Stoker followed Z's lead and continued in the same sarcastic vein. "We don't play well with people who break the rules."
Ahmadi smiled. She picked up on the sarcasm. Her new acquaintances understood her well.
Z opened both of his eyes. "Welcome. You're going to like working with Espada Rápida," Z said.
"Well, let me validate your intuition a little more," Stoker said. "Let me tell you a story that starts in Chihuahua, Mexico."
"Sorry to burst your bubble," Ahmadi said. "But, I've heard about the Iranians training in Chihuahua. We've been watching them for a while.
"Do you know about the weaponized bacteria the Iranians likely tested on residents of Chihuahua."
"No. This is a new story for me. How did you hear it?"
"We lived it," Stoker said. "It all started with a training exercise just outside of Chihuahua a few days ago. And it ends with some lab data Z is going to email you right now."
Z used his phone to send the email, then he closed his eyes and started to fall back asleep. Over the next two hours, Stoker told Agent Ahmadi the story of discovering the patients suffering from Guillain-Barre syndrome in the hospital. He admitted to stealing the blood samples and results from the lab. He recounted the confrontations in La Sotolería and on the Mexican dirt road. Ahmadi had a lot of questions. Stoker answered each of them with precision and confidence. She was convinced.
"I'm looking at lab results from the Mexican blood samples, processed at Brooke Army Medical Center?" She was reading the email from Z on her iPad.
"That's right. You're not only seeing data confirming Campylobacter jejuni causing Guillain-Barre syndrome. You're seeing proof someone created bacteria—"
Ahmadi cut him off and finished his thought. "That's thousands of times more likely to give somebody Guillain-Barre syndrome. In other words, this is bioterrorism."
"Exactly. Most people survive the disease, but it's a long miserable recovery."
"That assumes there's a ventilator available to everyone with Guillain-Barre. But, how many ventilators and ICU beds are there in America?"
"I don't know. But, I suspect there would not be nearly enough."
"I'm no health care number cruncher," Ahmadi said. But, I'm guessing the next two or three months are going to bring millions of infections. Let's just guess it's two million people?"
"I think you're in the ballpark."
"Are there two million ventilators?"
"No way. And even if there were, most of the ventilators are already in use. They're mechanically breathing for patients with strokes, pneumonia, heart and lung conditions, drug overdoses, and brain and spine injuries. I bet there are 200,000 ventilators in America right now. That's a wild guess. 20,000 of them are available just in case there is an epidemic of Guillain-Barre syndrome or another disease."
"Who have you told about this?" Ahmadi asked.
"The CDC. They're looking into it—but too slowly, in my opinion. The lab at Brooke Army Medical Center also sent the data to the Military Health System's Epidemiology and Analysis section."
"Can I send this to the FBI Weapons of Mass Destruction Directorate?"
"Absolutely."
For the next twenty-nine hours, teams of Espada Rápida warriors and FBI agents, in a few different cars and aircraft, took turns following the Suburban as it crossed parts of New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and Missouri. The teams alternated as the lead car.
In the jeep, Stoker and Z learned about Sarah Ahmadi. She was born to first-generation Iranian immigrant parents. They named her Zahra, a common female name in Iran. She anglicized her name to Sarah after she finished high school.
Z and Stoker took advantage of Ahmadi's native Farsi fluency. They practiced speaking the language for hours as they drove.
"So why did you become a doctor?" Ahmadi asked Stoker as they were driving.
"I grew up in a family with some medical issues. When my parents were newlyweds, my dad was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. He tried real hard to manage it, but he could not keep it in check. When I was a teenager, he was hospitalized nine different times. When I was seventeen, he had a stroke. As for my mom, she started having severe depression about a year after my little brother was born. When I was eighteen, a doctor finally figured out my mom had depression from a thyroid condition called Hashimoto's thyroiditis. A medication called Synthroid helped her depression and saved her a life of sluggishness and misery. After watching my parents, and learning so much about their conditions, I really wanted to be a doctor. With my dad on disability, my parents couldn’t help me pay for college. But, the Army served a few purposes. First, I could get mountains of medical experience working as an Army medic. Second, the Army would help me pay for school. But, I was also an active and athletic soul. Getting paid to do pushups appealed to me. By the time I was nineteen, I was on maneuvers with paratroopers treating everything from bug bites to complex fractures and life-threatening injuries. After college and a couple of full-time years in the military, I entered medical school at Baylor. But, I didn't even consider psychiatry until my third year of medical school. During my psychiatry rotation, I was enthralled. I had a knack for psychiatry."
Every few hours, all the cars following the black Suburban fell back, and surveillance duties switched to an airplane or helicopter. In western Oklahoma, the Suburban stopped at a gas station. There, Z managed to place a tracking device under the Suburban without being detected. This would let the teams fall back and allow Z to monitor the enemy electronically. The tangos had no idea they were being observed and tracked.
A few times the terrorist Suburban doubled back to check for surveillance. They never detected their followers. In Missouri, the terrorists took a circuitous route through the backwoods. In two small towns, they even tried some rigorous maneuvers to trick and expose possible followers. But the tracking device had no trouble following the Suburban's crazy route.
The large SUV would pull over at an occasional gas station. Only two people would ever get out of the car at any single stop. They never stayed at a hotel to sleep. Stoker figured the terrorists were doing their sleeping in the car, much like he and his fellow warriors.
In St. Louis, Stoker parked the jeep and rented a sedan. He, Z, and Ahmadi were three miles behind the black Suburban when it arrived on the outskirts of Chicago.
Ahmadi was in the passenger's seat. Z had just awoken from a four-hour nap in the back seat. They followed the tangos for more than an hour before the Suburban exited the freeway. "Now this could get interesting," Z said. "Something tells me we're close to the hornet's nest."
"Chicago is a great place for a terror hornet's nest," Ahmadi said. "Anonymity and plenty of targets."
As they followed, Stoker called his wife, Allie. "Hey babe, how's your stomach feeling?"
"Four days symptom-free." Allie had suffered for five miserable days, all the while discouraging Stoker from flying to Chicago to take care of her. She thought she was out of the woods. But, she had no idea how much damage her immune system was doing to her nerves. "I missed a lot of work, so I've been catching up," Allie said. "What's your latest update—minus the top-secret stuff you can't tell me?"
"You'll never believe this."
"Your political views have shifted?" Allie teased.
"My news is not that incredible."
"Okay, what's the big reveal."
"I'm driving into the fine city of Chicago."
"Troy, you often impress me with your romantic side. But, something tells me this is more of a coincidence instead of a planned nostalgic gesture."
"It's a coincidence. But, I'm thrilled at the possibility of seeing you."
"What do you mean, possibility?"
"I'm on a journey, and I hope it ends in Chicago."
"Why is it a question mark?"
"It's a long story. But, let's just say some people who caught our attention in Mexico started driving north a couple days ago. But now, we're following them through a Chicago neighborhood
."
The Suburban came to an abrupt stop. The right rear door opened, and a man emerged wearing a Chicago Cubs baseball hat and sunglasses. Stoker and Z watched as an Iranian man walked briskly down the sidewalk and disappeared into a train station.
"Gotta go," Stoker said to Allie. "The odds of us staying here just increased." Stoker ended the call.
"Should we follow him?" Z asked.
"No," Ahmadi suggested. "It’s just one of the six. Let's stay with the majority."
Z radioed Rivera with a sitrep.
"Can you guys stay close?" Rivera asked. "Things get tricky in traffic like this."
"One of the tangos just exited the Suburban. It looks like he went and got on the L," Z said referring to Chicago's elevated train.
"We're about thirty yards behind you," Rivera answered. "If someone else exits that Suburban, Z will follow him."
"Roger that," Z said. "I'm always game to navigate a little urban sprawl. I'll call or text you with updates."
"We'll track your phone's GPS, too," Rivera said.
For the next few blocks of travel, they followed the Suburban. At an intersection, the light turned red, and the Suburban stopped. Suddenly a Yemeni man jumped out of the car and started walking briskly down the sidewalk.
Z reached for his door handle. "My turn."
"That guy's destination is probably the Archer L station a couple blocks over," Stoker said.
"No problem. I don't know Chicago so well. Thanks to my phone, I can navigate it like a boss." Z jumped out of the car and followed his target down the sidewalk.
The light turned green, and traffic moved forward. The Suburban accelerated quickly, but Stoker chose a slower pace and fell back another twenty yards. Sarah Ahmadi elected to stay in the back seat. Stoker caught a glimpse of the Suburban almost a block ahead of him. "Hey Rivera," he called into his radio. "How close are you to the Suburban and us?"
"I'm closer than you. I just passed you. I'm about five cars back from that Suburban. I'll take the lead."
Stoker and Ahmadi followed the Rivera team, as well as the Suburban, for ten more minutes. When the large SUV pulled into a four-story parking structure adjacent to a shopping mall, Rivera's voice came over the radio. "I'm not following them in there. It would be too easy for them to make us."
"I'll follow them on foot," came Jessica's voice over the radio. "If someone jumps out in the parking garage, I just might see them." Then Stoker watched Jessica jump out of the rental car. She flipped her hair back, put on her sunglasses, and started to walk nonchalantly toward the parking garage.
Stoker pulled over and decided to wait, just in case the Suburban exited from the garage. Rivera drove his rental car around the corner and watched the other side of the building. Ahmadi was listening to other FBI agents through an earpiece. "We've got two cars with agents circling," she explained.
Stoker's phone vibrated, and Z's phone number appeared on the caller ID. "What's up Z?"
Z was breathing heavily. "This guy I'm following." Z paused to catch his breath for a moment. "He did not get on a train." Again, Z breathed for a few seconds. "These guys really like to run, because I'm following this guy down the street. Staying about forty yards behind him."
"You're running after him?"
"Yes."
"Why is that a problem? You're in great shape."
"Because he had shorts on under his pants. He stripped off his sweatpants in a park. And, the shoes he was wearing are running shoes."
"And you're wearing combat boots and jeans?"
"Exactly—skinny jeans."
Stoker's face winced. "Now that's going to chafe."
"Going to chafe?" Z replied with some indignation in his voice. "Oh no. This is not a future event." His voice was elevating. "The chaffing is happening now. Major chaffing!"
Stoker's empathy for Z's discomfort clashed with his desire to laugh at the unexpected chain of events. "Stay on that guy. I'll write you a prescription for some cream and a topical painkiller later. Then tonight, we can call your mommy. You can tell her all about it."
"Okay, Stoker. Now's not the time to play your reverse psychology mind tricks. I've got a country to save. In response to President Kennedy's question about what I can do for my country? I can chafe like hell as I run through the streets of Chicago." Then Z ended the call.
Finally, Stoker could laugh. "Hey Rivera," he said through the radio. "Z just called me."
"Really? What did he say?"
That guy he's following did not get on a train. He had running shorts on under his pants. He took off his pants in a park and started running as if he were just out for his daily jog."
"So, we've got a group of Shiite terrorists, Rivera said. “Two have broken off from the rest. We suspect one got on a train. Another arrives in Chicago and decides to go for a run? We are very close to the hornet's nest."
"Okay,” Stoker said. “But, while we're waiting let me share one other part to this story."
"What's that?"
"Z is still chasing him."
Rivera emitted a short huffing laugh. "In combat boots and denim jeans, no less." Then he chuckled. "That's going to chafe like Richard Simmons working out in a wetsuit."
"On amphetamines," Stoker interjected.
"I think we may have another piece of the puzzle," Rivera said. "I've got another of our tangos exiting the parking garage on my side of the building. This one's on foot." Rivera paused for a moment. "And he's getting in a taxi."
After a brief crackle, Jessica's voice came over the radio. "I'm coming down the parking garage stairs quick. I never saw that guy in the parking garage. I'll be exiting out to the street in ten seconds."
"Hang back Jessica," Rivera said. "If you exit onto the street right now, they'll know you're following them."
"I'll follow the taxi," Rivera said. You go get in Stoker's car with him and Ahmadi. But, wait for that Suburban to come out of the garage before you make your move."
Rivera drove away, following fifty yards behind the taxi. Jessica jumped into the silver sedan. "What's next? Is someone going to jump on a bicycle?" she joked.
Stoker smiled. "After that, we'll have an Iranian riding a horse down the street."
"Then the horse just may be a Caspian," Ahmadi interjected from the back seat, taking advantage of the humor in the air. They were waiting for the Suburban to emerge, and the wit let them blow off some steam.
Jessica turned around and exchanged introductions with Sarah Ahmadi.
"Is Caspian a horse breed?"
"Yes. Caspians are small horses. Almost as small as ponies. They're popular in Iran."
"Explain to Jessica how you know so much about Iranian horses," Stoker suggested.
"My parents are Iranian, and we spoke Farsi in our home growing up. We remained in contact with our family in Iran. And, with the advent of social media, I'm in touch with my cousins, aunts, and uncles there more than ever. I even visited Iran during my college years."
"Did you like it?" Stoker asked.
"I loved the sights, the sounds—even the smells walking through the open-air markets. I love the people."
"I've never been to Iran," Stoker said, "but the Iranian people are a dynamic mixture of intelligence, strength, and warmth. I wish most Americans understood that."
"It's the leaders of Iran that get all the headlines," Ahmadi said. "The Ayatollahs oppress the people and do a lot of international saber rattling. They do not reflect the will of most of the people, who dream of a peaceful world."
Just then the Suburban came out of the parking garage. Stoker, Jessica, and Ahmadi followed. After a few turns on the streets of Chicago, the Suburban veered onto a freeway entrance ramp and accelerated quickly. It merged onto the freeway and promptly swerved over into the left passing lane. Then the Suburban sped up to eighty-five miles per hour.
"They're driving like maniacs to see if anyone is following them," Stoker said. I'm going to stay back and drive with traffic. We can rely on the t
racker that Z placed at the gas station. Try to keep eyes on them as long as you can, Jessica."
"I've lost them," she said.
"Me too," Stoker admitted as he accelerated a little. "It’s a good thing the tracker can keep track of a needle in a haystack."
But three minutes later, traffic on the freeway had slowed considerably. Stoker, Jessica, and Ahmadi were able to pull up ten cars behind the terrorists. After following for a little while, the Suburban left the freeway and drove into an older neighborhood. Suddenly, the large vehicle pulled over and parked. Four men jumped out of the car. They all departed in different directions.
"It looks like we've got four choices," Jessica said to Ahmadi. "Rivera taught us to always follow the toughest looking one." Jessica pointed at a guy with broad shoulders and a steely look. "There's my mark."
Ahmadi pointed at another of the men. "I'll follow him. I know that guy. He's an Iranian the FBI's been keeping tabs on for a couple of years. We’ll just have to let the other two slip away." They let the terrorists get a little further down the sidewalk. Then Jessica and Ahmadi exited the rental car and casually walked down the sidewalk as if they didn't have a care in the world. Yet, the safety of the free world was riding on their shoulders.
CHAPTER 19
Chicago, Illinois
Roya waited a few blocks from Hotel Esatto, at a bus stop. She had no intention of boarding a bus. But, the location was ideal for the task at hand. She looked down at an iPad as if she were watching something amusing on it. She pretended to direct all her attention to the entertaining device.
"That's what these Americans do now," Nikolas had explained to her when he gave her the iPad. "They engage with their devices, staring endlessly into screens—so entertained they never consider the need for Allah in their lives."
In truth, Roya was watching an icon on a map, making its way closer and closer to her. They had attached a GPS tracker to each of their new men traveling from Iran via Mexico. In a few minutes, an Iranian combatant would arrive and complete his long journey to Chicago. The man had been instructed to watch for an Iranian woman wearing the hijab. He would recognize her because her dress would be green, the same green as the stripe atop the Iranian flag. And, her hijab would be the same color of red that graced the bottom color band on the flag. She wore this outfit to direct the men arriving at the Chicago safe house. When they recognized her, they were trained to ignore her and keep traveling down the street to a modest red brick building. They would enter and meet a security guard on the ground floor. They had strict instructions to tell the security guard they were here to see a Mr. Ramsey for a job interview. They were to speak Spanish. The security guard would ask them which position they were interviewing for. "Biohazard engineer," was always their answer.
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