Pandemic

by Daniel Kalla

  Lying on the cold leather, she was overcome by nausea. The car’s interior whirled. She swam on the seat. Her eyelids felt heavy. A faint taste of vanilla replaced the leather. She fought to stay conscious, willing her body to resist whatever she had been injected with, but the taste grew stronger.

  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stave off the encroaching blackness.

  CHAPTER 40

  DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY, NEBRASKA AVENUE CENTER, WASHINGTON D.C.

  Haldane was the first to arrive at the DHS building. Gwen’s secretary, Arlene, led him into Savard’s office and brought him a fresh coffee. She passed it to him with a warm smile, and Noah wondered for a fleeting irrational moment if Arlene had heard about his date with her beloved boss.

  Why would it matter? he wondered. Despite his lasting buzz from their promising kiss, Haldane couldn’t shake the nagging guilt. Maybe he wasn’t ready yet. As he wrestled those thoughts, Alex Clayton strode into the room dressed in an entirely black ensemble from jacket to shoes, which only Clayton could pull off. “Noah.” He nodded. “How are you? Did you have a good dinner?”

  Haldane knew that he was not imagining the recognition in Clayton’s eyes. “Fine,” he said without elaborating. “You?”

  Clayton shrugged. “Dinner alone in front of the basketball game.”

  They fell into an awkward silence, broken when McLeod burst into the room. Without acknowledging Haldane or Clayton, he called over his shoulder, “Arlene, dear, I’m home.”

  Soon, the young homely secretary walked in bearing more coffees and a big smile for McLeod.

  McLeod winked at her. “Ah, Arlene, if you were ten years older and not American ...” Haldane knew he added the last few words for Clayton’s benefit.

  Clayton rolled his eyes.

  McLeod looked from Haldane to Clayton. “Where’s our gorgeous leader?”

  “She must have had a late night,” Clayton said and fired a glance at Haldane.

  When they had finished their coffees without any sign of Gwen, Haldane reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He tried her cell number but reached her voice mail after five rings. “Gwen, we’re waiting in your office, give me a call if you get this.” He hung up and dialed her home phone number and left the same message for her.

  Haldane put away his phone and held up his palms. “Well?”

  Clayton checked his watch. “I’ve got to get back to Langley in just over half an hour. The Director’s called an urgent meeting.”

  “Why?” Haldane asked. “A development?”

  Clayton looked from McLeod to Haldane, and Noah had the feeling he was weighing whether or not to trust them. “I was going to wait for Gwen, but ...” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two folded pages.

  Clayton opened the first page and laid it out on the table in front of them. A photocopy, the Arabic letters on it were written in perfect penmanship.

  Haldane and McLeod both leaned forward for a closer look. “What is it?” Haldane asked, alarms sounding in his head.

  “We heard from the Egyptians late last night,” Clayton said. “Apparently, Abdul Sabri sent this letter to his former commanding officer in the Egyptian Special Forces. The one who overlooked him for promotion.”

  “When?” Haldane tapped the page with a finger.

  “It was postmarked the day after Operation Antiseptic, but as best we can assess it was sent the day before the raid.”

  Haldane took little consolation in knowing that the letter alone did not confirm Sabri lived through Operation Antiseptic. “Where was it sent from?” he asked.

  “Cairo.”

  McLeod picked it up for a closer look. “What does it say?”

  Clayton unfolded the second page, which bore an English translation, and placed it on top of the original text.

  Haldane read the letter silently.

  General,

  For twenty years, I served loyally in your army. I performed every order I ever received. I accomplished every mission you or your designates ever set for me. I excelled where others would not have dared try.

  Never questioning my orders, I fought the faithful of the Jihad. And on behalf of you and your illegitimate regime, I tortured and killed them. For which I am destined as you are to spend eternity in the fiery lake of hell.

  For all of that, you rewarded my service, my sacrifice, with nothing but neglect and shame. Now you will learn that there is a price for your insult.

  When your great ally, America, withers and collapses to her soulless knees because of me, you will see what happens. The faithful will rise up and restore Allah to His rightful seat of power in Egypt and elsewhere. They will quickly dispatch you and your kind to your special place in hell. And you will go there knowing that Abdul Sabri played a role in sending you.

  Haldane read the letter over, while McLeod whistled. “I’m no psychotherapist, but I think the old major might have a few wee unresolved issues.”

  No one laughed.

  “‘When your great ally, America, withers and collapses to her soulless knees,’” Haldane quoted. “That doesn’t sound like someone who ever intended to negotiate.”

  “True” Clayton said, folding up the pages and tucking them back into his pocket. “Sabri always planned on releasing the virus.”

  “Or still plans to,” McLeod said with a disconsolate nod.

  “It has been over two weeks,” Haldane said, trying to convince himself as much as the others.

  “Two weeks, two months, two years?” McLeod banged the table once with his fist. “If he’s still alive and has the supervirus what does it matter to him? Shite, the world can’t stay on guard forever. He will get his chance.”

  Clayton shook his head angrily. “Not if we find Major Sabri first.”

  “A damn good idea, Clayton,” McLeod grumbled.

  They sat around in despondent silence for five more minutes. Clayton glanced at his watch. “I can’t wait for Gwen any longer. I have to go.”

  “Thanks for sharing the letter with us, Alex,” Haldane said genuinely. “We’ll update Gwen when she gets here.” Haldane checked his own watch, which read 10:15 A.M. “At least, you don’t have to worry about getting to Langley. There’s still no traffic out there.”

  As Clayton buttoned up his overcoat, he said, “I don’t know about that. Every morning there are more and more cars on the road. People are getting back to their routines.”

  “Yeah,” McLeod agreed. “I even heard that the New Year’s celebration at Times Square is on for tomorrow night.”

  “They’re going ahead with it?” Haldane asked.

  Clayton stopped buttoning his jacket.

  “I heard something on the radio this morning,” McLeod said. “I don’t think it’s the official celebration, but a bunch of New Yorkers are doing their usual, defiant screw-you-terrorists routine. We’re going to party in spite of you buggers! They’re expecting a big turnout, too.”

  Haldane looked at Clayton. “People come from all over the States for New Year’s Eve at Times Square,” he said, not bothering to mask the alarm in his voice.

  Clayton nodded gravely. “I know.”

  “The reason the Spanish Flu took off like it did was because the soldiers from World War I were decommissioned in France right as the virus hit,” Haldane said. They took it back home with them. What if tomorrow at Times Square ...”

  “We won’t allow this party to happen,” Clayton said definitively. “Simple as that.”

  McLeod rubbed his beard with his palm. “Just exactly how do you stop an unofficial party?”

  “Don’t underestimate us, Duncan,” Clayton grunted. “Sometimes we can accomplish things without all the usual red tape.”

  “You mean like the Bay of Pigs?” McLeod grunted.

  Before Clayton could answer, Gwen’s phone rang. “Maybe that’s her,” he said reaching for the receiver. “Hello, Dr. Savard’s office.”

  Clayton listened a moment. “No, she
is not here.” A pause. “Alex Clayton, Deputy Director of Operations for the CIA.”

  “What?” Clayton’s eyes went wide and the color drained from his face. “Where?”

  Haldane stood from his seat. “Alex ...” But Clayton waved him back with a hand.

  “Okay,” Clayton said. “You call Moira Roberts, the Deputy Director of the FBI, and tell her I told you to. And you call me if you hear anything, anything at all,” Clayton said, giving three numbers where he could be reached before hanging up his cell.

  Clayton looked slowly from McLeod to Haldane. “The police found Gwen’s car this morning at a gas station in Maryland,” he said calmly. “There was blood on the backseat.”

  Gwen felt a vibration against her abdomen under her belt. Nauseous and disoriented, she opened her eyes and squinted through the light. The room smelt musty from mothballs. Springs dug into her back. When she tried to roll over, neither her legs nor her arms would cooperate. With each wiggle, she felt the straps dig tighter into her ankles and wrists.

  Anxiety welled in her chest, but she willed herself calm, realizing that panic would be a grave waste of energy.

  The cell phone tucked in her waistband stopped vibrating.

  She raised her head and looked around the room. The green paint on the walls was peeling. Moldy curtains covered a small row of dirty windows, but the gray light from outside leaked through and around them. The electric radiator hummed loudly.

  Though her mind was still bleary from whatever she had been given, she began to put the pieces together. Judging from the metal cot she was bound to, she suspected she was in the bedroom of a cheap motel, possibly the kind with individual cabins.

  The sense of orientation helped hold her nerves in check even when she felt the sharpness in her left arm and looked down to see the intravenous cannula sticking out of her elbow’s crease. She focused her memory on the face and eyes she had seen in her garage. She had no doubt they belonged to the man whose picture ran constantly on CNN. Abdul Sabri.

  She looked up from her arm with a sudden start to see Abdul Sabri standing in the doorway. He took a few more silent steps toward her and stopped by the edge of her cot. In jeans and a collared shirt, he towered above her. His smooth face was blank, but his opaque blue eyes fixed on her intently.

  “You have woken, Dr. Savard,” Sabri said in a thick but clear Arabic accent.

  “Where am I?” Gwen asked.

  “It does not matter,” Sabri said.

  “Why did you kidnap me?” she demanded.

  “I wanted to talk with you,” he said.

  “Why?” she snapped, feeling more violated than scared.

  “You are the Director of Counter-Bioterrorism,” he spoke the word slowly, cautious with his pronunciation. “I am a bioterrorist. It only makes sense.”

  “Nothing you do makes sense,” she said, and struggled vainly against her bindings.

  Sabri seemed to consider her point for several moments and then he nodded. “To you, maybe no. To me, it makes perfect sense.”

  Realizing how futile her resistance was, Gwen decided to change tacks. “Explain it to me then,” she said in a more diplomatic tone.

  “I do not think I can,” he said, and then his face creased into a very slight smile. “I did not bring you here to talk politics.”

  “I would really like to know,” Gwen said, trying to imagine a way of getting access to the phone tucked under her waistband.

  Sabri shook his head once. “I want to know about your new drug. The one the reporters are talking about on the television.”

  “I wish we had one.” Gwen shrugged her bound arms. “It is just a rumor the media has started.”

  Not a single muscle moved on his face, but his eyes darkened and Gwen could feel the threat as if he were still pointing his gun at her. “I do not believe you, Dr. Savard.”

  “I am sorry,” Gwen said, and swallowed away the bitter taste in her mouth. “What do you want me to say?”

  Motionless, he studied her for a long time. His silence was somehow more menacing than anything he had said or done to this point. “It is of no consequence,” he said finally. “Let us move on. I would like to hear about your disaster planning.”

  “What do you mean?” She grimaced.

  “A city such as New York, for example,” Sabri said. “You must have a plan for dealing with an outbreak. Is that correct?”

  “Every city in the country has a disaster plan,” she said, calculating how much she needed to share with him to sound as if she was telling the truth. “There are public health officials in each city responsible for nothing but dealing with natural disasters.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sabri said with a nod. “Is there a plan for the Gansu virus?”

  Gwen shuffled on the cot, but the ligatures only dug deeper. “You want to know the specific plan for every major city in the States for dealing with the Gansu Flu?”

  “No.” Sabri breathed slowly, and Gwen sensed the frustration behind his placid exterior. “If the virus comes to New York,” he said, “will the ports, roads, and airports be closed as soon as one person becomes sick?”

  “We don’t deal with epidemics by shutting down a city,” she said, though the latest revised draft of the ERPBA called for exactly those measures. “We would send out warnings of course and ask people not to travel. If someone became ill, we would quarantine that person and his or her contacts. The rest is up to local authorities,” she lied.

  He viewed her for several moments without responding. Then he looked over his shoulder and called out something in Arabic.

  A moment later, a bearded, pudgy man walked into the room. He was dressed in a cheap, ill-fitting gray suit with white shirt and an overly wide black tie. Sweat dripped down from his brow and his exposed shirt had patches of wetness soaked through. He avoided eye contact with Gwen; instead his small dark eyes darted around the room as if looking for a small pet that had escaped.

  Gwen’s anxiety broke through the tethers of her determination when she saw the long needle and syringe in the fat man’s hand.

  Sabri said something to the man in Arabic.

  The man walked toward Gwen. He stopped at the side of the bed. As he stooped forward to move the needle near the intravenous cannula in her arm, Gwen squirmed wildly on the cot but gained nothing from the effort except more wrist pain. The fat man slid the needle into the cannula, but his thumb rested still on the syringe’s plunger.

  “This is Dr. Aziz,” Sabri said, nodding at the man. “He is going to help us.”

  “Help us how?” Gwen asked, breathing very rapidly.

  “I want to go over your answers again, Dr. Savard,” Sabri said.

  She fought to control the hyperventilation. “What’s he giving me?”

  “Something to relax you,” Sabri said.

  “If you want me relaxed, untie me,” Gwen snarled at her captor. “What’s in the damn syringe?”

  Sabri pointed at the syringe. “That is thiopental sodium. I think you call it truth serum.” He nodded to the fat man and said something in Arabic.

  Gwen’s heart slammed against her chest as she watched Aziz depress the plunger of the syringe.

  Her eyelids felt heavy. Seconds later, she felt herself float free of the bed.

  CHAPTER 41

  WOODMORE, MARYLAND

  Sitting in the passenger seat of Clayton’s black Lincoln, Haldane paid no attention to the sights flying by his window or the hooting horns and screeching brakes of the other cars they cut off as Clayton raced them out of Washington and into Maryland. Instead he sat still in the passenger seat, staring at his feet, seething with anger and worry.

  Eighteen minutes after leaving Washington, on a trip that normally would have taken forty, the sedan swung into the gas station’s parking lot, which overflowed with police cars, crime-scene vans, and other vehicles.

  Abandoning the car in the lot’s driveway, Clayton jumped out, leaving the door open behind him. Haldane and McLeod
piled out after him. They elbowed their way through the throngs of police, technicians, and other government officials to get to where Gwen’s navy Lexus sat in the far comer of the lot. A team of crime-scene investigators buzzed around it.

  Just before they reached the car, a dowdy woman with a short bob and a plain black pantsuit waved to Clayton. “Alex!” she called.

  Haldane and McLeod followed Clayton as he hurried over to where the woman stood by the gas pumps. He pointed to her. “Moira Roberts, FBI Deputy Director.” He swung a finger over to the others. “Drs. Noah Haldane and Duncan McLeod with the WHO.”

  When Roberts flashed Clayton a look suggesting she wasn’t thrilled to see two civilians at the crime scene, Clayton said, “They’re okay. They work with Gwen. Tell us what you know.”

  “Of course, I’m only here in an administrative capacity, but I believe I’m up-to-date with the investigation,” Roberts said.

  Clayton rolled his hand in a get-on-with-it gesture.

  “The car was abandoned in the lot some time after midnight when the gas station closed,” Roberts said with a troubled frown. “According to the clerk there was another car, a gray sedan, parked in the space right beside it when he closed up last night. We’re presuming that whoever abducted her—”

  “It’s not whoever,” McLeod cut in. “It’s Abdul bloody Sabri!”

  Roberts folded her arms across her chest. “There is no proof that her abduction is even related to the bioterrorist conspiracy.”

  “Stupid me, jumping to conclusions!” McLeod grunted. “Short of finding a burnt American flag and effigy of the President hanging from the rearview mirror, what sort of proof—”

  “Enough,” Clayton growled. “You were saying, Moira ...”

  “We believe that the kidnapper or kidnappers must have moved Dr. Savard from her own car into the gray sedan, though we have no eyewitnesses to that effect.”

  Roberts’s by-the-book manner fueled Haldane’s impatience. He snapped his fingers. “They said something about blood on the backseat?” he demanded.