Gray Redemption

by Alan McDermott

  “What about an antidote?”

  “We have been unable to prevent death once the subject has become infected,” Uddin said. “Those subjects who were given the vaccination prior to infection did survive, but they suffered severe damage to their organs. We need to do a lot more work on this before we can be confident it is ready for use.”

  “It seems to me that it is ready now,” Mansour smiled.

  “I agree it has the effect we were looking for,” Uddin said, “but until we are able to control it, we cannot consider using it. With international travel so common, a strain this virulent could reach almost every major population before it was ever discovered. It would create a pandemic within weeks.”

  Mansour was impressed with the projected reach, but the target he had in mind would only claim around a thousand lives. Al-Asiri’s vision of breeding westerners out of existence was flawed at even the most fundamental level: it wasn’t the people that were the issue; it was the people leading them, the policy-makers who determined which countries were to be invaded, which villages were to be bombed. He had no real issues with the people of Britain or the United States: they simply followed their leaders like sheep. No, more like lambs being led to the slaughter by warmongers fuelled by greed. They dressed it up as a crusade to rid the world of tyrants, but their sole agenda was to get cheap access to the Arab world’s oil supply.

  The internal conflicts in Libya and Syria epitomised this. When Tripoli used deadly force to put down the uprising, the US and Britain mobilised troops immediately and were instrumental in the fall of Gaddafi. Yet the troubles in Syria started at around the same time, and eighteen months later the UN were still dithering and threatening worthless sanctions. Russia and China were the major suppliers of arms to Damascus and were vetoing any resolutions at the UN, and the western powers conveniently used this as the main reason they couldn’t take any decisive action to stop the massacres. Mansour knew that even if the eastern superpowers voted in favour of military action, the cost of an invasion would greatly outweigh the financial gain to the likes of Britain and America. They would continue with the rhetoric while waiting for the next oil-rich country to implode.

  “My target is a building which is protected against chemical and biological attacks. However, they would be expecting an attack to come from the outside, not within the building itself. If it were released in such a place, would it be able to escape?”

  Uddin admitted that without schematics of the defences, he couldn’t offer any guarantees, but he did think the efficacy of the virus would be severely diminished. “The air within such a building would most likely be filtered through sophisticated scrubbers, ultraviolet lights and a host of other defences. It could be destroyed within minutes.”

  “What if the filtration system was inactive during the initial release and no-one was allowed to leave the building. Would that make a difference?”

  “It certainly would, but it would depend on the size of the building and the number of people within it. The more people, the less effective the defences would become, but eventually the virus would become so prevalent that everyone within the building would succumb.”

  The news was exactly what Mansour wanted to hear, and he instructed the professor to prepare as much of the virus as possible within the next few days. “I will also need a way of transporting it via aeroplane and through customs without arousing suspicion. What would you suggest?”

  The professor looked nervous. “I have to reiterate that this virus is not ready to be used. If just one person were to get out of the contaminated area, there is no telling how fast it could spread. The incubation period — the delay before the onset of symptoms — is two days, but the virus can be passed to others within a few hours through close contact.

  “I really think you should reconsider, at least until we have a working anti-virus.”

  Mansour’s glare told Uddin that any further dissension would not be tolerated, and the professor reluctantly stood and picked up an inhaler from a shelf. “This is capable of storing the virus for seventy-two hours,” he said, his voice edgy. “If you press here, it works just as it should.”

  As promised, a small cloud of mist shot out when the cartridge was pushed into the device. “When you first insert a new canister, it breaks the initial seal and works like a normal inhaler. However, if you were to hold it pressed in for a count of ten, you activate a second valve which releases the entire contents of a hidden compartment in one continuous burst.”

  “You mean it can be activated and left unattended?” Mansour asked, and Uddin nodded.

  “We tried to design it with built-in latency to give the person activating it a chance to clear the area,” Uddin told him, “but that introduced too many extra components which would show up on security scanners, such as airport X-Ray machines.”

  Mansour liked the simplicity, and it should easily pass a cursory inspection at any border. The fact that it required someone to sacrifice their life to deliver the virus was not a problem: There were plenty of true believers willing to take on the task in the name of Allah.

  “What kind of coverage will I get from one canister?” Mansour asked.

  Uddin thought about it for a moment, searching for a suitable comparison. “If you were to activate one canister in a large airport baggage hall, it would infect everyone in a ten metre radius in moments, and it would travel to all adjoining areas within five minutes. It would take less than an hour for the entire airport to become contaminated.”

  The projection once again pleased Mansour, especially as the target he had in mind was similar in size to a major airport terminal. “How many of these canisters can you provide in the next twenty-four hours?” He asked.

  Uddin did a quick mental calculation. “We can have two, perhaps three capsules ready,” he replied.

  “Two will suffice,” Mansour told him. “Taking any more than that through Heathrow’s customs channels could arouse suspicion, but carrying your inhaler and a spare would be seen as normal for most travellers.”

  He rose from his chair. “I will return in two days. Please have them ready when I arrive.”

  The professor considered one more attempt at dissuading Mansour from this course of action, but instead he held his tongue and assured him that everything he needed would be waiting on his return. Mansour paused at the door. “This goes no further than the two of us,” he warned the old man. “As far as your team are concerned, you are going to deliver the original virus as planned. Do you understand?”

  Uddin nodded meekly, and Mansour left.

  Once alone in the office, Uddin slumped in his chair and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Designing the virus for use on their enemies was something he was comfortable with: whether they died from a bomb, bullet or bug was immaterial. What he couldn’t accept was the possibility that his creation might be unleashed on the entire world. It would not differentiate between Muslim or Christian, Hindu or Buddhist; it would simply strike down everyone it touched.

  Could it be contained within the building Mansour was targeting? Without knowing the layout of the building, the intended release point and the number of exits, he simply couldn’t say. Even the counter-biological defences Mansour mentioned could prove to be inadequate, but he couldn’t be certain unless he had the chance to look at the specifications.

  Uddin wrestled with his conscience for some time, but he knew that if he didn’t fulfil Mansour’s wish, the only thing he could look forward to would be death. Not just for him, but for his entire family, too. And it wouldn’t be as quick as a bullet to the brain. He was certain that he would be made to watch his family die before he himself was killed, and the thought sent a shiver through his body.

  With a heavy heart he stood and slowly walked back to the laboratory, suddenly feeling a lot older than his fifty-eight years.

  Chapter 9

  Sunday May 6th 2012

  “We’ve got the location of the website!”

  Veronica El
lis was in the middle of weeding her garden when the call from Gerald Small came through to her mobile, and she was glad of the interruption.

  “Where is it?”

  “A flat, here in London. Hamad’s preparing to take a team to the location.”

  “I want you to go with them,” Ellis said, and hung up. She tapped the phone against her temple as she absorbed the new information, and after a couple of minutes she called Hamad Farsi.

  “I don’t want you bringing anyone in,” she said when the intelligence officer answered. “The person we are after is in South Africa, so anyone manning the equipment has to be an associate.”

  “Makes sense,” Farsi agreed. “What’s the plan?”

  “Find out if the flats in the building are connected to the gas network. If they are, pretend there’s a leak and clear the street, but when you get to the target flat I want you to secure it and keep the occupants there. We don’t want whoever is in Durban to know they’ve been compromised.”

  The phone went silent as Farsi relayed the instructions and a minute later he told Ellis that gas was supplied to the entire street.

  “Okay, so that’s your cover. I want you to take Gerald along to analyse the setup and confirm that we have the right people.”

  Farsi confirmed the order and Ellis told him to forward all the information they had to her laptop. Gardening forgotten, she went into the house to get changed. Once suitably attired for a day in the office, she found the details she’d requested waiting for her.

  The council-owned flat was being rented by Carl Gordon, and his record showed one previous conviction for a computer-related offence. He certainly sounded like their man.

  She packed her laptop into her briefcase and drove the twenty-minute journey to Thames House, arriving just as Farsi and his team were getting ready to leave the office.

  “Gordon’s file says he lives alone,” Hamad told her as he donned his reflective jacket, “so we don’t expect to encounter much resistance.”

  “Perhaps, but don’t go rushing in and spooking the guy. We need his equipment intact.” This was directed at Small. “I need you to make sure comms stay open with whoever’s in Durban. Do what you need to do to convince Gordon to help you.”

  The team headed down to the car park and climbed into the van. During the thirty minute journey, Farsi used his smart phone to get an overhead view of the target building. Gordon lived in a side street off the main road, which would make evacuation a lot easier, and as his building was towards the end of the street they wouldn’t have to clear too many homes.

  His team consisted of surveillance specialists, and he briefed them on the mission.

  “The building in question is number twenty-seven, and we’re after the occupants of flat three.” He selected two of the team and gave them the job of cordoning off each end of the street and preventing people from entering the area. “If anyone asks, an automated system in the pipeline detected a leak beneath number twenty-seven. That should satisfy them if they start wondering who called us in.”

  He instructed the other three members of the team to go from house to house and clear them.

  “Two houses either side should be enough,” he told Rob Zimmerman, the surveillance team leader. “Once they’re empty, converge on the target. We’ll leave his flat until last.”

  Everyone acknowledged their roles and they did a quick comms check before they arrived in Mercia Road.

  * * *

  Carl Gordon saw the British Gas van arrive on his monitor but it held his attention for nothing more than a few seconds. He’d installed the CCTV camera to spot the police arriving, not utility vehicles, and he returned to his attention to the website he was working on.

  His attempts to sort out an issue with a troublesome web control were interrupted again as another flash of yellow moved across the monitor, and on closer examination he now saw a man in a high-visibility jacket shepherding people towards the end of the road.

  Gordon moved from his office to the living room and looked out of the window, where he saw yet another figure extending a roll of tape across the entrance to the street where temporary barriers were already in place. Below him, two more people were heading towards the entrance to his building.

  It was obvious to Gordon that the street was being evacuated and his first concern was his equipment. His office was a small second bedroom and one wall was dedicated to servers, which he kept on a purpose-built air-cooled rack. The metal frame of the rack was wired up to a capacitor which could send a massive electric current through every box, frying the hard drives instantly. It would mean thousands of pounds of equipment would be rendered useless, but it was rather that than incriminating evidence falling into the hands of the police.

  He hit a few keys to save his recent work to an online storage system before priming the anti-intruder device, something he did every time he left the apartment. Once he closed the door to the office, the device was activated: The next person to enter the room would have just ten seconds to hit the Cancel switch, and they could only do that if they knew about it and could find it.

  He walked back to the window in time to see his ground-floor neighbour carrying her two cats towards the cordon, and from behind him came a loud banging on the door.

  “British Gas! We’ve got an emergency and need you to leave the building!”

  Gordon grabbed his coat and opened the door, but through habit he left the chain on.

  “Got any ID?” He asked through the small gap.

  The man in the hallway seemed unimpressed with the request, but he held up the card hanging around his neck. Gordon was satisfied with the comparison, but his attention was drawn to the other man in the hallway, who had his finger on an earpiece which fed down into his collar. At that moment he realised he was facing more than utility workers and he tried to slam the door closed.

  It barely moved.

  Hamad Farsi had seen the look of panic suddenly appear on Gordon’s face and had stuck his steel toe-capped boot into the gap, quickly bringing up the bolt cutters he’d placed beside the door. The thin chain offered no resistance and Farsi shoved his way into the room, drawing his Taser as he moved. His target hesitated in the middle of the room for a second before heading at speed for a door off to his right-hand side.

  The electric barb hit Gordon in the thigh just as he reached for the handle and his legs gave way beneath him. He tried to raise his arms to protect his face but they reacted like jelly, and he smashed into the door nose first, leaving a trail of blood as he slid to the floor.

  Farsi pulled out a pair of plasticuffs and secured the prisoner’s hands and feet, and then dragged him onto a sofa. Two members of the team began securing the tiny flat, one taking the kitchen and bathroom while the other started a search in the main bedroom.

  “Now why would anyone react like that to the gas man?” Farsi asked, but Gordon just looked at the three men standing in his living room, his gaze shifting from one to the other. Zimmerman had his Beretta drawn and ready, while Gerald Small stood still next to the wall. This was only his second field assignment but he knew to keep out of the way and not touch anything until he was needed.

  Farsi noticed Gordon glancing at the blood-stained door and indicated for the surveillance officer to take a look. Zimmerman nodded, and he had his hand poised on the handle when Small told him to stop.

  “He wants you to go in there,” Small said, having noticed the faintest of smiles forming on Gordon’s face. Zimmerman took a couple of steps back and aimed at the door, ready to deal with anyone who came out, while Farsi stood over the prisoner.

  “Who’s in there?” He asked.

  “I want a solicitor.”

  “I said who’s in there?” Farsi repeated.

  “You broke my nose.”

  Farsi grabbed Gordon’s hair and pulled his head back, examining the man’s face. “Hmm, looks okay to me.” He suddenly raised his arm and brought the side of his hand crashing down on the bridge of Gordon
’s nose. The distinct crack was drowned out by the prisoner’s yelp.

  “Yeah, you’re right, it is broken,” Farsi said, less amiably. “Now tell me who’s in that room.”

  “No-one!” Gordon spat, blood spraying from his mouth. “Open it and see.”

  The two men finished up clearing the other rooms and emerged shaking their heads.

  “Where’s your computer?” Farsi asked, and Gordon nodded towards the bloodstained door. “In there. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather trust my colleague.” Farsi looked over at Small. “What do you think?”

  “I think we should stick a fibre-optic camera in there first.”

  Farsi agreed and sent one of his men down to the van to get one. While he was waiting he decided to make Gordon as uncomfortable as possible.

  “I find it reassuring that the first words out of your mouth were to demand a solicitor,” he said. “Most people would have asked what the fuck we were doing in their home, but you seem to have been expecting us to call round at some point.”

  Gordon said nothing, but his expression told Farsi he’d hit the mark. He let the prisoner stew for a couple of minutes until the surveillance device arrived. Small took it and unravelled the flexible cable, then checked the screen to make sure he had a good image. Satisfied that all was working, he hit the record button and played the cable under the door.

  “No sign of anyone,” he said as the tiny camera snaked along the floor. “He’s got some serious hardware in there, though.”

  Small used two dials to control the direction of the camera, and as he moved it to the base of the rack he saw the capacitor tucked away on the bottom shelf. The cable wasn’t long enough to get in any closer, but he knew what he was looking at.

  “Where did you get the capacitor?” He asked Gordon.

  “It was here when I moved in.”

  Unlikely, Small thought. “Okay, what are you using it for?” He asked, although he was certain he already knew the answer. Gordon ignored him, and Farsi seemed confused and asked what the capacitor could be used for.