Plague

by H W Buzz Bernard

  But now it was a microscopic virus, not a megaton bomb.

  “What’s that?” Agent Babb asked, pointing to something that looked like a tiny horizontal bar graph. He peered over Dwight’s shoulder as the virologist leafed through a journal he had found in Dr. Gonzales’ office.

  “It looks like the genome of Gonzales’ bioengineered virus. Remarkable. Remarkable.” Dwight ran his finger along the diagram. “There. Ebola-Zaire. And here, Ebola-Reston. See?”

  Babb shook his head. “Not really. You mean there are different kinds of Ebola?” Dwight had explained earlier the basics of the virus and how it kills, but not much else.

  Dwight looked up. His eyes, heavy and tired, felt as if they were responding to the weight of what had been discovered. He snapped the journal shut and leaned back in his chair. “The first recorded outbreak of Ebola,” he said, “was noted in Zaire, now the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in 1976 near the Ebola River. Over 300 people were infected, and almost all of them died. Later that year, another outbreak swept through a small area of Sudan killing about 150 people. Thus we had Ebola-Zaire and Ebola-Sudan.”

  “Named for the geographical location of the outbreak?”

  Dwight nodded. “And their unique genomes. There’s also a subtype known as Ivory Coast, but only one case of that has been recorded. A new strain popped up in 2007, Ebola-Bundibugyo. But Zaire and Sudan are the main ones, and they seem to recur sporadically. Zaire mainly in the DRC and Gabon; Sudan primarily in Sudan and Uganda. The last big explosion was in 2007 in the DRC. 264 people got sick, over 70 percent died.”

  “So the outbreaks are confined to Africa?” Babb plopped heavily into a chair across from Dwight.

  “Of the type fatal to humans, yes. In 1989, there was an outbreak of Ebola in monkeys in a quarantine facility in Reston, Virginia. That’s what the book The Hot Zone was about. Four people developed antibodies to the virus, but none became ill. The monkeys didn’t fare as well.”

  “The monkeys were from Africa?”

  “No. The Philippines. And there’s been several outbreaks of Ebola-Reston since then. In Texas, again in Virginia, and also in Italy and the Philippines. Bad news for monkeys, but not for humans... fortunately.”

  “So where does it come from, where does it live, Ebola?”

  Dwight stood to stretch his legs, to force himself to remain alert. The adrenaline rush from earlier, from entering the lab, had worn off.

  “The virus is what we call zoonotic, animal-borne,” he said and began pacing, his sandals slapping the floor. “It needs an animal host to maintain itself. But so far we’ve been unable to identify its natural reservoir. All we know is it lives in the rain forests of Africa and Asia. Bats were a prime suspect for a long time, but researchers screened over 3000 vertebrates, including 500 bats and 30,000 arthropods, and came up with nothing. Zip. Zero. It’s damn discouraging.”

  An FBI agent stuck his head in the door and spoke to Babb. “Sir, just wanted to let you know the County Police Mobile Command Center is setting up operations in the parking lot. We’ve also asked the Army’s Technical Escort Unit to send a couple of companies. They might be able to help with rapid sampling and decontamination, if it comes to that. We’ve also got two Marine FAST companies on the way, one from Norfolk, the other from Yorktown.”

  Babb gave a thumbs-up, and the agent departed.

  “A FAST company?” Dwight said.

  “Fleet Antiterrorism Security Team. They have a variety of skills, including counter-surveillance, security ops, urban combat and close combat. They won’t necessarily go hunting for our terrorist, but they can help defend and set traps around potential targets.”

  “If only we knew what his targets were,” Dwight said, then added, “You know, if he lets this shit loose at the airport—”

  “It’s a major international crisis within hours,” Babb interrupted. “Yeah, I know.” He paused, appearing to be lost in thought for a moment, then said, “I’m puzzled over something you said earlier. The numbers on the Ebola outbreaks you cited don’t sound that large. A few hundred victims at most. That doesn’t exactly smack of disaster.”

  “Ebola-Zaire and -Sudan outbreaks tend to be self-limiting since the virus can’t survive without a live host. Once the host, the victim, dies, the virus stops replicating. Even before that happens, though, Ebola is spread only through close contact with victims, by way of their blood primarily. But now, with Gonzales’ bioengineered contagion...”

  He picked up Gonzales’ journal and waved it. “This guy’s taken Reston, harmless to humans, but capable of airborne transmission, and married it to Zaire, highly lethal to humans. Even if it survives only a few hours outside a host, we’ve got a bug that can infect from a sneeze or puff of wind; good God, from a deep breath while you’re out jogging or playing tennis. You’d never know it was there.” He slammed the journal back onto the desk. “And now we don’t have a clue where this sonofabitch is, let alone when or where he’s going to attack. If we’re lucky, we’ve got maybe a day or two to figure it out.”

  “Hell,” Babb said, “not only don’t we know where this bastard is, we don’t even know for sure who he is. I’m betting not Dr. Alano Gonzales.”

  “And Richard Wainwright, the CEO? How’s he mixed up in all this?”

  Babb shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s just a walk-on. Or maybe he and Gonzales had some sort of alliance that fell apart. All I know is he’s wanted for questioning in the murder of his executive assistant and in the shooting of the security manager here.”

  Richard pressed the phone firmly to his ear, wanting to make certain of what he was hearing.

  “So,” the voice on the other end said, “you have met Dr. Sami Alnour Barashi.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Someone who knows him. Someone who has worked with him.” The voice, soft, well-modulated, heavily accented, Middle Eastern, paused, then said, “Someone who knows what he is going to do.”

  Richard, stunned by the words, stared wide-eyed at Marty who flashed him a what’s-going-on look. He shook his head in puzzlement, then said to his caller, “Say that again.”

  “I know what Barashi is going to do.”

  “And that is?”

  “Oh, yes, like I am just going to blurt that out, Mr. Wainwright.”

  “Why are you calling then?” Richard, his head fuzzing, plopped into a chair, the one he’d sat in during his first visit to Marty’s office.

  “To arrange a meeting,” the voice on the phone continued.

  “Ah, let me guess. I’m the prey, you’re the bait.”

  “As you Americans say, ‘the cat is out of the sack.’ It would not make much sense to kill you now.”

  “Revenge?”

  “Barashi will have his revenge. But he does not care about you any longer. Ironically, I am probably at greater risk now.”

  “Money. You want money then.” Richard pointed at a notepad on Marty’s desk. She handed it to him along with a pen.

  “I do want money, Mr. Wainwright. But only enough to get me out of the country and established elsewhere. This is not an information-for-money offer. I am not interested in getting rich. I am interested in staying alive.”

  “Explain.”

  “I have no love for Americans, Mr. Wainwright. To me, the martyrs who destroyed the Twin Towers are heroes. But Dr. Barashi has become blinded by his hatred, enamored of his scientific achievement. He is planning to unleash a plague on America that cannot be contained. Cannot be held within sovereign borders, cannot discriminate among Christian, Jew or Muslim. He lets it loose in Atlanta, twenty-four hours later it is in London, Jerusalem, Cairo and Melbourne. I want out. Away. As fast as I can. I want America to stop him. But if you fail, or even if you foil the attack and he escapes, he will hunt me down to the ends of the ear
th. Two hundred thousand dollars. In cash.”

  “Not going to happen, my friend. I can’t get that kind of cash on short notice.”

  There was no response.

  “You still there?” Richard said.

  The voice responded in tight, angry tones. “This is not a bloody intelligence souk, Mr. Wainwright. I am not bartering. Two hundred thousand. Cash. Pocket money to a company like BioDawn. Take it or leave it. Either way, I am on a plane out of Atlanta by midday tomorrow.”

  Richard had been involved in tough negotiations before, but this, he realized, would be his toughest. And one he couldn’t afford to botch. “Listen to me,” he said, keeping his tone firm but non-confrontational, “corporations, large or small, just don’t have that kind of currency lying around. And neither do banks, believe it not. I know. I’ve been involved in big transactions before. It takes several days lead time to set up large cash withdrawals.”

  “Then you’re shit out of luck, Mr. Wainwright.”

  “And so are you. You’ll be on the run with empty pockets. How far do you think you’ll get? How long do you think you’ll be able to hide?”

  Silence ensued from Richard’s caller.

  “Look,” Richard said, knowing he had the advantage now, “we both want something here. You want money, I want information. I have a proposal.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can get a cashier’s check—”

  “No check. Cash, damn you.” The words came out almost in a shout.

  “Listen to me, my friend. We can make this work. The cashier’s check will be drawn on a Wells Fargo Bank. Once it’s cut, I can’t stop payment on it. I’ll bring you the check plus a couple of thousand in cash to get you started. I have no interest in stopping you or deceiving you. I merely want what you have. Your price is fair.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “Yes? And I should trust you?”

  A long pause, then: “Okay. We have a deal, Mr. Wainwright.”

  “Time and place?” Richard picked up the pen, but discovered he couldn’t grip it. It slipped from his fingers and cartwheeled onto the carpet.

  “Ten o’clock. A place on South Atlanta Parkway called Diamond Cutters. Near the airport.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What is what?”

  “Diamond Cutters.”

  “It is what Americans call a gentlemen’s club,” Richard’s caller said. “A titty bar, I believe I have heard it referred to as.”

  “A good Muslim would know these things, of course.”

  Again, a clipped, outraged voice on the phone. “I know you wish to believe all Muslims are unfaithful and weak before Western temptations, Mr. Wainwright, but it is not so. I have never been in such a place. I have chosen it precisely for that reason and because it is open twenty-four hours a day. Also, it is a public place which will afford both of us an opportunity to scout for traps.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “You will not; not until I sit beside you. Take a seat at the bar and wait. You are not a hard man to recognize. And if I even think you have brought the police or FBI—even think, not know—you will never see me. Understood?”

  “Perfectly. But there’s one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your name.”

  “My name?”

  “Yes, if you want a cashier’s check.”

  “Ebraheem Khassem.”

  “Spell it, please.”

  Khassem did. Then said, “Ten o’clock,” and hung up.

  “What was that all about?” Marty said. She hovered next to Richard.

  “Ever been to a strip club?” Richard asked.

  “Been to one! I used to work in one. Before I came to Jesus.”

  “This is another hit woman bit, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t think I could have been a stripper?”

  “I think you could’ve been. I don’t think you were.” Richard sensed there was something glowing, a fire in a peat bog, deep in the persona of this curious woman he thought he knew but wasn’t so sure now. Flippant and fanciful on one hand; thoughtful and learned on the other. A minister harboring the soaring imagination of a screen writer.

  “So what’s the deal?” she asked.

  Richard paused before responding. He didn’t wish to drag Marty any deeper into this. He’d already put her in harm’s way. And her whimsical attitude was, well, disconcerting. Could she be relied upon? Was she really taking this seriously?

  Yet, for transportation, what options did he have? A taxi? He wouldn’t exactly be a forgettable fare: six-foot-four, pony-tailed, wounded in the arm and probably being promoted on TV as a “person of interest” in two shootings. The same drawbacks would apply to mass transit. Not only that, he was totally unfamiliar with Atlanta’s train and bus system.

  If Marty were just going to provide a vehicle and maintain a low profile, then she’d probably be okay, not in jeopardy. Still...

  Against his better judgment he answered her by saying, “I’m going to need a driver.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  NORTH METRO ATLANTA

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 23

  Richard slept fitfully on a cot Marty set up for him in the church’s choir room. Shortly after sunrise, as he drifted in and out of a semiconscious slumber, the ringing of his cell phone jerked him fully awake. Khassem again? Enough daylight filtered into the room to signal it was morning, but the illumination wasn’t bright enough to help him spot his cell. Instead, he stood and stumbled toward the source of the ringing.

  He found the phone resting on a stack of hymnals and answered the call. “Richard,” he said.

  “Where the hell are you?” A commanding, cranky voice. American. Not his caller from the previous evening.

  “Who is this?”

  “A detective with a warrant for your arrest.”

  “Ah, Lieutenant Jackson. Good to hear from you again.”

  “Look, Mr. Wainwright, let’s make this easy for both of us. Two hours. Turn yourself in in two hours at the nearest police station.”

  Richard, in his underwear, perched on the edge of the cot. “Charges?”

  “The murder of Anneliese Mierczak. We’re also very interested in talking to you about the shooting of Mr. Trey Robinson, BioDawn’s security manager. You broke into his office. Oh, and our friends at the FBI and Homeland Security would like to chat with you, too. Seems as though they’ve got you scoped out as some sort of Osama bin Wainwright.” Jackson chuckled at his play on words.

  “Let’s start with Mierczak,” Richard snapped. “What’s the evidence?”

  “For one thing, your fingerprints all over the murder weapon.”

  “That’s it, fingerprints? The Three Little Pigs were on firmer ground than that. Look, I took the knife out of a drawer at Ms. Mierczak’s request before dinner. We were having chateaubriand.”

  “Well, I’m just one little pig, hot shot. All I want is your ass off the street. To pick up on your fairy tale schtick, you seem to be leaving a trail of bodies like Hansel and Gretel left bread crumbs.”

  “All you have to do is check the parking lot surveillance cameras to see who shot Robinson.”

  “Fried by lightning in the storm the other night.”

  “How convenient.”

  “For you or me?”

  Richard sensed the temperature of his core rising, about ready to blow the containment dome. “So how do you know I was even there last night? No pictures, no witnesses.”

  “You probably should have shot Dr. Rathke, too. And maybe the night security supervisor for good measure. Seems as though he found you loitering near the kicked-in door of Robinson’s office.”

  “Yeah, I guess I’m a total fuckup as a criminal. Next time
around I’ll go into police work. The standards seem a bit more relaxed.”

  “Two hours, Mr. Wainwright, two hours. We’ll find out who has relaxed standards.”

  “Tell you what, lieutenant, let’s forget about the two hours. You’re obviously not competent enough to know where I am, or you wouldn’t be issuing some limp dick ultimatum for me to turn myself in. But I’ll do you a favor—get out your magic decoder ring so you can take this down—the guy you want is Sami Alnour Barashi, alias Dr. Alano Gonzales. I met him, face to face; struggled with him. He chased me out of the lab. Shot at me. Killed Robinson. I don’t know what he’s planning, but I damn well remember his words: that Americans will know the despair of realizing not even their homes are safe; that they’ll be terrified to step from their doors, to draw a breath. Tell your federal friends that. Tell them those words. Then do some real police work.”

  A long silence ensued on the other end of the line. Richard pictured Jackson self-immolating. Finally the detective spoke. “I’ll do that, Mr. Wainwright. I’ll do some real police work. Think of that when I slap the cuffs on you by the end of the day. Maybe you’ll have a whole new arsenal of snappy remarks by then.” He hung up.

  “Asshole,” Richard yelled. He stood and flung the phone onto the cot.

  “Please, Lord, don’t let that word be in one of the hymns we’re singing Sunday.” Marty stood in the doorway, left hand over her eyes. “Tell me when you’re decent.” In her right hand, she held a fresh shirt.

  Richard pulled on his pants, an awkward, one-handed effort. “Sorry,” he said. “But I guess you having a basketball-team-worth of brothers won’t absolve me from—”