by Harold Coyle
“Well, I’d like to think I can defend myself against the next hit squad that comes gunning for me. So we’re back to Square One. What can we do, if anything?”
“I’ll make some inquiries, Mike. I don’t know if I can do anything, but I’ll try. It’s going to take time, though.”
“Time’s short and the clock’s running, Joe.”
“Well, I do have one immediate suggestion.”
“Yes?”
Wolf grinned. “Don’t go anyplace without Sandy.”
BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE
“The Crusaders have been struck in their nest.”
Ali received the word with dispassionate interest. He turned to Kassim and said, “Tell me.”
“We have monitored press reports from Washington. Our operatives entered the headquarters of this… Strategic Solutions… and did much execution.” His tone changed as he added, “All three now rest with God.”
The Pakistani knew that his Syrian colleague was not devout, and briefly wondered at the man’s choice of words. Small matter — he serves our cause better than most. “What damage was done, Kassim?”
“At least six Americans were killed and others wounded. Damage to the facility is unknown but said to be extensive.”
Absorbing that information, Ali reckoned that it was good news but not decisive. Unless… “Who were the Crusaders that were killed?”
Kassim shrugged. “We have the names from the electronic sources but they mean nothing to me.” He cocked his head. “Do you have knowledge of their leaders?”
“No, but it should be a simple matter to compare the corporate managers with the dead. Should it not?”
Kassim realized that he could have gained that information before making the return trek to the border. Ali was nothing if not thorough, but this matter of pulling information off the internet was a vexation. Kassim understood radios and small arms and explosives — and loyalty and ruthlessness and courage. Little else had mattered in his life.
“Doctor, shall I return to our safe house? I can obtain the information you desire and return in…”
“No, brother.” Ali waved a placating hand. “Do it on your next scheduled trip. Meanwhile, what of the Crusaders in Quetta?”
“My men now watch them day and night. They have not moved. When they do, we will know.”
Ali rested his chin on his folded hands. Kassim recognized the sign: the doctor was thinking. Finally he said, “I believe we should issue them an invitation. Call for two trustworthy men.”
Kassim straightened, his face now drawn at the implied criticism. “Doctor, all of my men are trustworthy.”
“Of course, brother. Of course.”
14
SSI OFFICES
Rear Admiral Derringer met Homeland Security Secretary Burridge at SSI’s entrance. They warmly shook hands, exchanging Annapolis incantations.
“Go Navy,” Derringer intoned.
“Beat Army,” Burridge replied.
“Thanks for coming out here, Bruce. I know it’s inconvenient, but as I said, I can’t protect myself in the District.”
Burridge punched his classmate’s arm. “Hey, it’s good to get away from the office, and officially I’m in Florida. Besides, I’m traveling with more security than Gorbachev did.”
Derringer looked outside, scanning the street and buildings. “I didn’t see anything besides a couple of patrol cars.”
DHS grinned. “You’re not supposed to.”
In the secure briefing room, Burridge and his two senior bio threat officers settled down with SSI’s management team. The visitor opened the discussion. “Gentlemen, ladies, thank you for your cooperation. Ordinarily I wouldn’t inject myself into operational matters, but you appreciate the urgency of this case. There’s just too much at stake to risk something getting lost in the shuffle.”
Derringer lapsed into officialese. “Certainly, Mr. Secretary. Now, I believe we’ve both seen the reports from Pakistan and Jordan. Is there anything more recent?”
Burridge turned to the well-groomed woman on his left. “Ms. Ramirez is tracking our intel on this case.”
Consuela Ramirez was a biologist out of USC and Stanford. What she lacked in warmth — reportedly she was devoid of humor-she made up in dedication. “We’re doing it the hard way because there’s no recourse yet,” she began. “We’re working back-channel with a few Pakistani health officials, trying to narrow the search for doctors named Ali in the frontier areas. As you may imagine, that’s a huge job. Our best information shows about 108,000 doctors in Pakistan, but apparently the database is not wholly computerized.”
Derringer nodded. “Well, our teams are in-country, ready to go with a few local officials. All they need is an op area to start looking in Baluchistan. Or elsewhere, for that matter.”
Ramirez was visibly frustrated. “Excuse me, sir. We could work so much better if we could put more personnel on the ground. This way, we’re so limited.”
Burridge touched her arm. “We know, Consuela. The proverbial needle in a haystack. But State is adamant: there was eighty percent anti-American polling throughout the country before the plane crash. If anything, it’s higher now. We’re lucky to have the support we do.”
Joe Wolf tapped his pencil on the polished tabletop. “I’d like to discuss the Jordanian case. Is there anything linking that woman to the American boy? Had they been in the same areas?”
“Not yet, Joe, but that’s the way to bet.” Burridge had been out of the trenches for years; now he remembered why he had accepted a cabinet position with such reluctance. “We know the American definitely was in Baluchistan. The young woman’s extended family is from Peshawar but she left there weeks ago, presumably for treatment of pancreatitis in Islamabad. She could’ve gone anywhere, including Baluchistan.”
“Any similarities to their travel arrangements?”
Burridge looked again at Ramirez. “No. He left from Islamabad while her flight originated in Karachi. But when it turned out that she had Marburg, that was too much of a coincidence so we assume both carriers were injected by the same people. Obviously she was headed for Israel, though how she was going to enter the country is unknown.”
Derringer caught Burridge’s eye. “Then we must make another assumption: there will be more carriers, maybe from other countries. Back-tracking multiple suspects will be even harder.”
Burridge inhaled, held his breath, then expelled it. Here comes something else, Derringer thought.
“Mike, that’s not all. We’re heard from reliable sources that other bio weapons are actively under development. The most serious seems to be a plant virus that attacks grain, especially wheat. Now, obviously that’s not of immediate concern to SSI, but I think you should know that we’re possibly facing a multi-axis attack from well-organized, competent forces that may not even be working together.”
Wolf emitted a low whistle. He looked around the table and noticed that Sandy Carmichael’s hands were now clenched fists. “How might we become involved, sir?”
Burridge produced a short document and slid it across the table. “We cannot afford an attack on our food supply any more than we can afford an oil boycott. Depending on what might turn up, SSI could be deployed to other countries for purposes of deniability. That paper contains names, numbers, and the CVs of scientists and field agents who could prove helpful to you. Feel free to contact them — they’ve all been vetted.” He looked around. “We won’t be scrambling for last-minute scientific help next time.”
Derringer exchanged glances with George Ferraro, his chief financial officer. Both men realized that SSI had just been offered an open-ended contract. Discussion of that happy prospect would have to wait.
“Bruce, just for background. If Marburg or something else explodes here, how’s the government going to deal with it?”
“Well, that’s more FEMA’s bailiwick, but there’s contingency plans for local, state, and federal agencies. Most of the players know each other by now. Me
anwhile, we’re still working up to full strength of thirty-two National Guard emergency response teams. They’re trained to deal with WMD attacks, though something like anthrax in a major metro area probably would be impossible to contain. As far as nukes…” He shrugged. “Hell, a couple of backpacks could come across the border on horses or burros.”
Wolf sat upright in his chair. “Animals!” He smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead — what he called “the marine salute” when Leopole was not around. He rifled through a stack of papers. “Why didn’t I think of it before?”
Derringer asked, “Think of what, Joe?”
“Here! I thought I remembered it!”
“For petesake, what?”
“Animals! In Mannock’s notes, Jason’s mother said he worked in an animal shelter. The kid wanted to be a vet but didn’t have the grades. One of his letters goes into some detail about sheep and goats.”
“Yeah? So?”
Wolf unleashed a grin that could in fact have been called wolfish. “So… maybe our Dr. Ali is a veterinarian!”
15
SSI OFFICES
Joe Wolf had done his homework, and then some.
He had been up almost constantly for fifty hours, working the internet, maintaining email contact with Pakistan and Britain, and making phone calls at rude hours. At 0845 he walked into Derringer’s office.
“My god, Joe, you look awful!”
Wolf laughed. “You should see me from this side of my eyeballs.”
Derringer stood and offered his domestic ops chief some coffee. Wolf waved it away. “I’ve lived on the stuff since yesterday afternoon and I’m still wired. I may not come off my caffeine high for days.”
“I’ll whistle up some juice and rolls.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Wolf slumped into a chair and plopped a notepad on the desk.
Derringer picked it up. “What’ve we got?”
“What we’ve got is Dr. Saeed Sharif, DVM. At least I think that’s who we want. Everything fits: geography, timing, and known activities. The other prospects are far less likely.”
“What about our mysterious Dr. Ali?”
“Looks like an alias. Sharif is a leading veterinarian in Baluchistan. Very highly regarded — does all kinds of good work among the heathen. If he were Catholic, he’d be an odds-on candidate for sainthood.”
Derringer nodded. “Okay, but what’s the al Qaeda connection?”
Wolf massaged his temples, blinking his reddened eyes. “It’s a long story. Sharif attended veterinary school in England during the 1980s. Evidently he had a real good time. That’s not unusual for Muslims. I knew a couple of Saudis in college, and they burned the candle at both ends because they knew once they returned home the good times would come to a screeching halt.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So… Sharif had a very good scholastic record — what we’d call an A and B student without much effort. And here’s the kicker — he took some optional classes in microbiology. Anyway, he had time to play, and he played the field. He got a couple of girls preggers, as the Brits say, but his family bought them off. He was also a boozer, evidently a borderline alcoholic. But he got his degree in ‘88 and returned to Pakistan and opened his own practice.”
Derringer rubbed his chin. “That doesn’t sound like a candidate for a Muslim fanatic.”
“Well, somewhere along the way he got religion. I’ve not been able to track that yet. But he pops up as a player in 1991, about the time…”
“Desert Storm.”
“Check.” Wolf looked around. “Uh, Mike, about the juice and rolls?”
“Oops, sorry.” Derringer buzzed the outer office and relayed the request. “Go ahead.”
Wolf sat up straighter, ordering his thoughts. “At first he was more vocal than active, but after the Russians left Afghanistan in ‘89 he became more interested in the Taliban. He disappeared for several months in ‘92 and again at odd intervals. Apparently he was back and forth across the border. He may even have known bin Laden. Anyway, he was certainly no friend of the U.S. He resented the American presence and our support of the Northern Alliance, especially since Afghanistan had mostly been a Muslim theocracy before 9-11.”
“Any idea what turned him around?”
“Just a theory. I’ve been working with Dave Dare — or at least I think I have!” Wolf chuckled at the insider’s joke. Allegedly Derringer was the only SSI member who had ever met the mysterious intelligence chief. “The contact has all been by email and phone. Anyway, you were right about him. Whatever the reason he left NSA was a real bonus for us. He put his research people on the case and they gave me some promising leads. I was able to track a couple of Sharif’s vet school classmates and one of them kept in touch with him for about a year and a half afterward. He says that Sharif began to regret the good times he spent chasing and boozing, and was trying to redeem himself. I’ve had a couple of emails with Omar, who says that makes sense. He says that Islam accepts those who repent their evil ways and devote themselves to spreading The Word.”
“Well, it looks like this Sharif is spreading a lot more than The Word.”
“Damn straight. He’s spreading the Marburg virus.”
QUETTA AIRBASE
Leopole sat at the head of the table in SSI’s improvised headquarters, joined by Omar Mohammed and the team leaders. “Gentlemen, I’ve heard from Arlington again. I asked them what we really know about Sharif or Ali or whoever he is, and the research division has been working overtime.”
“What’d they find out?” Foyte asked.
“Mainly what you’d expect of somebody with his background. He’s smart, maybe brilliant. Just getting into vet school is an accomplishment — sometimes it’s easier to get into medical school. He had excellent grades and conducted some independent study in microbiology. That fits with bio terror, but of course that came years later.”
Steve Lee appeared relaxed, polishing the lenses of his glasses. “Okay, that’s the doctor. What about the man?”
“That’s the best of it,” Leopole responded. “Dave Dare and Joe Wolf worked up a likely profile. We know from Ali’s college pals that he was a boozer and a chaser in his youth. At some point, likely in the early ‘90s, he became a born-again Muslim, probably because of his work with the Taliban in Afghanistan. He maintains a successful clinic in Islamabad but that’s evidently a way to fund his pro-bono work with poor farmers and tribesmen. Dr. Mohammed says it’s likely that the do-gooder in him led to the Marburg project as a way of redeeming his misspent youth.” Leopole nodded to his colleague.
Mohammed consulted his notes. “According to the Hadith, if a Believer repents his evil actions and resolves not to repeat them, he can atone for his past by performing many righteous deeds.” He looked up from the paper. “I think that’s important — there’s a distinction between righteous deeds and good deeds, or hasanaat. Ali obviously believes that his Marburg project is righteous — beyond mere good deeds. He certainly doesn’t think he’s performing sayi ‘aat, or bad deeds.”
“That seems the size of it,” Leopole said. “Apparently Ali is trying to save his soul, and that’s a powerful motivation. It tells us that he’s not going to roll over.”
Fidgeting in his chair, Gunny Foyte grew impatient with the psychological mumbo jumbo. He had cheerfully capped an assortment of dinks, spies, and ragheads in his career, and he never found that their motivation made the slightest ballistic difference. “Why don’t we pay a visit to his clinic?”
Leopole permitted himself a rare smile. “We’re going to — at 0200 day after tomorrow. Depending on what we find, we’ll turn things over to the Pakis or we’ll lock the door as we leave.”
“So you don’t expect to find the good doctor on-site,” Foyte said.
“No, near as we can tell, he’s still in Baluchistan, somewhere around Chaman on the Afghan border.”
Lee put his military-issue glasses on again. “Okay, who goes to the big city?”
“I’m sending this your way, Steve. Pick the men you want— probably about six or eight — but leave your snipers and best field operators in case we need them here. Then check with Terry. He’ll have the 727 ready this afternoon. I’m coordinating with General Hardesty, who will clear things with the Paki police via the embassy.”
“You mean we’re working with the locals? I don’t think that’s…”
“No, no. Negative.” Leopole waved a hand. “He’s merely on call in case they get involved. Obviously, we won’t risk a security breach just for the sake of being courteous to our hosts.”
Lee sat back, mollified. “Roger that. If it goes like it should, nobody will know we’ve been there. But I’d like to arrive in time to survey the site in daylight, probably with my B and E guy.”
Mohammed wore a quizzical expression. “B and E?”
“Breaking and entry, Doctor.” Lee grinned at the seeming irony. “Yeah, it’s illegal as hell, but we’re not stealing anything unless we find the virus. In which case we’re doing some righteous work ourselves.”
“Quite so,” Mohammed chuckled.
“Rix is really good at picking locks and neutralizing security systems, so the whole op should be covert. If we’re busted, I imagine that General Hardesty will arrive in the nick of time.”
Leopole nodded again. “Roger. He’s tight with the chief of police and other security agencies. You’ll meet him right after landing.” Leopole almost adjourned the meeting. “Oh, it goes without saying that Dr. Padgett-Smith will go. She’s needed to ID any suspicious elements in the office.”
“Can she do it right there? I’d think it’ll take some time.”
“You’re right, Steve. She’ll have some biohazard containers to transport anything suspicious, and Hardesty is arranging for access to a government lab. She said that’s likely to take several hours at least.”
“Where is she, anyway?”
“She’s at the range with some of Red Team, getting more trigger time.”
