Iran came up in virtually all coverage, until the speculation that the country might have been behind the new terrorist scourge became virtual certainty, in spite of voices of reason that pointed out there was no linkage other than a virtual relic of a hazmat suit that could have been purchased from any of countless sources.
Additional study of the symptoms captured on video had led most physicians to agree on the nature of the agent, at least. Alan watched the latest as he packed his bag – a doctor from the infectious disease center at a large New York hospital being interviewed by an anchorwoman who seemed both serious and gleeful that such an epic story had landed in her lap:
“It looks to be a combination of one of the hemorrhagic fevers and bubonic plague. But in some kind of hyper-synthesized form. The speed of disease progression is astounding. It’s definitely some sort of lab-generated weapon; but the question is, where did it come from?”
Alan muttered to the computer as he zipped his bag closed.
“Russia, you idiot. One of those labs that the government assured everyone had been neutralized. Who knew that governments routinely lied?” he spat at the television, frustrated.
He checked his watch and realized that he’d dawdled too long. It would be a close call to get to the airport in time to make it through customs and onto the flight. He shut down the laptop, slid it into its padded bag, and bolted for the door, his thoughts on Jet, who was flying out later in the day, also through Germany. They had agreed that they would meet in Yemen in two days, allowing them both time to get their visas and arrange for travel into the civil war-torn country.
In the meantime, he had called the director one final time to let him know he was en route. Both men understood that the clock was ticking, although at this point all the world had was a video and a statement. There was nothing more forthcoming from the Righteous Light, which had been the subject of a media firestorm over the last twelve hours. Hastily thrown together short documentaries had been prepared by several of the news services, and what was most disturbing was the paucity of details anyone had on the organization.
Alan had made some of his own calls and reached several of his Yemeni contacts from his past life – people who didn’t know him in the context of the cell he’d infiltrated, but rather were independent from his old assignment. And true to its word, the Mossad had a strike team working on any information it could glean about the possible location of Saif al-Diin.
Everyone was doing what they could, but at the end of the day, there was little to go on. They had to wait for something to break and hope that the terrorists made a mistake – that someone got sloppy or behaved stupidly, creating an opportunity.
The Mossad tech team was working to isolate the location of the video’s original upload, and there was cautious optimism that they would track it down – eventually.
He flagged down a taxi and soon was speeding along in a Mitsubishi sedan being driven like a Formula One race car by its surly driver, whose mood had improved significantly when Alan indicated that a substantial bonus was on the table if he made record time to the airport.
As he watched the ugly parade of Soviet-era monolithic buildings whiz by, Alan was glum. Reality was that a motivated terrorist who was willing to give his life could usually achieve a catastrophic result, and that the video threat had been released meant the group was confident in its ability to deliver. Unless they got lucky, he wasn’t optimistic, and he had already begun trying to figure out how best to frame his advice for the director – prepare a response based on the presumption of a strike taking place, not on it being stopped.
An ugly but pragmatic strategy, to be sure, but also the most realistic. Assume the terrorists would successfully deploy the agent, a catastrophic event would occur, and the world would keep turning, albeit a different world than the day before.
Nobody wanted to hear that, but it was the most likely outcome.
The taxi almost collided with a motorcycle and both drivers shook their fists at each other before continuing on their way. Alan leaned back in the seat and made sure that his belt was secured, and then closed his eyes, already exhausted before beginning his journey.
~ ~ ~
Washington D.C., United States of America
Lunchtime at the club was a quiet affair, with the private chef offering a magnificent five-course fixed menu, although he would gladly also prepare something to taste. The group was gathered in the same room, their lunch finished, lingering over coffee.
“I think I can honestly say that’s one of the best meals I’ve ever had,” the older man declared, patting his stomach, his hand-tailored suit straining as he adjusted himself in his chair. “Now that we’ve gotten the nourishment out of the way, let’s talk turkey. Where are we with things? Tony?” he asked one of the younger diners.
Tony stood as if accepting an award and consulted his iPad before speaking.
“The video is having even greater impact than we imagined. People are going nuts. Fights are breaking out, there’s been some looting in a few communities, and a number of cities have requested federal assistance for possible crowd containment. We’re fielding demands for the National Guard in half the states, and that’s expected to increase as pressure mounts. This is a replay of 9/11, only no buildings have come down. There’s also been a suspicious rush on emergency rooms with people reporting alarming symptoms, so the mass psychology play is in full roar.”
“I note that the Iran connection was made early,” the older man said, nodding.
“Yes, the hazmat suit did the trick. And nobody is really buying that it’s not somehow involved. At least, nobody in the U.S., which is all we really care about. The media is stoking the outrage, and countless experts have declared that Iran is a dangerous supporter of terrorism, as well as presenting the imminent threat of manufacturing uranium enriched enough to be weapons grade.”
“The damned International Atomic Energy Agency is still dragging its feet in going along with that assessment, though, aren’t they? As are most of our allies. I think many of them feel like they got burned by supporting our contentions about Iraq. It’s not going to be so easy this time. People are skeptical. They don’t trust their government,” the older man groused.
“Fortunately, they’ll believe what they see on TV, and right now the TV is hammering on what a threat Iran poses to world peace. I even saw an author, whose claim to fame is a series about a fictional attack by Iranian fundamentalists on Israel, being interviewed by three different networks, as though his opinion had the weight of fact.”
“Shades of Tom Clancy after 9/11. Everyone remember that?” one of the other men asked, chuckling. “He was all over the news. I literally couldn’t believe my eyes first time I saw him being interviewed – a masterstroke.”
Tony ignored the interruption. “Well, so anyway, the video has had far greater impact than we ever imagined. Half the country is clamoring for a pre-emptive strike against Iran, and the other half is too scared to speak up. Only the usual loons have protested any of the spin, and they’re easily shouted down,” he continued.
“Killjoys,” the older man intoned. The whole assembly laughed politely.
“In short, everything is going perfectly. I think it’s safe to say that there have been no surprises or loose ends so far.” Tony finished and sat down, picking up his coffee cup as he did so and taking a slurp.
The older man scanned the men in the room, some middle-aged, some old like himself, and saw nothing but determination.
“As everyone is aware, the number-one funder of terrorism is, unfortunately, our ally Saudi Arabia. An embarrassment, and one we downplay. As we’ve seen, if the media ignores it, then the average Joe does too. But we need to be prepared for some malcontents to pop out with annoying information like that. Fortunately, if Iraq and Afghanistan are any examples, that will stay in the background, and anyone questioning the status quo will be branded a traitor or a nut. But we can’t get complacent, and we need to have so
me good responses when the inevitable questions arise. Now, as far as our other preparations, I’d say we have nothing more to do but sit back and wait. The hard work is done, and I have no doubt our team will perform admirably.” He took a moment to let that sink in. “Let’s not forget that not everyone is going to buy this, and any dissenters need to be spin-doctored into oblivion. The Europeans aren’t going to swallow the Iran bio-weapons connection. So we’ll need a response, and I want us pro-active. Let’s get some stories going about how the French and Germans and Russians all have significant reasons to defend Iran’s reputation, none of them honest. If we can stay ahead of this, we can avoid the worst of it.”
He took a sip of his coffee and then stood. “This will be our last get-together until D-day, I’m afraid. It won’t do to have us in the same room again, no matter how discreetly. I just want to thank everyone for the support and hard work, and especially for the money.”
Everyone laughed again, the tension broken.
“Without which, none of this would be possible. I trust we’ll see it repaid a thousand-fold in the coming years. It’s a smart investment. Nothing more. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the White House. Apparently the President can’t figure out how to work the teleprompter for the afternoon press conference.”
More laughter greeted his jibe, and then everyone rose, the meeting ended.
On his way out of the club, he picked up his cell phone from the tuxedoed maître d’ – a long standing rule was that no phones were permitted in the meetings due to their possible use as eavesdropping devices. The technology to activate even a phone that was off had been around for years, and he, better than most, understood that it was better to be paranoid than found guilty.
His driver was waiting for him, and when he emerged into the alley, his suited assistant ran around the car and opened his door. The old man was already making a call, anxious to report the latest to his masters. They would be relieved that everything was going according to plan.
Better than expected, actually.
Now they just needed to be patient.
That was always the hardest part.
Chapter 27
Sana’a, Yemen
The video opened with the by-now familiar eyes of Saif al-Diin, leader of the Righteous Light, sitting in the same room shown in the first video, the same banner with inflammatory slogans in Arabic behind him. His measured voice calmly assured the “devils in the West and their minions, Israel” that their time was rapidly approaching, and that the swift, unmerciful arm of vengeance would strike at their heart, forever reminding the arrogant Americans that they were not only vulnerable but targeted by the growing army of the righteous.
“You, who have stolen our right to self-governance, our heritage, and our pride, so that your imperialist aspirations could be satisfied, have smugly believed that there was nothing we could do to fight back. You have behaved as though we, the Arab world, were your whipping boys, your vassals, our countries nothing more than a resource for your corporations to pillage. Well, my supposedly superior friends, I have a message. The message will soon be delivered unless your governments accede to our demands, and it will never be forgotten – the first in a series of prices you will pay for your insolent abuse of our region. Our demands are simple and non-negotiable.”
Saif al-Diin reached off-camera for a glass of water, his voice having become hoarse, and after taking a sip, continued.
“The American government must immediately cease its support for the illegal state of Israel. It must stop using its financial power to bully the rest of the world into complying with its agenda.”
Saif al-Diin shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.
“Further, the United States must end its policy of harassment of Iran over its nuclear program, which is a peaceful and logical requirement of a responsible nation developing alternative power for the twenty-first century, as is its right, and in fact its duty to its population. What has been construed as a dangerous rogue state is in fact a nation that was supplied nuclear capability by the American government over fifty years ago – the same government that is now arguing that its presence makes it a danger to the region. This has been branded a religious dispute, with Iran being a fringe regime run by religious extremists, but any study of the facts shows a different truth than the one propagated by the Western government-controlled media.
“My message is clear. Force your government through public outcry to end its abuse of the region and support of the true outlaw government, or face the consequences – consequences that will bring the war being fought against our religion and our cultures to your shores. Your government lies to you every day, and portrays itself as a benevolent peacemaker. It is not. It foments war, famine, injustice, intolerance, and genocide so that its capitalistic aims are met. It is a tool of Satan, and is itself Satan’s embodiment on the earth.”
The camera zoomed in theatrically until only the terrorist chieftain’s head was visible, his eyes smoldering with barely controlled rage.
“If your government does not do the right thing, there will be no mercy. You will suffer as we, your puppets and slaves, suffer every day under your oppression. And I will unleash upon you a pestilence so horrible that it will never be forgotten. This is your final warning. Ignore it at your peril. Nobody can escape the wrath of Allah when his Righteous Light shines bright.”
The footage changed to a view of the same room in which the prior captive had met his fate, his rotted corpse lying on the floor in a pool of noxious fluids. A new man was bound, huddled in the far corner, alternating between crying and begging for mercy – in English. As the screen timer ticked over first one hour, then the next, the progression of the disease took its inevitable course, ending in the same gruesome manner as in the first video, with the decaying remains memorialized for posterity before the segment came to a close.
Jet and Alan exchanged glances in his hotel room in Sana’a. Alan stood, pacing the floor as she read the commentary that had begun seconds after the latest video had surfaced.
“The reaction is what you would expect. The U.S. is saying it doesn’t negotiate with terrorists. Israel is denouncing the threats as an escalation of terrorism by its enemies.”
“Does any of that surprise you?” Alan asked.
“Not really. Oh, and the American in the video has been identified as a freelance journalist who disappeared in Saudi Arabia over a week ago. Gregory Monk. Working on a story about the regime’s current policies.”
“A particularly ugly but effective bit of theater. It’s one thing to watch a foreigner die in agony, quite another to watch one of your own. Brings the lesson home with brute force.”
“What’s interesting to me is the blending of lies and truth in the claims. I mean, it’s no secret that the U.S. provided the nuclear know-how to the Shah of Iran. But it completely ignores the claims about the current regime abusing the technology to create weapons.”
“What, did you expect truth from terrorists? Since when?” Alan chided.
“I think more interesting is that Iran became the focus of this diatribe – it’s much more overt here that this group is angry over the Iranian sanctions and stand-off. That weakens Iran’s claims that it isn’t somehow supporting the group. Although...”
“I know. Go ahead and say it.”
“It’s just too pat. Too convenient in increasing a connection that Iran couldn’t possibly want known, if it was true. If I was Iran, and I was supporting a group that was about to use biological warfare against the U.S. and Israel, would I want to broadcast that fact?”
“One could argue that it’s even further proof that they aren’t involved. It would be suicide to be associated with this,” Alan agreed.
“Yes, and look at the reaction. Already, the U.S. media is running wild with the Iran angle and conducting polls of the population, which now overwhelmingly supports a first strike against Iran. So in the American mind, it’s already a good idea to
drop bombs first and ask questions later. Remind you of anything?”
“It’s pretty scary, isn’t it?”
“We have to stop this from happening,” she said, clicking on other news sites, surfing the waves of outrage and spin.
“That’s what we’re here for. It sure as hell isn’t out of a desire to have an all-expenses paid vacation in Yemen.”
They had arrived separately two days earlier, and were staying in different hotels. Alan had put out feelers to his contacts, developed apart from the ones he’d worked with in the terrorist cell he had infiltrated years ago. But as with all intelligence gathering, it was a slow and confusing process, and even throwing money around with the offer of plenty more, he wasn’t hopeful of catching a break soon.
“Something about this doesn’t sit right, does it?” Jet asked, as much to herself as to Alan.
“No. But right now, that’s not important. Regardless of our feelings about the veracity of this Saif al-Diin’s claims or motives, the imperative is to find him and stop him.”
“I know. I was just saying.”
The commentary from around the U.S. was frightening, where panic had taken hold in some of the larger metropolitan areas, even as the government urged calm. Footage of National Guard troops mobilizing was accompanied by that of frightened housewives demanding that the administration do something, regardless that there wasn’t much it could do. Emotions were volatile, and outbursts of violence were on the increase as society’s parasites came out of the woodwork and used the threat as an excuse to loot and riot, settling scores with rivals in the confusion.
Jet 03: Vengeance Page 17