by By Jon Land
“No more embarrassing than that stunt you pulled with the American investor group.”
“Stunt?”
“Theme parks and entertainment centers? Saudi Arabia as a center for tourism? You can’t really be serious.”
“Change is inevitable, my brother. It’s strictly a matter of who can best see how to use it.”
“This time your vision has deceived you. My first order of business upon taking over Rahani Industries will be to inform the Americans that this project has been scuttled.”
“You?” Layla challenged, shaking her head. “Our father would never entrust the fruits of his labor and life’s work to a playboy drunk.” Layla paused, choosing her next words carefully to better enjoy them. “He has chosen me to succeed him. And my first order of business will be to have the paperwork on the American deal drawn up.”
Saed smiled broadly, as if she had fallen into his trap. “Really? The documents he left with the council reveal a different decision.”
“Then you must have read them under the usual influence,” Layla said, but she felt suddenly uneasy; something was all wrong about her brother’s demeanor. Crass as always, yet somehow confident and insolent. Was it possible he was telling the truth?
“Come now, my sister,” Saed taunted, seeming to enjoy himself, “did you really think our father would shame himself by entrusting everything he built to a woman’s hands, much less a woman who would build roller coasters and water parks? It would have made Rahani Industries pariahs in the country we helped to build.”
“ ‘We,’ my brother?”
“He kept me closer than you realize, my sister. I only wish you could hear it from him directly. Based on his condition, though, it’s clear that won’t be happening.” Saed shook his head dramatically, the scotch exaggerating the motion. “Did you think I wouldn’t figure out what you were up to?”
Layla shook her head. “I don’t believe this, not any of it.”
“You can see the papers for yourself. Check our father’s signature.”
“No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”
Saed advanced closer to her. “Why? Because you were his eldest, his favorite? A woman, and half American to boot, with a mother who disgraced the family? He didn’t deceive you, my sister. You deceived yourself.”
“I refuse to accept this,” Layla said firmly.
“You have no choice,” Saed sneered. “Unless you can get our father to change his mind, of course. Then again, he has no mind left, does he?”
Layla willed herself to stay strong, to hide the shock and disappointment enveloping her. “This isn’t over, Saed.”
“No, it won’t be over until I have officially taken charge. In the meantime I have removed your signatory powers and begun the process of informing our associates of the change in procedure. Feel free to keep your office, though.”
“How generous of you.”
“But you will not be permitted to use it without my approval. From this point on, you will not be permitted to enter the building without that same approval and never”—here Saed cast her a disapproving stare—”as you are dressed today.” A thin smile crept over his face. “Try as you may, you are not our father, my sister.”
“Nor are you.”
“Close enough.”
“We’ll see.”
* * * *
* * * *
Chapter 41
T
hey went at Ben for hours, stealing his sense of time, merging day and night in a windowless room kept alternately too hot and too cold. He might have been back in the People’s Brigade compound in Pine Valley before Danielle had come to his rescue, minus the physical punishment.
Ben knew the drill; he’d run it on plenty of suspects himself in his detective days. But this wasn’t inner-city Detroit, and these men weren’t cops. It was Washington, DC, and the men in suits worked for the State Department. Beyond that, Ben had never done anything that remotely qualified him as a suspect. But the mere mention of “national security” seemed to render that meaningless.
The first group of men, his escorts, had led him out of Dulles Airport in handcuffs, evoking cheers from pedestrians and racial slurs slung Ben’s way. An Arab-looking man taken limping out of an airport in custody in the company of men in dark suits and close-cropped haircuts . . . What was the public supposed to think?
They dragged him outside and shoved him into the back of a van sandwiched between a pair of sedans the color of the pavement.
“I’m telling you this isn’t necessary!”
John Najarian’s husky voice cut through the night before they slammed the van door. They had pushed him back at the gate when he tried to yank Ben from their collective grasp and warned Najarian not to follow them down the concourse.
“You’re supposed to be here for his protection, for God’s sake! I was given assurances!”
The van doors clunked closed.
“You won’t get away with this! You ‘re fucking with the wrong American!
Najarian’s final words would have been muffled by the doors and the engine cranking up, if he hadn’t shouted them so loud.
“You hungry?” the leader of the original shift of interrogators asked Ben hours into the questioning. The man had taken his jacket off and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He seemed to enjoy exhibiting the nine-millimeter he wore tucked into a shoulder holster that still smelled new.
“No,” Ben said, “I’m not.”
“ ‘Cause you look hungry. I can get you something to eat if you want.”
“I’d rather you just listened to what I’ve been telling you.”
The man rested his palms on the wood-laminate desktop. The butt of his pistol poked a little forward. “That’s the problem. You haven’t done a very good job of convincing us. Let’s start at the beginning.”
“The Israelis are much better at this than you are,” Ben told the man.
“We contacted them about you. They sent us all the files they had.”
“I didn’t know I rated files in the plural sense.”
“You caught their interest, just like you caught ours.”
“You didn’t catch me,” Ben reminded. “I walked off the plane to meet you. Of my own free will. Maybe nobody told you that. Maybe you just forgot.” He leaned back, folded his arms, the hours and exhaustion leaving him almost giddy, not caring anymore. “Last time I checked, we were on the same side.”
His latest inquisitor sat down on the desk, trying to make the motion look comfortable. “Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? According to the Israelis, you’re a royal pain in the ass. They believe you’re dangerous.” The man narrowed his gaze, glaring at Ben now, his eyes the same chocolate color as the handle of his pistol. “Is that why you left and came to this country?”
“I came home, or did your computer misplace my citizenship information somewhere?”
“You lived with an Israeli agent for two months upon your return.”
“Israeli detective,” Ben corrected. “And she has nothing to do with this.”
“Really? Then you deny receiving a fax from her in your office three days ago and you deny calling her later that same night?”
“Yes—I mean, no, I don’t deny that. I just deny it had anything to do with Alan Lewanthall.”
“You say he hired you.”
“That’s right.”
“To find this. . .” The man consulted a small notebook he kept tucked in his right palm, fingers curved around it to prevent Ben from peeking at the contents. “. . . Mohammed Latif.”
“Right again.”
“Only there’s no record of Lewanthall contracting an outside vendor.”
“How many times to how many people do I have explain this? It was off the books because Lewanthall was off the books, along with Operation Flypaper.”
“That’s what he called it.”
“Several times.”
“No record of that either.”
“Because it wasn’t aut
horized!” Ben jerked his chair inward, and his inquisitor flinched, maybe thought about going for his gun. “It was rejected by whoever rejects those kinds of things around here. But Lewanthall and a few others activated it on their own. Set the whole thing up.”
“The idea being to trap terrorists.”
“With a plot they wouldn’t be able to resist. Al-Qaeda, Hamas, Hezbollah—the all-star assholes of the world.”
“Too bad Lewanthall can’t confirm any of that.”
“There are others in State who can. He wasn’t working alone.”
“You want us to start a witch-hunt.”
“I want you to save your country while you still have a country to save.”
The man looked satisfied. “My country . . .”
“What?”
“You said my country. Not our.”
“Oh, for God’s sake . . .”
“Isn’t it Allah?”
“I’m a Christian.”
“But you still speak Arabic,” said the man. “And translate it too.”
“What does this have to do with—”
“I’ll tell you what it has to do—”
“No! You only know about those pages because I told you about them.”
“They were sent to you by Danielle Barnea.”
“She found them in a raid on a Hamas leader’s hideout. Wanted to know what they said.”
“That standard procedure in that part of the world? To send documents halfway around the globe when Israel probably has a roomful of translators? That the way detectives over there work?”
“Commander Barnea had her reasons.”
“And the pages predicted the end of the world.”
“The Last of Days in America,” Ben corrected. “And the pages weren’t a prediction; they provided permission in the form of a religious edict, or fatwa, to bring it to pass.”
The man’s eyelids flickered. “Our sources in Israel inform us that you have a penchant for that. Going off on your own. Not following orders. Is that what this is about?”
“This is about saving this country before it’s too late. Cleaning up the mess your man Lewanthall made. He opened up the smallpox store, served the virus right on a silver platter. Then somebody took it and now that somebody is going to use it unless you damn well do something fast!”
The man seemed unmoved by Ben’s assertion. “You’re sure it was Lewanthall’s mess?”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s talk about your brother, Mr. Kamal.”
* * * *
Chapter 31
P
rofessor Albert Paulsen ran his fingers along the edge of a framed portrait of Lincoln hanging on the far wall in the Oval Office. “Nice picture,” he said, turning toward the president. “Can I have it?”
Stephanie Bayliss rolled her eyes, mouthing I told you so toward the president.
“Help us out, Professor,” the president said, “and you can take possession of the entire National Portrait Gallery.”
Paulsen stooped in front of the fireplace and poked at the grate. The sleeve of his bathrobe got caught in the steel and he tore it free, shredding more of the fabric. “Got a better idea. I’ll trade you for it. Looks like you could use some firewood. I got plenty stacked and dried.”
The president came out from behind his desk and wedged his hands in his pockets as he drew even with Paulsen. “The fireplace doesn’t work.”
“What do you mean it doesn’t work?”
“The chimney’s been sealed for security reasons. The fireplace is just decoration now.”
“That’s the problem with things these days. Too much decoration. Doesn’t matter if it works or not, so long as it looks good.”
“Is that why you left USAMRIID?”
Paulsen’s brow furrowed, as if he were considering the question for the first time. “More or less, I suppose. Mostly it was the bullshit.”
“I know how you feel,” said the president.
“I warned them this would happen. Even broke it down mathematically. Language you’d think they’d understand.”
“Tell me what we’re facing, Professor.”
Paulsen moved to a Ming Dynasty-era vase displayed atop a marble pedestal.
“A gift from the premier of China,” the president explained.
Paulsen lifted the vase from the pedestal and faked tossing it. “Catch,” he said, gaining a flinch from the president. “Got ya!” Then he looked back at the vase. “The reserves of smallpox at USAMRIID were stored in liquid form, but would have to be converted to a gas before being released.” Paulsen held the vase out before him. “This much liquid aerosolized would be enough to infect eighty million people.”
“And how much was stolen from the facility?”
“Five times this amount, but even that tells only a small part of the story.” Paulsen replaced the vase atop the pedestal and looped his thumbs through the belt loops of his terry-cloth bathrobe. “Smallpox spreads directly from person to person, primarily by droplet nuclei expelled from the oropharynx or respiratory mucosa of the infected person.”
“In English please, Professor.”
“Cough and everyone within ten square feet stands a good chance of getting infected. That means the disease spreads geometrically.” Paulsen reached out to stroke the Ming vase again. “Half this much released strategically in aerosol form could infect the entire country in ten weeks. One mass release could do it, if you exposed enough people in a large enough setting.”
“Does that take into account the incubation period?” Colonel Stephanie Bayliss wondered.
“That’s our other problem, General.”
“Colonel,” Bayliss corrected.
“I’m thinking ahead,” Paulsen said, then looked back at the president. “The incubation period of smallpox is unusually long, twelve to seventeen days by best estimates, and anyone infected is contagious for virtually the entire duration.”
“What happens after twelve to seventeen days?” the president asked.
“Infection shows up as high fever, malaise, headache and muscle pain, sometimes severe abdominal pain and delirium as well. A masopapular rash appears next, first on the mucosa of the mouth and pharynx, face and forearms, before spreading to the trunk and legs. Within one or two days after appearing, the rash becomes vesicular and later pustular. These pustules are typically round, tense, and deeply embedded in the dermis. Crusts begin to form about the eight or ninth day. When the scabs separate, pigment-free skin remains, and eventually disfiguring, pitted scars form, if the patient is lucky enough to survive.”
“The mortality rate is thirty percent,” Stephanie Bayliss added.
“Very good, General. You should also mention that there is no treatment.”
“But there is a vaccine,” Bayliss noted to the president. “Approximately one hundred forty thousand vials are in storage at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, each containing fifty doses. Experiments have confirmed that the vaccine is still effective when diluted on the order of five. We’re conducting further experiments to see if that order can be increased to ten or even fifteen.”
“Don’t bother,” Paulsen advised.
“Why?”
Paulsen grasped his bathrobe’s frayed lapels and looked at the Oval Office fireplace. “Because the vaccine doesn’t work either.”
* * * *
Chapter 43
D
anielle was seated behind her desk, expectantly waiting for Ben’s call when the phone rang. She snatched the receiver from its cradle before the first ring was even complete.
“Commander Barnea,” she said, hoping to hear Ben’s voice on the other end of the line.
“It’s Isser Raskin, Commander. I’ve got something on your one-eyed giant. Can you come down to the lab?”
“On my way.”
For security reasons, the city of Jerusalem was outfitted with tiny video cameras on many streets, working on a constant loop to help identify
terrorists, preventing some incidents and helping to unravel others. Danielle hoped that one of those cameras had been placed on Yefet Street and might have caught the tall, one-eyed man on tape outside the Old City jewelry shop on the day Zanah Fahury was murdered. Toward that end she had asked Isser Raskin of National Police’s forensics division to run the tapes to see if they yielded anything.