The Widow's Strike

by Brad Taylor

  I started to ask for the story, then said, “Okay, later, at the hotwash. Right now, let’s get gone.”

  The transfer complete, I pulled Nung aside.

  “Hey, I don’t know what you do for a living, but I might be able to use you in the future. You’ve got some serious skills. Can I call you?”

  He smiled and said, “Yes. I can work again, if the price is right.”

  He wrote his number down on a scrap of paper, and out of curiosity, because I wasn’t paying him a damn thing for his help, I said, “How much did you make for this gig?”

  He said, “No money at all. I got my brother into school. A chance for a better life than I have.”

  He handed me the number, then turned without another word, got back into the prison van, and drove away.

  * * *

  The pilot said we were on final for Bangkok, and I waited until the wheels touched down before hitting the connect button for my “company” VPN on my laptop. I wanted to delay the SITREP to Kurt as long as possible.

  I had four different missed calls from him, each one purposely ignored, and I knew he was going to be hot. Especially if the calls were to give me a direct order to back off of Knuckles.

  I heard the computer going through its plethora of switches, getting rerouted about fifteen times before some algorithm decided it was safe for the computer on Kurt’s desk to start ringing. Anyone looking would think I was calling Charleston, South Carolina, instead of Washington, DC. I glanced back into the plane and saw everyone staring at me, wondering what was going to happen when Kurt found out what we’d been up to.

  He came on immediately, and, as expected, he was a little ticked off, but not nearly as much as I’d imagined. In fact, it almost seemed like he was putting on an act.

  “Pike, what’s the protocol for situation reports with deployed teams?”

  “Sir, I know. I should have called back, but I was busy. Sorry. I mean, it’s not like I’m on a mission profile.”

  “No, that’s right. Because you wouldn’t answer your damn phone.”

  The statement got my attention. “You have a mission for me? Seriously?”

  He leaned back in his chair, suddenly suspicious at the eagerness in my voice. “Why haven’t you mentioned Knuckles?”

  “Uhh . . . well . . . would you like to talk to him?”

  All I got was silence.

  “Sir, they were going to kill him. I had a solid plan, and I executed. It went just like I briefed you before.”

  He said nothing for a moment, then let out a breath. “I suppose I knew that was coming. So you got him out. What’s the damage?”

  I succinctly gave him the CliffsNotes version of the mission, leaving out Izzy and my buddy at JUSMAG, simply alluding to in-country assets like I had when I got permission to talk to the hacking cell. He listened, then interrupted my story.

  “Cut to the chase. What’s the risk to compromise? Do I need to go into damage control with the Oversight Council?”

  “There was a little drama, but we got out clean. There’s only one guy who really cares about investigating, but he’ll be in the hospital for the next few days. On top of that we found some incriminating information on him. The indig helping me is going to pay him a visit.”

  Song, the man who’d portrayed Piggy with Retro, had found a ton of bad stuff on Piggy’s cloned PDA, which explained why he took it home with him every day instead of leaving it at the jail. It had an absolute treasure trove of illegal shenanigans that would have put him in prison pajamas overnight. I’d called Nung before leaving Chiang Mai and given him some instructions to give Piggy a little visit in the hospital. He’d either let Knuckles ride or start practicing how to shower with his back to the wall.

  “Will that be enough?”

  “Yeah. No way is he going to want to admit to getting his ass beat by a woman he was blackmailing for sex. Especially when he sees the evidence we have about his other activities.”

  “What about the local help? What do they know?”

  “Nothing. Let’s just say they’re used to working without information.”

  “How’d you get them? What’s the cost?”

  I said, “That’s the beauty of it. It didn’t cost any money.” I told him about the school admissions problem. As I recounted the story, I saw his demeanor shift. Guess he’s not seeing the beauty of it. . . . I finally saw some real anger.

  “Damn it, Pike, you want me to go to the Oversight Council and have someone interject into a foreign boarding school’s admission process?”

  I became a little indignant as well. “Yeah. I do. Get the SECSTATE to make a call. Hell, it’s because he wouldn’t interject on Knuckles’s behalf in the first place that we’re in this situation. I’m sure he knows someone who knows someone who can help.”

  Kurt said nothing for a moment, then shifted gears. “How’s Knuckles?”

  “He’s pretty beat-up, but mostly just bumps and bruises. We’ll get him a checkup in Germany, but my bet is he’ll be running fine in a couple of days. What he really needs is a dentist.”

  “And the team?”

  “Good to go. Jennifer and I are the only ones who have done anything overtly operational. Everyone else is still clean. What’s the story?”

  I knew he wasn’t asking to be polite. He wanted to know if we could go operational after the prison bust.

  “Knuckles’s bug turned up some interesting information, and we got clearance to investigate. I need you to get eyes on. Nothing more until I can relieve you with the original team we pulled out. You’re just there to get a handle until we can reinsert the team, then you come home.”

  In fifteen minutes, he gave me a rundown for an Iranian Quds Force general currently in Thailand, and the mission to track him—which immediately raised some flags.

  “You want me to hunt a foreign intelligence asset? The council gave Omega authority for a state-sponsored target?”

  The Taskforce called each phase of an operation a different Greek letter. Omega, the last letter, meant we had authority for a takedown, but we’d never targeted anyone from a sovereign government. We dealt strictly with substate terrorists.

  “No, no. Don’t get eager beaver. We’re nowhere near Omega. We just want to get eyes on this guy, that’s all. See if we can find out what he’s up to.”

  “Good enough. You got an anchor we can start with?”

  “Yeah. I’ll send you a complete package, but you need to play this by the numbers. I understand getting Knuckles out. Shit, I practically dared you to do it. I’m glad you executed, but this target is too sensitive for any freelancing.”

  “Because he’s an Iranian general?”

  “Because he’s very, very good. And he’s more than likely doing something very, very bad.”

  19

  Having arrived forty minutes early for his meeting with the scientist, Malik began to feel the Singapore humidity sink into his clothes.

  He’d caught the first flight out after the capture of the son and had spent the majority of yesterday afternoon getting familiar with the area. The Biopolis complex had been little trouble to find, and even less trouble to get to, as it sat right down the road from the Buona Vista LRT metro stop. That hadn’t made him any more confident, because he knew the trouble would be located within the complex.

  A campus of over a dozen buildings, all named with a biological tint such as “Helios” and “Genome,” it was festooned with cameras and security. It seemed every single building had an entrance guarded by uniformed men, along with a phalanx of biometric badges and scanners. This would have been bad enough on a normal day but was made much worse on a Sunday. The place was mostly deserted, making him feel like every guard was eyeballing him.

  He wandered around a little bit, then took a seat at an outdoor café that served Peranakan cuisine. It was loca
ted behind the Chronos building, underneath a laboratory for tropical diseases—with the usual guard force at the main entrance.

  Not liking the menu a single bit, he’d ordered a cup of tea and surveyed the area. The food selection notwithstanding, he did like the multiple escape routes the café afforded, so he’d decided to stay to use it as the initial contact location. He dialed his cell, letting the scientist know where to find him.

  This meeting, he knew, had the greatest level of risk. He hadn’t had time to personally show the scientist the danger he posed. No chance to reinforce the fear necessary for total compliance. If the scientist had taken his initial phone call from Thailand and immediately called the police, he would be caught like a fish on a line. He hoped the man hearing his son begging on the phone would be enough.

  Although that mission in and of itself had been fraught with risk.

  Malik couldn’t help but smile at the memory. Kavi’s eyes bugging out of his face in confusion just before the hood descended.

  Kavi would have spotted a Thai scam four miles away. Would have instinctively known when to turn away from an alley with Thai danger. But like a mouse sniffing the nose of a foreign snake, he’d had no sense of the peril.

  Until they pulled the hood over his head.

  His men had operated perfectly, even considering their disobeying of his orders to leave the dessert café. Actually, that, in itself, showed an ability to assess. To analyze and succeed.

  Malik had rented a villa near Soi 3, a few blocks off of Sukhumvit Road, as the safe house to store Kavi, and when the team had finally relaxed after the takedown, they’d begun patting themselves on the back and praising Allah, the fervor of their mission intertwined with the revolution. With the need to identify and associate their life with something greater than themselves.

  Malik had joined in, of course, but he had long since lost the sheen of the revolution. He no longer ran about chanting everything that spouted from the ayatollah’s mouth and rarely even prayed, using the proclamations from Muhammad himself about the exertions of the jihad allowing him forgiveness from this task. He knew he was stretching his job as an excuse, but he’d seen beyond the curtain and understood how the world really worked.

  As he’d grown up in the IRGC, he’d learned a hard truth: Allah didn’t help those in need. They helped themselves, or they perished. Praying made no difference whatsoever. He’d seen that up close in the brutal fighting with Saddam Hussein. Thousands of mere boys thrown into the breach and slaughtered, their skulls used to create a shrine to Saddam Hussein. Even as his faith faded away, his loyalty to the state had become entrenched.

  He despised the West for what they did to his country. The sanctions and other punishments. For nothing. Iran hadn’t done anything the West hadn’t perfected first. In fact, they’d learned from the West how the game was played. Israel’s killing of Iran’s nuclear scientists. The United States’ drone attacks in Pakistan and elsewhere. It was the same in effect. The difference was the hypocrisy.

  Why was it okay for the United States and Israel to have nuclear weapons, but not okay for Iran? When did Allah proclaim that to be the way of the world? They were just afraid of his country becoming a power. Becoming a threat, where they no longer had the monopoly on violence. A goal he was willing to die for. Which he might, depending on this meeting.

  The mullahs had sanctioned the mission but had stated that the repercussions of failure would be profound. In their obtuse way, they had sent him a veiled threat: If the Great Satan connected who was behind the attack, he would be forfeited.

  Because they are afraid to fight.

  They would rather have shouted “Death to America” from their knees while allowing the West to cripple them. Too afraid to strike back. As an original Islamic revolutionary who had overthrown the shah and shown the Great Satan’s impotence when he’d helped capture the US embassy and its personnel, holding them hostage for over a year, he found it ironic. How could you brag about the revolution, then fear retaliation in the same breath? Where had the audacity gone?

  He snapped out of his reverie when a man rounded the corner. A short Asian, deeply tanned, with a flat face that barely held the glasses on his nose. The man glanced around nervously, scanning the restaurant and skipping forward in stuttered movements. Like the same mouse sniffing for the snake. Only this one recognized the danger.

  Malik stood and said, “Dr. Sakchai Nakarat? Please have a seat. We have much to discuss.”

  20

  As the scientist took a chair, Malik scanned around, looking for the net closing on him. Seeing nothing, he glanced at his cell for an alert. He had brought both Roshan and Sanjar with him, leaving the other two team members at the safe house with the son, and was using them on both ends of Biopolis Way. If any police vehicles closed on the Chronos building, they would have to pass by his team.

  The phone was clear, and he sat down.

  Dr. Nakarat remained mute. Malik saw a slight tremor in his hands and relaxed, believing the initial phone call had worked. Even so, he started with the threats.

  “I assume you did not alert anyone about our conversation?”

  “No, no. I have told no one. Please. I’ve followed all of your instructions. What do you want? I have no money. I think you’ve made a mistake. Please, let my son go and I promise I won’t tell anyone about this.”

  “You do have something I value, but before we get to that, I want to make sure you understand what will happen to your son should anyone suspect anything. Make no mistake, he will be killed in a most painful manner. Of course you will not speak to anyone, but you must also watch your mannerisms. Your day-to-day interactions. No one must suspect a thing or Kavi will pay the price. You understand?”

  “Yes! Dear God, yes. What do you want?”

  “It’s simple. You have been working on a vaccine for an H5N1 virus modified for airborne transmission in humans. I want five samples of that virus, along with the recipe for the vaccine.”

  He saw the doctor blanch, the blood draining from his face. He thought it was the enormity of the request until the doctor recovered enough to speak.

  “I . . . we . . . yes, we were working on a vaccine, but we were ordered to stop. The virus has been destroyed. I don’t have five samples.”

  Malik heard the words but had trouble assimilating them. Before he could speak, Dr. Nakarat began babbling.

  “A man died during the research. We couldn’t continue. The vaccine didn’t work anyway. It failed completely in males and rendered females as asymptomatic carriers. They carried the virus without getting sick. You see? I don’t have five samples. I’m telling you the truth. Please, let my son go. I’ll give you anything else I have. Anything I can find.”

  Malik understood now why he had gone white. He believed he was killing his son because he couldn’t help.

  “Can you re-create the virus?”

  Dr. Nakarat squeezed his fists together. “No! Not by myself. I’d have to use the entire team.”

  Malik scowled, and the scientist became shrill. “Please. There may be one sample. I heard management talking about saving a copy of the virus. I didn’t see it, but maybe you should ask them. I can contact them right now. Bring them here.”

  He pulled out his phone and Malik raised his hand. “Stop.”

  Clearly, the scientist was cracking. He couldn’t even see how stupid his statement was.

  Dr. Nakarat waited, his hands trembling hard enough to rap the phone against the table in a drumbeat.

  Malik said, “You will get this sample. You have access to it.”

  “No! I don’t. I swear.”

  “Think, doctor. You were shut down because of the risk involved, yes?”

  When he nodded, Malik continued. “There is no way they took such a dangerous thing out of the lab. They can’t simply lock it up in the glove box of their car. Wher
e would it be in the lab? In a controlled environment?”

  Dr. Nakarat’s eyes darted left and right as he began cataloging his workspace in his mind. After a few seconds, they settled back on Malik, now with some hope.

  “The patent reefer. That’s where it will be. We have a double security zone there, not because the material in it is dangerous, but because it’s proprietary. They don’t want anyone stealing the formulas through industrial espionage.”

  Malik smiled. “Good. Very good. Can you access it?”

  “I suppose so. I have in the past, but only with other scientists. I have never gone in there by myself. And the company will know every move I make. I’m telling you, they’re serious about espionage. I’ll have to log out the sample, and they’ll know.”

  “No, doctor. You’re still thinking with the company. You need to be thinking with your son. I ask again, can you do it without alerting the lab?”

  At the mention of Kavi, Dr. Nakarat began to tremble anew, a thin sheen of sweat appearing on his upper lip.

  “I’ll have to create a reason to go in. Something tomorrow. I won’t be able to access it until Tuesday at the earliest.”

  “Tuesday? I want it right now.”

  “That’s impossible! It’s Sunday. The lab is closed! No way can I do that. I couldn’t even get into the patent reefer today if I wanted. It’s locked down and alarmed. I need at least a day to create an excuse, or they’ll know.”

  Malik fought the logic in his mind but eventually relented. “Okay. Tuesday it is. I need you to call your son’s boarding school and tell them he is with you. Tell them you had a family emergency or something else that will keep them from attempting to find him.” He watched the scientist’s shoulders droop and said, “I’m not stupid, doctor. Please believe that I’ll know before you what treachery you plan.”

  While the doctor called, Malik considered what he knew. One sample. Not the original plan. He’d only be able to create one cluster instead of five spread throughout the United States. One cluster that might be contained if the American health care system was fast enough. He needed to come up with something to defeat that. Then he remembered what the scientist had said about the vaccine.