by Brad Taylor
The thought made her feel queasy, the idea of the virus bubbling away in her bloodstream disgusting. But the mirror didn’t lie.
Elina leaned in closer, repulsed at what she saw: Her eyes were bathed in red, as if she had coated them in blood.
I look like a monster.
It had been a day and a half since her escape from the Venetian, and she’d begun to wonder if maybe her contact had been tricked. If the virus wasn’t real. She had stayed in her room as instructed and had followed the proscriptions about eating and drinking to the letter—scrubbing the room service plates and silverware with soap and hand-sanitizer before placing them outside her door—but hadn’t felt the least bit sick.
She’d used the time wisely, booking a flight to New York and applying for an electronic authorization to enter the United States in accordance with the instructions Malik had passed for the visa waiver program.
He had yet to contact her again, and she wondered if destroying her phone had been a good idea. She’d immediately done so the minute she’d left the Venetian, dropping it over the side of the bridge and into the lake as she crossed back to the Conrad. She knew she wasn’t as well trained as Malik, but she did have some history to fall back on. As she had fled from the supply closet, she had wondered how the woman had known where to find her and had remembered the assassination of Chechnya’s very first president.
In 1996, Dzhokhar Dudayev was killed by two laser-guided missiles while he used his satellite phone. Everyone knew the Russians had intercepted the call with a piece of magical technology, sending the missiles right to the source. She’d heard the equipment had been provided by the United States and, while running breathlessly across the bridge, had become convinced it was now tracking her.
She’d left a message in the draft folder letting Malik know, but he hadn’t responded. It didn’t worry her, because he’d said there would be no contact until necessary, and he’d check the e-mail account when he couldn’t dial the phone.
In truth, she wanted a response for reassurance. A reminder that what she was doing was just. The woman in the storage room wasn’t like the Kadyrovtsy. Bullying, sadistic men who tortured and killed out of sheer pleasure. Instead, the woman had shown kindness on the ferry, her smile something that would have been impossible to fake. It had been genuine, and Elina was convinced she was not the enemy.
And yet, the woman had tried to stop her, which made her an enemy. The thoughts were confusing, and Elina wanted to tamp them down. To forget.
She stared into the mirror, her red orbs burning back like the source of all evil.
* * *
After a fitful night, tossing and turning while her mind wandered in the zone of half-awake/half-asleep, her subconscious running amok with the thought of the virus consuming her whole, she awoke before dawn and immediately went to the mirror. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she leaned in and saw they were clear. A trace of red, but no more than she should have had given the lack of sleep.
She took a deep breath and let it out. She wouldn’t need to rebook her flight. She could leave today.
She packed her things, ensuring she had her surgical masks and hand sanitizer, both a large container in her suitcase and a small one she could carry onto the aircraft.
Downstairs, she had the concierge flag her a cab, feeling conspicuous about the mask on her face. She stayed in the lobby, next to a pillar, swiveling her head left and right to spot anyone paying attention to her. Nothing stood out, but that didn’t tamp down the trepidation to any great extent.
It followed her all the way to the airport, a brick inside her stomach that made her nauseous, continuing to torture her right up until she boarded her aircraft. It finally left completely when the wheels separated from the ground. Twenty hours later, she landed at New York City’s JFK airport. She’d made connections twice in other cities and was physically exhausted, the close confines of the travel forcing her into uncomfortable positions to ensure she didn’t have contact with any other human beings. She’d been told that simply touching wouldn’t spread the virus, but she was taking no chances.
She exited the aircraft into the gangway, feeling the familiar sense of dread at what she would find outside the door: a homogenous mass of people she couldn’t understand. Instead, she was pleasantly surprised. JFK was nothing like the Asian airports.
For one, it was dirty and bordering on decrepit, reminding her of a Moscow subway. Unlike the airport in Hong Kong, with its crisp, almost sterile corridors, JFK was a hodgepodge maze of additions and add-ons, weaving seemingly incoherently.
For another, the airport was anything but homogenous. There were foreign nationals from all walks of life, wearing all manner of native clothing.
The first made her feel at home. The second let her fade into the crowd without a wayward glance. Together, they gave her more self-confidence than she’d felt in weeks.
She passed through customs and immigration without any problems whatsoever. She located her suitcase and took the airport tram to the rental car area at Federal Circle. She saw the Manhattan skyline in the distance, and she wondered what the city was like. The same as Hong Kong? Or Moscow?
What are the people like? The question had more import than simple curiosity. It might help her decide a course of action. An idea began to form.
Stay one night here. Why not? It was her life. She should be able to explore before reaching her target. She wasn’t on a timeline . . . as far as she knew.
She reached the rental agencies and obtained her car, being much more friendly than was necessary to the man behind the counter. Despite the mask on her face, he responded to her overtures, and soon enough, she had a hotel in midtown, along with directions. He gave her a free upgrade, and she left the lot driving a late-model Jeep Cherokee.
Her sense of giddiness at her newfound audacity quickly dissipated in the traffic, with drivers honking their horns, cutting her off, and giving her obscene gestures. By the time she reached the hotel on East Forty-Fifth Street, she was in a foul mood.
The valet took her vehicle, and she went immediately to her room, drinking a bottle of water and sitting on the bed. The fear she had experienced in Hong Kong hadn’t shown its face here. All she felt was anger at the rude treatment from every stranger she encountered. Most shouting in English that she could barely understand, which told her they weren’t from America.
This was a dumb idea. I should have just started my journey. I will find all I need to know on the trip.
She decided to spend the night and leave first thing in the morning. She definitely needed the rest either way. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she hadn’t eaten for hours. It was seven at night here, but she had no idea what that meant in relation to when she’d left.
She exited the hotel and walked up Forty-Fifth Street. In front of her, just a block away, was a sign for an establishment called the Perfect Pint. It was a three-story pub and restaurant with a European flair. She saw an outdoor deck on the third floor and decided to give it a try.
Inside, she told the hostess she wanted food to go. The woman stared like she was disfigured but directed her to the bar on the second floor. She entered and found a gaggle of men, all sporting shirts and ties, with half wearing a shoulder bag.
Almost to a man, they stared at her as well. She realized they were looking at her face mask. It hadn’t stood out in the airport, but was like a neon sign in here.
In a loud voice, one of them said, “You got a disease or something?”
She knew they were drunk. She’d been around men who could hold much, much more liquor than these children and saw the signs even before she had entered.
She also knew the effect her eyes had. Caribbean sea blue, they were always something she could use, as she had in the rental car agency.
She smiled in the mask, knowing it would show above the fabric. And that the man would notice. She said, “No, I’m just paranoid.”
He guffawed at the answer and slapped his
friend, smitten by the attention. She walked to the end of the bar and waved at the bartender.
She ordered a bottle of water and a plate to go, and then settled down to wait, watching the group of men. Studying. Should she kill them? If she released right here, would that be the right thing? What had they done, other than getting drunk and annoying her?
She watched and waited, seeing nothing that she wouldn’t have witnessed in a pub in Grozny. All the men did was shout and punch each other. She began to feel sick about her choice, knowing there was no return after the Rubicon she had crossed. She could kill herself, but she’d still be contagious. She felt the melancholy return, the same feeling she’d had when she’d learned of the death of her fiancé. A feeling of waste.
The Americans weren’t inherently evil. Much like her, they were simply unworldly. These drunks probably couldn’t have found Chechnya on a world globe.
A news story about Afghanistan came on the television behind the bar, talking about something called a green-on-blue attack. Apparently, it meant someone from the Afghan forces—working with the United States as an ally—had killed US personnel. The story detailed how a police officer, who’d been training with Americans in an academy in Kandahar, had shown up one morning and gone to the target range. When issued his arms and ammunition, instead of aiming at the targets, he began shooting at the Americans. He killed five before he was cut down by another Afghan policeman.
The story seemed to fire up the drunks, all of them screaming about what should be done. She heard the man who’d asked about her mask say, “Fuck those ragheads. We ought to just nuke the shit out of the whole place.”
His partner said something she couldn’t hear, and he became more agitated. “Bullshit, man! That whole Islam thing is a fucking cover. They want to take over our way of life. I’m telling you, we ought to kick every one of those Muslims out of here. We don’t, and we’ll end up getting killed by those sons of bitches.”
Another guy next to him said, “You got that right. My brother was in the Army in Iraq, and you can’t help those ragheads. He told me stories that are unbelievable. Now we got ’em shooting our own guys. After we’ve done so much for them. Makes me sick. Kill ’em all and let God sort ’em out.”
She heard the words and realized Malik was right. So it’s true. They want to kill my people.
The man next to him said, “Yeah, maybe in Saudi Arabia, but I got a Muslim that lives next door to me. From Bosnia. He’s okay. He doesn’t spout all the ‘death to America’ stuff. He even drinks beer with me.”
The man who’d asked about her mask said, “That’s bullshit. A trick. I got a buddy in the Army who’s been to just about every raghead shit hole there is, and those bastards want a caliphate. They want to take over the world. Shit, they’re building mosques all over the damn place.”
When his friend showed a look of surprise, he continued. “I’m serious. If someone shows up here and says they’re Muslim, I don’t care where they’re from. They’re here to take over our way of life. They don’t believe in democracy. We should stop them now, before it’s too late.”
Elina was shocked to her core. She’d never heard such vehemence against her religion. She had assumed talk like that was just something the Russian Federation used to whip up support. Something that happened in every war. Now she saw the difference. The war was as Malik said. Much larger than her little fight in Chechnya. These men were making no distinction between the conflicts in Afghanistan and elsewhere. No distinction other than the fact that she was Muslim.
The statements enraged her. The man sounded just like the Kadyrovtsy.
If he were in Grozny, he’d be working at the battery factory. Torturing my family.
Her food arrived and she laid her prepaid card on the bar, then sauntered over to the group.
The ignorant man saw her approach and held up his hands. “Whoa, there. I don’t want to get sick.”
His friends laughed.
She pulled the mask down and said, “I could give you a little virus you’d love tonight.”
He put his arm around her waist, looked at his friends, and winked. “Only if it involves oral infection.”
The men giggled at the juvenile joke. She leaned in, inches from his face.
“Maybe it will.”
She kissed him fully, shocking him, his eyes springing open. A split second later, he was kissing back, shoving his tongue deep into her mouth, proving he was a man while his friends laughed and jeered.
She broke away and said, “You going to be here later?”
His face clouded from the drink, he said, “Oh yeah, I’ll be here. All night waiting on you.”
She picked up her food, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “I’ll come back later and check you for a fever.”
“Wait! What’s your name?”
“Elina. But my friends call me the Black Widow.”
The statement caused the men to stare at her in confusion. One man gave a forced laugh. He was soon joined by others, and the laughter grew until the man slapped her on the butt, now sure he was in on the joke.
She left the bar listening to the band of haters shouting and cheering.
57
I waited for the VPN to connect, not liking that I was going to have to give Kurt Hale the same situation report as yesterday: We’d lost both the general and the carrier and hadn’t been able to pick them up again.
We’d spent the last three days pulling out everything we had to get a lead, working around the clock, but had come up empty. We had some possibles that the Taskforce men in the rear were tracking. A tick here and a tick there. Some flight-manifest names they might have been traveling under, but I wasn’t holding my breath.
In truth, I’d been going at the problem with only half of my brainpower, worried beyond belief about Jennifer. I’d spent each day mindlessly churning over whatever I could find to keep the team and me busy, and then each night lying wide awake wondering if she was going to die. Feeling the clock ticking inexorably toward an answer I didn’t want to hear. It was paralyzing.
Two days ago, I’d had forever to convince Jennifer about my worth. To connect. Now I had nothing. I had lost the chance. Something I had taken for granted was gone. Just like missing my daughter’s birthdays.
The closest I’d come had been after I’d killed the man who had assaulted her. When it was done, I’d tentatively bared my soul, letting her know where I stood, not even sure if I believed it myself. We were both so banged up emotionally, it was hard to separate fantasy from feelings. To separate a world I wished existed from the reality I lived. She’d responded initially but then shut down. It didn’t hurt, because I’d understood. I’d waited to give her time to come to grips with her trauma. To realize, like I had, that there may not be gold at the end of the rainbow, but there was a rainbow. And now I’d waited too long. When would I learn?
She was locked in a room waiting to get bloodshot eyes, and I was tracking the damn terrorist who had caused it. It made me rethink again what the hell I was doing with my life.
I’d lost my family while I was out fighting in the name of national defense, and now, because I’d brought her into the Taskforce in a misguided attempt to close some loop, I was going to lose the one person on earth who had ever measured up to my wife. I wondered if she was cursing me in heaven.
Jennifer had quarantined herself, providing updates four times a day. Now that it was day three, without any sign of infection, I was feeling a lot better. She didn’t have the virus. I was sure of it. After the incident, on a VPN, we’d talked to the doctor who’d concocted the death soup, now ensconced at an undisclosed location, and he had said if she made it to day three, she was good to go.
But somebody else was infected, and we didn’t know where that carrier had gone.
I saw a shadow on the screen and Kurt sat down in front of the camera. I gave him a succinct rundown, which wasn’t a whole lot different from the one I’d given yesterday. He didn’t seem p
articularly upset at the news. More like resigned to the inevitable.
I then found out why. He said, “The council is now split down the middle based on your initial report. Half believes the general just sent it home to Iran. The other half believes there’s a carrier running loose.”
The idea was ludicrous. “They believe the words of an IRGC general over what Jennifer saw with her own eyes? Jesus, Malik was just trying to get us off the chase! I wish I had never even included the conversation in the SITREP.”
“People still can’t believe that Iran would release the virus when it’s not a weapon they can control. It’ll hit them as well. They think it makes more sense as a potential weapon. Something to use as a last-resort threat, to keep us off of them.”
“Sir, Jennifer saw the woman inject herself.”
“We don’t know what was in that syringe. Could have been saline water. Something exactly like what you’re saying: misdirection to keep us from trying to interdict the real virus.”
“You believe that?”
He leaned back, then rubbed his eyes. “No. No, I don’t. I think there’s a carrier, and it’s coming here.”
“What’s the president’s vote?”
He shook his head. “The president is bedridden. He’s gotten worse, and the doctors say it’s because he won’t get rest. The administration has officially released his condition, and there’s overt grumbling from all the pundits about passing command to the VP until he’s better. It’s a mess.”
He seemed a little distracted himself. Not the usual crisp, commanding guy I was used to. He looked tired. Aged.
He said, “They’re covering all the bases, however. The carrier is now designated DOA.”
Which shocked the hell out of me. DOA stood for dead or alive and was a Taskforce designation almost never used. It meant the target was a distinct and urgent threat to national security and could be killed instead of captured. It was very, very sensitive, for obvious reasons, and meant the council truly was frothing at the mouth.