by Fritz Galt
Mick watched the steady in and out flux of the ventilator’s air pump.
Fifteen-percent pure oxygen flowed invisibly through a tube down Mariah’s throat. Microbes hidden in her body were eating away at her blood. And something just as insidious was tearing their family apart.
He relaxed his tight grip on the telephone receiver. His wife’s uneasy breath coursed across the miles.
“Is there any more you want to say?” she breathed cautiously over the phone.
Nothing in Mariah’s condition had changed in the past month.
Mariah was facing a deadly relapse, and Natalie couldn’t find the time to visit. So nothing had changed in Natalie.
He didn’t think that anything had changed in him, either. He didn’t react to the WHO news or the news about Congressman Butler. But when he heard that Natalie was off and working on important events in Kabul, changing her job, moving on, he felt a surge of regret.
At the same time, he felt an old feeling seep back, the tingle of excitement when there was a job to do, and only he could do it. He clenched the phone tighter. The only job that mattered was saving Mariah, and he didn’t know squat about medicine.
As he tried to visualize Natalie’s situation, it suddenly struck him. The consulate in Bombay was out of whack. Years of experience had divided embassies and consulates into positions of responsibility to handle any situation.
The American Consulate in Bombay was hurting. They had no CIA officer with immediate contacts back in Langley.
Mick’s memories of Bombay flooded back to him. He began to visualize places, people’s faces, smells, a distant hum of life. Nighttime parties to avoid the heat of day. Clinking cocktail glasses. Evenings on a veranda overlooking the bay.
His words came out dry and hesitant. “I’m remembering a party in Bombay earlier this year.”
“Yes?” she said guardedly.
“I met a certain doctor there. I don’t recall his name. No, it was Dr. Rajiv Khan, from the CDC in Atlanta. He said he was in Bombay to study mefloquine resistance. I told him that I didn’t realize any form of malaria could survive such a strong preventative drug.”
“Is he still in Bombay?”
“No, I remember that he had disappeared shortly thereafter, apparently having joined a cult. That’s what triggered my memory. The name of the cult was the Temple of the Highest Peace, the same name in Congressman Butler’s case.”
“Doctors don’t join cults,” Natalie commented.
“That’s just what I thought at the time.”
Chapter 17
From his position in the mosque’s minaret, Alec could see and hear a calm city hard at work.
How could a change in regimes make big waves in Washington, when it didn’t even disturb the local community? He answered his own question. Al-Qaeda was involved.
Bare feet padded up the stone steps. He edged around the minaret to stay out of sight. An old man stepped onto the minaret’s balcony. He lifted a megaphone to his bearded lips. He was a muezzin, there to call out prayers.
Alec frowned. It was not prayer time. He had already heard the early afternoon prayer call, and the next one shouldn’t be until late afternoon. Perhaps the message was something other than a prayer. It came out in Comorian, not Arabic. And from the cleric’s tone of voice, he realized it wasn’t a prayer chant at all. It was an announcement.
He watched people stop below. The ping of hammers among the shipbuilders ceased. Cars halted in the street. A wail suddenly rose up from a woman.
The end of the announcement brought panic to the streets.
Cars sped away. People rushed across the square for safety, leaving behind a plaza of empty flip-flops. Horses reared and neighed. A herd of goats clattered across the cobblestones.
The cleric began to chant in Arabic.
Islamic fundamentalists had returned to power. Moderate heads would roll. Police would crack down on dissidents and women would have to go into hiding.
The next few weeks would be unpleasant for the citizens of Comoros. Just as tides change, the government had toppled.
It was time to round up all American citizens and evacuate the place.
Mick took a deep breath before continuing his difficult conversation with Natalie.
Would he be abandoning his daughter by searching for a cure? Did he really have the skills necessary to be effective?
The noonday light cast a look of patience on Mariah’s features. His daughter wanted him to go.
At last he asked Natalie to look into Dr. Rajiv Khan’s background.
“I will. As soon as I’m finished in Afghanistan, I can go to the States and look for him.”
“They won’t let you back in the States,” Mick warned. “They won’t let in anybody who’s been to India so recently.”
“I’ll have to find a way around that. I wish I could bring Mariah with me, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t work. Once in the States, I’ll head for the CDC.”
“Good. And I’ll poke around the cult and see what turns up.”
“Poke around the cult? Do you mean you’ll return to India?” Her voice sounded incredulous. “You’ve got to look after Mariah.”
“The doctor’s here. He can take better care of her than I can.”
“India has the plague now.”
Mick could tell distinctly from the tone in her voice that she wasn’t just trying to keep him home with Mariah. She was worried about him.
“I think I can handle it,” he muttered.
“It’s just that Mariah needs one of us there. If you’re acting like some Holy Crusader—”
There was that character from Ingmar Bergman’s Seventh Seal again.
“You’re right. Mariah does need us, and we’re helping her as best we can. I won’t play Superman,” he promised. “Nor should you.”
“Mick, I’m serious.”
“I know it.”
With that he heard the phone click off. Natalie was gone.
He spent a moment recollecting the opening images of Ingmar Bergman’s Seventh Seal, where an exhausted Crusader returned to his homeland. Dragging onto a rocky shoreline, the man found his country ravaged by the Black Plague.
Tormented by his lack of faith, the Crusader challenged Death to a chess match in hopes of delaying or averting his own death. How many times had Mick tried to bargain in such a way for Mariah’s life?
Throughout the artsy, black and white film, the Crusader tried to arrive at some understanding of God, not unlike Mick’s frequent brushes during his career with other spiritual guides. In India, he had felt that humanity’s search for God had taken its most open form. India was home to the mother of all religions, Hinduism, with its single God among its many gods, giving birth to Jainism and Buddhism and harboring believers and beliefs from all other shores, from Jews to Christians to Muslims.
Ultimately the Crusader couldn’t escape the Grim Reaper, just as Mick feared that someday soon a dark shadow would pass over his daughter’s pristine face.
Maybe he could foretell his immediate future by recalling more details from the film.
During his long journey to find God, the Crusader suffered many cruel and painful experiences interspersed with moments of friendship and humanity. One such bright spot was a pleasant meal with an itinerant actor named Joseph, the actor’s lovely wife Mary and their son.
At last, when the Seventh Seal was broken, as foretold by the Book of Revelations, God mysteriously revealed himself to the Crusader. Linking arms with the devout, the unquestioning and the tortured, the Crusader felt confused, but at peace as he marched off to his death.
Some ending. He gave a morose laugh. He would have to do better than that.
From his vantage point high above the city, Alec spotted “Bank of America” boldly printed on a huge placard.
The retail and commercial bank occupied the bottom two floors of an old office building just off the central square.
Was his contact, Ahmed Harouna, still there
? Could they still get word out to Langley?
He rushed down the minaret’s stairs, shoved his toes into his sandals and fought his way through a flock of people crowding into the mosque for refuge.
If he could find the informant Ahmed Harouna, he could get word to Washington. What Washington would do with the piece of news was of no concern to him, but obtaining and communicating intelligence was his primary job.
He found the bank’s doors locked, though he could see people working frantically within.
Apparently, the bank’s guards had fled the premises. Alec pounded on the front window. Nobody responded.
Then several Comorians joined him. They began hammering on the window until it appeared about to break.
Alec closed his eyes. He had unwittingly started a run on the bank.
More men and women joined the mob and the glass finally shattered inward under their pressure.
Alec stumbled over long shards of glass into the middle of a cramped lobby.
Terrified bank clerks froze, their hands full of loose bank notes.
“Ahmed,” Alec shouted. “Where are you?”
The crowd scrambled through the breech in the window to get in.
Several Americans dodged out the back door. Alec let them go. He jumped onto the counter and screamed Ahmed’s name. He searched wildly for anyone showing some sign of response.
Unsuccessful, he dropped down on the other side of the counter and shook a young woman by her shoulders. “Where’s Ahmed?”
Her eyes shot across the room to a wall where a young man stood paralyzed by fear. His eyes were locked on Alec.
Meanwhile the desperate, cursing mob rained down beside Alec from the teller windows.
Wordlessly, bank clerks opened their cash boxes and handed out money.
Alec pushed through the tangle of limbs to the far wall where Ahmed stood. “Did you send a message?” he asked.
“I couldn’t,” Ahmed said under his breath. His eyes looked delirious, his speech was slurred. “The power is cut.”
“Don’t you have a backup power generator?” Alec shouted above the clamor.
Ahmed shook his head. “I didn’t have time after receiving word of the coup. Our bank started evacuating immediately.”
“Evacuating to where?”
“Anywhere. Out of the country. Many people will die.”
“Did you hear the announcement?” Alec yelled in Ahmed’s ear. “What did the man say from the mosque?”
Alec leaned forward and watched Ahmed’s lips, because the terrified informant’s voice was so thin and strained. His words came out like a typed message he had prepared for encryption.
“An overthrow of the government. Ali Ben Said Boulih is dead. A new Islamist group has taken over. They are not Sunnis from the Shafii school. They are not even from the archconservative Hanbalide school. They pray to Ali, Mohammed’s cousin and son-in-law. They’re heretics. They’re Shi’ite. They have called for strictest adherence to al-Shari’ah, which is Islamic Law. That means we must reject all foreign influences by infidels. They have called for death to America and the Jews.”
“What Islamist group are they?”
“Al-Qaeda.”
Good God. He was right. Camille was spearheading the coup.
“They’ll kill me,” Ahmed concluded.
“No, they won’t. I’ll help you get out of here. Just get us to the airport. Maybe we can send out a message from the cockpit of an airplane.”
“Grab my arm,” Ahmed said, and squeezed along the wall. They stumbled out into a rear courtyard. The door of a blue Bank of America van was just sliding shut.
Ahmed caught it and tried to pull it open. Concerned faces of bank employees and their families confronted them.
“I’m from the U.S. Embassy in Mauritius,” Alec explained. “I’ll escort you to the airport.”
Restraining hands relaxed, and the passengers allowed the two men to take the center bench seat.
As they lurched onto the main street heading north, Alec felt like a fugitive fleeing the scene of a crime.
The country had undergone a sea change, and the van full of Americans and their informant had become the villains.
Fred stood in the Taj lobby tugging on Linda’s hand. “Come on, Linda. If we don’t step out and figure out how this country operates, we’ll never have a clue how to save Keri.”
“Just what do you mean by ‘step out?’”
“I mean, let’s get out of this blasted hotel, rub shoulders, talk to some people, get a feel for the place.”
“Fred, you go rub shoulders. I’m staying put.”
He closed his eyes and tried to compose himself. Linda still hadn’t grasped the gravity of the situation. He had not told her what Lou Potts had said about a terrorist at large in the city.
He would have to venture out onto the streets alone.
So he did.
One step out the front door of the hotel sent him spinning in confusion. Trained monkeys from across the street were running free. The perpetual crowd at the foot of the Gateway of India had mysteriously dispersed. Shrill musical instruments pierced the air from all directions.
He started to wave his hand for a cab when he realized that there were no taxis lined up in front of the hotel.
He turned to order a cab from the Gurkha dressed in ceremonial uniform by the front door. The large man was sweating and trembling like a leaf.
Fred heard a new sound, a mournful air raid siren. He looked up. There were no planes in the blue sky. Several deafening minutes passed and it still hadn’t stopped.
This was one strange country.
The Bank of America van rocketed north across La Grille, Grande Comore’s flat northland. Inside, Alec felt responsible for the fate of the Americans on board.
Although he wasn’t responsible for the coup, he had failed to prevent it. As the only official American in country, he also had responsibility for their lives and property. With a slight turn in his seat, he got the attention of the morose evacuees.
“What flights can we expect to depart this afternoon?”
A young woman cleared her throat and said, “Comores Air flies to Zanzibar and Mombasa.”
“That’s only on Wednesdays and Saturdays,” the man next to her pointed out. “Today’s Thursday.”
“Air Austral,” suggested a man seated with his wife and two small children. “They fly to Reunion on Thursdays.”
“Yeah, but that’s by way of Mayotte,” Ahmed said. “I doubt if Mayotte would clear the plane under these circumstances.”
Alec remembered that Mayotte was the most fiercely independent of the Comoro Islands and remained staunchly part of France.
“Okay,” he said, feeling a chill of desperation. “Any more suggestions?”
“Air Madagascar flies through here, but only Mondays and Fridays.”
“We can’t wait until tomorrow,” Alec said. They were approaching the hut-lined outskirts of Hahaya where the airport was located.
“Then there’s Yemenia,” said the nervous young woman.
“What’s that?” Alec asked.
“Do you want to fly to Yemen?” the man asked the woman beside him.
Alec looked about at the sullen faces. “How about Air France?”
A chorus of voices responded, “They don’t fly here anymore.”
“South African Airways?” he suggested, desperate.
“They don’t fly here either,” Ahmed said quietly.
“Okay, I give up.” Alec sat back, certain that no airplane would depart Grande Comore that day.
“Look,” came the smallest voice on the van. “A airplane.”
The van circled the airstrip at Prince Said Ibrahim International Airport. Sunlight glinted off the airplane’s tail. The name read, “Yemenia.”
His heart sank. The last place he wanted to take Americans was that hotbed of Islamic fundamentalism. Furthermore, a city bus was already depositing a mob of passengers at the steps
to the Yemeni plane.
His hopes fading fast, he turned to the sky, where a black speck was circling. A minute later, the speck became a private jet, the very jet that had carried him to the Comoro Islands two days before. It was Multan Malik’s personal sixteen-seater.
He scrutinized the landing strip. Multan’s black Mercedes was waiting in the shadows of a hangar. So the bastard was leaving the scene of the crime.
“Pull up to that Benz,” he ordered the driver.
“What about border control?” Ahmed reminded him.
“There is no border control today. It’s every man for himself.”
“Then I’m coming, too,” the driver said over his shoulder.
“Fine by me.”
“Who’ll return the van?” The man with the family looked around for a volunteer.
The question was met with stony silence.
“Business write-off?” Alec suggested.
The van pulled up to the black Mercedes, and Alec jumped out, ready to confront Multan.
A sleek black door opened, and out stepped Camille. “Good afternoon, Alec.”
He was speechless. Several Taliban stepped out of the hangar, rifles drawn.
“Your buddies?” he asked.
“Our new world order.”
He nodded with a wry smile, then focused on Camille’s new attire. Her slim thighs jutted out of a black miniskirt and a low-cut black V-neck revealed enough to stimulate the imagination.
“Where’s the veil?”
She didn’t seem in the mood for repartee, so he dropped it.
“Leaving so soon?” He looked around the small airport.
“I don’t want to be in the way when the French Marines and Foreign Legion land.”
“You seem well defended.” He nodded at the armed militants.
She shrugged indifferently.
“If you’re behind this, why are you leaving?” he asked.
“Money,” a voice responded from the car.
Multan stepped out and held out a hand. Thrown off guard, Alec shook it.
A camera flash caught the moment for posterity. Multan’s chauffeur pocketed a camera and jumped back in the car.