Jan Coffey Thriller Box Set: Three Complete Novels: Blind Eye, Silent Waters, Janus Effect

by Jan Coffey

  Josh moved to the front of the television. David took a look that way. The water was murky. Beyond a few shadowy shapes, there wasn’t much anyone could see.

  “Just now, Philip ripped his mouthpiece off and tried to yell. He swallowed a lot of water,” one of the girls was telling Josh. She was crying. “He looked like he was drowning.”

  David moved to the railing. “Craig, what’s going on?”

  “There’s something wrong with Philip.”

  “How come they’re not up yet?” David asked.

  “I guess they were at the bottom. I don’t know their depth, but Philip was in trouble. We couldn’t see Kirk on the monitor when it all happened. I guess he was collecting samples.”

  “Shouldn’t someone go in there and help bring him up?”

  “One of the crew members just went in with an extra air tank,” Craig said. “She’s down there now. That’s what we’re waiting for. We’re hoping they’re coming up.”

  David tried to think of what kind of injury Philip could have sustained. He was no diver himself, but after a few days on this boat, he was learning the basics. “Did he bang his head going over?”

  “No,” someone said. “He was motioning to the kids when he reached the ocean floor. He seemed fine, and then something just…happened.”

  David was just about to go and get the emergency kit, but one of the mothers who was an RN was already coming back with Harmony’s skipper, who was carrying it.

  Something broke the surface. Two of the crew members bent over and fetched the net. It was the divers’ tools and flags and camera.

  Everyone else continued to wait.

  “The TV was disconnected,” one of the kids called from the monitor.

  “They’re coming up,” the crew member who was reeling in the cable announced.

  Someone else arrived at the railing carrying an armful of towels. The air was cold. David was impressed that no one was panicking. He wondered if anyone had contacted the Coast Guard, but realized that until they knew what was wrong with Philip, there was no point in jumping the gun.

  Three heads surfaced together some twenty feet from the vessel. Two still had their tanks on. The third one was being held up by the other two and had a rope connected to him.

  “He isn’t breathing,” Kirk yelled as he tore his mouthpiece out.

  They started swimming toward the side of the boat, and Philip’s body turned around. The divers pulled him behind them and the crew members hauled in the rope looped around Philip’s chest.

  Hands reached over the side to help. David and Craig took hold of the line to pull him up. They reached down and grabbed the scientist by the arms, dragging him up over the railing.

  The RN took charge. “Lay him flat here,” she said. The part of his face that was visible was purple “He isn’t breathing. I’ll give him CPR.”

  “Call the Coast Guard,” Kirk told the skipper as soon as he climbed aboard. He turned to the woman crouched over Philip. “I think he took in a lot of water before we got to him.”

  Everyone wanted to help. At the same time, they knew enough to give the woman space to do her job.

  The nurse put her hand under Philip’s neck and lifted, gently pulling off the hood of the wet suit. She drew back suddenly.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  Crouched beside the diver, David had a clear view of what she was talking about. There was an open wound on Philip’s chin that spread across his cheek and down his neck and disappeared under the wetsuit. It looked deep and, despite the fact that Philip had been in salt water, it was already oozing.

  Kirk had pulled off one of the diver’s gloves and was checking Philip’s pulse.

  “There’s no pulse,” he said.

  Everyone was trying to get closer and see what the nurse was talking about.

  “Stay back,” David shouted forcefully, feeling panic course through him. “Take a step away from one another. Back up! We need to have everyone who had any contact with Philip separate yourself from everyone else.”

  “We all had contact with Philip,” someone responded.

  “I mean since he came up,” David said, pointing to Craig, the two divers, and the nurse.

  “Yes. I agree,” the RN said, her voice cracking. “He thinks…he thinks Philip might have the flesh-eating disease.”

  “Back up,” David ordered again. His gaze rested on Josh’s terrified face.

  The nurse crawled backward a few feet from the body.

  “He has it,” she whispered. “We might all have it now.”

  Thirty-Two

  Office of Homeland Security, Washington, D.C.

  Faas moved the phone from one ear to the other and rubbed a spot in the center of his chest. With the diet of fast food he’d been on, the pack-a-day smoking again, the lack of sleep except for ten-minute catnaps here and there, and the steady stress that had his ulcer acting up again, having a heart attack would be the next natural thing.

  He reached into the drawer of his desk and took out a couple more antacid pills, popping them in his mouth and downing them with the cold black coffee left at the bottom of his mug.

  “Sir, I have Austyn Newman on the line,” his secretary told him through the intercom.

  Faas clicked over from the president’s line to speak with Austyn. Penn had him on hold, but Faas was certain he’d understand.

  “Okay, I know you’re en route to those camps, and we haven’t given you enough time to get there,” Faas started without any greeting.

  ‘That’s correct.”

  “But I called to tell you that we’re in deep shit.”

  “That’s what I’ve been hearing,” Austyn said from the other end through the static.

  “You heard about Bagram Air Base. That’s a total mess. But now, on top of it, we have cases reported from six more goddamn cities across the country. At this point, we don’t know what’s real and what’s hysteria. Are you there?” he asked as the static subsided.

  “Yeah. I’m listening.”

  “Good. Then listen to this.” Faas grabbed a list off his desk. “Every government health organization is now involved in this. We’ve got Centers for Disease Control, the FDA, the FDA for Kids—whatever the hell that is—NIH and the World Health Organization. And you know what?”

  “None of them have any answers?” Austyn asked.

  “You got it. None of these big-budget, highly paid directors has been able to get their people to produce shit. And on top of it all, the Secretary of HHS is breathing down my neck every five minutes…like I report to him.”

  “What about the connection with all the victims having a cold?”

  “Not conclusive,” Faas snapped. “They can’t tie it to a single product. No, wait, what am I talking about? They can’t tie it to anything. They have no fucking idea how these people contracted the damn disease.”

  “They really haven’t had much time for their testing,” Austyn replied.

  He would say that, the director thought. Austyn was a research scientist, first and foremost. He’d been recruited to work for Homeland Security by Faas. The files on the young man had been beyond impressive. Ivy League education, excellent track record in NIH. Later, he’d worked in the private sector as a top manager. He had the knowledge, intensity, and work habits. He was the kind of person they wanted at Homeland Security.

  “Quit defending them,” he growled. “You work for us and not them. They’re all lazy bastards. Idiots!”

  There was a chuckle from the other end of the line.

  “I don’t know how the hell you can laugh in the middle of this.”

  “Nobody’s laughing here,” the other man lied. “But I will find Rahaf. I think she has the answer, but that’s no guarantee that if she does have it, she’ll cooperate with us. Still, I’m almost positive she has nothing to do with what’s going on over there or at Bagram.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “She contracted this disease herself, lost
a leg to it, and for the past five years has been doing humanitarian aid in refugee camps on the border of Iran and Iraq. I personally can’t see someone who spends her life helping others that way being filled with vengeance, can you?”

  Faas was silent for a moment. “You just made me a very happy man.”

  “And how’s that?”

  “You said she had the disease and that she’s alive today, five years later,” Faas said, thoroughly pleased. This was the first break he’d had. “Who gives a shit about losing a leg? We can’t keep these people alive long enough to get them to a hospital.”

  “Don’t build your hopes up. The possibility exists that there’s a difference between what she had and what we’re facing now. What she contracted doesn’t seem to have been as contagious, for one.”

  “You told me the DNA of the microbes were virtually the same.”

  “Virtually the same…but mutations can occur over five years. Be prepared for complications.”

  “Don’t be a wet blanket, Newman,” Faas told him. “Accept it—you’re our only hope.”

  “Stop harassing me.”

  “You haven’t seen harassment yet,” he corrected. “Now, what do you need?”

  “Nothing. I have what I need for now.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Faas’s secretary poked her head in. He motioned her inside. “This woman only brings me bad news. Is it bad news?” he asked her.

  She nodded gravely, dropping a message in front of him.

  “What’s happening?” Austyn asked.

  Faas read the message. The pain in his chest was back.

  “We’ve got another circus on our hands.” He looked up at his secretary. “The president will be on the phone any second. Put him right through to me.”

  She nodded and left the room.

  “We have a research boat in the Atlantic carrying a bunch of kids with cancer. The head of the expedition has come down with NFI. The Coast Guard is on its way, but news helicopters are already overhead and they’re broadcasting live footage.”

  “How the hell did news crews get there before the Coast Guard?” Austyn asked.

  “Depends on how many channels they used to send their Mayday signal.” Faas read over the message again. “A boatload of sick kids. What a nightmare.”

  A light went on his phone set. His secretary’s voice rang through. “I have President Penn on the line.”

  “Put him through. You know what you have to do, Austyn,” Faas said before switching to speak to the president. “And I don’t care if you have to put a gun to her head.”

  Thirty-Three

  The outskirts of Halabja, Kurdistan

  Austyn ended the call and dropped the phone into his bag. Both vehicles had stopped in the middle of the dirt road. The four doors were open, allowing the breeze to blow through. Their Kurdish escorts were huddled together near the front vehicle. There was no other car in either direction as far as he could see. While he’d been on the phone with Faas Hanlon, he’d seen Fahimah reach over and tell the driver something in Kurdish. Shortly after, they pulled off the main road onto the winding dirt path that took them here.

  Austyn didn’t know why they were here, but he trusted Fahimah. She’d been robbed of her homeland for five years. Despite the crisis that everyone at home was dealing with, he would not rob her of the right to take a few minutes to herself.

  He looked straight ahead. Fields of green grass were bisected by the two worn dirt tracks of the road. Across the flat landscape, in the distance he could see the Zagros Mountains. Fahimah had been generous in answering his questions, and as a result he had a good sense of the geography of the area.

  Planting one elbow on top of the BMW, he watched Fahimah moving inside a fenced-in area in the distance. She crouched down. Two large tricolor Kurdish flags had been planted in the ground by the opening in the fence. Even from here, Austyn could see the broad horizontal stripes of red, white, and green, with the golden sun in the center. The two waving flags stood in bright contrast against the increasingly clouded sky. This place had to be a memorial of some sort.

  The wind whipped at his shirt, pushing the open door of the car against him. Though the breeze earlier had been comfortably warm, there was now a chill in the air that he hadn’t felt since arriving in Kurdistan.

  The place had an eerie feel to it. It was lonely, with nothing in sight but the mountains and the sky. Even so, there was a stark beauty here. He remembered a saying that he’d heard a few times since arriving here. The Kurds have no friends but the mountains.

  Austyn saw their driver step away from the others and walk over to him. He wished he spoke Kurdish.

  The driver said something in rapid Kurdish. Austyn shook his head. He searched in his pockets and took out a piece of paper. He’d asked Ken to write some must-know sentences down for him.

  “Ez ji te te nagehim.” Austyn looked up. This was supposed to mean that he didn’t understand. He hoped Ken had been right.

  The driver nodded encouragingly. “Okay…okay…” he said in English. He pointed to where Fahimah was. “Bra…Bra…” He held out one hand and counted off three fingers.

  “Brothers?” Austyn asked. Suddenly, the reality of this place came through to him. He remembered what she’d told him about losing her three brothers before the Anfal campaign.

  The driver nodded gravely.

  This was one of the killing fields. One of the mass graves that Saddam’s people used to bury scores or hundreds of innocent victims.

  He looked at her in the distance, crouched on the ground, one lone human being against the mountains. Austyn felt his throat close. There was something extremely sad about this scene, about what her life had become.

  “Boro,” the man told him.

  Austyn looked at him in confusion.

  “Boro.” He tapped Austyn on the shoulder and motioned to where Fahimah was. “Hari.”

  Austyn decided he was telling him to go to her. He didn’t have to be asked again.

  Against the majestic backdrop of the mountains surrounding them, with each step Austyn felt smaller. His past, his life, all seemed so insignificant. The beauty of the place was magnificent, and the tragedy that these hills had witnessed was devastating.

  He remembered reading that new mass graves had been discovered almost on a daily basis after Saddam’s fall. Some sites contained hundreds of bodies, while some were so full of human remains piled on top of one another that no one could keep count of the victims. The broken bones and skulls, the scraps of clothing, told a horrifying story. The Kurds said 300,000 had died during Saddam’s twenty-four year rule. Some said there were more, others less. Austyn couldn’t understand those who argued numbers. One life lost was too many.

  She didn’t see him until he reached the opening of the fence. She’d wrapped a scarf around her head. When she lifted her face to the wind, the edges of the scarf fought to fly free. He saw the tears.

  She didn’t move. He went to her and crouched down next to her.

  There were no headstones. No individual names, only a small plaque with writing in Kurdish.

  He pointed to the plaque. “What does it say?”

  “Killing field. The bodies of one hundred and twenty-two men from Halabja were found at this site. The plans for a monument are in progress.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “When did you find out about this place?”

  “The friends I saw in Erbil told me that while I was away this mass grave had been found. My three brothers’ remains were among the hundred and twenty-two bodies that they’d found.”

  Her fingers continued to take fistfuls of the dirt and hold it up into the wind. Austyn watched the clouds of sand fly off.

  “How old were your brothers?”

  “Twenty, eighteen and twelve when they were taken,” she said. “Aref was the eldest. He was smarter than all the rest of us. Studying extra hours on his own, he skipped three grades. He was hoping to save enough money and perha
ps someday go to the university.”

  Austyn understood her need to talk about them. She’d never had closure. He thought of his own family. He still had his parents, had never lost a sibling, and had enjoyed a comfortable life for all his thirty-eight years. He’d never felt inclined to marry and have children because that constituted too much responsibility. How different and privileged a life he’d led, compared to how Fahimah had lived.

  He looked at her profile. “What did he do?”

  “He was an electrician. He could fix anything. That was another thing that he’d taught himself. Later on, he made good money doing odd jobs for people. Many hired him.” More tears fell on her pale cheeks. “Then came Mohsen. He was eighteen. He liked to play the part of big brother to me and Rahaf. He always worked well with his hands. He would never say no to someone needing his help. He was loved by everyone who met him, even if they’d had only one meeting with him. People remembered him. Rahaf and I were very close to him. He took great enjoyment in watching over us. He was a great joker, too.”

  A gust of wind threatened to steal her scarf. She grabbed it and tied it around her neck.

  “Of the five us, many thought Mohsen and I were twins. We had the same eyes, the same color hair. We were only two years apart in age. Mohsen wasn’t much of a student, so we were even in the same grade.” She touched her left ear. “We even had a mark in the same place.”

  She wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. Austyn searched in his pockets, but he had no tissue. “Tell me about your youngest brother.”

  “Arsalan.” A gentle smile broke across her lips. “He was destined to live the meaning of his name.”

  “What does Arsalan mean?” he asked.

  “Lion, brave. At the age of twelve, he was taller than all of us. He had the build of a man and the courage of a lion. He felt he was the protector of all of us.”

  “They took away a twelve year old?”

  Fahimah sat up straight, bent her head back, and lifted her face to the sky. Austyn watched her eyes close as tears rolled down her cheeks. No sounds came out of her throat. She displayed no anger at the hand fate had dealt her family.