Mind Virus

  “Not all of them.”

  “Al-Gaffar, the Most Forgiving One. At-Tawwab, He Who Welcomes the Repentant. As his minister on earth, I must do the same.”

  “Do you really think Zuhairi is even capable of repentance?”

  “How could I possibly know that? Only Allah can see into the hearts of men.”

  “Let me ask you a hypothetical question, Ibrahim. What would you do if someone in your mosque confessed to you that he had committed a murder?”

  “It would not be for me to absolve him of his crime. That is a matter between him and Allah. If he sincerely repented and performed a du’a, then perhaps he could reduce his sentence in hell.”

  “But would you advise him to turn himself in to the police? Divine mercy is one thing, but wouldn’t you say he would still have to face human justice?”

  “Do you truly believe that ‘justice’ is what happens here, my friend?” He spread his hands to encompass the base. “I wish I could agree with you.”

  Fox took a deep breath. He was about to commit a grave breach of protocol, by telling a detainee how the information he provided fit into the larger intelligence picture. But they were running out of time, and he felt himself running out of options.

  “We have credible information that one of Zuhairi’s close lieutenants has gotten his hands on a sample of a deadly virus. We believe that they’re planning to make it into a weapon for use against American forces. If they do, that means the contagion could spread to the American homeland. To their wives and children.”

  “Need I point out that he wouldn’t be able to do that if you weren’t here?”

  “I know how you feel about our being here, Ibrahim. But we’re talking about women and children back in the States, who have never done any Iraqis any harm. Does it not say in the Qur’an, ‘Whoever takes one innocent life, it is though he had slain all humankind. And whoever saves one innocent life, it is as though he had saved all humankind’?”

  “If you look at the context, you will see that is actually a quote from the Talmud.”

  “But you agree with the principle?”

  “Yes, of course. But, my dear friend, do you really want to sit there, in the uniform of the United States Army, and start a discussion with me about the taking of innocent life?”

  His words pierced Fox’s heart.

  “Do you know what the Qur’an says of such as you, my friend?” Ibrahim continued mercilessly. “ ‘For the Christians, We ordained the Gospel with its guidance and light. If only they would follow it, then surely We would remit their sins from them and bring them into gardens of delight. Among them are some who follow the right path, but so many of them follow the path of evil.’ ”

  “So do you want to see more Americans die?”

  “No, my friend! I do not want to see more Americans die. Neither do I want to see more Americans kill more Iraqis. Neither do I want to see more Sunnis and Shi’as kill each other. Iraq has seen enough of violence.”

  At that moment, a door opened. In any interrogation, the most important questions are the ones not asked aloud: Who is this person? What does he want most? What does he fear most? Once the interrogator knows the answers to these questions, and finds a way to play on the subject’s hopes and fears, the field is won. And Ibrahim had unwittingly answered the unspoken question.

  “You don’t want to see any more violence.”

  “That is right.”

  “Any information you give us, we know we can trust. But if you don’t give us anything, my superiors will start following any little lead that comes their way, from any source, trustworthy or not. Business rivals, jilted suitors, Shi’as with an axe to grind against Sunnis…anyone looking to settle any little grudge could give us a name, and we would have to chase it down. More false arrests and more needless killings. You could put a stop to it all.”

  He closed his eyes—either deep in thought, or at prayer. Fox waited silently for him, scarcely daring to breathe.

  “If you found Zuhairi,” he finally said, “you would kill him?”

  “We would do our best to take him alive. That’s what the Army teaches us: it’s better to capture than to kill, and surrender is better than either.” That, at any rate, was what the Field Manual said. Fox just hoped his fellow soldiers on the ground would live up to that principle.

  Ibrahim fell silent again. Fox waited, trying to give the appearance of patience, when all his concentration was focused on the door: Open up and let it out.

  “Shortly before I was detained, his mother received a gift from him. It was sent from somewhere in al-Anbar province.”

  Al-Anbar, where angels feared to tread. The heart of the insurgent stronghold that the soldiers dubbed the “Triangle of Death.”

  “And that, my friend, is all I know.”

  17

  OXFORD—LONDON

  SUNDAY, APRIL 5

  EASTER SUNDAY

  Asigh from Dickinson, a slump of his shoulders, and a twitch of his mouth announced that the guard at the gate of his lips had finally relented.

  “I had such high hopes for him.”

  “For whom?”

  “I was his thesis advisor. He was the keenest pupil I ever had. In the classroom, in the laboratory, and in my public lectures, he was always in the front row, eyes always on me, hanging on my every word.”

  “His name?”

  Dickinson’s mouth twitched a few more times before his lips opened again, seemingly in defiance of orders from his brain.

  “Theodore Gottlieb.”

  Donovan took down the name. “What’s he doing now?”

  “He’s a research fellow at the William James Laboratory, in the Dunn School of Pathology.”

  “Here at Oxford?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where does he live?”

  The professor shrugged. “In South Kensington somewhere, I believe. I only have an e-mail address for him. I don’t know his street address.”

  “No matter,” said Donovan. “Now that we know his name, we should be able to locate him. Thank you, Professor.”

  They stood up to go.

  “Mr. Fox?” he said as he rose to see them off. “You must understand that he doesn’t speak for all atheists.”

  Fox turned and fixed him with a glare. “I realize that. But if you moderates don’t want to find yourselves painted with the same brush, you need to get out there and condemn your extremists a little more strongly.”

  ...

  Emily closed the curtains around the four-poster bed, went into the bathroom, and stood before the mirror. She ran her fingers through the long red hair that her husband admired so much.

  He’ll be disappointed, she thought, but he’ll be lucky enough if he gets his wife back alive.

  She took the bathmat from the rim of the tub and held it against the mirror. She made her other hand into a fist, and took a deep breath.

  Just let me have some good luck today, and I’ll happily take the seven years of bad.

  She punched. The mirror remained intact.

  She punched again, harder. The second blow made a few cracks, like a spider making a down payment on a web.

  She struck again, this time using her elbow. A few fragments tumbled down into the sink.

  She wrapped one hand in a towel, and used it to pick up the largest piece. With the other hand, she grasped a lock of her hair.

  ...

  As they sped back to London, Donovan adroitly juggled the steering wheel, a cigarette, and his cell phone as though his job exempted him not only from traffic regulations, but the laws of physics as well.

  “What made you so sure Professor Dickinson was lying?” Adler asked.

  “You didn’t pick up on the cues yourself? First, when I asked him who he knew that fit our profile, he repeated the question in its entirety. That’s a way of stalling for time. Second, he only shrugged one shoulder. Gestures that are genuine are usually symmetrical. People who shrug one shoulder, or smile on on
e side of their face, are forcing it. Third, when we accused him of holding something back, he said, ‘One does not withhold information.’ That might just have been a British mannerism, but you must have noticed the distancing language—he was talking about what people do in general, not what he was doing at that moment. And also, he used contractions most of the time he was talking to us—‘I don’t’ or ‘I’m not’—but not that time: ‘I do not know any such person.’ People use uncontracted forms more often when they’re lying. Even if they’re British.”

  Adler shook his head with an admiring smile. “All I can say is that when you left the service, we lost one hell of a weapon in the war on terror.”

  Donovan’s phone rang. “Donovan here…You did? Brilliant…Yeah, go ahead…Hyde Park Gate? Bloody hell. All right. We’ll be there within the hour. And we’ll need a backup team from SO15, C-Burn equipped. Cheers.”

  He hung up. “We’ve got him. There were lots of listings for Theodore Gottlieb in London, but only one with a red BMW and a house that matched the description you gave us.”

  “Hyde Park Gate?”

  “That’s right. To rent a flat in that neighborhood costs more for a month than I make in a year. To buy one would cost more than I’ll earn in my lifetime. To buy a whole house there, you have to be a Saudi oil sheikh or someone like that.”

  “So how did he come by it?”

  “His father was the president of Goodlove Pharmaceuticals. Passed away last year, and the son inherited the whole lot. Mysterious circumstances, but no one could ever prove foul play.”

  “From what I’ve gathered about him,” Fox said darkly, “he’s the type who could kill both his parents, and then persuade the court to grant him clemency because he’s an orphan.”

  ...

  Emily saw herself, lying face down on the bed, in the bathrobe her host had so graciously provided.

  That was how she hoped he would see it, at any rate. The bathrobe, stuffed with pillows, lay half-tucked into the bed. More pillows concealed the places where her hands should be, and one, with her hair draped across it, formed the head. No one who saw it with the naked eye could mistake it for her, but God willing, it would be close enough to fool a video camera.

  Assuming that the monitor screen outside the door was the only one. If there was another one anywhere else, and he had been able to see her making this decoy, then all her efforts would be for nothing. But when he said “I can see you,” he had gestured, perhaps involuntarily, toward the door. She only hoped she had been reading him right.

  She ran a hand over her shorn head. Well, if nothing else, it’ll be cooler once the Washington summer starts.

  She heard a door open somewhere in the hall. She dropped down into a crouch and waited.

  That shard from the mirror would be an effective weapon.

  God, forgive me for thinking such a thing.

  The bell rang. She took a breath, and tried to calm her heart.

  The deadbolt clicked aside, and the door began to swing open.

  Dear God, be with me now.

  Her captor pushed the door open, carrying a tray.

  She sprang up from her crouch and slammed her hands into the tray, driving it into his face. She shoved him aside and ran past him into the hall.

  It was completely enclosed. There were no windows and no sign of a staircase. How did he get up and down? Along the walls, she saw only a full-length mirror in a gilt frame, a credence table with a large vase, and three doors. One stood slightly ajar, opening into what looked like another bathroom. The second had hinges that swung outward, meaning it was probably a linen closet.

  She ran for the third door, at the end of the hall. But when she reached it and tried to turn the knob, she found it was locked.

  A hand grabbed her collar and jerked her back. The other arm snaked around her throat, seizing her in a headlock.

  “You ungrateful bitch!”

  He dragged her back into the bedroom and shoved her backward onto the bed. He jumped on it and sat astride her, pinning her arms with his hands.

  “A grievous mistake, Ms. Harper! I tried to show you proper hospitality. But if you insist upon being treated like a garden-variety kidnapping victim, then I’m entirely capable of granting your wish.”

  He reached into the pocket of his blazer, pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and fastened her wrists around one of the bedposts.

  “I have to go and attend to Fox now, then I’ll come back and settle with you.” He looked up and down her body, subjecting every detail to thoughtful scrutiny, like an art appraiser examining the wares for sale at an auction.

  “You know what they say about the God virus? It’s often hereditary, sometimes contagious…but very seldom sexually transmitted.”

  ...

  Donovan’s car swung by New Scotland Yard, to meet a caravan of police cars, a fire engine, and an ambulance. Fox had envisioned British police cars as boxy black sedans marked only with a checkered tartan stripe, but these were silver, with incandescent orange and red plastered all over them in stripes, checks, chevrons, and every possible combination thereof.

  The convoy made its way, sirens blaring, through the streets of London. They passed in front of Buckingham Palace, but Fox was too tense even to think about snapping a picture through the window as they drove by.

  Finally, they rolled past the towering mansions of Hyde Park Gate, and stopped in front of one. The path beyond the garden gate passed by immaculately manicured shrubs, then up a few steps to the front door of a façade replete with bay windows, balconies, and gables. An architecture critic might call it a “gingerbread house,” and indeed, its occupant bore a frightening resemblance to the one who had played host to Hansel and Gretel.

  The SO15 officers, in blue “C-Burn” suits—Chemical, Biological, Radiological and Nuclear—with hoods and masks in place, jumped out of their Sprinter vans, carrying compact Heckler & Koch MK5 rifles. Donovan stayed behind the wheel of the unmarked sedan. Fox took hold of his door handle, but Adler stretched out a hand to stop him.

  “These guys are the field agents,” he said. “We’re the analysts. We’ve done our job. It’s time to let them do theirs.”

  “But—”

  “Robin, have you ever shot anyone?”

  “No.”

  “You say that like you’re proud of it.”

  “I am.”

  “Could you, if you had to?” When Fox hesitated, Adler pressed on: “Then I don’t think you want today to be the day you find out.”

  Fox grudgingly had to admit the truth of Adler’s words.

  The SO15 team passed between Corinthian columns and climbed the steps to the front door. They rang, they knocked, and when they received no answer, two officers came with a battering ram. Three good swings splintered the wood around the lock. The officers, rifles at the ready, made their way inside.

  Fox had some idea how hard it must be to be the boots on the ground. But in its way, it was equally hard to be the intelligence officer on the sidelines, watching as others risked their lives while acting on information he had collected, and powerless to do anything to help them except pray that his judgment had been right.

  18

  MOSUL, IRAQ

  2005

  It was morning, and all eyes in the room were once again fixed on the live feed from the Predator. Some of the intelligence officers on the ground—those who could put on civilian clothes and blend in fairly easily with the Iraqi population—had been keeping close watch on the apartment building where Jaffari and his crew had holed up since last evening. Now, Major Browning had them on the phone as the Predator hovered over the building.

  A car rolled out of the parking lot—a Toyota Corona, with the passenger-side mirror missing.

  “Do you have a visual?” Browning asked the leader of the surveillance team, then shook his head as he received the reply. “He sees the driver and one guard,” he reported, “but no sign of our boy.”

  A minute later, anothe
r car rolled out. The surveillance team gave the same report: driver and guard on board, but no sign of Jaffari.

  Another minute passed, and a third one rolled out. The same report: one driver, one guard, no Jaffari.

  Browning let loose a combinatorial explosion of expletives. Newcomb shot Fox a look that said, “Any more brilliant ideas?”

  “He’s got to be hiding in one of them,” Fox said. “Can we see where they’re going?”

  The Predator’s camera zoomed out until all three cars were in the frame, as they went in divergent directions. One headed east, on the road to Baqubah. The second headed southeast, on the main highway to Baghdad. The third headed southwest, toward Fallujah.

  “Any idea which one to track?” asked Browning. “Vasily?”

  “The one going east could be heading for the al-Taji plant,” she said. “But the one heading southeast on the Baghdad road could be going to any of several sites, including al-Daura. My money would be on that one.”

  “Fox?”

  Fox’s mind raced. Jaffari was working for Zuhairi. Offered a weapon this powerful, Zuhairi would surely want to keep it as secure as he could, in an insurgent stronghold, close to his center of operations. And if possible, away from any sites that had already been identified.

  Ibrahim had said that at last report, Zuhairi was in al-Anbar province. And Fox seemed to remember Ramadi, its capital, being mentioned on the list of egg purchasers MJ had given him.

  “The one going southwest,” he said.

  “There’s nothing that way,” Stephanie objected. “Only the al-Muthanna plant, and that was destroyed.”

  “You said yourself that he could be heading to a site we don’t know about.”

  “We need a decision here, people!” Browning shouted, slamming a hand down onto his desk. “Fox! Final answer!”

  Why, thought Fox, do I have to be the one to make the call? Because he was the senior member of the interrogation team? Or in order that, if Jaffari eluded them, the blame would fall squarely on him?

  Logic was on Stephanie’s side. They knew there were bioweapons facilities in the Baghdad area, at least one of them potentially still workable. But his intuition was pulling him hard in the direction of al-Anbar province.