness whatever was there. “I love your brother like my own son. But to bring him back may bring death to everyone you know. If I were you, I would leave Rashid in my hands to treat. I won’t tell you that I can save him. I can only tell you what I told you before we came, that I can give him a better chance to live. But you should leave this place. Go home and pray.”
When Najid spoke again, Kassis flinched, as though he were expecting harsh treatment for his bad choice to speak the truth. But Najid replied, “We are different men, with different stations in the life, different burdens. Thank you for your honesty, Dr. Kassis. I will ask that from this day forward, you speak your mind openly and honestly whenever I ask. I will not like what you tell me—I assure you I won’t. But I will need your honest counsel.”
“You shall have it then,” replied the doctor.
“Your trepidation will go away in time.” Najid put a hand on Dr. Kassis’s shoulder. “We came here to save my brother, nothing else. But I see now that Allah has led me here for another purpose.”
Najid called to one of his men, commanding him to retrieve the weapons from the SUVs. To the doctor, he said, “If this Ebola is airborne, it will kill many—if not most—men. That is a horror I cannot do anything about. I find it equally horrifying that the West may come through this unscathed. I will not allow that. I will not cede the world to them through my own inaction. Allah put me here for a reason. And that reason is to make this decision. When this disease ravages mankind, it will not be only brown bodies on the funeral pyres and in the mass graves.”
Chapter 24
Austin stepped over arms and legs sprawled off the sides of mats and cots as he made his way to the center aisle. When he was in front of the doctors, he asked, “Is it really airborne? Did it mutate?”
The Italian didn’t say anything.
Dr. Littlefield said, “Austin, I hope to God we’re wrong. But that seems to be the case.”
“We can’t know for sure without testing,” Dr. Giovanni said. “Regardless, transporting that boy is the stupidest thing that can be done for him and for public health.” He pointed at the front doors through which Najid and his men exited. “That man is an idiot.”
“We need to keep this strain isolated in Kapchorwa,” Dr. Littlefield added. “We can’t let Rashid leave.”
Austin pointed at the door. “What about those guys? How are you going to keep them here?”
“They’ll listen to reason,” Dr. Littlefield replied.
The Italian doctor said, “It won’t matter. I need to get my phone and make a call. It’s in my pocket but I can’t take it out, not in here. I need to get this suit off, and—”
“Is it a satellite phone?” Nurse Mary-Margaret asked. “If it is a cell phone you’ll have to call when you’re on the road back to Mbale. Our network is down.”
“It happens all the time here,” Dr. Littlefield added.
“It is a satellite phone,” Giovanni confirmed.
Dr. Littlefield turned to the Italian doctor, “You should go make that call.” He turned to Austin and in a quiet voice said, “Would you go outside and write down identifying information on those trucks they arrived in, just in case they decide to leave? I doubt they’ll follow proper decontaminat
ion procedures when they take off their gear. They could carry the virus with them when they go.”
Austin hurried toward the door. Before he got there, it opened, and he froze. Marching back inside were the men in the yellow Tyvek suits. One held a pistol, one a machete, two had AK-47s. The back door of the ward swung open. Three other yellow-suited men with AK-47s came in that way.
“Shit.”
Chapter 25
The HAZMAT guy with the pistol came to a stop a few paces in front of the dumbfounded doctors and started talking. Austin knew it was Najid. It was the same terse tone he’d heard on the phone.
Najid pointed the pistol at the tall Italian doctor. “You have a phone. Tell me where it is.”
The Italian took a defiant stance. “Go away little man. This is a hospital.”
Najid raised his pistol higher and pointed it at the center of the Italian’s face.
Dr. Littlefield raised his hands. “This isn’t necess—”
“Quiet,” Najid shouted. Everyone who still had enough wits to understand hushed.
Austin, without even thinking, was backing up in small steps, away from the tension, away from the raised weapons.
Najid said to the Italian doctor. “The phone.”
“No.”
Austin admired him for his bravery.
Najid looked to his right. The HAZMAT man with the machete sprang forward. He raised the blade high and brought it down on Nurse Mary-Margaret, catching her where the neck meets the shoulder. It cut deep, with the sound of a breaking bone, a gasp, and a shriek. Nurse Mary-Margaret crumpled to the floor. A few of the patients screamed.
Austin was struck dumb—paralyzed—as were the two doctors. His eyes were wide with fear. Why would they attack her?
The machete man raised the blade back and hacked once again into Mary-Margaret’s back. She grunted from the impact and blood poured out of her mouth. The machete man then hacked twice more across the back of her neck, and Nurse Mary-Margaret’s head rolled to the side as a bloody fountain spewed into a growing puddle on the floor.
Najid looked at Austin, then back toward the Italian doctor.
Austin looked at the front door and judged his chances of making it through. Just about zero. But he wasn’t going to stand by helplessly and end up hacked with a machete.
Najid said, “Doctor, your phone. Where is it?”
The Italian doctor’s defiant stance sagged into a slump as he looked down at the bleeding body of Nurse Mary-Margaret.
“The phone.”
Seconds ticked by as Austin accepted that they were the last of his life as he prepared to run for the door.
The Italian doctor said, “It is in my pocket.”
“Give it to me.”
The Italian doctor pulled off his protective mask, pulled back his hood and put his hands on the seam down the front of his blue suit. He pulled the seam apart and dropped the suit down over his shoulder, emerging from his protective cocoon with his defiance reborn, glaring at Najid. He put his hand in his pocket, pulled out his phone, pushed a button, and started dialing a number.
For a moment, Najid did nothing, but when the muted ring sounded through the quiet ward and the Italian raised the phone to his ear, Najid pulled the trigger. A spray of blood exploded from the back of the Italian’s head. The phone hit the floor as the doctor fell on his back.
Najid smashed the phone with the heel of his rubber boot, crushing the glass, and rendering it useless.
Najid looked at Dr. Littlefield. “Your phone?”
He pointed to the exam room. “It’s in there in the drawer on the right. It’s not a satellite phone, and there’s no service out here.”
Najid motioned to the man with the machete, who turned and walked hastily into the exam room. Najid turned his attention to Austin.
Austin didn’t need any instructions. He immediately reached under his apron and into his pocket, sure that he was leaving plenty of virions on his clothes. He was already infected, so what did it matter? He dropped his phone on the floor and stomped on it.
“Good boy,” Najid turned away from Austin, said something in Arabic, and motioned toward the patients and the few African nurses. A few of the HAZMAT men went to work checking patients and their bedding for phones, showing no concern for the people themselves—pushing them aside, rolling them over, throwing blood-stained pillows and blankets out of their way. The phones they found were immediately destroyed.
Chapter 26
“Why are you calling me?” Zameer asked.
Najid hesitated, looking for the right words. “An emergency.”
“What kind of emergency would you need my help with?”
“I need our special friends.”
There was a long pause. When Zameer spoke, he used a scolding tone. “You should not be calling me about this. You know who listens.”
“I know.” Najid knew there’d be some posturing and he was prepared to be patient—through some of it.
Zameer snorted. “Yet you call.”
“As I said, this is an emergency.”
“Tell me what you need so I can end this call before a drone flies over and kills my family.” Zameer was not pleased.
“You are not with your family,” replied Najid.
“You know which family I mean.”
“I do.” Najid was arriving at the end of his patience. “I need all of our special friends.”
Zameer forced a laugh. “You’re insane.”
“I am not.”
“It cannot happen, my friend. You know of their importance to his plans.”
Najid paused before answering. “I do.”
“And you ask as though you have the right. You may have a rich father—”
Najid felt a boldness rise in his chest. “A very rich father who may not live through the month. A father whose wealth I already control.”
“Why do I care about the wants of a rich boy who plays at hating the Americans, but rolls in their money?”
Najid thought about having Zameer killed by one of his contacts in the ISI, Pakistan’s intelligence agency. “I will get his approval. But I need our special friends on an airplane before the sun sets tomorrow.”
“That is impossible.” Zameer laughed again. “I told you. This is not for you to decide, but him.”
“He will agree.” Najid did little to mask his impatience. “I have a man on the way to speak with him now.”
“After your man speaks with him, I will be told in the usual way, and if he wants our special friends to go to you, they will. That is the end of it.”
Najid pretended to think about his next statement but he knew where the conversation would go before he dialed the number. “I will pay you fifty-thousand US for each.”
The offer had the desired effect. Zameer was speechless.
Sensing that he had found the sweet spot, Najid continued, “I will have the cash put in your hand personally to do with as you wish. It can be in your hands as early as tomorrow if you deliver our special friends to the airport in Lahore, dressed in the clothes that you received them in.”
“Their Western clothes?” Zameer asked.
“Yes.”
Zameer paused, “Even if I wanted—”
“Do not play that game with me. You want the money. Let us not disrespect one another with lies.”
“Do you know how much money we’re talking about?” Zameer’s skepticism was apparent.
And with that question, Najid knew the deal was done. The rest was a matter of running through the pretense so that Zameer would be able to sleep with a clean conscience. Najid said, “I know exactly how much.”
“It won’t matter,” Zameer answered. “He will have me killed before I have a chance to spend any of it.”
“I told you. You’ll have his permission before our special friends board their planes. I merely pay you now for expediting the process.”
“Time is that important?” asked Zameer.
“It is.”
“American money?”
“Yes,” Najid replied flatly.
Zameer confirmed the only real detail. “To have them in the airport at Lahore, we would have to leave tonight.”
“You are being compensated for just such inconveniences,” Najid answered.
“I don’t know.”
Najid had other calls to make. “Yes, you do. Don’t haggle with me. Take the money or I’ll call someone else who will. I do not threaten, but I must have this done today. You know as well as I that the next person I call may not have your degree of moral certitude. He may shed his morals and put a bullet in your skull to get his hands on that money. You, my friend, will make sure that this is handled as we discussed, with his blessing.”
Rattled, Zameer said, “I will do it.”
“You will need to act quickly to get our special friends down from the mountains and to the airport in Lahore. The first flights leave at noon. Do not be late.”
Chapter 27
Christoph Degen sat in the summer sun on the balcony of a room he’d rented for an amount that would seem obscene to the average Swiss man or woman. Those thoughts bothered him from time to time, but Zermatt—one of the most beautiful little mountain towns in the world—filled the valley below the hotel. Green mountains rose to the right and left and framed the Matterhorn in picturesque perfection down past the other end of the valley.
From where he sat he could see part way down the main road through Zermatt. He’d watched his wife and two daughters stroll the street, gawking in windows as they started their day of shopping. They were happy. He was happy. Summer holidays in Zermatt were magical.
And then the phone rang. Degen took the phone from his pocket as it rang the second time, saw who it was, and his vacation time—for the moment—became irrelevant. “Good afternoon, Mr. Almasi.”
“Mr. Degen,” Najid Almasi answered.
