Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller

by Bobby Adair

  “Of course,” replied Art.

  “And you called the contact with the group?”

  “Yes. But he’s in Kapchorwa. You know how it is out in the rural parts of the country. I can’t get through. The power is probably out or something.”

  “So tell her to call back.” There. Problem solved. That’s why Mitch got to sit in the boss’s chair, with an office that had an actual door, and a window with a view over boring rooftops.

  “I did.”

  Mitch slumped. “I guess that wasn’t successful, or you wouldn’t be sitting in here now.” Mitch turned toward his computer.

  “I told you, she’s relentless. She’s not going to stop nagging until she talks to somebody with an important-sounding title. I honestly think that if I have to get back on the phone with her, I might start jamming pencils into my eye.”

  Mitch hung his head and sighed again. He hated talking to families of kids who weren’t responsible enough to call or send an occasional email. Sometimes he felt like a babysitter—just a damn babysitter. “Sharp pencils?”

  “The sharper the better.”

  “Okay. Summarize for me.”

  “The kid’s name is Austin Cooper. Twenty years old. Between his junior and senior year at Texas A&M.”

  “Texas A&M. Who goes there?”

  Art rolled his eyes. “Don’t say that to her. As a matter of fact, don’t say anything to her about Texas A&M. You’ll get an earful of shit you don’t want to listen to. Trust me on that one.”

  “Got it. No Texas A&M.” But Mitch was curious. “What kind of shit?”

  “Did you know that Bevo, the University of Texas mascot, supposedly got his name after the Texas Aggies snuck in and branded a football score of 13-0 on his hide?”

  “What?” Mitch shook his head. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “According to her, the UT guys added on to the 13-0 so that it became the word Bevo. That’s the name of some cow that’s their mascot,” continued Art. “And that the Aggies allegedly barbequed Bevo and served him at some alumni or football dinner.”

  “And this woman told you that?”

  “Yes,” Art smiled. “But I Googled it while she was yammering. It’s only about half true.”

  Mitch frowned and shook his head. “Why’d she tell you this trivial shit again?”

  Art shrugged. “I think she knew I had sharp pencils in my desk, and I hadn’t shoved one in my eye yet.”

  They both laughed.

  “Mitch, I swear to God, this woman should work for the CIA, interrogating prisoners or something. She’ll wear ‘em down with her pointless bullshit.”

  “Great.” Mitch thought he should be doing that for the CIA. Well, not really, but it was better than talking to lonesome mothers from Denver whose sons were trying desperately to hack off the apron strings. “So this woman’s from Denver. What’s her name?”

  “Heidi Cooper.”

  “And the kid. You said, Austin, right? Austin, really? Who names their kid after a city?”

  “Apparently, a dad who’s completely nuts about his alma mater.” Art shook his head, reached out with a piece of paper, and laid it on the desk in front of Mitch. “Those are the particulars. The bottom line is, she’s worried about the kid, can’t get hold of him, saw something on the Internet about Ebola road blocks in Uganda, and she wants us to do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Aside from finding the kid and telling her he’s all right, I don’t know,” answered Art.

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “I couldn’t hear that part. I had a pencil stuck in my eye.”

  Mitch grinned. “Does it affect your hearing?”

  “Depends on how far you push it in.”

  Mitch picked up the paper and scanned down. He looked up at the clock. “It’s a quarter to five. You get on the phone, tell her I’ve been in a meeting with somebody important, but I’ve got time to talk to her now. Be sure and tell her this next part. Tell her I’ve got a meeting at five o’clock I can’t be late for. And Art, if I’m still on the phone with her at five, you come into my office and rescue me. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Okay. Put her through.”

  Chapter 54

  “Yes, yes. I understand.” Mitch looked at the clock. Five twenty-eight. He’d been trying to get off the phone since five o’clock. Art was right about wanting to stick a pencil in his eye. “Listen, Mrs. Cooper—Mrs. Cooper.” Stopping the stream of words was like stepping in front of a train. “Mrs. Cooper!”

  She paused for a breath.

  “Please, listen for just a moment.” Mitch risked a breath, hoping she wouldn’t start up again in that tiny moment, “We’ll do everything we can to check up on Austin. I promise you. I have a call starting in two minutes, and there is no way I can miss it. Does Art have your number?”

  “Yes, but you really—”

  “Mrs. Cooper, please. We have your number. I’ll call. I’ve really got to go. It was good speaking with you.” Mitch hung up the phone. He yelled, “Art!”

  Art hurried through the door with a question on his face.

  “Ugh!”

  Art smiled. “Should I sharpen some pencils for you?”

  “Good God. If she calls back, please handle it.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Mitch groaned. “Please do try. And try to find that kid of hers before she calls back.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Mitch looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get on this call. Close the door, please.”

  Art smiled, nodded, and quietly pulled the door shut as he stepped out.

  Mitch picked up his secure phone, navigated the procedure for establishing a secure connection, and found out he was the first one on the call. He breathed a sigh and leaned back in his chair, wondering what the call was about. Before his imagination went too far adrift, the line clicked.

  “Hello?” Mitch asked.

  “Hello,” replied his boss, back in Langley—or wherever Jerry Hamilton was. “It’s just us on the call.”

  “What’s up?”

  Jerry said, “We’ve picked up some information concerning a Najid Almasi. He associates with some naughty Arab boys that like to posture and blow things up.”

  “Which ones?” Mitch asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Jerry. “He’s been in and out of the fringes of whatever group is in the headlines for the past decade.”

  “Almasi. The name is familiar,” said Mitch.

  “His father is in the oil business. Shitloads of money. The name comes up from time to time, but we haven’t established a firm link, so you may have seen it in a report somewhere. The old man is dying. He’s been dying for a couple of years now. Some kind of cancer, and the son—Najid—has been taking over control of the family business. I’ve sent over the details in a secure file.”

  “Gotcha.” Mitch logged into his computer.

  “We think Najid has ambitions. He’s some kind of jihadist up-and-comer.”

  Mitch smiled, thinking of what tended to happen to guys who rose to the top of those org charts. “Big dreams.”

  “Yes. We’ve picked up some information concerning Najid that we’re trying to piece together. He’s shifting money out of stocks and into hard assets. He’s shorting airline stocks—”

  “Airline stocks?” That sort of activity always raised the curiosity of intelligence types.

  “He’s gone long on pharma companies, weapons manufacturers, and other crazy shit, all on margin. He bought all the bullets in the warehouse from a Pakistani manufacturer.”

  “Their stuff is shit, you know that, right?” Mitch said, “He doesn’t have high standards.”

  “It’s about logistics, not quality.”

  Mitch got lost, which wasn’t common. “Logistics? What do you mean?”

  “He’s having them shipped to the family compound on the Red Sea, paying a premium to get them there in
a hurry.”

  “What else?” Mitch asked.

  “Food.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jerry said, “He bribed the crew of an aid ship to Somalia, or some such place, and diverted it to the same place the bullets are going.”

  Mitch thought about that for a moment. “He converted his assets, then placed his bets on long and short positions on margin? He starts building up the biggest doomsday hoard at the family compound. Got it. How much money did he bet on his stock plays?”

  “Tens of millions on bets that shouldn’t have any hope of paying off.”

  “Something is definitely up. Maybe he’s just scared shitless over the Ebola threat,” Mitch said.

  Jerry moved right on. “We have reason to believe he’s in Uganda now.”

  “Here?” Mitch sat up straight in his seat. “Where? Do we know?” He didn’t expect an exact answer on that, but he got one.

  “Some little town near the Kenyan border. Kapchorwa.”

  Mitch paused. “Kapchorwa? You’re kidding me.”

  Suddenly concerned, Jerry asked, “What do you know about Kapchorwa?”

  “Nothing, really,” said Mitch. “I just got off the phone with some mother whose son is in Kapchorwa, and she’s freaked out about not hearing from him, with all of these Ebola rumors.”

  “What’s the situation with the rumors there? Have there been any confirmed cases in Uganda yet? Or more specifically in the Kapchorwa district?”

  Mitch continued. “Nothing official yet, but the rumors have been going around all week about cases in Mbale, which is a couple hours south of Kapchorwa. Some WHO teams have been sent to the area, but there’s a bit of an uproar because no one’s heard from them. At least one of the doctors is an American, so the Ambassador has been involved in meetings on and off about it all day.”

  “What’s your gut tell you on this one? Is there an Ebola outbreak in eastern Uganda?”

  Mitch thought about that for a moment before answering. “With Sudan to the north, and Congo both south and east of us, we’re in the general vicinity of historical Ebola outbreaks. So that part isn’t out of the question at all. But there’s a lot of fear, and of course a ton of disinformation about it. You know there are religious groups here convincing people that faith in God will protect them from Ebola or that Ebola is a hoax?”

  “You’re kidding me,” mumbled Jerry.

  “No, real deal. Then there’s the social stigma. Nobody wants his peers to shun him because he’s tainted with Ebola. There’s a lot of reason here to hide it. So taking all of those factors together, it could be here, or it couldn’t. The only way to know for sure is to get confirmation from a doctor who has seen it himself. So far, we don’t have that.”

  “Mitch—” That was unusual, they never used one another’s names on these calls. “Information has come to us through the ambassador’s office that another WHO team is assembling to go to that part of the country. Get yourself included. See if you can convince them to get on the road tonight, if you’re able. Fly, if possible. Bring some security if you can. Be discreet, but do it. If this Najid character is up in Kapchorwa, and he thinks there’s an Ebola outbreak underway, he’s only there for one reason.”

  “You think he wants to collect samples so he can weaponize it?” Mitch hoped the answer was no. Was it possible that could be done?

  “That’s the fear.”

  Mitch asked, “Do these guys have the resources for that kind of work?”

  “I doubt it, but you never know, right? We need to find out,” Jerry reckoned.

  Mitch rubbed his face without even thinking about it, and thought about the right way to say what he was going to say next. “If I find Najid in Kapchorwa, what do you want me to do?”

  “Learn what you can. If he’s there, you may find out whether he’s a shadowy knucklehead who keeps bad company and makes bad choices, or whether he’s an aspiring player. If he’s a player, he’s a well-funded, potentially dangerous enemy.”

  “I understand.”

  “Call in the cavalry if you need to. I’m trying to get approval to send a team your way.”

  “Already?” That surprised Mitch. “You’re that serious about this?”

  “Don’t get too excited. I may not be able to get it approved. I’ll send you their information if I get it arranged. Listen, this is a top priority—urgent.”

  “I understand.”

  “Keep me in the loop,” said Jerry.

  “I will.” Mitch hung up the phone.

  Chapter 55

  The Land Rovers and two more vehicles taken from the dead doctors up the road were headed east, loaded with young jihadists. Salim, wondering what had happened to Jalal, was with several dozen others using empty waste buckets and any other container they could find to douse every structure in Kapchorwa with diesel. On that point, the rooster man was explicit. Every structure would burn—the houses, the storage sheds, the pile of bodies behind the hospital, and the buildings housing the sick townsfolk.

  It was with a sick stomach that Salim thought about all those dying people. It was with tremendous guilt that he thought about Austin. What was Austin doing in the middle of Africa? Austin, the same guy who’d been so patient in helping him with his Algebra homework when they’d been freshmen at Thunder Ridge High School, even when the rest of their friends teased him for being the only Indian in the world who had difficulty with mathematics. As if every brown-skinned person in the world was from India. They just couldn’t accept that his family was from Pakistan.

  Simple-minded bigots, with racism wrapped in jokes and topped with smiles. That’s what Salim thought of most of those kids.

  Nevertheless, through high school Austin and Salim hung around in the same group. They’d gone to movies together with their friends and had dinner at each other’s houses. Salim knew Austin’s parent’s names, his dogs’ names, the familiar smell of their house, and Heidi’s cooking—especially her homemade ravioli. It was bad enough that his friend was dying of a vicious tropical disease, but Salim was being asked to burn him alive.

  Vehicles of every sort started to arrive in the village from the east and were parked at the eastern edge of Kapchorwa.

  After the tank of diesel fuel was emptied and spread over the houses, many men, presumably all Westerners like Salim, got into the trucks and headed toward Kenya. Salim was one of a dozen left at the west end of the village. They went to work binding dry grass into bundles, and Salim immediately guessed their purpose—torches.

  Salim’s commander put him at the southwestern corner of the village, where circular grass-roofed huts fringed the town. They would burn easily. The commander lit one of Salim’s bundles and directed him to move along the edge of the town, lighting each house as he went. Still in sight of the other torchbearers, Salim struggled to light the first hut, then walked quickly to the next one in the row. Before lighting the building, he peered inside and thanked Allah it was empty.

  He hurried to the next. Also empty.

  At the fifth hut, the story changed. A man lay on a blanket where a decrepit woman tended to him. The smell of the disease was overpowering. The man would die. Looking at the woman, Salim guessed she would quickly follow the man down that dark road.

  What kind of disease kills everybody?

  Salim stood in the door with his torch burning, contemplating that thought. Maybe that’s why they were leaving all of a sudden. Maybe the disease was something other than typhoid? Maybe it was something that killed everybody. If that was the case, then it was a good thing they were getting out of town before they became infected.

  Infected?

  Salim laid his palm on his forehead to check for a fever. There was none. He had no symptoms of any kind. The momentary fear passed.

  With all doubt gone about what was going to happen to the two wretches on the floor, Salim couldn’t burn the hut with them inside. He couldn’t bypass the hut, either. To do that would risk the wrath of his commander�
�a wrath that would likely be his own death.

  He closed his eyes, not believing that he was doing it. In clear view of the woman sitting on the floor, Salim raised his torch and lit the edge of the thatched roof. Her eyes went wide, then dropped. She looked down at her man on the floor. Her evolution through surprise, anger, hate, and despair disturbed Salim in a way he couldn’t quite believe. How could people give up so easily?

  He let his torch fall to the dirt, ran inside, dropped to a knee beside the man and lifted him, surprised by how light he was. Hoping the woman would follow, he ran through the door, past caring if anyone saw what he was doing. If he was seen, he’d just keep running. He’d figure out how to make his own way back to Denver at some point down the road.

  No one was outside to witness his transgression. Salim hurried across a wide dirt path with the woman making every effort to keep up. Even though he was burdened with carrying her stick figure of a husband, the disease was taking a heavy toll on her. He crashed into a field of towering sugar cane, pushing through the stalks, hoping the couple would be well hidden inside. The woman struggled behind him—grunting, wheezing, and pushing against the cane.

  When Salim figured he was far enough in, he stopped and looked back. He couldn’t see through the tall crop. They were deep enough. The woman fell to her knees and emptied the reddish-black contents of her stomach onto the ground.

  “Sorry,” Salim told her as he lay the man in the red dirt. “I’m so sorry.” Without looking back, he took off at a sprint toward the burning village, already glowing orange in the sky over the field.

  Chapter 56

  Oily black smoked settled to the ground all through the village. Gray smoke blew over his head. Night grew darker in the sky as the fire grew up to meet it. Salim retrieved his bundles of grass, lit one on the last hut he’d torched, and ran onward. But instead of going on to several small buildings close to the road, he instead took off across an open field, the shortest distance to the hospital.

  With the glow of the fire ruining everyone’s night vision, he hoped no one would notice his sole lit torch running across the field. Structures were going up in flames through the town from east to west. He wasn’t the only one hurrying through the task of burning.