by K. J. Howe
Johann agreed that terrorism had to stop, but a deep-seated trepidation took root inside him as he considered where all this talk might be headed.
The two figures in the yellow suits left the enclosed lab. He wondered how long this underground facility had been here. He’d ask Uncle Karl, who must know something about it.
“Falco, it’s time.” Father opened the first chamber that led to the glassed-in room.
Falco placed a hand on Johann’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, boy.”
Why does it feel like he’s saying goodbye?
Falco removed his hand and stepped inside the antechamber, closing the door behind him.
“What’s happening?” Johann asked.
“Watch.” Father directed everyone to gather near the glass wall.
The two figures in hazmat suits returned, but now they weren’t alone. They frog-marched a man in handcuffs and leg chains, dressed in dirty white underpants, inside. The man was sweaty and his skin was swollen and discolored in places. The yellow-clad figures secured the man’s handcuffs to a pole on the right side of the spacious chamber, then left.
Something about the man’s disfigured face seemed familiar. Johann tried to place it . . . TV. The news. The manhunt. This was the lone surviving terrorist responsible for the horrors at Schönbrunn in Vienna.
Omar Kaleb.
Chapter 9
Thea’s day definitely wasn’t going according to plan. Instead of meeting Papa at Heathrow and introducing Ayan and Jabari to their adoptive family, she was trapped inside a hijacked plane in the Libyan Desert, surrounded by armed men. One passenger was dead, one was unconscious, and eleven hostages were now relying on her to make the right decisions to get them out of this situation alive.
They all spent a few minutes introducing themselves. From what they shared, it seemed that the passengers were mostly businesspeople commuting from Nairobi to Europe. Lots of deals to be made in Kenya, with its rich reserves of minerals, gemstones, and other natural resources. Papa himself could have been one of these travelers, just returning from negotiating an oil-rights deal.
As the passengers spoke, Thea studied them for tells to see if Versace had been the only inside operative. It was difficult to see if they were lying or holding back information, though, because the stress of their predicament was making it hard for her to read their microexpressions.
The Asian woman, whose expression seemed oddly blasé, would have been impossible to read under any circumstances. Thea was impressed by her calm when she introduced herself.
“Ocean.” Her voice was soft.
“No, honey, we’re on land,” the Texan named Mike Dillman said, but the joke fell flat. “What’s your last name?” Dillman again—the Texan really liked to insert himself into the conversation whenever possible.
“Just Ocean,” the woman repeated.
“That’s not a real name,” Dillman told her.
“Why not?” Nick Karlsson said. “Madonna, Cher, Sting . . . they’re all real names.”
Ayan was listening closely. “We lost our parents, so we have room. You can share our last name—it’s Kuria.” Ayan reached out and touched the woman’s hand.
The first suggestion of emotion surfaced on Ocean’s face as she gazed at the boy. “I lost my family, too.”
Thea sensed a tumultuous story beneath the deceptively calm surface, like the depths of any ocean. She turned to address the flight attendants. “Any chance you could give everyone a snack and a drink? But conserve our supplies—we don’t know how long we’ll be here.” Thea had noticed distressing numbers on the app reporting her continuous glucose monitoring results. Her blood sugar level had dipped, and she would need food soon to keep herself on an even keel, her mind clear.
“If anyone has sensitive information that might be helpful, please feel free to speak to me privately.” She didn’t want to put too fine a point on it, as the realization that there was a target on board could create conflict among the passengers. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to hijack this plane. Which passenger did they want, and why?
“Could be my ex-wife,” Dillman said. “She has loads of money and an ax to grind.”
Thea gave him a faint smile. If he didn’t shut up, he might have to be stashed at the back of the plane with Versace and the dead guy.
Matthias Houndsworth pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose, still clinging to his messenger bag as if it was the only life preserver in a storm.
“Do you have a minute?” She grabbed a granola bar from the tray of snacks Bernard offered and waved Matthias to the rear of the cabin.
He followed her, his tight blond curls plastered against his head, giving him an impish look. “What is it?”
“Care to share what’s inside that bag?”
He blushed.
“I’m sensing it’s important, given you haven’t let it out of your sight. Are you hiding something?”
“I’ve developed advanced encryption software. It’s possible that terrorists would want the technology.”
“What makes your product special?”
“It allows for large-scale peer-to-peer data sharing and currency exchange without any possibility of being cracked or traced short of quantum computing.”
She could think of quite a few countries and organizations that would like to get their hands on something like that. “And the software is on your computer?”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate your being straightforward. Let’s see what happens when the hijackers make contact.”
She returned to the front and grabbed her SINK again. The boys were standing nearby, chewing on brownies.
“Our new parents were going to meet us today. You don’t think they’ll adopt two other boys if we’re not there, do you?” Jabari’s expression was serious, troubled.
“Not a chance. You and Ayan are special, irreplaceable.” She gave them both a hug.
Ayan lit up. “And you’ll still take us to ride the London Eye?”
“You can handle hovering four hundred feet above the city?” The massive Ferris wheel would be just one of the highlights of living in London.
“Yes, yes, yes!”
“Okay, hold that thought while I head to the ladies’ room.” She needed to use the facilities and check her insulin pump. It promised to be a long day, and she wanted to be prepared.
Chapter 10
Johann stepped back from the glass wall in the laboratory, trying to distance himself from the handcuffed man. The thick, matted beard, the sunken eyes. Johann’s mind flashed back to the photo that had been on television for the last week. No doubt. This man was the missing terrorist.
How had Omar Kaleb ended up in their basement?
His father gave him a thin smile. “I see you know who this is. Omar Kaleb and his compatriots are responsible for murdering over eight hundred Austrians at Schönbrunn.”
“How did you find him?”
“One of our Freiheitswächter discovered him hiding in a local farmer’s barn.”
Leopold wiped sweat off his forehead. “We’re ready, Gernot.”
“Ready for what?” Johann asked.
Falco was now in the glassed-in room with Kaleb. Was Falco going to torture the man for information?
“The US Secret Service follows their American president around, picking up anything he touches or uses, like drinking cups or tissues. Do you know why?” Father asked.
More American trivia. Vater was obsessed.
“Because they don’t want his DNA floating around. Science has progressed rapidly, and in the right hands, a bioweapon can be targeted at a specific individual. What might be a mild cold or flu to the general population could be a deadly virus for one person.”
Cold fear settled in Johann’s stomach as his father’s words rattled around his head.
Leopold leaned against the glass wall. “The Saudi Human Genome Program is exploring why so many Arabs have genetic illnesses, including type 2 diabetes and heart disease
.”
Father’s eyes were animated. “Scientists have been studying the genetic makeup of over twenty thousand Arabs to determine which genes and gene variants cause these disorders in that population. We hacked their database.”
Though he feared the answer, Johann asked, “But why?”
His father leaned closer. “To protect our nation, our people—that is what we’re trying to do.”
The two hazmat-suited figures left the chamber, a soft swoosh sounding as the air lock clicked in behind them. Falco perched on a small stool near the terrorist, the Austrian man’s face impassive.
Movement caught Johann’s attention. Kaleb struggled against his handcuffs and leg chains. He spat at the observers, streaks of saliva dripping down the glass wall.
“Why does he look so sick?” Johann’s voice wavered.
“Approximately twenty-four hours ago, this man was exposed to a form of pneumonic plague, enhanced with an accelerant.” Leopold’s face was a study in concentration as he spoke, his eyes fixed on the tableaux before them. “Normally it would take three days to die, but this strain multiplies rapidly and favors the major organs.”
History lessons about the Middle Ages—horror stories, really—buzzed in his mind.
“Vater, don’t let Falco die.” His voice squeaked. “Why is he even in there?”
“He made the choice to be in there,” Gernot said. “To prove that non-Arabs will not be affected by the cleansing power of this plague.”
“Shouldn’t you just bring the terrorist to the authorities, have him questioned by the police?”
Sweat trickled down Kaleb’s arms and chest and he began to spasm. His head hung down, his hair flopping in front of his face, jerking in time with his body.
“It is too late for that,” Gernot said. “Besides, we have all the answers we need. This is the only way we can protect ourselves.”
“But—”
His words were drowned out by the terrorist’s scream. “Allahu Akbar!”
Kaleb’s torso had turned bright red, seeping blood, the rivulets sliding down his sweaty body in a twisted maze. His spindly arms and legs flailed against the chains, his head whipping from side to side. Johann ached to look away but couldn’t.
“In’a’al mayteen ehlak!”
With a horrible gagging noise, projectile vomit erupted from his mouth, splashing against the partition, landing in a bloody puddle on the floor. Johann drew back instinctively, even though the glass protected him.
He thought of all those innocent people, including children, who had been murdered at Schönbrunn. The darkest recesses of his soul tried to tell him that justice was being served, but his saner side rejected the thought immediately. This was inhumane, grotesque.
Gushes of brownish liquid ran down the terrorist’s thighs. Kaleb’s body shook, his teeth chattering, as if the temperature had dropped twenty degrees inside the chamber.
Johann felt sick at the condition of the man inside.
“Allahu Akbar.” Kaleb’s voice faded. After one final convulsion, his body slumped forward, and he spoke no more.
Johann gathered the courage to look at Falco, who sat comfortably on the stool, looking like he did every day, a smile on his lean face suggesting utter confidence that he would be safe, despite the horror that had just transpired inches away. Johann’s legs felt rubbery with relief—and revulsion at the spectacle he had just witnessed.
“Falco, you will be under medical observation for two days. But strictly as a formality.” Leopold clapped his hands. “I have no doubt our operation will be a success.”
The men cheered.
Johann looked back and forth between Kaleb and Falco, understanding washing over him. Both men had been exposed to the plague. But only one of them would die.
Father turned to him. “A disease can be a precise bioweapon. Centuries ago in Nepal, the Tharu people used the Terai forestland, which was infected with malaria, as a natural barrier against invaders from the Ganges Plain. The Tharu had a genetic resistance to malaria; the invaders didn’t. Thanks to Leopold’s brilliant work pinpointing vulnerabilities in their genome, we’ve created a pathogen genetically designed to affect only people of Arab descent.”
Johann stared at Kaleb’s bloodied corpse. He considered the implications. Shame suffused his body. If he and Fatima had been inside that chamber, he would live, but Fatima would die a horrific death.
Johann remembered what his father had told him two months earlier over dinner. In the five years since his mother’s death, he’d believed that her car had been hit by a drunk driver who just happened to be Muslim. A terrible misfortune, the loss devastating beyond words.
Then his father had left him shell-shocked with one sentence. “Your mother’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“What are you talking about? The other driver was charged with drunk driving; he went to jail . . .”
“She died in a car crash, but it was no accident. It was an assassination. You were too young to understand, but you’re seventeen now. You need to know the truth.”
Johann had tried to absorb the news. What possible motive could anyone have had to target Mutti? She was wonderful, kind, generous. Everyone loved her. “Why?”
His father paled slightly. “I sold weapons to Israel. I received many threats. In arms dealing, there are always dark corners. I took precautions, but I couldn’t make prisoners of your mother and you.”
“Mutti died because of your business dealings?”
“No,” Vater said fiercely. “She died because jihadis have no regard for human life. They’ll kill your loved ones without blinking; they’ll even kill themselves to attack their enemies. Life doesn’t matter to these people.” His father pounded the table, more agitated than Johann had ever seen him.
Johann didn’t know what to say. He nodded at the right moments as Vater continued his diatribe against Arabs. Still, another voice inside his head began to make itself heard that evening, one that whispered that his father was the person truly responsible for Mutti’s death. It was Father who had brought his dirty world home.
Chapter 11
Thea hurried down the aisle toward the flight deck, drawn there by an unfamiliar voice on the cockpit’s radio. She’d asked Laverdeen to keep sending a distress signal via Guard, hoping another plane might hear them. It was their only opportunity for communication with the outside world, other than the hijackers surrounding the plane. There had been nothing but silence—until now.
Disappointment sank in when she realized it was the hijackers making contact, not a rescue team. Rivers was still tied up in the left seat. He glared at her as she slapped a strip of duct tape from her SINK bag across his mouth.
“All yours.” Laverdeen handed her the radio.
“Open the doors.” The voice crackling over the radio in English had a distinct Libyan accent. She was tempted to answer the man in Arabic but wanted to keep her fluency on the down-low for now. He might be sloppy, talk to his compatriots while the radio was on and reveal their plans.
“Who is this?” she asked.
“Open the doors, or the captain’s daughters will die.”
Rivers’s eyes bulged, and he squirmed in his seat.
“Conversation is a lot easier when you know who you’re speaking to.”
Silence.
She waited.
“Call me Bassam.”
His name meant “the one who smiles.” Just not today.
“I’m Thea Paris.”
“Open the doors.”
“Bassam, why have we been detained?”
“Let me speak to the captain.”
“He’s no longer in charge. You can talk to me instead.”
Rivers struggled against the restraints, but his efforts were in vain. She empathized, but only so much. The bastard could have killed them all, and relieving him of duty had actually helped his situation, although she didn’t expect him to see it that way. Bassam had nothing to gain by hurting his kids now.
But that didn’t guarantee their safety.
“Last chance. We have an RPG aimed at the plane.”
She peeled back an inch of the paper covering the cockpit window. Sure enough, one of the men held a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, the setting sun showcasing his silhouette. The man next to him held a walkie-talkie. Bassam. Tall, lean, with a shemagh wrapped around his head. Aviator sunglasses masked his expression.
“Now,” Bassam said.
“Sorry, I’d need certain assurances first,” she said.
Laverdeen raised one eyebrow.
“You have fifteen seconds to open the door.”
Thea glanced at her watch. The seconds ticked by slowly, like the clunking of a grandfather clock.
“You want me to depressurize?” Laverdeen asked.
Rivers kicked and twisted in his seat.
“They sound serious.” The copilot’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
Three.
Two.
One.
Rivers squeezed his eyes shut.
She edged the paper back from the window again and glanced outside. The man with the RPG stood waiting for a command, Bassam rigid beside him.
She pressed the radio button. “Okay, Bassam, let’s talk.”
Chapter 12
Prospero poured four fingers of Glendronach 18 for his guest and a Rusty Nail for himself from the fully stocked bar in his study. He hoped the cocktail would anesthetize the uneasiness seeping through his body and soften his disdain for Enzo Spruilli. He hadn’t liked the man’s father either.
He turned to face Enzo, a long-suffering, cadaverous CIA agent. The two of them went way back—in fact, their fathers had worked together many years ago, before Enzo’s dad had disappeared.
“The plan is operational.” Enzo sipped at his scotch like a hummingbird dipping its tiny beak into a tepid birdbath.
“You have everything covered from your end?” Prospero had suggested the original plan to Enzo, knowing the spy was desperate to make his mark in the agency.