by Hank Parker
There was one more door inside the MCL that they hadn’t yet gone through. Curt opened the door and Mariah followed him inside. She could hear a loud roaring that sounded like the air-handling units back at the Barn. She also heard piercing cries similar to those she’d heard in the jungle early this morning. Then, even with the biosafety suit on, she was overcome by the powerful odor of ammonia and animal feces.
The room was dark. Curt flicked on a flashlight, quickly found a light switch, and illuminated the space.
Mariah gasped. The room was lined with cages. Inside the cages, emaciated macaque monkeys paced back and forth. One large, healthier monkey glared at them and began hurling itself against the bars of its cage. Soon all the monkeys, or at least those that were still alive, were screaming. Monkey corpses lay on the bottom of several cages. Mariah looked closer and saw blood oozing from the mouths and noses of some of the macaques. She looked into their eyes. Blood was seeping from the corneas. The eyes seemed to plead. Mariah immediately thought of Reston Ebolavirus. There had been a deadly outbreak in 1989 in Reston, Virginia, among macaque monkeys imported from the Philippines for research purposes. Exposed humans weren’t sickened. But the Reston monkeys hadn’t shown external bleeding like the ones in this room. That damage was mainly internal. Mariah shook her head and fought back tears. She wanted to help these animals, but she knew it was too late for them.
She had to fight her natural response to get the hell out of this place. She was no agent. This was way beyond her day-to-day job. But she did know about lab work and could calm herself by trying to respond logically to what the surroundings called for. She and Curt took swab samples from a number of locations around the animal room amid the monkeys’ frantic shrieks. Mariah was careful not to get too close to the especially agitated monkey. She knew that long-tailed macaques had sharp teeth and a nasty habit of biting handlers.
They finished taking samples and headed toward the door. Curt stopped just before the exit. As Mariah waited, she saw him bend over to examine something on the floor. It looked to her like a spray gun of some kind. He examined it closely and took swab samples from around the nozzle. Finally, he straightened up and turned toward the exit.
The large macaque monkey crashed against its cage door, forcing it open. With its teeth bared, it covered the distance to Curt in less than two seconds and leaped at him.
Mariah reacted instinctively. As Curt pivoted away from the attack, she picked up the spray gun and threw it at the monkey, striking it on the shoulder. Stunned, the macaque momentarily paused. Mariah heaved open the door. She and Curt dashed through, slamming the door shut just as the monkey gathered itself for another attack.
Then they heard the sound of gunshots.
* * *
A line of six two-and-a-half-ton military cargo trucks lumbered along in the darkness on westbound Route Three and entered the city limits of West Chester, Pennsylvania. The trucks were filled with food and medical supplies for the besieged residents of the city who’d been cut off from the rest of the world for nearly a week.
The National Guard soldiers manning the trucks had been well briefed. They knew they’d be facing a potentially hostile populace and that the residents of West Chester were on the verge of panic, having already depleted the area’s food reserves and believing that they were facing starvation. The soldiers also knew that several inhabitants had died from a lack of critical medications. The soldiers were armed, but had been warned that if confronted, they were to use their weapons only as a last resort.
The trucks stopped in front of the West Chester City Hall. A National Guard major stepped from the lead truck and looked around. Not a soul in sight. A good sign, thought the major, though he wondered where the mayor was. The governor’s office had contacted the city leader earlier to inform him that the resupply would take place at 2 a.m., when the townspeople would be asleep. The mayor was asked to meet the trucks and direct them to a secure warehouse where the supplies could be stored and distributed from. He’d been strongly advised not to share this information with any other West Chester resident.
The major returned to the truck. Had the rendezvous point been changed? He needed to contact his superiors to see if he’d missed any information. He started to open the truck door to make a radio call and heard a noise behind him.
The major turned to see a large crowd of men emerging from around the corner of the city hall building, advancing quickly toward the trucks. The men were armed with clubs and tire irons. A few carried shotguns. As the crowd grew closer the major could hear angry murmuring and he saw menace in the faces of the men. He faced a decision: confront the group, find out what they wanted, and try to calm them down, or alert the soldiers and prepare for a possible attack. He chose the former option, in part because he wasn’t sure there was time to notify his troops, who were sequestered with the supplies in the canvas-covered cargo beds of the trucks, and in part because he wanted to keep things from escalating.
The major walked toward the crowd, his bearing erect, affecting what he hoped was a confident demeanor. He stopped a few feet away from the apparent leader of the group, a large, bearded bear of a man wearing an old sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, and started to ask him what they wanted. Ignoring the major, the man signaled to the people behind him, who stepped around him and advanced toward the trucks.
The major turned and shouted toward the soldiers in the vehicles, but he doubted they could hear him. He saw the driver of the lead truck open the door, his pistol drawn, but the crowd was already there. He heard the blast of a shotgun and saw the driver fall.
Alerted by the noise, the rest of the Guard soldiers erupted from the backs of the cargo trucks, but the confrontation was over quickly. The mob was prepared for the soldiers’ resistance.
By the time the crowd had stripped the trucks of their supplies and loaded the goods into waiting pickups, five soldiers lay motionless on the ground. The remaining Guardsmen, disarmed by the crowd, stood by helplessly, many bleeding from wounds or clutching broken limbs. The major, holding a handkerchief to a laceration on his head, watched as the attackers piled into the pickup trucks and drove away.
* * *
At the sound of the gunfire in the lab, Curt switched off the hallway light and whispered to Mariah to remain quiet. Hardly breathing, she stood in the darkness, pressed against a wall, wondering what she’d do if they were discovered, listening to the rogue macaque throw itself repeatedly at the door of the room she and Curt had just fled. They had no weapons, not even the tools they’d used earlier.
Minutes later Mariah heard a door open and heavy footsteps approaching. She reached out for Curt and grasped air instead. Where was he? She saw the bright beam of a flashlight playing across the room and heard movement, close, and a murmur of voices. The light switched off. Mariah held her breath, forced herself to remain motionless. Then a bright light glared into her face, and a man was shouting: “Got her! I got her right here!”
Mariah kicked the man with all her might. The flashlight flew out of his hand, smashed against the wall, and went dead. She inched away in the darkness and heard the sounds of thudding and muffled groans. Finally, a voice she recognized as Curt’s called out.
“Mariah,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Where are you?” she cried as a delayed surge of fear rose up her throat and threatened to choke her.
The overhead lights switched on, and Mariah shielded her eyes with a shaking hand. As Curt moved toward her she looked over his shoulder where two men lay motionless on the floor. She wasn’t sure they were still alive. She wasn’t sure she wanted them to be.
* * *
Omar willed himself to control his emotions, to snuff out the incandescent anger that was smoldering inside him. When his men had called to tell him that the young CIA employee, Angus Friedman, had gotten away, his first, irrational impulse had been to go directly to them, to ex
ecute them on the spot, with his own hands. But he knew that wouldn’t do any good. He needed them and it was too late to line up replacements. Besides, he acknowledged, he was ultimately responsible for the escape. He should not have underestimated Friedman, should never underestimate any field operative who worked for American intelligence.
Now he needed a plan. Doctor Vector was due in the Philippines today. His flight had probably already landed, and he’d be arriving in Jolo by evening. Even though the guy was an egotistical idiot, he was controlling the mission. At least Vector believed he was. The mission had to succeed. At all costs. If Vector found out that Friedman had escaped, he’d be furious. And, Omar had come to learn, when Vector got angry, he’d lose perspective and judgment, be capable of making irrational decisions. The mission would be jeopardized. Omar knew he’d eventually have to disclose Friedman’s escape. Was there a way to do this that wouldn’t set off Vector, that could actually be used to the advantage of the mission?
Omar took a deep breath, straightened his spine, bent his knees, and rhythmically contracted and relaxed his diaphragm. As he squatted, he extended his arms and rotated through a series of slow, precise, coordinated movements. Omar was a devout Muslim but had long since realized that there was much to learn from other cultures, including the ancient Buddhist practice of moving meditation known as tai chi.
By the time he’d finished his routine, Omar had decided on the path forward.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SEPTEMBER 4 (SEPTEMBER 5, PHILIPPINES TIME)
JOLO, PHILIPPINES
Mariah and Curt entered a small, windowless conference room air-conditioned to the point of frigidity. A group of five or six was assembled around a table, and Mariah was surprised to see Bill Cothran among them. The portable safe from the underground lab sat in the center of the table.
Cothran stood and shook hands with Curt and Mariah. “Glad to see you’re both okay. Understand you’ve had a rough time—especially you, Mariah.”
“No problem, I’m fine,” she said. But she didn’t feel fine, and she hoped it didn’t show. She felt exhausted and twitchy. She sat down and clasped her hands together on her lap, afraid they would tremble if she placed them on the table. She noticed that Lieutenant Alvarez was at the table too, and that his arm was in a sling. She knew there’d been a massive gunfight aboveground while she and Curt had been exploring the underground lab. Men, Curt told her, had been killed, and Alvarez had taken a bullet to the shoulder. She assumed other holes were about to be filled in. She wondered what was in the safe. She could feel Curt watching her out of the corner of his eye and suppressed a shiver.
“I’ve got great news,” said Cothran. “I just got a call from the embassy in Manila. Friedman showed up there. He’d been captured by people likely connected to this whole thing. They weren’t gentle with him, but he managed to escape and we’re briefing him now. Physically he’ll be fine, but they got to him.”
Mariah noticed that Cothran was primarily directing his report to Curt and Curt was nodding. “The important thing is he’s safe,” said Cothran. “We’ll deal with the exposure as it comes.”
After pausing for a moment, his eyes on Curt, Cothran continued: “He’s on his way down here,” he said. “I’ll let him give you the details. We’ve got plenty to cover already this morning.” He remained standing and introduced the rest of the group: a U.S. Navy commander from the Joint Special Operations Task Force; his Filipino counterpart, an army colonel; and a clean-shaven civilian man from the U.S. embassy in Manila. CIA, Mariah guessed.
The colonel gave a concise report on the discovery of the Abu Sayyaf facility and the gun battles. He estimated that the ambush force had been composed of fifty to seventy-five insurgents. Between the two firefights the guerrillas had sustained twenty-one KIA and seventeen captured. The task force had suffered only four casualties, not counting wounded. Four men died, thought Mariah. That’s what you need to say, Colonel. Four men woke up this morning not knowing it would be their last day on earth. She wrapped her arms across her chest and tried to keep warm.
Cothran nodded toward Alvarez. “As you can see, the good lieutenant was wounded in the second battle,” he said. “Fortunately, it’s superficial. He’ll live to fight another day.”
“Where are the guerrillas now?” asked Mariah.
“Pretty much melted into the jungle,” said Alvarez. “Our troops are conducting a thorough search of the camp and surroundings. We did capture one guy. He’s in a secure location here at the camp and he’s being questioned right now.” He nodded toward Curt. “Dr. Kennedy’s helping us.”
Mariah kept looking at the safe on the table and wondered how they were supposed to pretend it wasn’t there. Cothran interrupted her thoughts. He was asking her to brief the group about the underground laboratory. She made an effort to control her voice, which she thought sounded high-pitched and shaky. “They were operating a state-of-the-art bio lab down there,” she said. “It included an MCL—Level Four by the look of it. And the latest equipment—even a bioreactor that looked like it was being used to manufacture virus. Plus an animal room.” Mariah paused, remembering the monkey attack, then forced herself to continue. “They were experimenting with macaque monkeys,” she said. “Most were sick and dead—a hemorrhagic disease. We’re guessing they were deliberately exposed to Kandahar virus.”
The embassy man shifted in his chair and drew back a bit from the edge of the table. “I’m surprised you weren’t exposed yourselves,” he said warily.
“We wore protective gear,” said Mariah. “We took a number of swab samples. They’re being analyzed in Manila.”
“We discovered a fine-particle grinder,” Curt added. “And a spray gun. Sure looks like they were trying to aerosolize the virus.”
“Shit,” said Cothran with a grimace, and Mariah realized that he must have been hearing some of this for the first time. She’d stopped trying to sort through the hierarchy of these shadowy, hypercompetent men. “An aerosolized virus. That’s all we need,” said Cothran. “Anything else? Go ahead, Curt, make my day.”
“We did find that safe,” Curt replied, pointing to the center of the table. “Might be worth checking out the contents. And while we’re at it, I suggest bringing in a trained microbiology team to thoroughly investigate the lab—and look for the virus.”
“I agree,” said Cothran. He turned to the man from the U.S. embassy. “The University of the Philippines has some expertise and they have that new Level Four lab,” he said. “That’s where we sent the swab samples. It’ll be quicker to bring a couple of their scientists down from Manila than to fly a team over from the States. Should be able to get them here by this evening if we make it highest priority. They’ll need to be cleared, of course.”
There was a knock on the door and a navy enlisted man entered. The navy commander motioned him to the table and turned to the rest of the group. “A machinist’s mate,” he said. “He has some special skills.”
The enlisted man placed his ear next to the safe’s combination lock and lightly grasped the dial. He slowly turned it forward and backward several times. In less than a minute, the safe clicked open.
The commander reached inside and pulled out a packet of documents. He glanced at them and passed them on to Alvarez. “Tagalog. Can you translate?”
Alvarez leafed through the sheaf of documents and held up the top sheet of paper. “Looks like a who’s who of the lab workers. Mostly Pakistani and Indonesian names, a number with advanced degrees in microbiology or medicine.” He pulled several more documents from the file. “These are architectural renderings of the laboratory and its various rooms. There should be blueprints somewhere. And there are technical drawings and specifications for scientific equipment. Wonder why they would just leave all that info lying around.”
“Hardly lying around,” said the navy commander. “It was in a secure underground lab, locked
in a safe. And they probably had contingency plans to burn the stuff if the wrong people showed up. We obviously surprised them. But they did have time to remove the hard drive on the computer in the lab. Smashed it. We’re trying to recover data, but it doesn’t look hopeful.”
Curt made a quick sketch of the particle grinder he’d found in the lab and handed it to Alvarez. “Any manuals for this in there?”
Alvarez glanced at the drawing. He looked through the documents again. “Not that I can see.” He turned to the naval officer. “Anything else in there, sir?” he asked.
“Just this,” the commander said. He reached inside and pulled out a fat, letter-sized manila envelope sealed with a metal clasp. He opened the envelope, pulled out several sheets of paper stapled together, and scanned them quickly. “Can’t read it,” he said. “Some foreign language.” He handed the documents to the civilian.
“Urdu,” said the man. “And there’s a number in the first paragraph: 11/9.”
“Sounds like a date,” said Curt. “If it is, it would be September eleventh—9/11. Most of the world uses the reverse order of month and day.”
For several seconds no one said anything, which Mariah figured was because they were all considering the obvious implications of the date.
“There’s more in the envelope,” said the commander as he grasped it and turned it upside down. Several stacks of paper currency tumbled onto the table. Cothran reached across, picked them up, and leafed through them. He looked over at the others with a puzzled expression on his face. “Euros,” he said. “And pound sterling.”
* * *
Shortly after 9:00 a.m., several dozen men and women marched down Chicago’s South LaSalle Street, heading for the historic, Art Deco Field Building in the Loop District. Their destination was the Bank of America retail space on the west side of the Field Building’s ground floor. Many of the marchers were masked and dressed in black. Several carried heavy objects—metal pipes, crowbars, and aluminum baseball bats. They reached the front of the building and stopped. As expected, the bank’s doors were locked, and not just because it was a Saturday. Since the nationwide run on the banks earlier in the week, the federal government had closed all financial institutions until further notice. Most citizens had accepted this, knowing that without such a strong measure, the entire banking system—and the national economy—could collapse.
