by Hank Parker
“Van windows were tinted so we couldn’t make out the occupants. The one who was dropped off looks Middle Eastern or maybe Asian. Image doesn’t match anything on our databases. Video tracked him into the terminal. Ticketed to L.A., where he connected to Taipei.”
“Let me guess,” said Kennedy. “Passport and ticket were in a fake name.”
“The name is real enough,” said Cothran. “Was, I should say. The real guy died about a week ago.”
“So our mystery man is in Taipei now?”
“No, Philippines,” said Cothran. “He bought another ticket to Manila. Video shows him leaving the airport there. In a cab. No sign of him after that. We have assets searching the city.”
“It’s important that some of your ‘assets’ have microbiology expertise,” Kennedy said.
“You think he’s carrying virus?” asked Cothran. “Was any missing from the freezer room?”
“Impossible to tell,” said Kennedy. “Couldn’t find an inventory. But I think we have to assume this guy smuggled some out of the country.”
“I don’t disagree,” said Cothran. “But as for microbiology expertise, it’s too late to find anyone else with your knowledge, and you and Mariah have been involved from the beginning.”
Kennedy’s thoughts stopped short, confused. “Mariah?”
“Yeah, the plan is she’ll work with you. She’s got more lab training than anyone else we’re going to be able to pull up on this kind of notice. You’re just going to have to keep her from getting killed. Nothing too hard.”
Kennedy spit out a laugh. He saw the logic in the plan, but he preferred to work alone and Mariah didn’t have any experience in this kind of shit. “Don’t you think it’s a little dangerous for her?” he asked.
“A bit late to ask that now, after what you two have already been through,” said Cothran. “Anyway, we’ll have an overwatch at all times.”
“So someone will run this by Hoffman?”
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Kennedy thought Cothran might have hung up. “We’re not going through Hoffman,” said Cothran finally. “Too risky. From what you told me and what we’ve learned, this looks like an inside job.”
“So you don’t trust Hoffman?”
“He doesn’t need to know,” Cothran said.
Kennedy took a breath, tamped down his questions, thanked his old friend, and the men bid each other good night.
* * *
She’d lived in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, her whole life, all eighty-five years in the same old stone house just north of town, set back from a little lane off Unionville Road, with a picket fence bearing heirloom climbing roses running along the edge of the yard and a worn brick walkway to the front door bordered by perennial plantings that hadn’t been tended for a while. She knew practically everyone in the area, had taught many of the town’s residents at the local middle school, had served on the planning board and as a volunteer docent at the Brandywine River Museum, and until recently, read stories twice a week to preschoolers at the local library.
Now she was all alone. She’d lived by herself for more than ten years, since her husband had died, here, in this house. Their kids had moved out of state soon after graduating from college. But she’d stayed active and enjoyed entertaining a steady flow of visitors who’d drop by, often unannounced, to share tea, her famed ginger cookies, the latest town gossip, and memories. But the visitors had stopped, and she was prohibited from even leaving her home. Since August 22, the town and surrounding area had been quarantined. Now, since her illness had come on, she’d become a prisoner in her own house.
For the first few days of her isolation, the phone calls had helped. But they’d become strained, even with her children, and then they’d finally ceased. It was as if they’d written her off. They probably figured she was already dead. She wasn’t there yet. But she’d lost the will to make a call herself.
She understood why she’d been abandoned, and she forgave her friends and neighbors. Almost two weeks earlier, she’d come down with a bad cold. A visitor had come by, had seen her hacking and feverish, and refused to enter the house. She’d seen no one since, except for the town health officer, through the window, when he’d posted a sign on her front gate. The flu, or whatever it was, since seemed to have abated. But she was so weak.
She leaned back in an overstuffed armchair and adjusted a blanket on her lap with bent, arthritic fingers. How long since she’d last eaten? Three days? Four? Kind neighbors had been delivering daily food parcels. They’d been bringing them over after dark, probably to avoid a direct encounter with her. She was grateful for their kindness, but now she no longer had the energy to go out to get the parcels and they were piling up inside the gate.
She knew better than to expect help from outside the area. She’d seen the TV reports. Thousands of people sick. Health facilities overwhelmed. National Guard food trucks attacked. She faced the reality: she was on her own.
She tried to recall how long it took to starve to death. Two weeks or more, she’d read somewhere, depending on the person’s condition. She hoped that at her age, it would be quicker, much quicker. If she had a gun, she told herself, she’d end it now.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SEPTEMBER 1
LOS ANGELES
Mariah opened her eyes and shifted in the uncomfortable faux-leather seat in the United Airlines departure lounge at LAX. The flight to Honolulu was leaving in less than an hour. No way was she going to be able to doze off in the crowded, noisy lounge. She picked up a magazine she’d brought with her and idly thumbed through a few pages. Two weeks ago the last thing she’d wanted to do, or even imagined as a possibility, was to head overseas for an assignment. Now she was resigned to it, and deep down, though she wouldn’t admit it to anyone and maybe not even to herself, she was even looking forward to it, mostly because she’d be with Curt.
Curt had explained that they weren’t going to Saipan, despite what Hoffman apparently still believed, but were headed to Hawaii, where someone would meet them with details about where they’d go next, and that the assignment could be risky but they’d have good security. Beyond that, he hadn’t told her much except to say that it had to do with the guys in the van. One of them may have taken some Kandahar virus. Mariah wondered who was making these new arrangements and why Hoffman was in the dark, but Curt hadn’t answered and she assumed it had something to do with his intelligence connections, so she didn’t pursue it.
The last couple of days had been a whirlwind, but Curt had helped her with everything. A battery of immunizations, a list of stuff to purchase and pack, not much but some things she’d never have thought of, and even arranging for his own dog sitter to look after Dancer while they were gone. She’d asked how long they’d be away, but he was noncommittal, which led her to believe that they wouldn’t return until the mission, which was equally vague, was accomplished.
Kennedy had been standing over by the terminal window. Now he walked back to Mariah and sat down next to her. “Don’t want to freak you out,” he said in a low voice. “But I think someone’s tailing us. Don’t turn around. Slender guy, five ten or so, fortyish, short black hair, wearing dark slacks and a striped shirt. He’s standing over in front of the Burger King.”
Mariah hadn’t noticed anyone suspicious. “Probably the security you mentioned, right?” she said.
“The detail here ended at the TSA screening line. Why don’t you get up and stretch your legs a bit? You can walk by him. I’ll watch his reaction. But don’t let on that you’re aware of him.”
Mariah stood and strolled slowly away from the gate area. She passed by the man whom Curt had described. She glanced at him quickly, trying to avoid eye contact. He was reading a newspaper. Did his eyes stray above the page, briefly locking on to hers?
She bought a packet of mints from a nearby shop and returned to her
seat in the departure lounge. “Well?” she asked.
“He watched you when you walked by. Just for a second. But long enough for me to know his interest wasn’t just casual.”
“Did he follow me?”
“He’s too professional for that,” said Curt.
“You think he’s on our plane?”
“I know he is,” said Curt. “I first noticed him on the way to security. Got a glimpse of his boarding pass.”
“We need to get him out of the picture,” said Mariah.
“Agreed. Any ideas?”
“Yeah. Let’s let TSA earn their pay,” said Mariah. “Want to take care of it, or shall I?”
With a slight smile, Curt retrieved his cell phone and walked back to the terminal window, out of earshot.
Minutes later, two TSA agents strode into the waiting area and approached the man. The agents spoke quietly to him and started to take his arm. Mariah could hear the man objecting. One of the agents spoke louder: “Now!” The agents led the man away. Minutes later, the United Airlines gate agent announced boarding for first-class passengers.
* * *
As Mariah and Curt tried to relax on the long flight from Los Angeles to Honolulu, Tony Parnell sat in front of a monitor at his cluttered desk in the Inquirer’s brightly lit newsroom. His work area consisted of an L-shaped cubicle with a computer, telephone, two-drawer file cabinet, wastebasket, and perhaps fifteen square feet of surface area that was smothered by unruly piles of papers and books. A privacy screen separated his desk from his neighbor’s on the other side, but, at eighteen inches, the barrier’s only real function was to prevent Parnell’s mess from cascading into the other reporter’s territory.
For nearly an hour, Parnell scrolled through the latest tweets, blogs, and more formal reports, including the most recent White House press release, about the Kandahar outbreak. Then, shaking his head, he pushed his chair away from the desk, picked up his cup, and, realizing his coffee had gone cold, set it back down. He sighed, loud enough for the female reporter on the other side to look up with a puzzled expression.
Parnell was having trouble grasping how quickly the outbreak had exploded into a major regional epidemic. Given the speed at which this disease was spreading, he figured it was only a matter of days before it reached Philadelphia itself. He thought of his family at home in the city. Time for a personal contingency plan.
* * *
Later that morning the president of the United States sat at his designated spot at the center of an oval conference table in the White House Cabinet Room, where he’d convened an emergency meeting. A hazy gray light from the cloud-covered sky outside filtered through high, thick windows behind him.
From his seat at the table, Alphonso Cruickshank had a good view of the man who had hired him. Cruickshank knew the strain the president was under, but still his boss had entered the Cabinet Room today engaged in lighthearted banter with the vice president and wearing his characteristic wry smile that somehow signified both authority and equanimity.
Now the president leaned forward in his high-backed brown leather chair and looked around the table. His gaze took in each cabinet member in succession before he settled on the homeland security secretary. “Any update on last night’s rioting in Wilmington?” he asked.
A great fit for the position, thought Cruickshank, looking at the DHS secretary. He’d directed California’s Emergency Management Agency before taking the cabinet position. Cruickshank reflected that the president had a knack for recruiting leaders who were not only highly competent but also balanced loyalty to their boss with a willingness to speak frankly.
The secretary cleared his throat. “We shifted some more Guard resources there,” he said. “Things are under control now, but we had some significant casualties. About a dozen soldiers and even more civilians killed. Scores wounded. We’re trying to get firm numbers.”
“Even worse than I’d thought,” said the president.
“We’re working with the governors to deploy all available National Guard troops in the northeastern U.S. to the quarantine zone,” said the secretary.
“Can we bring in active-duty troops?” asked the president.
“The Posse Comitatus Act would prevent that,” said the secretary of defense. “We can’t use active-duty military inside U.S. borders.”
The president looked down the table at his attorney general. “What about an exception for a critical domestic law enforcement situation, Fred?”
“I think we could legally justify an exception to the act to quell domestic violence. But it would probably be challenged in the courts. We’d lose time.”
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” said the DHS secretary. “We’re also facing a severe shortage of health workers. We’ve got a substantial military medical infrastructure. I believe we could use active-duty medical personnel in a health emergency. We’re not talking about using lethal force here.”
“Good idea,” said the president. “Make it happen.” For the next several minutes, he listened to updates from each of the cabinet members. Following protocol, they reported in order of the presidential line of succession. Most of the news was distressing: looting and severe shortages of food and medical supplies in quarantined areas; overseas trading partners refusing U.S. agricultural exports; Canada and Mexico closing their borders to American citizens; and in the near future the prospect of a stock market collapse and a run on banks.
Finally, the president turned to the secretary of health and human services. “What’s the latest on the medical side, Annette?” he asked.
Cruickshank studied the face of Dr. Annette Torres as she formulated her response. She was exceptionally well qualified for the position, having headed the infectious diseases department at the Cleveland Clinic and then serving as the hospital’s CEO for four years before coming to Washington.
“The situation’s not good, Mr. President,” said Torres. “The outbreak’s spreading and we’ve got cases now all through Chester, Lancaster, and Delaware counties in Pennsylvania. Nearly a thousand victims hospitalized. Over three quarters of infected patients have died. Fifty new cases a day.”
The president shook his head. “How are the hospitals handling this?” he asked.
“Penn Hospital’s maxed out,” said the secretary. “We’ve worked with state authorities to establish new quarantine wings in two regional hospitals, but it looks like we’ll need a lot more beds. We’re drawing up plans now to transport patients to facilities outside the region.”
“Can that be done safely?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dr. Torres. “We’ll be using mobile isolation facilities—basically mini-medical-quarantine units on wheels.” She glanced down at notes in front of her and then looked up at the president. “We do have a proposal for better containment,” she said. “We clear out an area outside the quarantine perimeter. That would give us a depopulated buffer zone.”
“A no-man’s-land,” replied the president. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “How much farther out, and how many people are we talking about?”
“Another ten miles, to just outside the Philadelphia city limits. An additional quarter million people or so.”
The president whistled softly. “And what would we do with all those evacuees?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, they’d have to be in quarantine for a week or so,” said Torres. “To be sure they haven’t somehow been infected.”
“And where are we going to house a quarter of a million citizens?”
The secretary hesitated before answering. “I’ve talked this over with Defense and Transportation. A remote area out west. Nevada or Utah. One of the military bases. We’d transport them by train. A continuous shuttle.”
“My God.”
“What choice do we have, Mr. President? It would only be a temporary detention. Until we control the disease sprea
d. After that, they’d be free to go.”
The president nodded. “Any chance this thing could be airborne?” he asked.
Cruickshank leaned forward, his eyes on Torres, saw her hesitate before she told the president that it was “unlikely” that Kandahar could be transmitted through the air. So she’s not ruling it out, thought Cruickshank. He clenched his jaw. If this thing could be carried by the wind . . .
As Cruickshank was considering the dire ramifications of an airborne disease, the conference room door opened. The chief of staff looked over and saw a Secret Service man standing in the entrance, looking intently at him. Cruickshank rose, walked to the door, and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
“I have an urgent message for the president, sir,” the agent said. “Looks like we have another outbreak.”
“Another Pennsylvania location?” asked Cruickshank.
“No, sir,” the agent said. “Omaha.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
SEPTEMBER 1, AFTERNOON
HONOLULU
Mariah and Curt followed Bill Cothran to an office on the second floor of a nondescript beige building on the outskirts of Honolulu. Cothran gestured toward chairs around a small conference table.
As they sat down, Mariah tried to figure out who Cothran was. Before they’d left the airport, Curt had told her he was “with security,” but hadn’t offered anything more. It was obvious, now, even through the haze of Mariah’s jet lag, that Curt already knew Cothran, that in fact there was a friendship there that seemed to go back a ways. She looked around the office, saw a couple of framed diplomas, a shelf of technical books and unlabeled binders, no photos. A sign over the front door of the building had said Pacific Enterprises, which she thought was kind of a dead giveaway of a CIA front. And she’d been impressed with a flat panel by the door that seemed to respond to facial recognition. At least it opened when Curt had looked directly into it.
For the next ten minutes, Cothran briefed Curt and her on the latest events in southeastern Pennsylvania.
