by Jan Coffey
There was a general agreement.
“We have a wide age group here, ladies and gentlemen,” Penn reminded everyone. “What would be a substance commonly ingested, whether we are talking about a teenager or a man in his seventies?”
“The substance is obviously not very common,” Faas added, “as there have been only twenty-four deaths so far.”
“The number of deaths is irrelevant, Mr. Hanlon,” Penn shot back. “We’ve had four instances of this outbreak in the past forty-eight hours. At this rate of increase, we could be talking about twenty-four hundred deaths by next week.”
Faas nodded. “Point taken, sir.”
“Whatever this substance is, it has a nationwide distribution,” Penn told them. “It’s out there for the public to use. We seem to have a time-release bomb that is only starting to go off.”
“They all had a cold,” Bea Devera said in a lower voice.
This was the first thing she had said since the meeting began, and it took a few moments for the agent’s words to register with everyone.
“What did you say, Agent…?” .
“Devera, Mr. President. I said that one victim at each site had a cold or the flu. They were sick,” she explained, leafing through her files and pulling out individual sheets of paper.
Faas noticed that the room had become totally quiet. All eyes were on Bea.
“Continue,” the president encouraged.
“Moosehead Lake, Maine. One witness reported that the fourteen-year-old, Lizzy Hansson, was fighting a cold when they arrived for their vacation,” Bea announced.
Faas noticed that one of Judson’s assistants was taking notes. Another was leafing through her files.
“Rich, how does that match with the autopsy reports?” Penn asked.
Rich Judson’s assistant slid a sheet of paper in front of him. “Lizzy Hansson appears to have been the first fatality on that site,” the NIH director announced.
Penn looked at Bea again.
“Sedona, Arizona. Lenny Guest, age eighteen. He was fighting a flu or cold the day of his death. That was why he’d stayed off work and was hanging out with his friend.”
Judson was looking over his people’s files and gave a thumbs up.
“Washington, D.C. Leo Bolender, age thirty two, had a cold.”
They all knew Leo was the only fatality at that site.
“Chicago, Illinois. Herman Ogden, age seventy-seven, had been fighting a cold for a week,” Bea continued.
There was another nod by Judson.
“Boston, South End Bakery. Tasha Giles, age forty-nine, had returned to work after being out two days with a cold. She wasn’t really improving, either, according to a boyfriend.”
“This agrees with what we have,” Judson said, nodding again.
Penn leaned back in his chair. “Very good, Agent Devera,” he said. “This could be a breakthrough, ladies and gentlemen, don’t you think?”
The energy in the conference room had definitely picked up.
“I don’t need to tell you what to do next. You each have your own jobs to do. But start with pulling any prescription or non-prescription medication these people might have taken. Test the hell out of anything that was left over in their cabinets.” Penn turned to Faas. “Do you remember the cyanide injected into Tylenol bottles…what was it…twenty, thirty years ago?”
“That was1982, sir,” Faas answered. “Seven people in the Chicago area collapsed suddenly and died after taking Tylenol capsules that had been laced with cyanide. Five females and two males, all relatively young. They were the first victims ever to die from product tampering.”
Faas had been working for the FBI back then. Just out of college and the academy. A wave of copycat tampering had followed that original incident. They never caught the Tylenol killer. A somewhat bumbling suspect who had attempted to cash in on the unprecedented publicity was arrested and charged with extortion, but not with the murders. The police concluded he was merely an opportunist.
Faas considered the possibility of terrorists using this method to spread the microbes. No one was taking credit. Nothing was showing up on Al Jazeera. Nothing.
He wondered if their search in Iraq would turn out to be futile. What if someone here in the U.S. was responsible for the epidemic…just another case of product tampering? He almost hoped that was the case, but he wasn’t willing to stop any part of this investigation.
“For a change I can pass on some good news in my address,” Penn told them.
“I would not advise that you be too specific, sir,” the NIH director reminded the president. “We have billion-dollar industries that could be affected by this.”
“Yes, pharmaceutical companies. Their lobbyists and lawyers will be all over us. I won’t forget,” he assured Judson. “I’ll be vague but I’ll make sure to hint at positive news in the ongoing investigation.”
“Mr. President,” Faas added. “If you could continue to stress the importance of respecting the quarantine perimeters to impede the spreading disease.”
“Point noted.” Penn scribbled something on the pad of paper in front of him. “This brings me to a very important issue. This thing is getting big enough that needs a name. In the past, we have been dealing with SARS…Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome…AIDS, Avian flu, and a hundred other conditions, all of which have a recognizable name or acronym. When we can put a name or a face to an enemy, that enemy becomes a little less frightening. We still respect it as a foe, but it is no longer the faceless monster in the dark. Am I making my point clearly?”
There was definitely general agreement.
“The media has been calling it the flesh-eating disease,” the president’s press secretary said. “My office actually got a phone call asking if there were cannibals attacking people in D.C.”
“I hope you told the caller that only happens on Capitol Hill,” Secretary Abbott deadpanned.
There were a few chuckles.
“Flesh-eating disease syndrome,” the NIH director mused out loud. “The acronym would be FEDS.”
Faas shook his head as others laughed.
“I don’t think that would exactly send the message we’re looking for,” Penn responded.
“Necrotizing Fasciitis is a mouthful,” said the press secretary.
Rich Judson wasn’t giving up. “I do think that initials would serve to identify the condition without being a constant reminder of the horrific manifestation of the disease. Perhaps just using the initials of Necrotizing Fasciitis Infection,” Judson told them
“NFI,” Secretary Abbott said, jotting it down as he said it.
“NFI.” Penn echoed as he leaned back in his chair. He considered that for a moment. “I say we go with that.”
Twenty-Four
Erbil, Iraq
At first, it was hard to swallow the fact that Fahimah was in charge and that they had to follow her suggestions or nothing would happen. Once Austyn decided not to dwell on minor details, though, or allow his ego to come into the equation, life became much more bearable.
She had come back, he kept reminding himself. This said something, at least, about her commitment to the mission. She was going to help them. So be receptive to what she wants, he told himself.
“I just got a report from Washington of another outbreak,” Matt said in a low voice as he caught up with Austyn in the hotel hallway. He had his bag slung over his shoulder.
“Where?”
“New York City.”
“Terrific,” Austyn said, shaking his head. “They really need that. How bad?”
“I don’t have any details yet.”
“Okay. What else?”
“Not much.”
“No holding out on me, Sutton.”
“NFI,” Matt said.
“What?”
“They’re calling it NFI. Necrotizing Fasciitis Infection. It’s now important enough to earn its own initials,” Matt had a peculiar look on his face. “I actually used to be a member of
NFI.”
“What was that, the name of your garage band?” Austyn didn’t know Matt’s exact age, but he figured it couldn’t have been too many years since he was in high school. “I assume the initials didn’t stand for the same thing.”
“No, I was a junior member of the National Fisheries Institute. I was about eight. Got an official membership card and a newsletter and everything.”
“Great, Sutton. I think this heat must be getting to you.” Austyn shook his head. “National Fisheries Institute.”
“I’m sure the current members aren’t going to be too happy with it.”
“Probably not,” he said, adding wryly, “But hopefully they’ll understand.”
Austyn stared at Fahimah’s door. She was supposed to pack and meet them right here, outside her hotel room. They were all going to meet here.
How long could it take her? he thought. She owned two pieces of clothing and a toothbrush, for chrissake. It wasn’t like she had to fix her hair.
He shook off his impatience. “Okay. Anything else from Hanlon?”
They’d come up with a new plan and sent it on to Homeland Security in Washington. They weren’t about to risk taking any of their military escort across the Iran-Iraq border. The consequences would be too great if the mission tanked. They didn’t need to ignite an international diplomatic crisis in the midst of everything else that was going on. With the new arrangement, Matt would stay behind in Erbil and handle communications with Washington. The escort would remain here, as well. If they needed an airlift from the border, he’d arrange it.
Austyn was staying with Fahimah. He wasn’t in the military. If they got caught and the Iranians started digging, they might consider him a spy. But Matt was going to make sure no files would show up on him and figure out a new identity for him.
Austyn knew he was putting his life at risk. But it didn’t worry him. Once they crossed the border, Fahimah could blow the whistle on him, but in his gut, he had a feeling she wouldn’t.
After all, she’d come back.
Ken would drive them the 150 miles to Halabja, which was only a stone’s throw from the Iranian border. Fahimah still had family there, and she hoped she could find more details on Rahaf. Perhaps they would even know which camp she was working in now. From Halabja, Fahimah and Austyn would have to go up into the mountains to sneak across the border to the refugee camps.
Fahimah had assured him that crossing the border wouldn’t be a Von Trapp Family ordeal. Though it could be dangerous, there were actually quite a few roads that crossed into Iran. Of course, some roads were more used than others. After all, she said, smuggling was a profitable business. She told him the Kurds went back and forth on a daily basis. The two of them could do it, too.
Sutton was talking, all seriousness again. “They’re going with the hypothesis that some kind of product tampering is being used as a means of spreading the microbes. The first victim in each outbreak was fighting a cold or something.”
“That’s a big step.”
Matt nodded. “But they’ve yet to identify the specific medication that might be involved. They’re cross checking for something used by all the victims. So far they’ve ruled out prescription drugs. And they’ve narrowed the search to the possibility of a cold medicine that could be bought over the counter.”
Austyn thought of the cabinets and drawers of cold medications that every household in America kept. The victims were spread across the country, so the tampering couldn’t have been done at a purchase point like a grocery store or pharmacy. Also, there’d been no cases reported outside of the US. He figured that should narrow their search to a national distribution center, one that possibly served both Arizona and Maine.
If he were back in the states, he’d been involved with the day to day investigation of it. This was the jurisdiction of his department. He reminded himself that he was working on this case.
“Boston could have been a mess,” Austyn said with a frown. “It’s a good thing none of the baked goods were contaminated.”
He hadn’t been able to get hold of Faas Hanlon last night, but he’d spoken with one of the special agents working directly with the intelligence director, so he was reasonably up to date on all the new cases. Austyn had passed on the information Fahimah had given him. He’d been contacted soon after with a curt message from Washington. He had authorization to proceed according to his own discretion. The mission was now solely in his hands. And Fahimah’s.
“New York could turn out worse than Boston,” Matt commented. “Eight million people within three hundred or so square miles.”
Austyn agreed. “New York could be one serious…”
His voice trailed off as the door to Fahimah’s room opened. Finally. She came out carrying a small duffel bag.
For a second, Austyn forgot what they were talking about. She looked different, healthier. There was color in her cheeks. Austyn knew she’d sent one of the hotel workers that morning to get her some things. He noticed that she was wearing pair of leather walking shoes that were definitely better than the plastic army issue sandals she been wearing.
“I overheard you saying something about New York City,” she said. “Has there been another case reported from there?”
“We don’t have all the facts and figures yet,” Matt told her.
She nodded, but Austyn could see the news upset her. She looked at Austyn.
“You didn’t shave,” she told him. “That’s good.”
He ran a hand over his face and jaw. He didn’t have time. After everyone returned to the hotel last night, he’d been up with the rest of them planning what needed to be done. He’d grabbed only a couple of hours sleep and taken a quick shower this morning to help him wake up.
“I’ve been thinking about how to explain you, in case we get caught by an Iranian border patrol.”
Austyn was glad she was thinking about it.
“I have some ideas, too. We’ll talk on the way.”
He looked at Matt, hoping that the younger man was set with that. Matt gave him a reassuring nod. Ken came down the hall.
“I assume everyone is ready,” he said, looking at Austyn’s and Fahimah’s bags. His eyes lingered on her face. “I’d say you’re getting back to normal very quickly, Dr. Banaz. In fact, I’d say you look beautiful, this morning. Austyn, I don’t think it’ll be safe to let her out of our sight again.”
An immediate blush colored her cheeks.
“Don’t forget,” Ken told her comfortably with a nod toward Austyn. “There’s still plenty of time to ditch this one, you know.”
“Thanks for your input, soldier,” Austyn said curtly.
Ken pretended to ignore him. “Seriously, I can cross the border with you. I even speak the language. It would be so much easier to pass me off as a local than this red-blooded American boy standing here.”
Austyn was starting to become annoyed with the man. He should have checked to see if Ken was married or not. Sometimes these guys needed a reminder…like a call from the wife and kids. In this case Ken needed a knock on the head with a two-by-four.
“You speak Kurdish with an American accent,” she told him, shaking her head. “I much prefer him not speaking at all.”
Austyn took Fahimah’s bag off her shoulder.
“Let’s go, partner,” he said, giving her a wink. She was so fair skinned that every emotion poured right into her complexion. The word partner seemed to almost fluster her.
A crack of dawn departure had been out of question, so Austyn had settled for anything before noon. They weren’t going to leave through the front door of the hotel and have the dozen of people having tea on the sidewalk witness it. The van Ken was going to drive had been parked in the back, accessible through the kitchen door.
Coming out into the alley, Austyn saw they had a different vehicle from the van they’d driven last night. This one had a number of large dings in the front and sides. He glanced at Ken questioningly.
“I wanted
to make it more authentic. Up here, along the border, they either drive a brand new, hundred-thousand-dollar European car like a Mercedes or BMW, or they drive some old shitbox that’s on its last legs.”
“How do you know that?” Fahimah asked in surprise.
“I saw it at Zahho, on the Iraqi-Turkish border. I was passing through about a month ago. Big money and abject poverty all mixed up in one big bag.”
“Smuggling money?” Matt asked.
“Construction money,” Ken told him. “Rebuilding projects and new construction everywhere you look. Some are cashing in and some aren’t.”
Austyn eyed the beat-up van. “I see that we aren’t.”
“Things have changed since I went away,” Fahimah said, climbing into the back seat.
Ken sat behind the wheel. When they were all in, Matt handed Austyn a bulging envelope from his bag. He opened it as they pulled out of the alley.
“You’re now from Argentina. You have a passport with your picture and a phony name on it. Most of the South American countries have tourists who travel in Iran. There are also maps, Iranian money—rials and toman. There are some other travel documents…paper visas into and out of Iraq and Turkey. Also, postcards friends supposedly sent to you from Argentina.”
“You’ve been busy.” Austyn opened the flap of the envelope and looked inside. “Argentina?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, that’s actually good. I’ve been there before.”
“I know. And you speak Spanish.”
Austyn figured that there was nothing in anyone’s personnel files that Matt couldn’t access if he wanted to. That was his thing. He probably knew more about Austyn’s background than he could remember himself. He pulled out the passport.
“We’ve put in entry and exit stamps from a dozen different countries. You like to travel.”
Austyn looked deep in the envelope. There was something that looked like a badge at the bottom.
“What is that?” He reached in for it.
“You’re a writer. Freelance and novels. You don’t have a press visa, though, because this project is your own idea. You hope to sell it afterward.”
