by C. G. Cooper
The plan was complicated. A lot of moving pieces. Much depended on circumstances beyond their control. They used Jonas and Dr. Higgins to hedge their bets. In addition to his other duties, Higgins prepared detailed profiles of suspects. Jonas ran analyses and predicted outcomes. Nothing was certain, but they were getting damn close.
By the time they gathered in Kadar Saladin’s underground hideout, everyone knew their roles. Even Kreyling and his fellow Brits were on board. The one-eyed operator stood in the corner, arms crossed, nodding occasionally.
They were ready.
+++
3:19am
The bedroom door opened. Soft footfalls stepped to the four post bed. A hand reached out and nudged the sleeping form.
“What time is?” asked the President of Afganistan.
“Just after three in the morning, Mr. President. There is an urgent call for you.” The night secretary handed the cell phone to the president, who’d just clicked on the bedside lamp and was in the process of sitting up.
“Yes?” asked the president into the phone. There was the sound of expelling air and the phone dropped to the mattress. The president slumped toward the edge of the bed, the secretary catching him before he fell to the floor.
More footfalls now. Four men entered. All strangers to the secretary except one.
“You have done well, cousin,” said Kadar Saladin. “Now, help us take him into the next room.”
+++
8:30am
He woke with a start. His head was throbbing, lips parched, throat aching. It took a moment to get his eyes open.
When he did, the light in the room was dim. There was a sound in the room he couldn’t place, like a tape machine running on repeat. Whirs and clicks.
His chest felt heavy. He lifted the unfamiliar blanket off of his body and moved to swing his legs off the bed. That was when he noticed the tug on his arm. He looked at it. There was an intravenous line taped to it, clear fluid running the length of the tubing right up to the IV stand next to the bed.
“You might not want to do that,” came a voice in English. American English.
The president turned his head and saw a man’s face in the corner. It looked illuminated, like he was pointing a flashlight up at his face. He realized the man was reading from the tablet in his hands.
“Who are you?”
The man stood, sticking the tablet under his arm and making his way across the room.
“My name is Dr. Martins,” said the man, his belly sticking out over his dress pants.
“Where is my doctor? Why am I here?” Again he tried to swivel around, but the nausea hit him. The doctor must have seen it, because he grabbed a plastic trashcan from somewhere and held it under the president’s chin as he vomited into it.
“Better?”
The president closed his eyes and flopped back against a pillow. He could not remember the last time he’d been sick. There were perks to having the finest physicians at your disposal.
“Why am I here?” he asked again, his voice unsure.
“One of your secretaries found you on the floor of your bedroom. Your normal physician was called but never came. I was next on the list.”
The president shook his head trying to remember.
“What is wrong with me?”
“It could be one of many things. We’re having your blood tested now.”
The thought of someone taking his blood without him knowing sent cold pricks up his spine.
“If you are here, that must mean that you are an experienced physician.” His men were too smart to send him a charlatan. “What do you think that I have?”
The doctor shrugged. “Tell me, how has your schedule been? Busy?”
He tried to rise but thought better of it, the bile in the back of his throat threatening to make another appearance. “I’m the President of Afghanistan, you fool. Of course I am busy.”
The doctor nodded again, nonplussed by the outburst. “In my professional opinion, you are most likely suffering from dehydration, exhaustion and possibly a virus on top of it all. Nothing a couple days in bed won’t cure.”
“A couple days? I don’t have time for this.” There were things to do, people to see, loose ends to tie up.
“I completely understand, Mr. President. However, should your blood work come back with signs of, Ebola, for example, would that not cause quite the uproar?”
“Ebola? How could I have contracted Ebola?” It was impossible. The man was lying. He searched for a phone but found none.
“Your men tell us that you were recently in contact with a delegation from Mali and another from the Ivory Coast?”
He was going to kill whoever had divulged that information.
“They were trade delegations,” he lied. “But what do they have to do with me?”
The doctor nodded. “After a few phone calls from your personal staff, they found that one man from the Mali delegation and two from the Ivory Coast have contracted Ebola and are now lying in quarantine in their respective countries.”
He felt like he was going to vomit again.
“It’s only a precaution, but we’ve quarantined some of your staff as well. Despite what the media might say, there isn’t much you have to worry about. As long as you don’t show symptoms, all is well.”
“And if I do? What then?”
Again the easy shrug from the doctor. “Then we treat you and you live the rest of your life. It’s quite simple I assure you.”
Just the thought of contracting Ebola made him feel like fainting. As a child he’d contracted a virus that had almost killed him. Since then he’d been diligent about keeping his hands clean, something most of his fellow countrymen cared nothing about. He’d even taken to wearing gloves, owning more than a hundred pairs that his assistant kept on hand in various hiding places. The used ones were discarded after public events.
He could deal with bullets and explosives, but invisible microbes and parasites scared him more than he’d ever admit.
“When will you know the results?” he asked, sweat forming along his hairline. He shivered.
“Later this afternoon. I suggest you get what rest you can now. I’ll wake you if I have any more information.”
The president nodded, his head suddenly heavy. He gathered the blanket and hoisted it up to his neck, shaking against the creeping cold. There was so much to do, so much. But his mind could not focus. All it wanted was sleep. Sweet refreshing sleep.
Chapter 33
Kabul, Afghanistan
12:52pm AFT, August 29th
Half of government facilities in Kabul were closed. Ebola mania had hit home. Thirty seven confirmed cases according to authorities. Many wore white masks provided for free by local hospitals.
While death and disease were a fairly common occurrence in a country with substandard sanitation, Afghanistan had yet to encounter the much feared Ebola. It was all the television news could talk about. There were rumors of roving patrols smashing down doors and taking whole families away. Markets almost ceased to exist. Merchants opted to stay home with their goods to avoid contact with the public.
Like citizens in panic before a hurricane, the simmering frenzy left a dwindling supply of everyday necessities like bottled water and basic cooking goods. Both presidential candidates took to the airwaves to ask for calm. Barricades were constructed around the most vital government buildings. Hospitals were packed with masked patients exhibiting a vast array of symptoms. They pressed their children into the hands of nurses and doctors, often getting into scuffles over who would be seen first. Armed military appeared in hospital waiting rooms, some donning yellow hazmat suits. The crowds calmed.
Anthony Farrago watched it all with a detached feeling of foreboding. It had been almost a day since he’d talked to the Afghan president. It was rumored that the leader himself had contracted the disease and was being cared for by the best doctors.
The clients were calling him, asking what this meant for th
em. They wanted to talk to the president. They wanted a guarantee. They wanted, they wanted, they wanted.
He told them all the same thing, that he would call when he knew more, and then he hung up.
Twenty-two messages pinged on his phone. Ping. Now twenty-three.
Farrago wanted to turn off his phone, maybe even throw it into the next waterway he came across. But he couldn’t. He still needed to talk to the president. They’d turned him away when he tried to sneak in the private entrance. New men. Men he didn’t recognize. Afghans. Probably a secret cadre of men the president held in reserve.
To make matters worse, there’d been no sign of Rich Isnard and the Andrews guy. The men and their friends had disappeared from Kandahar and were probably on their way back to the States. He’d alerted his real boss, Kingsley Coles, to that fact.
Coles seemed annoyed, but he didn’t press. He said he’d have U.S. entry points alerted with a takedown team on call.
The real mission was the current president and his successor. That’s what he was officially doing in Afghanistan. With another leader coming, it was Farrago’s job to shore up the CIA’s ties with the new president with the help of the man now quarantined in the capital.
Coles did press him on that, pointing out that with the uncertainty of the contested elections, it was essential that he court both candidates. More babysitting. He was losing time along with his grip of the situation. Everything had been in place. Then the Ebola thing happened. How the hell was he supposed to contain that?
At the end of the conversation with Coles, Farrago promised a successful operation even as he planned his own escape. Time was ticking, but Anthony Farrago was nothing if not resourceful. He’d figure something out. After all, there were no rules.
+++
1:33pm
Gaucho chuckled as another swath of hair fell from Trent’s head.
“You’re getting a real kick out this, aren’t you?” asked Trent.
Gaucho shaved another line across his friend’s head with the electric clippers. “Hey man, it’s all part of the plan, right?”
“How about I shave that beard off of you. You won’t be giggling like a little girl then.”
“You heard the boss, I’m non-deployable,” said Gaucho, pointed at his bandaged leg with his free hand.
“Whatever, man. Just hurry up.”
Five minutes later, the huge Marine looked at himself in the mirror. He rubbed a hand over his stubbly head. It felt like boot camp all over again.
“Looks good, Top,” said Daniel as he walked into the room.
“Yeah. If it helps the team.”
Daniel smiled. “You ready to go?”
Trent nodded and brushed the stray hairs off of his shirt. “Oorah.”
There would be time to clean up later. He had some new friends to meet.
+++
5:18pm
Dr. Higgins injected another precise dose of sedative in the president’s IV drip. It was important to keep a steady flow, but it was a delicate process. Every couple hours he would adjust his levels and coax his patient from his slumber. Appearances needed to be kept. The occasional advisor or minister would visit, bravely entering in a full hazmat suit, escorted by Directorate men hand-picked by Kadar Saladin.
Some asked why the doctor wasn’t similarly attired and the fake Dr. Martins always insisted that being the first on the scene meant he would have contracted the virus as well. He explained that his blood was receiving the same scrutiny as the president’s.
That seemed to mollify those who weren’t wide-eyed at the prospect of walking into the infected space. Most said their hellos, the brief update on this or that, then left. It was important to have the president coherent during these meeting, thus the constant monitoring of sedatives.
It was almost a game to the former CIA interrogator. Not enough of the drug and the president might regain too much of his faculties. Too much and he’d look like a over-drugged invalid. No, appearances were important. The president’s men had to see the president in a position of power. If not, who knew what overzealous general or political appointee might take the reigns.
And so he waited, watched and administered. It was a crucial part of the plan. But it couldn’t go on forever. They had some of the president’s staff on their side thanks to Kadar Saladin, but time was the enemy. There were pieces that Cal and his team had yet to put in place. More time. If they were going to make a move they needed to do it soon.
Chapter 34
Kabul, Afghanistan
9:07pm AFT, August 29th
This was the tricky part. There’d been no sign of Farrago. Even with help from Coles, the spook was somehow masking his location. They knew he was in Kabul, but trying to find him had turned up nothing.
Neil had found plenty of information after they’d quarantined the president, but he was still a ways from having what they needed. Under the careful extraction techniques of the undercover Dr. Higgins, every detail of the Afghan president’s scheme had been catalogued, to include client information. Cal had given President Zimmer a pared down report of their findings. The orders from President Zimmer were clear, “Get me everything.”
But the effectiveness of the Ebola scheme was starting to unravel. The populace was getting restless. It wouldn’t be long before the simmering unease turned into protests and violence. That was not what they wanted.
The initial Ebola “patients” were chosen by Kadar and Latif Saladin. Those picked were promised lucrative payments in exchange for acting and their discretion. A crucial part of the plan was to have the Ebola scare negated before violence erupted. A simple statement explaining the unfortunate misdiagnosis would be circulated to news outlets.
That meant their time was almost gone. Jonas predicted that they might have until the end of the night, but that it would be safer to leak the news to the media before Afghanis went to sleep. The story was ready, all they had to do was whisper it into the right ears along with video clips of the patients happily leaving quarantine.
Cal paced as Neil clicked away in front of his computer. The initial stages of their plan had gone off perfectly. The Marine felt the rest of it floating in space, drifting farther away. He had to get them all, the player and the money. Oh, and there was still that little detail about grabbing Anthony Farrago.
+++
9:37pm
The news spread from home to home with blazing speed. The Ebola patients did not have the disease. A blood lab discrepancy and shoddy follow-up was to blame. News reels showed the smiling patients leaving, waving to cameras.
Kabul exhaled a collective sigh of relief.
Farrago fidgeted with his phone, waiting for one call. He’d stopped answering it. Too many demands. He was tired of listening to their complaints.
What he needed now was a call from the president. Without him, the two successors wouldn’t talk to Farrago. Not that he cared, but Coles kept checking in every hour. He had to take those calls.
A car full of celebrating men sped by, music blaring, hands waving outside windows. Farrago ignored the revelry. His success depended on one man.
His phone buzzed. He looked down at the caller ID. Farrago smiled.
“Yes?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Okay.”
Farrago shoved the phone back in his pocket and grinned.
+++
Dr. Martins extracted the IV needle from the president’s arm and pressed the spot with a piece of gauze.
“Thank you for your assistance, doctor,” he said, his spirits on the rise.
“It was my pleasure, Mr. President. I only wish that I could have diagnosed you earlier.”
“It was not your fault that the technicians are incompetent.”
Dr. Martins shook his head, covering the gauze with a piece of tape. “It’s a shame those idiots misdiagnosed the others. I hate to think of what would have happened on the streets if the mistake had gone uncorrected.”
The presi
dent frowned. “I assure you that whoever is responsible will be held accountable. You, however, are to be commended. Despite the threat, you stayed by my side. How can I return the favor?”
Dr. Martins waved the question away. “It’s all part of the job, Mr. President.”
“Nonsense. There must be something I can do.”
Dr. Martins shook his head. “I only hope that you don’t think ill of me for keeping you in quarantine because of simple food poisoning and exhaustion.”
They laughed together for a moment, the Ebola scare behind them. The president was surprised by the level of relief he felt. Death had seemed an all too real option a few hours before. That must have been the reason for the dim memories and the half-remembered dreams.
But now there was much to do. His American friend would be there soon and there would be phone calls to make, frazzled personalities to soothe. It was what he did best. He relished the thought as he eased into a pair of slippers and headed to his office.
+++
10:49pm
The room stood and clapped when Dr. Higgins entered the makeshift headquarters.
“Oh, please gentlemen. Take your seats,” said Higgins, plopping his leather bag on the floor.
“Masterful work, Doc,” said Gaucho.
Dr. Higgins smiled and bowed to the small crowd. “I’m happy to say that the rest is in your capable hands.”
Cal walked over and shook Higgins’s hand as the others got back to work.
“Great job, doc. You sure you don’t want to do that more often?”
Higgins laughed. “I think I’ll let you young guns do the undercover work from now on. There were some characters who I’m sure had their doubts about my intentions.”
“Okay. But if you ever change your mind…”
Higgins patted Cal on the back and went to find some food.