"Not only am I a warrior. I'm also a physician. My team and I have been working in Mexico. We've seen your victims there."
"I shall not share words of apology with you. I hope to show contrition through my actions. I came to America on a Greek passport, a passport fabricated by the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence. My government singled me out at the age of thirteen as a person with the attributes necessary to lead a business empire. I also showed some promise as a scientist. The Iranian government invested much time and money training me ruthlessly for my grand mission. They started by helping me master the Greek language, while also providing me with a legend that injected me into Greek society's privileged class. I attended the best schools in Athens. I was a good student. But, my Iranian handlers tutored me, and I earned superb marks. I then attended Cambridge University in the UK, where I excelled, double majoring in biology and economics. The next step in the Iranian plan was for me to complete an MBA at an American university. My bonyad director selected the University of Chicago's MBA program. After completing that degree, the Iranian government had what they wanted. A person ready to take their venture capital, build a vast business empire, and use that empire as a shroud to camouflage a bioterrorism attack on your country.
“And, I must correct one point from your story, Dr. Stoker. Mexico was where we tested our Campylobacter jejuni strain. We engineered that germ in the Middle East, and I multiplied the bacteria there. We stored it here in the underground levels of Hotel Esatto in a specially built laboratory, as your FBI experts will soon confirm." Nikolas looked at Ahmadi. "Do you know what a bonyad is, Agent Ahmadi?"
"They are a type of Iranian charitable organization. Most of them noble."
"Yes," Nikolas took over the description from Ahmadi. "Bonyads are somewhat similar to American charitable trusts, foundations, and not-for-profit organizations. Bonyads, on the surface, are an Iranian equivalent. Many are good. But, a few of them are rife with corruption. The evil ones may put some money and publicity into building a hospital, funding scholarships, and feeding and clothing the poor. However, beneath their front, they operate like a private equity firm to fund activities to undermine Israel, America, and the West. For many years I have been virtually an indentured servant to a bonyad director. He's the equivalent of the chairman and CEO. His board of directors is a group of mullahs and ayatollahs who run Iran. My orders? Use hundreds of millions of the bonyad's dollars to build and operate my hotel. They are the investors, and I am the entrepreneur.
“People who report to me are also running the Little Italy sandwich shops. Anyone who has purchased a sandwich, with mayonnaise, at one of those shops in the last few days, has been exposed to our genetically weaponized strain of Campylobacter jejuni. I suspect about fifty percent of those people will contract Guillain-Barre syndrome."
Rivera spoke up. "Let me guess. You're about to tell us you have numerous companies fronting and producing terror?"
"Yes," Nikolas replied. "I want to come clean about all of them. We planned and implemented a new venture called CoolSolar. We take our solar-powered mist machines to events such as concerts, state fairs, triathlons, and marathons. We also have contracts to provide misting systems all over the United States. People find the cooling mist very appealing, and they gravitate—"
"But the mist also contains Campylobacter jejuni bacteria," Stoker said while cloaking his indignation.
Then Ahmadi spoke up. "But, you still have not explained your supposed captivity. You run a beautiful hotel. I see this stunning boat. I think you're living a charmed life. I don't see evidence you're the hostage you claim to be.
"I have a beautiful American wife," Nikolas paused for effect while pretending to be very sad. Stoker sensed his fabricated sorrow. "Together we have three children, the oldest being sixteen. They've been in captivity for four years, hostages in Saudi Arabia by Iranian agents, unknown to the Saudi government. And, if I fail in my attack on America, I will witness their execution, one by one. I will be allowed one week to mourn them, to live in misery. Then they will hang me."
"But, you've now kept your end of the agreement," Ahmadi said. "Why are you not reuniting with your family? That doesn't make sense."
“It does make sense,” Stoker said. “Mullahs don’t keep all their promises.”
"This attack is in its early stages. My bonyad director is screaming at me for results. He will not be satisfied until this attack brings America to its knees."
"Until your weaponized pathogen overwhelms every hospital," Stoker said. "Until victims of Guillain-Barre syndrome overcome the ICUs and outstrip the capacity of all the ventilators in America."
Yes, Mr. Smarty pants Doctor, Nikolas thought. You don’t know about the amoeba and a few other plans. Then he continued with this incomplete story. "Until the hostile families are showing up at hospitals and demanding services at gunpoint. Until the docile families are using Ambu bags to keep their loved ones breathing and alive," Nikolas said, "exhausting themselves by taking shifts squeezing that bag repeatedly for hours that turn into days and compound into weeks. With this potent strain of the bacteria, it may be months. Nevertheless, even this death toll and level of misery may not satisfy my bonyad director and the ayatollahs. They still may not free my family."
Rivera chimed in. "In three weeks, your director and the Ayatollahs will see the newspaper headlines, read the tweets, and watch the live news feeds. They'll have their short celebration. But, I think they'll be disappointed. This trial will be hard for America, but we'll figure it out."
"You're never going to see that family of yours again," Stoker said. “You'll be locked away in a maximum-security prison awaiting execution."
"You're right about my fate. But, if Allah hears my prayers, my family will return safely to America."
Stoker interrupted him by clamping his powerful hand on his shoulder. Then he leaned in and whispered in Nikolas's ear, so only Nikolas could hear. "Drop the charade, Nikolas. You're not a religious man, a believer. It's not in your nature. You're a master manipulator."
Nikolas frowned and he took a moment to rethink his approach. "My wife and children are Americans. They have done nothing wrong. Will you please extract them, before the bonyad director orders their execution?"
"I've heard enough," Ahmadi said. "Let's get this Bozo into an interrogation room and find out how to stop this epidemic." She stood Nikolas up.
"I'll tell you everything," Nikolas said.
"Yes, you will. I guarantee it." Stoker said. Then Stoker made a snap decision to leverage Nikolas's family. "Your story sounds off the wall to me. But, if you tell our experts everything. And, if our experts tell us your story holds water, we'll go find your wife and kids. But before we go, we need all the information about this disease you can provide ASAP, or we don't go—period."
"Tell it all," Rivera said. "What about the Campylobacter bacteria? How did you get the bacteria so potent?"
"We genetically engineered a new strain. We increased the number of antigens likely to trigger Guillain-Barre syndrome. Our bacterium increases the incidence of Guillain-Barre more than 100-fold.
Then Ahmadi took a turn to ask a question. "With this strain, what percentage of people infected develop Guillain-Barre?"
"Close to half."
"We know those trials were in Mexico," Stoker said.
"Yes. From what you said earlier, it sounds like you were there?"
"We were there, in Chihuahua."
"Fifteen of our trainees," Nikolas said, "and their leader died during a training exercise outside of Chihuahua."
"Yes. That was me." Stoker said. "They fired on me."
Nikolas was speechless. The realization that he was being interrogated by a soldier with such a violent history froze him with fear.
Stoker continued. "Yes, we found your test subjects in Chihuahua. Do you know the lab technician? He was Iranian."
Nikolas made a quick nod of his head.
"I'm the one who knocked him out. Did
you hear about your guys in the Soltolería? What about your guys in trucks who met the grenades on a dirt road northeast of Chihuahua?"
Nikolas's eyes opened wider. He made no effort to hide his surprise or alarm.
"Yes! That was us! And now, here you are, attacking the United States of America." Stoker looked at Ahmadi as if to suggest she ask the next question.
"The Campylobacter," she said. "Who were your targets in the U.S.?"
"Customers of Little Italy sandwich shops. Participants in athletic events like marathons and triathlons. Hotel banquet attendees. I had more than 100 people working as banquet chefs and large hotels around the country. We've infected the food at NASCAR races and at some NCAA football games."
"You must've infected millions of people."
"I'm ashamed to say, our estimates project infecting tens of millions of Americans."
"What else is there?" Stoker asked.
"I've told you everything," Nikolas lied.
While this was not a boldfaced lie, it was an omission—an enormous one. Nikolas said nothing about the Balamuthia mandrillaris amoeba he was also circulating using mist machines and other methods. And there was more, so much more.
"Our experts will interrogate you further. But, we need to start to make good on our promise," Rivera said, giving Nikolas a degree of hope he might get what he wanted. "Where is your family being held?"
"You should fly to Jubail, a city on the Persian Gulf side of Saudi Arabia. There's an industrial building north of the airport. Take Tapline Road for 36 miles to the north. You can't miss it. When you arrive, tell the guards you wish to visit with Elizabeth. She's my wife."
"That's a nice suggestion," Stoker said with sarcasm in his voice. "We will not be entering in the traditional, cordial manner you suggest. We'll be arriving in darkness with a group of very well-trained operatives."
CHAPTER 22
Chicago, Illinois
The FBI detained Nikolas Antoniou at the Chicago FBI field office. They also arrested Roya. Ahmadi sent the recordings of Nikolas’s confessions to the FBI director.
Interrogators went to work on Nikolas, asking him for meticulous details about the Campylobacter jejuni bacteria, his business holdings, and his history with the Iranian bonyad. They ran background checks and froze bank accounts. But most of the funds had been conveniently swept into accounts in Asia and the Middle East over the last few hours. So, the FBI could not freeze that money immediately.
Roya was only somewhat cooperative. Nikolas provided lengthy answers to all their questions. Yet, he still held back. He revealed nothing about the cruise ship Tropical Solace, the Balamuthia amoeba, or any other plans the FBI did not already know something about.
It took less than three hours for the FBI, the Centers for Disease Control, and local police departments to shut down all the Little Italy sandwich shops owned by Nikolas throughout the whole country. They closed and evacuated Hotel Esatto, much to the chagrin of thousands of loyal guests. They also found paper trails to the Benevolent Iranian Student League—just like Nikolas had set them up to be found. Hundreds of hotel-based banquets, across the country, were immediately canceled; and the cooks and chefs were interrogated. CoolSolar documents were uncovered, again like Nikolas wanted them to be. The mist machines were turned off.
The FBI closed down the lab in the basement of Hotel Esatto. But, the lab had completed its work. It was virtually empty.
The FBI continued to dig into Nikolas's office as well as the offices and computers of his accountants and managers. But, there was almost no additional paperwork to be found. Nikolas's enterprises ran on a near paperless system—all cloud-based with server farms co-located in Iran, Lebanon, and Yemen. The moment the FBI had set foot in the hotel, Nikolas's head of security notified the bonyad in Tehran. In turn, the bonyad's IT gurus disabled everyone's usernames and passwords, even Nikolas's. The FBI had little access to corporate records for Hotel Esatto, CoolSolar, the Benevolent Iranian Student League, or any of Nikolas's other businesses. They were sealed out by technology and the borders that lie between them and an enemy state.
“Bravo, Stoker and Rivera,” Ahmadi said after a sleepless night of investigating and interrogating. “It turns out that Roya’s mist containers contained no pathogens. Nikolas tells us Roya was just rehearsing—making sure that she had her safety procedures down before they started to use live canisters in the next 24 hours. The plan was for Nikolas to leave the hotel today, and never return. Roya would plant all the infectious canisters during one shift. Then she would leave, never to return. I know you doctors have saved a few lives during your career. But tonight, you can add a few thousand more. First, you prevented thousands of Hotel Esatto guests from lethal infections. But, there’s more.”
“What do you mean, more?” Stoker asked.
“We found a few hundred canisters, still in their shipping boxes. One of the boxes had a shipping manifest from a factory here in Chicago. There we found an active operation that was shipping out tens of thousands of canisters every week, all over the country. That’s been shut down. And, with the help of the shipping company, we’ve been able to trace all the shipments and alert the purchasers.
“Wow,” Rivera said. Rarely did he have one-word answers.
“We estimate that you’ve saved at least ten thousand lives by interrupting Nikolas’s mist canister plan. Add to that tens of thousands more because we shut down his silent strikes at Little Italy sandwich shops and all of the other places he was infecting food.”
• • •
The next morning Allie went to work with her client in Chicago. But, when she got back to her hotel, she was exhausted. She went directly to her room and climbed into bed. Troy picked up takeout from a quaint restaurant. In their room, they ate small portions of grilled salmon, fresh peach slices, baked potatoes, and steamed carrots.
"Thank you, Troy," Allie said as she sat up for a moment to eat. "There's nothing like salmon to warm my cold Nordic heart." She took a bite and chewed slowly. "I guess I better enjoy it while I can. In a few days, my nourishment will probably be through a feeding tube."
"A Nordic feeding tube. They have those you know. They're inflexible and kind of stubborn."
Allie laughed. "With everyone treating me so delicate lately, I actually welcome your snarky insult."
The second day after her diagnosis, Allie went to the hospital infusion center for plasma exchange. The procedure removed some of the antibodies that were attacking her nerves from her bloodstream.
Again, on days three and four Allie went to work. She barely had the energy to work eight hours. Like she had done the previous two nights, she came back to the hotel and collapsed into bed. Each night Troy brought her a meal. During the days that Allie was growing weaker, Stoker spent his precious downtime with her. When she was at work, Stoker was participating in the hunt for the Iranians who had crossed the border.
Allie's workdays grew shorter and shorter. "Why did I have to get sick for us to make time like this, Troy?" she asked before fading off to sleep at the end of day six. Seven days after Allie Stoker's diagnosis, she was so tired, she could only work from her bed, on her laptop computer, for three hours. That prompted her sister, mother, and father to come into town.
Over the next few days, Rivera led the ongoing surveillance in Chicago. Z became his right-hand man in Stoker's absence. The tech genius proved himself very valuable by orchestrating all the technical work. With the blessing of a federal judge and a FISA warrant, Z's facial recognition software was scanning images captured from cameras all over the city. But, the men they had been searching for must have been avoiding the streets. They never succeeded in identifying any of the Iranian border crossers.
For Allie Stoker, the disease was progressing more rapidly than Stoker, Rivera, and her neurologist had expected. On day ten Stoker drove her to the hospital, and the neurologist admitted her. On day eleven, it was time for Allie to be transferred into the ICU. There a ventilator would take
over her breathing as the disease progressed through its most cruel phase, paralysis.
"We're having some trouble opening up a bed for you, Mrs. Stoker," her neurologist reported. Allie looked alarmed.
"Don't worry, honey." Stoker's tone was calm a reassuring. "This happens all the time." In a few hours, they'll be able to transfer a patient out, and a spot will open up for you."
"This situation is different." The neurologist had almost interrupted Stoker. She was very serious. "There are nine other cases of Guillain-Barre syndrome in the ICU, and they progressed unusually fast, much like Mrs. Stoker. It may be a day or two before a bed opens up here."
"Then let's transfer her to another hospital," Stoker said.
"I was about to explore that possibility with you," the neurologist replied. "But, here's the problem. All of the ICUs in Chicago are maxed out for some reason."
Stoker's heart started to pound. People can go weeks without food and two or three days without water. But, humans can only go for a few seconds or minutes without breathing. For her very survival, Allie needed to be in an ICU and on a ventilator. "Let me call Rivera. We'll figure this out."
Twenty seconds later Stoker was on the phone with Dr. Errol Rivera. "Allie needs to be on a ventilator, perhaps in the next six to twelve hours. But, all the ICUs in Chicago are full. They have nine other Guillain-Barre cases in the ICU here. Can you help me out?"
"I've got a bad feeling about this, Stoker. The disease is progressing throughout the nation this quickly, and America's not ready. I'll make some phone calls. If there are any veterans in the ICUs, I'll get them transferred to the VA hospital and open up a spot for Allie." Then Rivera made another suggestion. "Why don't you suggest transferring one or more ICU patients to a long-term acute care facility?"
"The LTAC is a brilliant idea," Stoker responded. "Let's not transfer patients to make room for Allie. Let's send Allie to the LTAC. It may be the perfect place."
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