The security checks took longer than they had the last time, causing him to worry about what the Americans might have found, even though he knew that he was carrying nothing that might implicate him in the cause. He had no banned material, no pamphlets castigating the West and the fallen Muslims who accepted the West’s domination of their souls…he didn’t even have a copy of the Qur’an! He had protested when the Great Sheikh had ordered him to carry only western material, but the Great Sheikh had been insistent. He was to do nothing to attract attention. He was merely a tourist visiting New York City and it had to remain that way.
Eventually, the Americans finished their checks and allowed him to pass through the security barrier and into John F. Kennedy International Airport. It was the busiest international air passenger gateway to the United States, according to the Americans themselves, making it ideal for the network’s more undercover purposes. There was no point in trying to sneak in – and perhaps being caught by the Coast Guard – when they could just fly into America perfectly legitimately. It was something, Ali had been told, that made people like him extremely valuable. As a ‘clean’ man, with nothing to alert the Americans to his true masters, there was no reason for them to delay his entry into their country. Even the growing paranoia about Arabs and Muslims in America couldn’t delay his operation. It did help that he had no intention of doing anything in New York City.
Waving goodbye to the TSA agent who had searched his bag, Ali headed down to the taxi rack and climbed into a taxi being driven by a Pakistani immigrant. He was tempted to speak to the man in Arabic, but again, it risked attracting unwanted attention. Instead, he gave the man instructions to head directly to the Marigold Hotel and settled back to enjoy the ride. It always amazed him how orderly American streets were compared to the roads back home, where everyone drove as if their lives depended on it. New York had a remarkable skyline, even though it was nothing more than a sign of American decadence. It was temping to order the driver to take him to where the Twin Towers had once been – before they had been knocked down by the 9/11 Martyrs – yet he didn’t quite dare. The Great Sheikh’s instructions had been specific. He was not to do anything that might attract attention and that included visiting the site of 9/11, or any other Islamic site in New York.
The movement had spent a considerable amount of money booking him a suite at the Marigold Hotel, allowing Ali to relax in the lap of luxury. He had to repress another surge of guilt as he paid and tipped the taxi driver, before strolling into the Marigold as if he owned the place – and, with the amount he was paying, the staff were happy to treat him as if he did own the hotel. Ali allowed himself to act like a Prince he had seen once, tipping the staff as they showed him to his suite and helped him to unpack. The wink from the maid suggested that she would be willing to go above and beyond the call of duty – in exchange for an additional gratuity, of course – but Ali just wanted to sleep. He dismissed the staff, lay down on the comfortable bed and went to sleep.
When he awoke, several hours later, he felt famished and ordered a plate of food from room service. The suite came with a computer and he logged on to a popular and free email account, sending a single email back home to inform his brothers that he had arrived. The email would pass unnoticed, even by the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned American NSA and its dreaded interception skills, for there was nothing in it that might attract attention. Who would notice – or care about – an email from a newly-arrived tourist to his friends back home? He resisted the temptation to log onto some of the cause’s websites – that would definitely have attracted attention – and shut down the computer. There was a knock at the door and a maid appeared with a tray of food, much to Ali’s relief. He shook her hand, pressed a tip into her fingers and shoed her out of the room, before settling down to eat. It was still early afternoon in the United States, but it felt much later. The jet lag was kicking in.
After he had eaten his food, he left the hotel and played tourist. New York had plenty of interesting sights to see, even if he had been specifically barred from going anywhere near an Islamic site. He kept his feelings off his face as he walked through endless museums and art galleries, wondering at all the energy surrounding him. The Americans had no sense of shame or decorum. He spied a pair of Americans wearing army uniforms and shuddered inside, remembering tales from brothers who had narrowly escaped death at the hands of men wearing similar uniforms. The Americans flaunted their power for all to see.
But then, he told himself, what could one expect from unbelievers? When all one had was the glory of one’s own self – instead of the glory of God – why would they not flaunt what they had? The temptations of the mundane world were great, yet the price was agonisingly high. He saw a homosexual couple walking hand in hand and shuddered again, remembering the day when a pair of such sinners had been put to death back home. The Americans seemed to embrace sinners. Tired, he started to make his way back to the hotel, wishing – once again – that the Great Sheikh had given him something more worthy to do. Perhaps, the next time he came, he would have orders to spend his life dearly in reminding the Americans that judgement existed, or perhaps he would be part of a team that would bring the United States to its knees.
He stepped onto the underground and rode for several stations before reaching the one closest to the Marigold. Despite himself, he couldn’t avoid feeling a childlike sense of fascination with the transport system, even though the other commuters looked bored or angry. He found himself rubbing shoulders with the American melting pot – Latinos from Mexico and South America, Chinese and Vietnamese immigrants from the Far East, men with skins so dark that they looked as if they had come from Africa – and fought hard to keep the distaste off his face. He reminded himself, again, that it wasn't his duty to question the Great Sheikh and his orders. He would carry them out, even if they made no sense.
Back at the hotel, he had a long bath and then settled into bed for the night. The Great Sheikh had ordered him to play tourist for his entire visit, which meant visiting the American cinemas and watching some of their filthy films and other entertainments, perhaps even visiting some of their dance clubs and dancing…could there be any greater sin? The Great Sheikh had told him that sins committed in the name of Allah, with no actual intention to sin for the sake of sinning, were no sin, yet Ali would have preferred to avoid them. If the Great Sheikh had told him why he was following such absurd orders, it would have been easier, but what he didn’t know he couldn’t tell. Ali was confident that he could survive an American interrogation, no matter how rigorous, yet others had believed the same.
He rubbed at his forearm as he turned over and switched off the lights. The tiny bump had materialised only a day before he’d boarded the flight in Saudi Arabia, a sign that he’d been bitten by an insect in the night. It didn’t really hurt, but it twitched from time to time, reminding him that it was there. Ali pushed the pain aside and ignored it. After what some of the movement had suffered over the years at the hands of the Great Satan and its allies, complaining about an insect bite seemed absurd. Shaking his head at the thought, he closed his eyes and went to sleep. He had a long day ahead of him tomorrow, doing nothing.
***
There had been over five hundred men and women on the aircraft that had brought Ali to the United States. As darkness fell over the eastern seaboard, many of them returned to their homes in New York or headed onwards to other destinations within the United States. The people he had met on his first day in New York – the flight attendants, the security officers, the taxi driver, and the hotel staff – likewise dispersed themselves over the city, relaxing after a hard day at work. Some went to their homes to sleep; others went to party or to relax with their friends. In the end, it hardly mattered.
None of them – not even Ali, who had carried it to America’s shores – knew that the most destructive attack in America’s long history had begun. None of them knew that they were carrying the seeds of destruction within them. And, becau
se none of them knew this, none of them took any precautions. The attack spread rapidly across the city and outside, across the United States. An attack on a scale to dwarf Pearl Harbor had begun and no one had even noticed.
But they would.
And soon.
Chapter Two
One of many dangers involved in a biological attack is that those who respond to the first signs of crisis may spread the weapon – the disease – further, even with the best of intentions. Depending upon the weapon used, and the level of knowledge possessed by the first responders, they may be unaware that they have been transformed into vectors, unwitting weapons in an unforgiving way of war.
-Nicolas Awad
New York, USA
Day 5
“Coffee, sir?”
“Thanks, Rook,” Sergeant Al Hattlestad said, as Officer Tom Pearson passed him a cardboard cup from Starbucks. He sipped it gratefully, glad of the strong dark coffee and the chance to relax, even in their patrol car. It was a warm evening in New York and that always brought out the crazies. “You did well this evening.”
Tom Pearson looked relieved. It was his first night on patrol since graduating and becoming an NYPD officer and, to the older and far more experienced Sergeant, he still looked wet behind the ears. They’d found themselves chasing a car driven by a group of drunken students from college and it had been a minor miracle that no one was hurt. The driver had managed to crash the car into a lamppost and, when the passengers had staggered out, they’d found themselves under arrest. They’d been taken away to holding cells and the two officers had resumed their patrol. It could have been a great deal worse.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” he said, as he sipped his own coffee. “Is it always that exciting?”
Al laughed. “No, Rook,” he said, with genuine affection. “This is a quiet night, believe it or not.”
He sensed the younger man’s disbelief and smiled to himself. New York was the city that never slept, which meant that the New York Police Department couldn’t afford to sleep either. Night duty tore at families and other relationships, yet it had to be done and the more devoted officers welcomed it as a chance to prove what they could do under pressure. Al had sometimes considered trying to transfer to one of the other departments within the NYPD, but the truth was that he loved the streets. A good patrol officer could head off trouble before it even began, or so his first partner had told him, back when he'd joined the NYPD. Serving in the Marines hadn’t prepared him for serving as a police officer, yet in some ways the principles of police work and counter-insurgency were identical. Maintaining a strong presence on the streets helped to deter trouble.
“There’s a big protest scheduled for two weeks from today,” he added, mischievously. Al’s devotion to the principles of peaceful protest was real, yet all police officers dreaded protests. They had a nasty habit of turning into riots, which meant that people would be injured and the NYPD would come out looking like bullies. “If you survive that, you’ll survive anything.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Pearson said. He didn’t sound insufferably confident, much to Al’s private relief. He’d seen too many rookies who thought that graduating and becoming an officer meant that they knew everything they needed to know. The good ones learned rapidly; the bad ones got people hurt before they either shaped up or were transferred into less vital departments. “What are they protesting about this time?”
Al shrugged. “Believe me, Rook,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it is our duty to try to stop it from getting out of hand.”
The radio buzzed before Pearson could say anything else. “Al, we have an alert for you,” the dispatcher said, as the small computer monitor in the car blinked into life. “The neighbours are reporting screams from a small apartment and want someone to investigate.”
“Acknowledged,” Al said, as he gunned the car into life. They’d been parked near the coffee shop, only a few minutes from the location on the display. He keyed a switch and the siren howled into life. Traffic should start getting out of their way at once. “Are there any other details?”
“Nothing important,” the dispatcher said. “Good luck.”
Al frowned as he drove onto the streets and started to zip past traffic that hastily tried to get out of the way. Someone screaming was sufficient evidence to force entry into a building if necessary, yet it wouldn’t be the first time that an NYPD officer had broken into someone’s home, only to discover that it was perfectly innocent. The precinct’s wags were still teasing an officer who had broken into an apartment only to discover that the couple owning the apartment enjoyed a BSDM relationship and weren't actually abusing each other. The department had been lucky not to be sued over that little mistake.
Two minutes later, he pulled the car into a parking space and checked his belt before climbing out and glancing around. The area was one that had hundreds of fairly cheap apartments – to rent, at least – that housed workers for various companies. They tended to be hotspots for crime because the inhabitants were rich enough to possess luxury goods, but too poor to afford proper security measures and safety precautions. The streetlights flickered ominously as Pearson climbed out of the car and stood beside him, one hand on the pistol in his holster. The area might not have gone to the bad, but it was on its way there.
He led the way into the apartment block and saw an elderly woman standing there, wearing a nightgown that covered everything under her neckline. “Thank god you’re here,” she said, before Al could say a word. He guessed that she was the person who had made the call. “There was screaming coming from Apartment 22B, sir.”
Al listened, but heard nothing. “It stopped several minutes ago,” the woman said. She had a hectoring voice that reminded him of his third grade teacher, a woman the kids had joked was an alien in human form. She was the kind of person who would happily mind everyone else’s business. “It really was unpleasant screaming.”
“We’ll take it from here,” Al assured her. “I suggest that you go back to your flat and put on some warm clothes. We may want to speak with you later.”
Pearson looked up at him as the old woman headed back into her flat. “We’ll want to talk to her later?”
“We might,” Al confirmed. He grinned suddenly. “Or perhaps we could do without having her in the area when we discover what’s going on.”
He led the way up the stairs and onto the landing, where he was surprised to discover several other people glancing nervously at one of the doors. Unsurprisingly, none of them had made any attempt to force open the door and intervene. It was one of the few reasons he disliked big cities and New York in particular; no one cared enough to intervene if someone was threatened, if only out of the fear of being sued. He waved them back to their apartments – the rookie could interview them later, if necessary – and stepped up to the door, examining it quickly. It was made out of cheap plastic and one good kick would allow them access.
“Wait,” he ordered, and pressed his ear against the door. There was no screaming now, just a faint whimpering sound. “I hear something.”
The sound seemed to grow louder and he swore. It sounded like someone – a woman, he was sure – in pain. It tore at his heartstrings, for the last time he’d heard someone whimpering like that had been a rape victim, several months ago. She had been so badly terrified that she’d lashed out at everyone, including the police officers who had responded to the distress call. Al knocked loudly, but there was no response. He doubted that anyone who sounded like that was going to be in any fit state to open the door.
“Stand away from the door,” he ordered, as he pulled a small tool from his belt. There was no need to kick in the door when he could pick the lock himself. Pearson looked on in astonishment as Al worked the lockpick and unpicked the lock. The fact that some police officers carried such tools was something that was carefully not mentioned to the media. “We’re coming in.”
The door opened and he recoiled as the stench struck his n
ose. He heard Pearson gagging behind him, but he had no time to spare for the rookie. The stench was horrifying, a mixture of blood and piss and shit…and something else, something that nagged at his mind, something he’d smelled before, back in the old days. He drew the flashlight from his belt and clicked it on, staring into the darkened room. Something was moving towards the other side of the apartment…
Pearson found the light switch and clicked it on. A half-naked woman was lying on the ground, desperately reaching towards them with weak feeble gestures. Al was beside her with no clear memory of having moved, finding himself looking down at her. For a moment, he was honestly perplexed; she didn’t look like a rape victim, so he reached down and swore. She was feverish, her skin so warm that sweat seemed to be dripping off in waves. He turned her over, hoping to see her face, and recoiled. Her face was covered in ugly red pustules.
“My god,” Pearson breathed. He sounded as if he were on the verge of vomiting, contaminating the scene. Al heard him swallowing hard before he spoke again. “What’s wrong with her?”
Al barely heard him. Now he knew what to look for, he ran the flashlight down the woman’s semi-transparent nightdress and realised that her entire body was covered in dark red pustules. He touched one of them before he thought better of it and swore again. They felt like BB pellets embedded under the skin. Gently, he opened her mouth and saw red spots on her tongue and the inside of her gums. Old memories from briefings on diseases that could be used as biological weapons rose up within his mind and he swore silently at himself. The chances were that he’d exposed both himself and his rookie to something lethal.
The Coward's Way of War Page 2