by Jace Killan
“Thank you,” Jared said, clicking the next slide, showing an account ledger. “The highlighted numbers are draws from the account to an account in the Banco de Sonora. From there I followed the trail to several accounts in Antigua. But as you know, it’s difficult to follow the money past there.”
“We have ways,” Dan said.
“How much are we talking about?” Roode squinted at the illuminated wall.
Jared shrugged. “At least three hundred million has gone to Antigua from Northern.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Well, Dan? Take Jared and have your team connect the dots, but I think we now have a working theory as to how the Georgians got their cash.”
If only Jones could see him now. Askari Meshvul, affixed the message to a pigeon’s left leg, in the small tote. Then with a prayer to Allah, he released the bird into the air. She flew out, off the rooftop of his French chateau, southeast, straight for Turkey. He’d let three others go that day, each bearing the same message. It had come time to terrorize the world with Anthrax.
He’d set up the virtual biotech company easy enough, offering his pseudonym, Dr. Jefferson, enough credentials to be reputable. He simply added his name to studies regarding inhalants and Anthrax and biofilms, to display enough notoriety that no one even questioned his intellect or credentials.
He’d attended dozens of conference calls and hung in with the best of them, none the wiser to his scheme.
Of course, he did own NovaBrand Biopharma, worth a good fifty million; that part was real. The company’s history aided his ruse. It afforded him real credibility and need. The staff, the actual researches, hadn’t a clue what he’d been up to. They continued on with their pursuit of FDA approvals for their novel treatment of Anthrax.
They hadn’t any idea that he’d used the biotech company as a front, giving him insight to a European Contract Research Organization specializing in virulent diseases that he eventually purchased for $79 million.
Through the CRO he’d obtained access to Bacillus anthracis. The bacteria could develop spores causing Anthrax if inhaled.
Through NovaBrand hiring his CRO, Askari developed a side-by-side study showing how the bacteria engendered resistance to the current treatments of anthrax and the new treatment NovaBrand developed.
NovaBrand’s therapeutic was not as effective as the current, but that didn’t matter. Askari now had a mutated version of the bacteria, essentially immune to the nation’s stockpile of vaccines.
The CRO would be in hot water in a few weeks when the Centers for Disease Control discovered the breach, but by then it’d be too late.
NovaBrand, headed by Labib, his brother from Pakistan who’d graduated from Stanford, performed an additional study to develop a treatment to the mutated version of the bacteria.
For a couple hundred thousand, NovaBrand purchased inhalant manufacturing equipment that allowed Askari and Labib to fill and label albuterol inhalers that actually contained the anthrax spores. They’d shipped thousands of these inhalers across the world, and likewise they sent thousands of syringes filled with the antidote.
Askari let two more pigeons fly, these to Moscow. The world would turn their attention to the anthrax attacks while a Muslim brother and his Russian comrades, angry against US involvement in the Georgian conflict, attacked the US embassy.
Askari went to the sink he’d installed on his rooftop. He needed to wash his hands, for it was time to pray. By this hour tomorrow, he’d start his assault on the heathen unlike any the world had ever seen.
44
Maya joined the New Islamic State because she wanted to feel something, anything, though she would say that she sought action to add meaning to her life.
Now she could almost feel that something. Her hand shook with excitement as she reached into her purse and touched the inhaler. It looked like an albuterol inhaler some of her friends had used in high school.
Maya wore a long sleeve sweatshirt and jeans, still naked without her burqa. But that was the plan, not to draw unwanted attention. Wearing a shawl on an international flight would turn heads. Not that anyone could stop her now.
She had passed through security without a hitch. The purse went through the x-ray and then received a quick manual inspection, and off she went to board.
Her mind had wandered and she had wondered if she’d be tackled by every security agent she saw, but nothing happened, just as Askari had said.
Now she flew in route from France to the US in a 747. Maya waited until most of the passenger cabin had settled in for the overnight flight then she took her inhaler and headed for the loo at the front of the plane. She held the inhaler at her side and with every pace she squeezed off a puff. No one seemed to notice anything.
She rested in the loo for a few minutes, smiling at her reflection. Her olive skin had aged over the past few years. How foreign to stare at herself. When younger she’d spend hours looking at herself, making herself up into a fake woman. Now, she didn’t give into vanity.
She wore a gray sweatshirt more to hide her arms than anything, but she’d grown accustomed to long sleeves these days. She smiled. She should be happy now. Her life had meaning and so she should feel something, just as Askari had promised.
She left the loo and headed back toward her seat though she traveled down the opposite row, repeating the same action of pressing the inhaler with each pace. This time, Maya stole a glance. There was a faint puff sound as the contents shot from the inhaler in a white mist that quickly vanished. She wondered if people would start coughing or grasping their chest, but nothing like that happened. Askari had said that the passengers would inhale the anthrax bacteria and the bacteria would spread. Signs would show within a few days and most would be dead within a couple of months.
This thought made Maya smile. She was a soldier for Islam.
She returned to her seat and placed the inhaler in her purse. No one seemed to notice her act of terror. Her notoriety would come in a few weeks, if ever. She had been given the antidote a week ago, though she didn’t care if it worked or not. Her life had meaning now. She had become significant. Others respected her and admired her and those sentiments would only increase if she were to die.
After an hour, she rose and ventured with the inhaler to the passenger cabin upstairs. She met a flight attendant who questioned her wanting to enter from below.
In French she said, “My friend is up here.” She pointed down the cabin then whispered, “I was going to borrow a tampon.”
“Oh, go right ahead,” said the attendant, also in French.
Maya walked several paces ahead before she started to press the inhaler again, with every pace. She passed through a wall hoisting an enormous television screen playing an American movie that Maya didn’t recognize. The subtitles were in French, though the sound muted and the passengers asleep.
In the next cabin, Maya headed toward the loo. Inside, she looked at herself again, in the mirror, breathing deep. She pulled up her sleeves. White lines covered the forearm, several still pink. She longed for the escape, but lowered her sleeve.
She opened the door, meeting a man wearing a security uniform.
“Ma’am,” he said in English.
“Oi?”
The officer changed to speaking perfect French. “Someone complained that you were spraying something into the air.”
Maya tried to look confused. “Spraying something? Maybe, my inhaler. I used it for my asthma.” She held it out.
“May I?” the officer took the inhaler, examining it. He held it to the side and pressed it down. It shot a puff. “And you don’t have anything else on you?”
“No.” Maya held up her arms and turned around. “You can pat me down if you’d like.” She made a flirtatious smile at him.
“Hmm, I suppose that this is what she saw.” He handed back the inhaler. “Have a good evening, madam. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Not a problem.” Maya made her way back across the cabin, not risking any
puffs as she went. Then she returned downstairs and to her seat, but only for a moment.
Her heart pumped; she could feel it pound. Energy raced through her veins from worry mixed with excitement. It was ecstasy. The risk of being found out excited her more than the act itself. She had to respond to the feeling, to make sure it was real. She took her purse and quickly returned to the restroom in her cabin, breathing heavily.
She stared at the small opening to dispose used razorblades. She had seen it before, though she tried to block it from her mind. But now, it cried to her.
She pried open the small locked cabinet, giving her access to the discarded blades, but there were none. Of course there weren’t. Who would use up a razorblade on a eleven hour flight, and if they did, who would use the slot to discard the used razorblade?
Her excitement dwindled to frustration as she scanned the small bathroom. Her image reflected a serious face with worried eyes, though anger slowly took over.
The mirror. It wasn’t a mirror, really, just a sheet of reflective foil, stuck to the wall. But she did have a small makeup mirror in her purse. She opened it and pounded the mirror against the chrome faucet, not hard enough to do anything so she hit it again. This time it shattered into one main shard and several smaller pieces. She took the main shard, her breathing now rampant. She had to see it. She had to feel it.
Taking the broken piece in her right hand, she pulled up the sleeve of her left arm. There were a series of scars, some more visible than others. They made a sort of ladder up her arm. Seeing them brought back many memories, and now she would add another. Further down her arm she found an empty spot. She touched the broken mirror to her skin and pressed. It wasn’t razor sharp, but it would cut with pressure. She applied it and with a quick whip, sliced across the skin. Blood formed and started running down her arm and she felt it. All the excitement of helping the caliphate and knowing that she was alive for her heart pumped and blood flowed through her body. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the calming of her mind.
Cesar sat in the mess hall of a treatment facility for those suffering depression and suicidal thoughts. It hadn’t been easy getting in, but he’d managed it almost a week ago. It had taken that long to convince his counselor that he was ready to move out of observation where he’d been on 24-hour suicide watch. After another day, he could attend groups and eat with the other residents.
His biggest problem was that he lived in the east wing of the facility, his target, Jared Sanderson, lived in the west wing. Up until yesterday he feared Jared might have left the facility, but then he spotted Jared across the gym, exiting with his group.
The facility meant to keep the patients, which they referred to as clients, alive. A client, not a patient, because the latter would be demeaning to someone who attempted suicide. Someone in that state of mind needed reassurances, not labels, so they were identified as a client as if they’d retained an impressive law firm or marketing agent. Both of which would be cheaper. The facility charged a whopping $2100 a day. What a scam. Of course, it came out of Cesar’s pocket. He had to make it right, whatever the cost.
When he walked through a door, opened by a nurse’s key card, they had to wait until the door fully closed before opening any other door, to prevent someone running into a place they didn’t belong. The clients were watched and guarded twenty four hours a day, every day. No laces in shoes. No belts. No soda cans. They wrote with crayons. They weren’t given plastic bags.
One woman supposedly killed herself by swallowing a tampon then drinking a bunch of water. The tampon swelled up in her throat and choked her.
Cesar thought of it all. There wasn’t a way to make Jared die where it would pass as suicide. If he could get close enough to Jared there’d be no way he could get the guy to swallow a tampon without a fight.
More than likely, Jared hadn’t been suicidal. Sure someone might try and off himself after discovering his wife had been killed, but Jared probably suspected he’d been the target so he entered into this facility as a safe alternative to winding up dead.
Cesar entered the gym and waited on the side for the other pod to return their balls and line up by the far door on the opposite side. A tall man, bald, with a few weeks of reddish beard dribbled a ball to the holding bin.
Jared? Cesar removed the beard in his mind. He had memorized the photo though little good that did when he failed to identify his target before unloading his SK47 on the driver. Cesar had only seen Jared that one time, the night before his mishap. And from memory, Jared didn’t look like the picture much. He shook the doubt from his mind. Odds were that there weren’t two tall bald white guys in the facility, but haste had gotten him into trouble to begin with. He had time now. As long as Jared didn’t graduate from the facility, he didn’t jeopardize whatever the cartel had in the works.
According to Junior, Cesar had to make it look like a suicide. Otherwise, it could ruin everything, whatever that meant. And if that happened, Cesar could consider himself dead. To think he could avoid death by the cartel was folly. Still, he needed to clean this up.
Jared sifted through the files on his laptop. He used the find feature to locate certain amounts and transaction IDs quickly in the hundreds of thousands of files obtained by the CIA.
After a day of this, he had his paper trail ending in a hundred transactions to an arms dealer in Turkey totaling $96,449,522.81.
Apparently his methodology of finding data proved insanely fast. He taught a few analysts his tricks and readied for a presentation to Roode and Dan Washburn, downstairs.
Roode had insisted Washburn bring his team from Langley and mandated that they provide Jared with whatever tools and access he needed.
Spencer had been allowed to accompany Jared, though he did very little other than bring Jared up to speed on the situation in Georgia.
Over the past couple of years, Russia had taken the liberty of expanding its forces at the border and inside Georgia. The US had expressed its disdain for Russia’s behavior, but after letting Russia overtake the Ukraine, with nothing more than a verbal reprimand; Russia didn’t quite care what the US thought about it.
Now, however, the Georgians had been armed with a chunk of weaponry, a bb gun compared to Russia’s arsenal, but still, the Georgians grew empowered enough to resist, resulting in civil unrest. The Russians blamed the US for meddling in their affairs, leading to the heinous attack on the US embassy in Moscow where a mob captured and beheaded seven Americans including the ambassador on live video.
Tensions were already high given US sanctions on Syria after they used chemical warfare on their people, crossing the line in the sand once again. The new president didn’t feel like making idle threats either. He abashedly called for Assad’s assassination and personally offered a ten million dollar award for the act.
Putin in return, brought up charges with the UN, and the geopolitical scene continued to escalate.
The first confirmed report of Anthrax appeared in North Dakota; the victim was an elderly man. The Centers for Disease Control rightfully suspected that the man contracted the bacteria during his travels to Europe a couple weeks prior. When the second, third, and fourth reports hit days later, the CDC put together that the passengers of flight 620 had somehow come in contact with the spores. Immediately, the airline stock took a dive and the NIS made forty million on the transaction.
But when a dozen more reports surfaced in others that had travelled from Europe but none of them in flight 620, the news went ballistic with conspiracy theories. In all, six flights had been infected with the use of the inhalation device that looked like an albuterol inhaler. From what Askari could tell, none mentioned an inhaler, though it wouldn’t take them long to figure it out. Hopefully, they wouldn’t before tomorrow when the next phase of his plan went into effect.
Already, the plan advanced as he foresaw. The first cases of Anthrax triggered mass hysteria in the public. Then the vaccines didn’t prove to be effective as the bacteria had developed res
istance to the treatment. Naturally his company stock shot up.
But the money was an afterthought. He wanted people to cancel their vacations. To stay home from work and school. They did. Travel and transportation companies dropped in value and Askari made millions more. There’d be more to follow. His plan had just begun. The fires would follow.
Raif, a ten year old with Mrs. Nelson’s class, hopped off the bus. He stared at the massive home of the President of the United States. In his pocket, Raif held what looked like an albuterol inhaler, like he usually carried around in case he had an asthma attack.
But he couldn’t use it for asthma today because it contained a magical potion and it would help all those that breathed it in to be super happy and rich and strong. So, he needed to share it with everyone he saw, but there was a catch. If they saw the inhaler, it wouldn’t work. He had to keep it hidden while he pressed the inhaler, letting the magic out to fill the White House.
“What about me?” Raif had asked. “I already saw it.”
“You’re right dear,” his mother said. “It won’t work on you. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t help others.”
What Raif didn’t know, is that his father and mother had moved to the United States before he was born, with the hopes of assimilating to the Western culture near the US’s capitol, then looking for opportunities to bring about the Caliphate. That opportunity now presented itself, though much hinged on the success of their son.
It took forever for Raif and his classmates to walk across the massive yard to get to the front door of the White House. Inside, it looked more like a museum than a home. They went through a metal detector after emptying their pockets in a bowl. He received the inhaler again though tried to conceal it quickly so none of his friends would see it.
“Come Raif,” his teacher said, placing her hand on his shoulder.
“Ow.” Raif rubbed a spot where he’d received an injection that morning.
