by D C Alden
‘I wasn’t expecting that rate of infection, nor the level of violence,’ Jamal countered. ‘It changes things. Including my fee.’
So, this was a renegotiation, nothing more. Philip was relieved. He could deal with that. Money was unimportant, nothing more than a number, and Philip was interested to know exactly how much Jamal wanted on top of the quarter of a million dollars he’d already been paid.
‘Have you a figure in mind? One that will ease your concerns?’
Jamal didn’t blink. ‘Two million, plus five-hundred thousand for each of my partners here.’
Philip knew that Jamal’s twitchy associates would never see a single dollar. The money would be for him, and him alone. How short-sighted.
‘I’ll need to run it by my people,’ Philip told him. ‘I can tell you now, they won’t be very happy.’
‘Maybe not, but given this thing is on every channel across the world, I’m guessing the money won’t be a problem. And besides, this is my last op. I’m getting out, so consider it a pension dividend.’
Philip raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Jamal. Perhaps I can negotiate something extra? For your loyal service?’
‘Sure. See what you can do.’
Philip motioned to the door. ‘Give me an hour. You can wait in the lobby.’
Jamal pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘If it’s all the same to you, we’ll wait here. As soon as the transfer is confirmed, we’ll execute the mission.’ He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a dirty white vest and the covert holster beneath his left armpit.
‘Of course,’ Philip said, forcing a smile.
It was another reason he hated the Third World. Everything was always about money. And that greed had just cost Jamal his life.
CIA Director Jim Buchanan leaned in close and spoke quietly into Coffman’s ear.
‘Northridge is sending us the files of everyone who was stationed in Baghdad during the crisis, Madam President. It’s only a matter of time before we ID this Philip character.’
Coffman acknowledged the information with a curt nod. She knew that would be a fruitless task. Bob Blake had assured her there were no files on either Marion or Philip, no photographs, no personal information, nothing. They were ghosts.
‘What about this Marion character? Do we know where she is yet?’
Buchanan winced. ’We do not. The Germans believe she changed her clothes in a restroom before she boarded her flight. They’re still fine-combing the CCTV footage.’
‘And Mumbai?’
’It’s a fluid situation.’
‘Thank you, Jim. Keep me posted.’
She was back in the secure conference room, five storeys beneath the north lawn of the White House. She’d been there for the last six hours, and hadn’t once considered the sixty feet of earth between her and the cold night air above ground.
The room was solid with people, and the air hummed with tension. Her National Security Council occupied every seat around the conference table, and White House staffers hurried back and forth with paper messages and whispered words. The bank of high-definition monitors on the wall gave Coffman direct contact with the Pentagon, Langley and Fort Meade. Other screens were broadcasting thermal and infra-red feeds from the military drones that criss-crossed the sky over Lubbock. A couple of local TV crews who’d managed to survive were also providing live footage, ensuring a constant and inescapable tableau of horror, savagery and destruction for everyone in the room.
Coffman could see it on their faces, even as she maintained her own furrowed brow. The mood had shifted dramatically. What was thought to be a public disturbance had quickly escalated into something far worse, a biological terror attack, the blame quickly laid at the feet of the Global Liberation Front. Now her National Security Council were panicked by the very real potential for the virus to escape across the West Texas plain and beyond. That’s when her National Security Advisor Karen Baranski had significantly upped the ante and dropped the threat of Reverse Zoonoses into everyone’s lap; the potential for the virus to pass from humans to animals. That one had certainly caused a few assholes to pucker. The horrific scenario of infected animals attacking humans and spreading the virus — especially birds — focussed minds like never before. It couldn’t happen, Coffman knew. Blake had assured her of that, but Baranski’s sombre delivery was enough to tip the scales in their favour.
No one was thinking about saving the good people of Lubbock any longer. They were thinking about the possibility of attacks in other cities, of millions becoming infected, of society crumbling around them. Of their own survival.
‘Oh my God!’ a voice cried.
Up on the thermal imaging screen, ghostly white figures tumbled off a hotel roof as a sizeable mob of infected swarmed after them. The spectacle was too much for Homeland Security chief Diane Grady. She sprung out of her chair and pointed at the screen.
‘Madam President, we must do something!’ she shrilled. ‘For God’s sake, this thing could spread across the whole of Texas!’
‘Diane’s right,’ SecState Jayne Pascoe added. ‘We have to act now.’
Grady snatched a message slip off the table and waved it dramatically. ’The governors of Arizona and Oklahoma are demanding you declare a State of Emergency. They’ve mobilised the National Guard. They’re going to seal their state borders with or without federal authority.’
‘The media isn’t helping,’ said the NSA representative up on the monitor wall. ‘They’re stoking the panic. We could be looking at major civil unrest.’
’I’m already seeing reports of looting across the country,’ Grady piled in, ‘even in states as far away as Oregon and Minnesota. Ma’am, it’s getting out of control.’
All eyes turned towards the President. Her own were fixed on the message slips in front of her, all urgent and doom-laden, as she’d anticipated. She lifted her head and looked around the room.
‘I agree, the virus cannot be allowed to escape the city.’ She turned to Secretary of Defence Drew Clark. ‘Is everything ready, Drew?’
Clark’s face was chalk white. ‘Not quite. A ten-mile exclusion zone has been established around the Lubbock metropolitan area, and another thirty thousand troops have been mobilised, but there are still a lot of gaps to be plugged in terms of routes out of the city. In the meantime state troopers are turning back escapees, but I’m afraid there have been some shootings. People are desperate.’
‘What about screening? Can’t we let the healthy ones through?’ asked a voice at the other end of the table.
Clark shook her head. ‘We simply do not have the time or the infrastructure to screen a quarter of a million people, and nor can we risk the infection breaching the exclusion zone.’
Coffman cleared her throat, her voice dripping with faux compassion. ‘Have we done enough to warn people?’
Beside Clark, Grady nodded. ‘Ma’am, we’ve been broadcasting an emergency message for the last two hours, on every local TV, radio and cell network. People have been ordered to get off the streets and seek shelter below ground. The hospitals have barricaded their doors and windows, and are running on generators. First responders have spread the word as much as they can. Ma’am, we simply can’t wait any longer.’
No one spoke. Coffman strung the moment out for as long as she could, building the tension. Finally she said, ‘You all understand what this entails? Innocent American lives will be lost, potentially thousands of them. This is a decision that we must make together, as an administration. And more importantly, take responsibility for.’
‘What choice do we have?’ Grady asked rhetorically. The room nodded in agreement.
Up on the wall, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs underpinned Coffman’s carefully crafted strategy in the gravest of tones.
‘Madam President, if the virus is not contained quickly and decisively, it will reach Dallas within days. If that happens, we will not be able to contain the spread. Oklahoma City will fall, as will Albuquerque and San Antonio
to the south. If it reaches El Paso, Mexico will be directly threatened, and that is simply unacceptable. We have a responsibility, Madam President, not only to our fellow Americans but to the international community. For their sakes we have to act, and act decisively, because this may be the first and only chance we have of stopping this terrible outbreak. The American people will expect nothing less.’
Well said, Charlie. Coffman looked around the silent room, making eye contact with as many people as possible. There were no more dissenting voices, no more half-hearted pleas for restraint. Lubbock had become a fast-mutating cancer that needed cutting out fast.
Coffman got to her feet, and the table rose around her. The record would show that President Coffman had been reluctant to take such drastic action, and that ultimately she’d had no choice. If America was to be saved, someone had to make the final decision, and the buck stopped with her.
She turned to face the Pentagon feed. Charlie stared back at her, surrounded by silent uniforms, her dogs of war straining at the leash.
‘Do what needs to be done, Admiral Schultz. And God help us all.’
Throwback
They’d thrashed out the plan on the way to the Hotel Manama.
First job was to secure the building, which would be simple enough; there were four entry points in total and the hotel was fairly small. The second was speed — from the moment they seized control, they’d be on the clock. If everything went as planned, Philip would be in their custody within the hour. Or in a body bag, if they were unlucky.
Mike had nothing on Philip, no history at all. Was he military? Former special forces? Langley was running down the Northridge angle, but Mike’s mind was already made up; he’s military, and he’ll have a plan.
He watched the Isuzu up ahead swerving through the evening traffic as the convoy headed south towards the Eastern docks. The lady back at the consulate had been right about her drivers; all three vehicles weaved through the traffic as if they were tied together. Mike found himself bracing every few seconds, expecting the crunch of metal and broken glass, but all he heard was the blare of horns and the roar of traffic around him.
‘It’s just ahead, a couple of hundred yards,’ Sanjay said, pointing through the windscreen.
Mike hit the transmit button on his radio. ‘All call-signs, target is two-hundred yards and closing. Standby.’
All three vehicles swerved into the nearside lane and slowed. The sidewalks were packed with people, a constant, chaotic crush of noise and colour. He saw the hotel sign ahead. The convoy stopped fifty yards short of the entrance. Mike keyed his radio once more.
‘Eyeball-One, this is Task Force Leader, we are thirty seconds out.’
The CIA operative seated inside the lobby of the Hotel Manama answered immediately and quietly. ‘Target in situ. Clear to deploy.’
Mike yanked open the side door and headed towards the hotel entrance. Sanjay walked ahead of him, while Flynn covered their rear. Flynn’s shotgun was held low on a sling beneath his thin rain jacket. Mike sweated beneath his own coat. He knew they might attract a little attention as they crossed the pavement, but the risk of trying to stop Philip unarmed was too great.
Sanjay pushed open the glass door and stepped inside the air-conditioned lobby. Mike followed him, seeing a concierge desk to the left, a lounge area to his right. There was only one person there, a dark, overweight lady reading a USA Today. She got out of her chair and nodded at Mike.
All clear.
There were two people behind the concierge desk, a smart-suited man in his forties and a young Indian girl with a long ponytail and wearing hotel livery. The man, clearly a managerial type, had his nose buried in paperwork. The girl looked up and smiled as Sanjay approached her and asked something in Urdu. The smile slipped from her face as Flynn went behind the desk and pulled the Benelli from under his coat. He held it low by his leg and the girl stared at it, speechless, her bottom lip trembling. The suited man looked up, irritation on his face. Then fear, as he clocked the deadly black weapon.
‘Inside, now.’
Flynn backed them into the adjacent office and made them sit. Mike came around the desk, advising them to stay calm and not try anything stupid. Hotels in Mumbai were no strangers to men with guns, and the look on their faces told Mike that the manager and his receptionist would offer no trouble.
Mike got to work, disabling the hotel phone system and the elevators. Flynn locked the main entrance doors and cracked open the rear service door for the rest of the team. There was no time to secure the whole building, and as the team gathered in the lobby, hotel staff could be heard scrambling for the rear exits.
‘No doubt someone has already dropped a dime on us,’ Mike told them, ‘so we’re on the clock. Our target is on the fifth floor, room twelve. Seems he has company, three local males, identity unknown. You can all ID Philip from the airport CCTV, so let’s keep him alive. Watch your corners and clear your sectors.’
Forced entries were always risky, and even though Mike and his team had a lot of real-world experience, having enough time to breach and stop a potential virus release was going to be difficult.
He turned to his XO. ‘Don, take two SEALs and secure the ground floor. Keep the route to the parking lot clear, and put the manager behind the front doors. The story is a gas leak.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘Are we all good? Okay, let’s go.’
Jamal was getting impatient, huffing and fidgeting in his chair every few seconds. And he wasn’t the only one. Philip noticed his two companions were also feeding off their employer’s agitation, pacing the room, flicking TV channels. They were making Philip nervous.
The money wasn’t an issue — Jamal could’ve asked for anything he wanted. No, the issue was authority. Philip had some, but not enough to transfer millions of dollars. The okay would have to come from Sorensen himself. Blake could do it, but he was too high-profile now, and he didn’t want any involvement in the operational side of things.
Philip checked his watch. The sun had yet to rise in Arizona, and Sorensen was still sleeping. The cancer had made a resurgence, and his medical team were refusing to wake him.
Jamal huffed and got out of his chair. ‘Look, if you want us to hit the station during rush-hour, you’d better get a move on.’
Philip forced himself to remain calm. ‘Have we ever let you down, Jamal? You’ve always been paid well, and always on time. Just do the job, please. We can work this out later.’
‘D’you think I’m stupid? Mumbai will go to hell, along with half of India. There’s a chance none of us will make it, but if we do, the world will be in chaos. Our money might be easily forgotten in the confusion.’
‘Nonsense, Jamal. Look, I can double your money right now, but that’s the best I can do. Just take it, for God’s sake!’
Jamal’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t ever raise your voice at me again.’
‘My apologies,’ Philip said, swallowing his anger.
Jamal stared at him for several moments. ‘Fine, pay me what you have. But I want the rest, Philip. Understand?’
‘You have my word. Give me fifteen minutes to transfer the funds.’
‘I’m hungry,’ moaned Sunglasses. He was sat on the bed watching TV, the sunglasses now perched on top of his head.
‘Me too,’ the Beard added.
Jamal waved a hand at the phone. ‘Order room service. And make it quick.’
Philip flipped open his laptop and sat by the window. The last thing he needed now was the WI-FI signal to drop during the transfer. He opened up a secure browser window and typed in the Belgian bank’s web address…
‘The line’s dead.’
Philip turned around. Sunglasses was sprawled on the bed, the phone held to his ear. He shook the handset and listened. ‘Definitely dead.’
Philip crossed the room, snatching the phone from Sunglasses and tapping the cradle button several times. Nothing. He crossed to the writing bureau and plucked a hotel brochure from the smal
l wooden stand. He flipped it over and used his mobile to call the main number. Nothing.
‘Hotel switchboard is busy.’ He shared a look with Jamal, one born from years of operational experience.
Jamal hurried to the window and cracked the blind. Philip went to the door. He peered through the spyglass out into the corridor. Visibility was limited, and all he could see was the opposite door. He gave Jamal a quick head shake.
The former intelligence agent snapped his fingers and motioned Sunglasses to his feet. ‘Go downstairs, have a poke around for anything unusual, then call me, understood?’
Sunglasses swaggered from the room, and Jamal switched his attention back to Philip. ‘What about that money?’
Philip sat back down and rested his laptop on his knees. The bank’s window was open. He typed in his username, password and seven-digit code. He thought about relieving Jamal of the gun in his fist, about shooting him and the Beard and doing the job himself, but he still felt weakened by his sickness. He transferred another quarter of a million dollars into Jamal’s account, consoling himself with the knowledge that somewhere down the line, the infection would find him.
‘There,’ Philip announced, flipping the laptop around. ‘The money’s in your account.’
Jamal pulled out his smart phone, eager to check the transaction. As he did, Philip’s phone beeped with an incoming message.
He thumbed open his phone, read the text.
His heart rate skyrocketed.
You’re blown. Get out now.
Sunglasses stabbed the elevator button again, convinced his repeated pushing would result in the arrival of a lift. The former Pakistani soldier waited another minute before cursing under his breath and heading for the fire escape.
He barged the door open and stepped into the stairwell. Something hit him hard in the face and strong hands slammed him against the wall. His head smacked off the concrete as someone yanked the gun from his waistband. He blinked tears from his watery eyes and blood ran from his nose. The gloved hand around his throat was pinching his windpipe and he wheezed noisily. His eyes refocussed. He was surrounded by armed white men. The one that choked him, a well-built, fair-haired man with a stubbled face, relaxed his fingers a little and allowed him to breathe.
