Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘That’s about the sum of it. What we need to do is find out how it was taken and who has it. Oh, and there is one other issue. Jill Hampshire is highly contagious, or at least she will be once a rash develops. Do you have any spacesuits?’

  ‘What’s a spacesuit?’

  ‘It’s what we call a positive pressure personnel suit. They’re standard wear for BSL-4 – Biosafety level 4 isolation. That is where she is at now.’

  ‘There are masks and gloves, but not much more than that.’

  ‘Then she needs to be completely isolated. You need to set up an exclusion zone of twenty metres around her for essential personnel, fifty metres for everyone else. Ensure the air where she is cannot get into the ventilation system at the hospital.’

  ‘That’s already been dealt with. Can anyone approach her?’

  ‘I would keep it to one person. This individual will need to be well-covered – gloves, mask, self-contained breathing apparatus. I’ll get a couple of suits over to you within a few days.’

  ‘American government stupidity is condemning her to death. You do realise this?’

  ‘We can discuss the semantics later.’

  ‘I will take responsibility to care for her. I took her up into the Hindu Kush. It was me that instructed her to enter that mud hut.’

  ‘There will be a suit for you in Kabul within twenty-four hours, maybe thirty-six, as well as a team from CDC to deal with the decontamination of the area.’

  ***

  Twenty-seven hours later, and as Paul Montgomery had stated, a US Military transporter Starlifter C-141A arrived at Kabul airport. Bob Smith saw it as excessive. The Senior Director for Viral Diseases at CDC knew it was appropriate.

  The plane and several others had been set up for such a contingency. Initially planned for deployment throughout the USA in the case of a bioterrorist attack, it came fully equipped with a field hospital, laboratories, and body disposal facilities.

  Jill had taken a turn for the worse while the plane was in the air. Rashes had appeared inside her mouth, and her fever was up to around 39°C. Unable to move, she was confined to her bed and saying very little, although occasionally, she would ask to see her boyfriend, Liam.

  A perimeter fifty metres wide surrounded the isolation ward. The guards charged with patrolling it had explicit instructions – anyone who tries to force their way through ‒ to be detained or shot. A presidential command had put the military base and the hospital on a war footing.

  With the spacesuits supplied, Bob managed to get a dispensation for Liam. Suitably briefed as to what to expect, and fitted out in one of the cumbersome outfits, he was allowed to approach within five metres and to say his goodbyes.

  Covered in sores, some already filling with pus, she barely acknowledged his presence. Three days after his visit, the aggressive virus had attacked her internal organs and, a day later, she was dead.

  The CDC took control. Samples of the virus were taken as those from the village were old, whereas hers were fresh. After they had finished, she was cremated in a specially constructed furnace which the Starlifter had brought.

  She had intended taking Liam to meet her parents. Now, it was Liam who was taking her – or at least her ashes – back to them in Chicago.

  ***

  Ed Small, who had given Bob Smith a rough time initially on his arrival in Atlanta, had been charged with the responsibility of ascertaining how the virus came to be in Afghanistan. An area on the fourth floor of the Head Office of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta had been set aside for the use of his team.

  ‘The virus was genetically modified here. That has already been stated,’ Paul Montgomery said.

  ‘And from what I understand, you, as the Senior Director for Viral Diseases, should know better than anyone as to how it came to be in Afghanistan.’

  ‘I’ll help in any way I can.’

  ‘The Homeland Security Act of 2002 gives my people full discretionary powers outside of the normal legal process,’ Agent Small continued. ‘We can and will access every desk, laptop, closed office until we find what we need.’

  ‘We developed it at the instigation of the American government, you know that.’

  ‘The logic of that decision is not the subject of this investigation. Who has it now, how they came to have it and what they intend to do with it is our focus.’

  ‘It was not taken from CDC.’ Montgomery diverted his eyes to one side.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Ed Small recognised the body language. He was suspicious.

  ‘We have accurate records. All our stock is accountable.’

  ‘I need those records.’

  ‘They will be made available at the end of this meeting.’

  ‘So, if they were not taken here, and you have identified the genetic coding, then where were they taken from?’

  ‘I don’t have a definite answer. It’s a mystery unless someone grew additional virus and then smuggled it out of the building.’

  ***

  Two days later, and with some smart decryption experts to find the incriminating information on a computer in Paul Montgomery’s office, Ed Small had some of the answers.

  He wanted the second interrogation to be on his patch, and CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia was suitably intimidating to force the truth out of the Senior Director for Viral Diseases.

  Also present was Montgomery’s boss, the head of the CDC, Director Mike Auttenberg, a third generation American of German descent and an acknowledged innovator in the field of viral disease control. Both Auttenberg and his senior director had arrived early; both were nervous. Director Auttenberg, because he had come to realise that he may not have the competency for the position he held. Paul Montgomery because he feared they had found out the truth.

  ‘Montgomery, you did not tell the truth at our previous meeting in Atlanta.’ Ed Small went straight for the jugular, Montgomery’s jugular.

  ‘I don’t understand what you are saying,’ he replied, red in the face, his voice nervous, barely audible.

  The meeting between Ed Small and Paul Montgomery in Atlanta had just been the two of them. This time, however, not only had they been joined by Montgomery’s boss, but some additional faces were sitting on the other side of the impressive walnut boardroom table.

  Elizabeth – everyone called her Liz – Parkins was the special adviser on biodefense to the President at the White House. She had studied virology, understood genetics, and she had questions to ask. Next to her was Ed Small’s boss, Tim Harding, the Director of Intelligence, a brusque, plain-talking man. Then there was Dr George Archibald, now in his seventies, and one of those who had raised the spectre of the possibility of bioweapons back in the 1970s.

  ‘We have some very smart people in the CIA,’ Ed Small continued. ‘They have found, encrypted in your laptop, a clear indication that an additional vial of the genetically modified smallpox virus was produced. It is not shown in the records that you presented.’

  ‘It was initially grown without my knowledge.’ Montgomery attempted to defend his position.

  ‘And after you found out about it, you allowed it to be transferred out of CDC premises.’

  ‘I made the decision for the best reason.’

  ‘What could possibly be the best reason?’ Liz Parkins, a smart, articulate and attractive woman in her late forties asked. ‘There is the possibility of an attack against America, and we have no way to protect ourselves.’ She had lectured on tropical diseases for several years at George Washington University in Washington, the same university where she had obtained a doctorate in microbiology.

  The Director of the CDC, Mike Auttenberg, sat mute and stunned. A stickler for following the correct procedure and here he was, witnessing the greatest transgression in the history of the CDC. His appointment had been controversial at the time ‒ he had been deemed too young, not suitably qualified. Now, those who had opposed his appointment would be baying for blood.

  ‘Yo
u realise that we had the necessary authorities to genetically enhance the virus?’ Montgomery directed his answer to Doctor Parkins.

  ‘Yes, of course. I was a member of the committee that advised the President to issue the executive order for its development.’

  ‘Then what is the problem?’ Auttenberg asked. It was a foolish comment. He instantly regretted his utterance.

  ‘Director Auttenberg, the problem is that it is now with a bunch of terrorists,’ Ed Small replied angrily.

  Auttenberg realised that those who would be baying for his blood may have been correct. He had been reluctant to accept at the time, but the prestige of the position, as well as his wife’s social-climbing ambitions, had forced his hand.

  ‘We developed it, but we couldn’t find a vaccine…’ Montgomery almost blurted it out.

  ‘We know that. That’s why it was confined in a BSL-4 isolation facility,’ Dr Archibald said. An academic luminary of longstanding, it had been the President of his country, a family friend of many years who had asked him to attend as a favour. He knew that Archibald would give him a clear report of the meeting, the people present, and the possible solutions without any bias.

  ‘What’s a BSL-4 facility?’ Ed Small had heard it mentioned when Bob Smith had first brought over a sample of the virus from Afghanistan but had not enquired too deeply as to what it was at that time.

  ‘Biosafety level 4,’ Archibald replied. ‘It’s the highest level of security for the control of biological agents. It’s the most secure, most sophisticated method for the controlling and storage of dangerous aerosol-transmitted viruses.’

  ‘Is it totally safe?’ Small asked.

  ‘The facility at CDC is the best there is. There is no danger of a problem as long as the virus is held there.’ Auttenberg felt the need to make a statement in defence of his organisation.

  ‘Then why is it not there?’ Liz Parkins jumped in.

  ‘We knew that we had created this virus,’ Montgomery replied, ‘and then realised that we couldn’t control it. We wanted to continue with our attempts to develop a vaccine, but CDC refused to give us the necessary permissions.’

  ‘Why did you not follow a clear directive and leave well alone?’ she asked.

  ‘Professional vanity, I suppose. We considered ourselves the best virologists in the country, and we had failed in what was a clear mandate.’

  ‘You keep indicating there are more people than just you involved,’ Ed Small said. ‘Are there people we do not know of, people who should be here today?’

  ‘There were two of us. It was his idea, initially, to continue with the vaccine, although I could see the validity in what he was saying.’

  ‘So where is he now? Why isn’t he here?’ George Archibald asked.

  ‘He went with the virus to England.’ Montgomery saw that there was no option but to give the full story. ‘We had been in correspondence with a government research establishment to the west of London. They have similar facilities to us. They were aware of our work with genetically engineered viruses and our attempts at a vaccine.’

  ‘Why did you correspond with them on this matter?’ Ed Small asked.

  ‘We had the necessary authority. I have documented proof.’

  ‘Why were they likely to succeed with a vaccine?’ George Archibald asked.

  ‘They had an innovative solution to mutate the virus after infection and before it became contagious. We didn’t fully understand how they intended to make it work, but out of desperation we agreed to give them a sample.’

  ‘So, what did you do? Send it FedEx?’ Ed Small asked in a sarcastic tone.

  ‘Don’t be crazy,’ Montgomery said indignantly. ‘We are not fools. My colleague accompanied the virus. It was perfectly safe.’

  ‘Which establishment are we referring to in England? Archibald asked.

  ‘The Defence Science and Technology Laboratory at Porton Down. It’s near to Salisbury in Wiltshire, not far from Stonehenge.’

  ‘I’ve heard of it. I’ve even been there,’ Liz Parkins said. ‘It’s as good as any facility we have in the USA. It should have been safe there.’

  ‘Then where was it taken from?’ Ed Small, a policeman’s mind, was not interested in whether CDC or the laboratory in England were capable and secure. He wanted to know where the virus had been taken from, and how to get it back.

  ‘It can only be Porton,’ Montgomery conceded, although he couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Then let’s get your colleague on the phone now,’ the CIA agent suggested.

  ‘He’s on leave.’

  ‘What do you mean, on leave? Doesn’t he have a phone?’

  ‘I’ve tried the number several times in the last week. I can’t get through to him.’

  ‘Has he taken the virus?’ Agent Small asked.

  ‘Impossible. He is a close personal friend, highly respected in the industry. Besides, Porton has confirmed they have the sample that Sam delivered in their BSL-4 facility.’

  ‘Couldn’t some more have been grown there since?’ Liz Parkins asked.

  ‘I suppose it’s possible, although there’s been no measurable work on the vaccine to date. It’s only been eight weeks.’

  ‘We need to talk to this person. What’s his name?’ Ed Small asked.

  ‘Sam Haberman.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Liz Parkins. ‘Didn’t he receive the European Virology Award in Switzerland a couple of years back? I believe I was introduced to him at a function later that night.’

  ‘Yes and a few others. He’s a brilliant scientist, exceptionally gifted, and a decent human being.’ Montgomery leapt to the defence of his friend.

  ‘That may be,’ Ed Small interjected, ‘but we can’t contact him and until we do, he remains a suspect.’

  ‘He cannot be involved with terrorists. He’s Jewish, born in Israel. He’s lived in America for many years.’

  ‘If it’s not him, then it must be somebody else, and so far, we have no other leads.’ Ed Small was a law enforcement man. Cast iron alibis and comforting words meant nothing to him. Facts were what he dealt in, and facts he did not have. Sam Haberman had to be found.

  Chapter 3

  Detective Inspector Charles Proctor was close to retirement and not enjoying his time confined to a desk at New Scotland Yard in London. Two years to go and he had been made the scapegoat after a botched raid on a suspected terrorist’s house in Croydon, ten miles to the south of London. They had got the address wrong. Bitter at his treatment, he mellowed when they explained the alternative. An internal investigation would have found him guilty even though he was not, and he would have been demoted to a sergeant with a subsequent reduction in his pension.

  Everyone knew that his junior, William Fortescue, was to blame. However, two days earlier, he had been feted in the newspapers after receiving the Queen’s Police Medal at Buckingham Palace. It had been the Queen who presented the award in recognition of his actions in forestalling the bombing of a bus near to Trafalgar Square six months earlier.

  Acting on a tip, he had single-handedly defused the suicide bomber, a young disillusioned English-born Pakistani. The best of educations, but he still thought to blow himself up, along with thirty bus passengers, somehow offered better possibilities.

  They couldn’t let Fortescue face an internal police investigation for barging into the wrong house and shooting a poor, defenceless Indian woman while she was preparing the evening meal for her husband and four children. Charles Proctor was forced to accept the blame, the police invoked the anti-terrorist act to throttle the media, and Fortescue was promoted to Detective Inspector.

  The incident barely made the evening newspapers, but a full internal investigation at New Scotland Yard still had to be held. It would be a whitewash, but Proctor would keep his rank and his pension.

  Now a liaison officer with overseas police forces, including the CIA and Interpol, he had become no more than a desk jockey, and it bored him. The phone call was a welco
me diversion.

  ‘Detective Inspector Proctor, my name is Ed Small, CIA. We need the assistance of your excellent police force.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘We need you to find someone for us. Someone of profound importance and we need him now.’

  ‘We can register him with our Missing Persons Unit. Contact the usual organisations. It may take some time.’

  ‘Time is the one commodity we don’t have. I need your best people on it right away. How about you? Do you feel up to the challenge?’

  ‘I’m just an office bound clerk these days,’ Proctor said bitterly.

  ‘I know you took the blame for a botched raid. That must annoy?’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘We’re the CIA,’ Ed Small bragged. Charles Proctor had been on a CIA list for some years as a reliable policeman who had an understanding of terrorism and terrorist activities. The botched raid knowledge had come about in the last couple of days due to hacking Scotland Yard’s database.

  ‘You’ll not get permission. As long as I am office bound, they can maintain the pretence.’

  ‘I’ll make a phone call to the head of your Metropolitan Police if I need to.’

  ‘I doubt it will help, but you’re welcome to try.’

  ‘Look, if you’re in, I can guarantee the permission.’

  ‘I’m in.’ Charles Proctor could not see how it would come about, but if the possibility existed of a change from his present position, he would let Agent Ed Small of the CIA have his acceptance.

  ‘Consider yourself back on active duty,’ the CIA man said.

  ‘I’ll wait till you get the permission. I doubt if even your Director of the Central Intelligence Agency will be able to sway the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.’

  ‘If I have to, I’ll get the President of the United States to phone him personally. Do you think he’ll relent then?’

  ‘I assume he would, but how are you going to get your President to phone?’

  ‘I would only have to make two phone calls, and the President would personally talk to your Chief, and to you if that is what it takes. This person we want you to find is that important.’