The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  “Where’s Devereaux?”

  Julianna laughed. “The quick change of subject? Trying to catch me off-guard? Sorry, but I don’t know where he is.”

  “What’s your next step?”

  “I’m here to protect Devereaux,” Julianna said. “Plain and simple.”

  “What about the bioweapons he’s designed? How do they tie in to the whole peace and cooperation and betterment of the species thing?”

  Julianna shook her head. “Government propaganda. They’re afraid of Devereaux. His movement has grown enormously. They’re terrified of losing power. You of all people should know how often they twist the truth to serve their ends. How many missions did Eli tell us were absolutely vital? Mubarno, for instance. Look at his successor. He’s no better. The world’s exactly the same. Only Devereaux offers hope.”

  “So you’re saying Devereaux never designed bioweapons?”

  Julianna shrugged. “He may have thought them up. He might even have designed them. But he never would have built them.” Julianna shook her head. “The government, the military, they want the weapons. That’s why they’ve sent you after Devereaux.”

  Of course, Jeremiah realized. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? “And what about the Escala?”

  “Clearly Devereaux’s with them,” Julianna said. “I haven’t found their hideout yet. I’ve befriended one of them—a man named Cookie Monster—but he hasn’t told me anything yet. The two of us, though, working together again…”

  “And what happens when we find Devereaux? You try to stab me again?”

  “We’ll work that out. I think if you spoke to Devereaux for even a short time, you’d realize how ridiculous these accusations against him are.”

  “You know that Weiss is going to bring the media into this very soon. And that’s going to mean more trouble. We’re going to have a war on our hands.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Julianna said.

  Jeremiah shook his head. Despite Julianna’s craziness, he realized he still cared for her. A part of him would always love her, he supposed. He didn’t trust her; he knew she was selfish and dangerous and possibly insane. The smart play was to take her off the field. Yet he couldn’t kill her. How had he gotten so screwed up?

  Julianna stood. “We’d better rejoin the group. Don’t want them to get the wrong impression.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sister Ezekiel stepped into her office and found Ahmad Rashidi sitting behind her desk, Colonel Truman’s tablet of legal documents in front of him, chewing a wad of khat, his eyes wide open and alert. Coming from the speakers in the corners, she heard a zither playing some Middle Eastern tune, its strings lightly dancing over the melody.

  “Ahmad? Good Lord, I completely forgot about you in all this frenzy.”

  “No problemo, Sister. I just finished looking through all these writs and such. Hope you don’t mind me puttin’ a little muzak on.”

  “Not at all. Were you working this whole time?”

  “Well, no. There was a brief period where I was crouched under your desk cursin’ Devereaux and soiling my pants. Good thing I wore brown, huh?”

  “How could I have forgotten to check on you?”

  Ahmad grinned. “That’s okay. I know where you keep the spare underwear.” He shifted in his seat. “But did you have to starch it?”

  “Please, Ahmad. Your jokes aren’t funny.” But she smiled.

  “I’m not joking. I’m trying to understand your culture. Is putting starch in your underwear a Catholic thing? Because we Muslims like our underwear comfortable.”

  Sister Ezekiel shook her head but her smile grew broader.

  “Just tryin’ to lighten the mood, Sister. Anyway, Dr. Mary popped her head in after the shootin’ stopped and made sure I was okey-dokey. Frankly, just between you and me,” Ahmad looked both ways, as if concerned that someone might be spying on them, “I think Dr. Mary has the hots for me. And who can blame her?” He spread his arms wide. “Where’s she gonna find a catch as big and beautiful as me?”

  “You’re unbelievable,” Sister Ezekiel said.

  “And I have good news for you, Sister. Even though these documents are in good order, you got nothin’ to worry about with the scanner ‘cuz I don’t believe they’ll be able to get another one here for at least two days, and by that time I can file for a TRO—a temporary restraining order—and Judge Moline is pretty good about keepin’ the status quo copacetic, so she probably won’t let ‘em install the new one without presentin’ evidence to support their need for it. What they got now ain’t exactly smokin’ gun material. I can’t even tell from these why they think Devereaux is here.”

  “Thank you, Ahmad. As always, you’ve done a marvelous job. But we have more important things to worry about right now.”

  “Yeah, I heard about the kids. They’ll be okay. Inshallah.”

  “God certainly had a hand in keeping them alive. And the bus is now on its way back to Minneapolis. Colonel Truman provided a squad to escort it.”

  “Allah will protect them. Besides, the real danger is down here—where the evil lies.”

  “You’re not going to try to blame Devereaux for all this, are you?”

  “Who else is there to blame? I’m not sayin’ he pulled the trigger. And I’m not even sayin’ he intended for all this to happen but you gotta admit that bad things keep happenin’ because of him.”

  “Not because of him,” Sister Ezekiel said. “Because of people reacting to him.”

  “But we must react to him, Sister.” Ahmad’s eyes grew narrow as he frowned. “We must defend ourselves against his attack on our faith. The Koran states: ‘Strive hard against the unbelievers and the hypocrites, and be firm against them. Their abode is hell, an evil refuge indeed.’ And Devereaux, by denying Allah, is attacking Him. Do we not have a duty to defend Islam, even to the death?”

  “Nonsense. Devereaux never attacked any organized religion. His misguided ladder attempts to show that we must live as if there were no God. But it’s not as if he proved there’s no God.”

  “He insults us, Sister. Allah commands us to fight his blasphemy.”

  “So all this violence is God’s will?”

  “Everything that happens on Earth is Allah’s will.”

  “Perhaps you should return to Minneapolis.”

  “No.” Ahmad held up his hands. “I’m sorry, Sister. I said I’d help you and I will. If Devereaux’s here, I’d like to see him. Besides, I already started draftin’ the TRO. I’ll have it in Judge Moline’s office first thing tomorrow mornin’.”

  “I’m glad you can stay, Ahmad. Actually, we could use some help in the kitchen.”

  Ahmad’s eyes opened wide. “What, peelin’ potatoes? I’m a lawyer, not a cook.”

  “If we all pitch in, you’ll be able to eat that much sooner.”

  “You want me in an apron? When did I turn into a woman?” Ahmad waved his arms furiously in front of himself. “Get me a burka. Don’t look at my body!”

  * * *

  Sister Ezekiel took comfort in the small act of preparing the evening meal. To her surprise, most of the dining area remained usable. “We got lucky,” Colonel Truman explained. “The pseudos fired only on the scanner and adjusted their power settings to minimize the damage. It could have been much worse.” A few laser strikes had hit the ceiling, dropping debris on the tables and creating tennis ball-size holes to the outside. And a few pulses had gone through sidewalls into the dormitory area. But only one table had been demolished by laser fire. All the benches survived. While the soup simmered, Sister Ezekiel brought Henry through the dining room’s double doors to the lobby, where the Attorney General now stood in close conversation with Colonel Truman.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Were you planning to eat with us this evening?”

  “I believe I will,” Weiss s
aid.

  “And your people, Colonel?”

  “I will, Sister. And I’ll ask my troops but I believe most of them prefer Army rations. Do you have enough for those of us who wish to join you?”

  “We’ll make do.”

  “We could supplement the meal with our rations,” Truman said.

  “Yes,” Weiss agreed, “by all means. If we can be of any assistance, let us know.”

  “We’ll be fine tonight. But I’d be happy to take any food you can spare for future use. Plus I have a request.”

  “Please,” Weiss said.

  “Could you keep the troop presence out front to a minimum? I don’t want my guests to feel uncomfortable.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t take soldiers away from the entrance. This place is a target. You need the security we’re providing.”

  “Can I have Henry stationed outside the—” she gestured to the ruined doorway— “to reassure the men that a meal will be served tonight?”

  “Good idea.” Weiss waved his hand. “Colonel Truman can make that happen.”

  Henry exited through the opening. Within minutes, a dozen men made their way inside. Mostly long-time guests, old and frail, dirty and unwashed, their gaunt faces never ceased to clutch at Sister Ezekiel’s heart. They stopped at the entry and looked around cautiously. Fortunately, the damaged scanner had been removed, so the lobby no longer looked like a war zone. Sister Ezekiel inhaled deeply. She could still smell burnt plastic.

  “Come in,” she said. “Welcome. Pardon the mess.” She stepped toward them, touched Flyer gently on the arm. “Hello, Redbird, Iggy,” she said to two other favorite guests. “Straight on through to the dining room. Watch your step.”

  “Were these men scanned?” Weiss asked the colonel.

  “God knows, sir. Can you tell them apart?”

  “Good point.” As Weiss looked them over, Sister Ezekiel turned to examine them as well. To a man, they wore beards, ranging from wispy to full, and shabby clothes. Their long-sleeved shirts and thin trousers had holes at the elbows and knees. She supposed they looked dreadful to someone like Weiss. The thought prompted her to say:

  “What do you think of these men, Mr. Weiss? Do you see them as shiftless and lazy? Do you understand why they’re really here?”

  “I’ve already apologized for any offense I might have caused, Sister. I understand that society has abandoned many—promising jobs that never existed. Dangling hope before them with programs and initiatives that were never properly run. Challenging them to pull themselves up with hard work and education while high-paying jobs have gone to other countries, and automation has further dragged down wages.” Jeremiah and Dr. Mary entered the lobby. “Ah, there you are, Jeremiah. All patched up?”

  “Yes.” Jeremiah issued a tiny smile, barely noticeable. “What are you rambling on about now?”

  “I’m talking about problems in this country that need to be addressed, that aren’t being addressed now—schools and hospitals falling into disrepair, the overtaxed middle class refusing to pay for more social services, the rich circling their wagons. I’m talking about children who don’t get an education, then don’t get good jobs, then give up on life and find themselves on the streets, or in prison, or in shelters like this.

  “I’m talking about anarchy in the streets. Hatred and despair and intolerance. And I’m talking about trying to find a way to put all that behind us, to move beyond the self-centered thinking of individuals that weakens this country. I have reached the unavoidable conclusion that we need a strong central government to keep us atop the world. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Several soldiers standing by the doorway applauded.

  “Does that help answer your question, Sister?” Weiss asked.

  “Those are marvelous words,” Sister Ezekiel said.

  “You sound like a man who wants to be President,” Jeremiah said.

  Weiss grimaced. “I don’t care about the office itself. I care about fixing this country. I care about undoing the injurious acts of the past and putting America back on top for good. Is that wrong?”

  “One man’s right,” Dr. Mary said as she looked from Weiss to Jeremiah, “is another man’s wrong.”

  True, Sister Ezekiel thought. But why did Dr. Mary look at Jeremiah when she said it?

  “Dinner is served, Sister.” Ahmad grinned broadly from the doorway. “I always wanted to say that.”

  “Ahmad,” Dr. Mary said, “you’ve found your true calling, I see. I love the apron.”

  “It’s more than that, Doc. I think you’re infatuated by the man inside the apron.”

  Dr. Mary laughed.

  “Mr. Weiss, Colonel Truman, Jeremiah,” Sister Ezekiel said, “this is my lawyer, Ahmad Rashidi.”

  “Call me Ahmad,” the lawyer said as he shook hands.

  Sister Ezekiel gestured toward the dining room. “Why don’t we all sit down to dinner? Please join us for a prayer.”

  “Of course,” Weiss said, holding out his hand to indicate that Sister Ezekiel should precede him. “Coming, Jeremiah?”

  “Go ahead and start. I want to check on Lendra,” Jeremiah said.

  * * *

  As Colonel Truman followed Weiss into what was left of the dining area, he said, “I’ve been wanting to tell you that the troops were most impressed with your actions today, sir. So was I.”

  Weiss shrugged. “I just did what needed to be done, Colonel. And I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

  “Still,” Truman said. “Where you lead, we’ll follow.”

  “That’s most kind, Colonel.”

  “It’s too bad about those boys getting hit.”

  “Yes. I called their parents, gave them the news.”

  “You did?” Truman nearly stumbled in his surprise. “That was good of you.”

  “They’re furious with Devereaux for causing such unrest. But they’re thankful the kids are still alive.”

  Truman sat facing the lobby, his back to the wall, his opinion of Weiss ticked up a notch at Weiss’ unnecessary act of kindness. Weiss also sat against the wall, next to him rather than across the table. Sister Ezekiel directed traffic, telling men where to sit for the meal. A dozen soldiers had followed them into the dining area—nine men and three women. They took two tables at the far end of the room. Beside him, Weiss reached inside his suit and pulled out a small, dented flask.

  He smiled. “It’s been a long day. Care for an aperitif?”

  Truman raised his eyebrows. “Haven’t heard that word in a long time. I have one as well.” Truman removed a thin flask from his jacket.

  “What’s yours,” Weiss asked.

  “Blackberry brandy. Yours?”

  “Schnapps,” Weiss said. “Why don’t we start with mine and save yours for dessert?”

  “Good idea,” Truman said. He held out his cup as Weiss struggled to twist the top off the damaged flask. The stubborn cap finally removed, Weiss measured out half the flask. While Weiss poured the rest into his own cup, Truman said, “I wonder why Jeremiah saved us.”

  “He’s an unusual man, Colonel,” Weiss said. “Very dangerous. He’s killed many times for CINTEP.”

  “Why do you think the President sent him here?”

  “She believes that arresting Devereaux is the wrong thing to do.”

  “But what about the weapons he’s designed?”

  “She wants to negotiate with him and the pseudos.” Weiss shook his head. “One thing I learned in the CIA was that you don’t negotiate with terrorists, no matter how they disguise themselves.” Weiss held up his cup in a toast, favoring his injured arm only slightly. “Cheers,” he said. Truman clinked metal with him, then took a sip, the liquid warming his throat from top to bottom.

  Sister Ezekiel approached the table.

  “Ready for the
prayer, Sister?” Weiss asked.

  “Is that alcohol?”

  “I didn’t know Catholics had a problem with drinking,” Weiss said.

  “It’s just that many of the men here are recovering addicts or alcoholics—like Flyer over there.” She pointed to an old man sitting in the corner, sneaking peeks toward their table while having an animated conversation with an invisible friend. “Could you at least keep your flasks out of sight?”

  “Consider it done,” Weiss said. He and Truman put them away as Lendra entered the dining room, Jeremiah trailing her. They made their way toward the bench across from he and Weiss.

  “Ah, Miss Riley,” Weiss said. “I see Jeremiah found you.”

  “Yes,” Lendra said. “Have you seen your most recent picture on the web?”

  Weiss frowned and shook his head.

  “Here.” Lendra handed over a PlusPhone. On its face Truman saw a video of Weiss climbing into the bus, while Truman crouched over the red-haired bus driver. The caption above it read: Attorney General Saves Busload of Children.

  “How did this get out there?” Weiss asked.

  “I suspect one of your soldiers took the picture,” Jeremiah said.

  “That means the media will be here very soon.”

  “Shocking,” Jeremiah said. “Once again you become the hero.”

  “I didn’t plan this, Jeremiah,” Weiss said, handing back the PlusPhone. “Why don’t you have a seat and we’ll talk about it?” Weiss gestured to the empty bench on the other side of the table.

  “Thanks,” Jeremiah said, “but the doctor is saving a place for us.”

  “We’re just about to say ‘grace,’” Sister Ezekiel said. “Please sit down. Perhaps you would do us the honor, Mr. Weiss?”

  “Certainly,” Weiss answered. He stood, then bowed his head and spoke in a loud clear voice: “Dear Lord, it has been a trying day for all of us, soldiers and civilians. We thank You for saving the children today…” Truman tuned Weiss out.

  As much as he admired Weiss, he found himself a little uncomfortable with the religious aspect of the man. Not that Truman didn’t believe in God. But he didn’t understand the need to display one’s faith so openly. And he hated the way religion had permeated the schools.