Pandemic

by Daniel Kalla

  “Yes, of course,” Nantal agreed. “But aside from the nineteen-year-old girl who died in hospital, the other Vancouver victim was pulled out of a river.” He paused. “And she had a bullet hole between her eyes.”

  CHAPTER 22

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Ran Delorme had worked for the Agency for six months, but the twenty-four-year-old doubted he would be able to handle one more day at Langley. He had never expected (though he secretly hoped) to walk off the street and into James Bond’s life, but neither had he expected to spend twelve hours a day in front of a computer reading mindnumbingly boring e-mails, which Carnivore had plucked out from the high-tech sewer of global chatter. Words like “terrorist,” “bomb,” and “hijacking” found their way into the most mundane of e-mails, but Carnivore did not know any better so the piles of “suspicious” e-mails accumulated daily to be reviewed by human eyes; in other words, Delorme and his hapless colleagues.

  Delorme glanced at the clock: 11:50 A.M. He figured he could trash twenty more e-mails before lunch. He breezed through the first eighteen. He had scanned two paragraphs of the nineteenth before the red flags went up.

  He read the e-mail again, and then printed it out. His hand trembling slightly, he highlighted the last sentence in yellow: “I cannot exclude the possibility of terrorism or the use of the virus as a weapon.” He glanced from the name at the bottom of the e-mail to the electronic source. They both read: “Dr. Ping Wu.”

  Delorme’s eyes darted around in search of a date stamp. They locked on to a date in the screen’s bottom comer, which proved the e-mail was sent over a week earlier from somewhere in China. He tapped a few keys and the computer spat out a more specific location for the e-mail’s source: Jiayuguan City, Gansu Province.

  Gansu! He felt butterflies in his stomach. He had just read an article in the morning’s paper on how the Gansu Flu was sweeping London.

  Forgetting about lunch, his hand shot out in search of the phone.

  HARGEYSA, SOMALIA

  Hazzir Kabaal, Major Abdul Sabri, and Dr. Anwar Aziz sat in Kabaal’s office staring at the tape recorder on the desk.

  Kabaal hit the play button. There was a hissing sound, before a voice spoke up in Arabic. At thirty, the spokesman was one of oldest fighters in the compound. Physically nondescript, he had been chosen because of his anonymity and his deep raspy voice. “I am a representative of The Brotherhood of One Nation,” the man said. “In the name of God and Jihad, we have struck at the hearts of our enemy. We have unleashed a new weapon in our holy war!” His voice quavered. “We have brought the outbreaks of the Gansu Flu to London, Hong Kong, Vancouver, and Chicago. More cities will follow soon if the fools and infidels do not heed our demands.”

  A pause was filled by the sound of a page turning. “All American and Coalition soldiers must immediately withdraw from the holy soil of Iraq, Afghanistan, the Arabian Peninsula, and all other observant nations,” the spokesman said. “These same aggressors must desist in their threats to Syria and Iran, and withdraw their military and financial support for the Israeli oppressors.” He paused again, this time for effect. “There will be no negotiation. If withdrawals have not begun within four days of today, an army of martyrs will be unleashed upon the cities of the West.” His tone dropped an octave. “Let the blood be on the hands of that criminal, the American President.” He paused one last time. “It is God’s way. Allah be praised.”

  The tape hissed again before Kabaal reached over and hit the stop button.

  Sitting stiffly in his lab coat, Aziz did not comment, but he appeared acutely uncomfortable; a scientist who had inadvertently strayed into a foreign world of politics.

  Sabri looked at Kabaal inexpressively. “Where will you send this tape?” he asked.

  Kabaal leaned calmly back in his chair. “We will courier it to Al Jazeera Network and Abu Dabi TV. We will also e-mail a translation to the Western news outlets.”

  “When?”

  “In a few days, when this next wave of virus has fully taken hold.” Kabaal pointed at the tape recorder. “What do you think of the message?”

  Sabri rocked his head slightly from side to side. “It is not specific enough.”

  Kabaal frowned. “I don’t understand, Abdul. What more could we say?”

  “There is no mention of us,” Sabri said.

  “Of course there is. He talks about The Brotherhood—”

  Sabri stopped him with a raised palm. “You miss my point, Abu Lahab.” He pointed his finger from Kabaal to Aziz to himself. “Where are we mentioned?”

  Kabaal gripped his desk. “Are you suggesting we tell the world that Abdul Sabri, Anwar Aziz, and Hazzir Kabaal are behind this?”

  Sabri nodded.

  Kabaal gaped at Sabri, questioning the major’s sanity. “Except for making it easier for them to find us, what possible purpose would that serve?”

  Sabri tilted his head at Kabaal. “Why do you think Osama sends videotapes confessing—no—boasting about his involvement?”

  “Adulation?” Kabaal shrugged. “What does this have to do with him?”

  Sabri shook his head again. “He offers his name so the faithful have a hero to look to. If Al Qaeda had no face, they would not inspire and incite the people the way they do. Osama gives them strength and courage. He gives them a leader. And he draws them to the flame.”

  Kabaal shook his head. “They already have Osama for inspiration. Our purpose is to achieve a more tangible goal. And now we have the weapon to do it.”

  Sabri frowned. Coming from anyone else, it wouldn’t have meant much. But his impassiveness was so built into his blank face that the slight grimace conveyed a torrent of emotion. “Something else is bothering you, Major?” Kabaal asked.

  Sabri looked down. “I want them to know,” he said quietly.

  “Who?”

  Sabri’s head shot up, his pale blue eyes burning. “They are my former superiors in the Egyptian Special Forces.”

  “You want them to know you have joined us?” Kabaal’s jaw dropped. “Why?”

  “For twenty years, I did whatever they asked of me,” Sabri said.

  Mouth still open, Kabaal shrugged.

  “Don’t you understand?” Sabri glared at him. “They made me fight my own people. They made me torture, maim, and kill my Muslim brothers for abiding by the word of God.” He tapped his chest. “And I was a good soldier. I went along with it.”

  Kabaal stared at his lieutenant, astounded by the outpouring.

  “I became very good at it, too. I did things other people didn’t have the stomach, the guts, or the brains to do. And the more I killed, the more they wanted from me.” Sabri’s facial features looking even more feminine creased in indignant outrage. “And after doing their dirty work for twenty years they chose not to advance me. To keep me at the same measly rank of major. Do you know why?”

  Kabaal shook his head. Aziz stared at the desk, avoiding eye contact with Sabri.

  “Because I had too much blood on my hands!” Sabri said.

  Kabaal didn’t comment.

  “They said my reputation preceded me. That I had become infamous for my tactics. And now that political winds had changed, they could not afford to alienate certain people by recognizing me for my ‘ruthlessness.’ ” He laughed bitterly. “I gave them my soul. I betrayed my people and my God. And they reward me by telling me I did it too well. And I could never be more than a contemptible major!”

  Kabaal didn’t reply. Shocked as he was by Sabri’s uncharacteristic effusion, the pieces suddenly fit. He finally knew why Sabri had joined their cause. As Kabaal had long suspected, it had little to do with piety. But Kabaal never before understood the real driving force: Sabri was out to wreak his vengeance on those who had overlooked him for promotion.

  His face blank, Sabri retreated to a more familiar pose.

  Kabaal wondered if Sabri regretted the outburst. Kabaal didn’t. For him it came as a relief. It removed the unkno
wn from Sabri’s motives, which had hung over Kabaal as a potential threat. And from his years in the newspaper business, Kabaal knew that motive was often inconsequential to result. Sometimes the people driven by the pettiest reasons, like greed and envy, reaped the biggest yields of all.

  With the insight Kabaal felt empowered. He smiled paternally at Sabri. “Listen, Abdul, the world will one day know who you are, but not yet. It is too early. And it would jeopardize the operation.”

  Sabri nodded distantly.

  Kabaal pointed at Sabri. “Soon though it will be safe to tell. And tell we will. Mark my words, Abdul. They will come to deeply regret not making you a general or even their commander-in-chief.”

  “I will wait for now,” Sabri said coolly. “But one day soon ...”

  CHAPTER 23

  AIR CANADA FLIGHT 372

  Savard and Haldane caught the first direct flight to Vancouver out of Heathrow while McLeod stayed behind in London, promising to “clean up the bloody mess.”

  Recognizing that it would be his last chance at sleep for some time, Haldane dozed on and off in his window seat. It was a restless sleep punctuated by unsettled dreams and one memorable nightmare. In the dream, corpses lay piled on the streets, the same way they had in that village he had seen in Zaire during the Ebola rampage. Except these were not the dirt roads of Zaire, but the familiar streets of his own Glen Echo Heights neighborhood. And the bodies littering the sidewalks were those of his friends and neighbors. The only person left standing, Haldane dashed from corpse to corpse, gaping into the familiar faces of the dead, looking not for any index case but for his own family members.

  Haldane woke with a start. He looked over to see Gwen speaking in hurried, hushed tones on the in-flight “air phone.”

  She hung up and glanced at him with a distracted grin. “Back from the dead, are we?”

  Haldane pulled himself up in his seat and brought it forward. “Just a catnap.”

  Her brow creased. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  “Indian food for dinner.” With his palms, he wiped the sleep from his eyes. “I always have vivid dreams when I eat spicy stuff.” He pointed from the phone to the laptop. “Are you rounding up the troops in D.C.?”

  “With something like this there are a lot of people and agencies to coordinate. It’s a massive logistics headache.”

  “Hmmm,” he said. “Are there any skeptics left?”

  Savard shook her head slightly. “The bullet in the Vancouver index case buried the last of the doubt.” She eyed him steadily. “Besides, Noah, the first cases have shown up stateside.”

  Though the news wasn’t unexpected, he felt violated, as if his home had just been broken into. “Where?” he asked.

  “Chicago.”

  “How many?”

  “Four so far,” she said.

  “The link?”

  “Football.”

  “Football?”

  She sighed. “All the victims were at the Bears’ game at Soldier Field three days ago.”

  “A football game,” he snorted. “I know several of Chicago’s ID guys,” he said in reference to the infectious disease specialists. “They’re world class. I have no doubt they’ll handle this well.”

  “Can it be handled well?”

  Haldane didn’t answer. The soft hum of the aircraft filled the lull in their conversation. Finally, Haldane asked, “Gwen, do you have kids?”

  “No. My husband... ex-husband... estranged husband ...” She laughed uncomfortably. “We’re separated, and I can never keep the terminology straight. We tried for a while, but it wasn’t to be.” She paused. “Truth is, we always seemed to put career in front of family. Shocking that we ended up apart, huh?” She uttered another laugh. “And you?”

  “I’ve got a little girl, Chloe.” His smile came out of nowhere.

  She pointed at his jeans. “Can I see the photograph?”

  “How do you know I carry one?” he asked as he reached for his wallet.

  “Bet you carry more than one.”

  “Mea culpa,” he said and flipped open his wallet to show her the side-by-side snapshots. The first caught Chloe in the midst of an openmouthed giggle, and the other, with a demure eyes-to-the-ground pose for the preschool photographer. “She’ll be four soon,” he said.

  “Sweet.” Savard took the wallet from his hand. She studied both photos and then held them up to compare to Noah’s face. “I see a lot of you. Especially in this goofy shot.” She tapped on the laughing Chloe.

  “Thanks ... I think.” He took the wallet back and slid it into his pocket.

  “Noah, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Okay.”

  “Family means an awful lot to you, right?”

  “I was bracing for a tougher question than that.” Haldane frowned. “Yes, it does.”

  Her expression didn’t waver. “You must travel a lot with your WHO job?”

  “Not always. In the last couple of years with SARS, the Avian Flu, and now the Gansu Flu, I have been gone for long stretches. Though, I know what you’re getting at. Each time it does get harder to be away from my family... from Chloe.” He hesitated. For a moment, he considered telling her about his own recent estrangement, but decided he didn’t know Savard well enough to lay his mess at her feet. “I doubt I can do this for much longer, but one of the few perks of being an emerging pathogens expert is that you get to see the bugs where they live and kill, which thankfully is almost always some faraway exotic place.” Then he added, “Or at least it used to be.”

  She brushed the strands of hair back from her eyes. “You didn’t expect one to make its way so close to home.”

  He wet his dry lips with his tongue. “I never expected anyone to go to such an effort to bring it home.”

  Her eyes held his. “Does it really surprise you, Noah?” “Don’t know about surprise, but it pisses me off.” He paused, and then said quietly, “And it scares the hell out of me.”

  VANCOUVER, CANADA

  Four Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers met them at the Vancouver International Airport. Haldane had the naive expectation that all Mounties routinely wore the red and black uniforms with jodhpurs and wide brim hats of the famous musical ride, but these RCMP wore standard gray-green police uniforms. The senior officer introduced herself as Sergeant Monique Tremblay, a homicide detective. Tremblay was tall, thin, and looked to be in her late forties. She spoke with a trace of a French-Canadian accent and with short hair brushed forward in gelled spears and her funky stained-glass earrings, she managed to infuse her nondescript uniform with a flare of élan.

  “Parlez-vous français?” Tremblay asked Savard when she heard the surname.

  “Un peu, mais il y a personne ici avec qui je peut parler en français,” Gwen said, and then switched to English. “My dad was born in the States. He didn’t speak any French. I took a few courses in college out of ancestral guilt.”

  “D’accord. I’m from Montreal, but no one speaks French in Vancouver, either.” Tremblay smiled and led them to her unmarked police sedan waiting out front. Haldane climbed into the back, leaving the front seat for Savard. As they drove, Tremblay explained, “The body surfaced on the south bank of the Fraser River.”

  “Which is where?” Savard asked.

  Tremblay pointed ahead to an approaching bridge. “We’re just about to drive over the Fraser on the Arthur Laing Bridge. The river marks the southern border of Vancouver proper, dividing her from the suburbs like Richmond where we are now. Had she washed up on the Vancouver side, the RCMP wouldn’t be involved. It would be a Vancouver Police Department matter,” she said.

  “Lucky you,” Haldane said.

  “You think?” Tremblay laughed. Once on the bridge she pointed to her right. “The body was found about four miles east of here by a man walking his dog along the river at dawn.”

  “And she had been shot?” Savard asked.

  Tremblay nodded. “Small caliber bullet
in the forehead. Exit wound in the back of her skull. No sign of the bullet.”

  “Any chance of suicide?” Savard asked.

  “Doubtful,” Tremblay said. “The Forensic Ident guys say that the gunshot wound is incompatible with self-induced injury, but more compelling are the deep gouges around her ankles.”

  Savard nodded. “Ligatures?”

  “Yes,” Tremblay said. “We believe she was weighted down by something, but her legs must have slipped free of the cord anchoring her.”

  Gwen looked over at the detective. “Can you describe her?”

  “She was darker skinned—central Asian, Persian, or more likely of Arab origins. Probably mid-twenties. Five feet one inch with long curly black hair. No ID on her. Dressed in jeans and blouse. Her entire outfit came from the Gap, so it’s not going to help us narrow down her origins much.” Tremblay sighed. “Her description fits the one from the witnesses at the Vancouver Aquarium. Allegedly, she walked around the Aquarium going from show to show coughing on people.” She smacked her steering wheel once with a clenched fist. “She has already killed a nineteen-year-old Aquarium employee. Who knows who is next? She might as well have emptied a loaded magazine into the crowd!”

  “No leads?” Savard asked.

  “Nothing so far. We don’t know where she died, or even where the body was dumped. It’s possible it was farther east toward New Westminster and then floated down. And there are no missing persons who fit her description.” She sighed. “We need a big break on this one.”

  Haldane leaned forward and rested his elbows on the front seats’ headrests. “I think her body surfacing is the break,” he said. “Now we had better capitalize on it.”

  The conversation lapsed. Haldane stared out the window at the snowcapped mountains and the lush greenery of the strikingly pretty city around them. He had a soft spot for Vancouver. The world-class outdoors activities in the city where “the mountains kissed the sea” had so enticed him that he once considered relocating there to work in HIV research, but Anna hadn’t wanted to move so far from her family.