‘Nothing and we know it’s potentially the most dangerous of all the crates.’ said Darius Charleston, his most promising addition to his team of ten operatives. An Afro-American, he was as black as he was tall. Ed was a shade over six foot and Charleston towered over him. A proud heritage, the surname came from a predecessor, a slave when the city that gave him his family name was a small shipping port on the coast of South Carolina. He had checked his DNA. It showed the heritage of the Yoruba tribe in Southern Nigeria. He had intended to go there the next year to find his ancestral roots.
A successful basketball career - ended when he inadvertently walked out between two parked cars one night after an argument with his girlfriend. He was flipped over the hood of a Mercedes convertible being driven by a local hooligan with too much money, bent on impressing his latest squeeze into his bed.
He suffered a broken leg, an embarrassing injury to his ego, and a leg that never worked the same again. Unable to make the high leaps required to plant the ball squarely in the net, his career was over.
The girlfriend, Ivy, he married, but a promising basketball player and an employee of the CIA were not the same. They separated and divorced within two years. He rarely saw the two children. She had found another sports star, and he was not welcome. Even his kids forgot him at Christmas. Work had become his passion and, at that, he was a star.
‘You’re right,’ said Ed. ‘If it gets onto any international flights then we’re in real trouble.’
‘That’s not likely to happen now.’
‘Correct, but as soon as there appears to be some calm in the country…’ Ed said.
‘They’ll free up movement,’ Darius finished the sentence. ‘The economy is in dire straits. They’ll not let it collapse entirely.’
Ed, a long-time resident of Atlanta, had managed to obtain a special dispensation for his wife and daughter to be relocated to a secure facility out in the Arizona desert. Quarantined for three weeks before their arrival, it was isolated, crowded, and hot. However, the former military base was secure from the disease and, no matter how much they complained, they were at least safe.
His mother had already started to show signs of the infection ‒ her fate was sealed. He still managed to speak to her every day, but she sounded weaker; he knew that one day soon, her phone would not answer.
Paul Montgomery had not been home since his enforced trip to Israel, and his wife still complained about being left alone. She was also one of the lucky ones to get out before Atlanta collapsed, as had Delores, his personal assistant. Apparently, his wife and the potential seductress – at least in his mind – had formed a firm friendship in adversity.
Barry Blaxland, who had dispatched the crate to Missoula, blamed himself in part for being a contributory factor in the spread of a disease that was killing millions and destroying the country that his father loved. He decided it was his penance to stay, and the few weeks he had spent with Jennifer had been wonderful. He was now second-generation infection, and she was dead.
Around the country, isolation facilities were springing up. If it was clear that a person had special skills, a close connection to someone in power, or if they had paid enough, they were transported to safe areas. No more than a few million could be allocated spaces, but the roads carrying them and the special flights approved by the government were often surrounded by protesting people looking to board. Atlanta had only received a cursory transmission of the virus by Anwar. Even so, it looked as if twenty percent of the population were either dead or doomed.
***
‘Darius, have you any idea where we need to look for this container?’ Ed asked.
‘They’re getting smart. They chose a depot out near the airport, where the cameras are faulty.’
‘Is that what’s happened?’
‘It appears that way, although the cameras may have been tampered with.’
‘Inside job?’
‘We’re checking, but that appears to be the case,’ Darius acknowledged.
‘Have you the employee list?’ Ed asked.
‘We’re visiting them now. I’ve got five guys moving around the city, but some live in very dodgy areas. They get spooked every time someone fronts up with a badge.’
‘What’s the mood in New York?’ Ed had set up his base in the White House. The President was requesting regular updates and establishing himself there seemed a good idea.
‘It’s quiet, but there’s still some activity. Not much after nightfall and, after a confirmed case out in West Orange County, the movement on the roads is significantly less.’
‘Use the military if you have any problems,’ Ed said.
‘We’ve had to in a couple of places, but they were clear.’
‘Are there any promising leads?’
‘There’s one, an Egyptian immigrant who came over ten years back. The owner of the storage depot, Seamus Pontillo – Italian father, Irish mother apparently, told us that Hussein Shafik had in the last year become increasingly aloof and distant. Started praying five times a day, refused to sit with his workmates at lunch due to their dirty stories and drunken, lecherous ways.
It seems he was getting into fights in the neighbourhood where he lives due to his preaching and ranting and raving on every street corner. Apparently, he called every woman with a short skirt a whore, even the girl in the office. Pontillo was going to sack him the next time he came in, but he hasn’t been seen since the crate was taken.’
‘Why didn’t Pontillo contact the authorities before about the missing crate?’ Ed asked.
‘It wasn’t a big issue. What’s in the lock-up areas doesn’t concern him, as long as they’ve declared it’s nothing dangerous or illegal, and Shafik failing to report for work suited him fine. He owed him two weeks’ pay – if he didn’t come to pick it up, it was Shafik’s problem, not his.’
‘We can’t dispute his logic. This Shafik, do we know where he lives?’
‘We’re there now, but there’s no sign of him.’
‘What about the locals in the area, any chance of help?’ Ed asked.
‘Judging by the Muslim Brotherhood flags showing in the windows of every other building here, I’d say the chances are slim. They would rather die of smallpox before helping officials of the American government.’
‘They don’t get it,’ Ed said. ‘The disease is not race or religion specific. It will attack anyone given a chance. Make sure your search is thorough. He seems a distinct possibility.’
‘We need the army first. There are at least a couple of hundred individuals out on the street waving banners and carrying baseball bats.’
‘How long before they arrive?’ Ed asked.
‘They told us five minutes.’
‘I’ll see what I can do as well.’ Ed was already on another phone to the military.
Five minutes later, Darius called back. He sounded relieved. ‘There are a couple of helicopters hovering above us, the crowd is backing off. We’re going into Shafik’s apartment to see what we can find.’
‘What’s it like?’ asked Ed.
‘It’s nothing special, just a rundown tenement building. It looks ready for condemning to me.’ He knew a slum when he saw one.
‘Okay, call me back if you find anything of interest.’
***
Ed was briefing the President in the Oval Office when Darius phoned back later.
‘Darius, you’re on speaker phone. I’m with the President.’
‘Mr. President, I’m pleased to speak to you, sir.’
‘Likewise, Darius. What have you got?’
‘Apparently, Shafik took off three days ago in a beat-up Station Wagon, Chevrolet, red and grey. There were two others in the vehicle, although there is not a precise description of what they looked like.’
‘Did you manage to get any registration details?’ Ed asked.
‘The numbers 283 is the best we could manage, no letters, though. One other thing – it had been subjected to an amateurish
attempt at a restoration. Someone had put mag wheels on it.’
‘We should be able to trace it. What else do you have?’
‘Not a lot. We were lucky to get that. The owner of the building, an old man by the name of Emerson, a Cuban exile, over forty years in the USA, refused to leave when all the ragheads came into the area. That was how he referred to them. Apologies, Mr. President, for a prejudiced remark, but I’m just repeating what he said.’
‘Apologies accepted, although his disparaging comment may well prove to be an apt response.’
‘We found a map of some remote land close to the Appalachian Mountains,’ Darius continued. ‘They may be holding out there. It seems our best bet.’
‘They may be keeping well away until the worst is past,’ the President said. ‘It means we have a crate that, once we get the disease under control, could reignite the situation.’
‘That about sums it up, Mr. President,’ Ed said.
With Darius following up on any leads, it was left to the President and Ed Small to continue their conversation. The Secretary of State, George Samson and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Defence Staff, General Brian Winston had also been in the meeting, listening in on the phone conversation. Although he didn’t realise it, Darius had had the undivided attention of the three of the most powerful people in the country. Ed had shaken like a leaf the first time he had met the President.
‘What’s the situation, Agent Small, if we don’t find this crate?’ the Secretary of State asked. A seriously wealthy individual with the air of old money, he was not given to informality unless it was vital. A diplomat, a foreign potentate, or a corrupt politician in a rogue country that needed caressing, he was a slap on the back, warm handshakes and call me George. Ed Small was none of those. He was just a government employee. Politeness and good manners would always be shown, but unnecessary friendship, never.
‘I may not be the best person to answer, but at some stage, when there is a level of control, the government will start opening up movement here in continental America and overseas.’
‘You’re correct there,’ the President said. ‘This could destroy our economy. In fact, it is destroying our economy.’
‘And you’re worried that this crate, these sprays, could start it all over again?’ Samson asked.
‘Yes, that seems clear.’ Ed realised that he was being spoken to in a condescending manner.
‘There were ten crates initially, one was used in Montana, and you found eight,’ said Samson. ‘Surely the effect will be limited?’
‘George, you’re missing the point. New York, JFK, the major aviation transport hub in the USA. It could go global.’ The President made a point of calling him George. It annoyed Samson.
‘The effects in America would be limited, though?’ asked Samson.
‘Limited?’ replied Ed angrily. ‘I’m not sure how you could say limited. The north-west of the country is decimated, and virtually every state in the country infected. That one crate may well take out several million here in New York alone. That’s not even counting Africa, which looks to be heading to meltdown. And my mother is no longer answering her phone in Atlanta.’
‘Yes, you are right. My apologies.’ George Samson took no further active part in the meeting.
‘Sorry about your mother, Ed,’ the President said.
‘Thanks. She was getting old anyway, but it’s not a nice way to die.’
‘Is there anymore for this meeting?’ the President asked.
‘Yes, Mr. President,’ the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff said. ‘The demands on the military are beyond our capabilities. We’ve still got troops in some areas of conflict. We need to bring them back.’
‘If we don’t save America, there may be nothing worth fighting for. Give me a proposal and I’ll put it before the Security Council.’
‘Yes, Mr. President.’
‘Ed, bring Montgomery along to the next meeting of the Security Council,’ the President continued. ‘Three days’ time, and bring Darius Charleston if he’s available. Make sure neither of them is infected.’
Chapter 15
The United Kingdom had become a divided country. West of the line – at least, that was how the English press referred to it. It seemed to give a reassuring false impression. The numbers were looking bad, especially in Devon and Cornwall. The risk that the United Kingdom was slowly shutting down was serious.
The downturn in overseas holidays, in part, due to the outbreak of smallpox in America, but mainly due to the Prime Minister’s ardent support of all things English, had ensured the cost of trips out of the country had become prohibitively expensive.
‘Holiday in Britain’ had been his catchphrase and coupled with an unusual run of warm weather, the resorts, especially in Cornwall, had been bursting at the seams. Penzance and Newquay, where the sprays had been expelled, had ensured that at least half of the people infected were from outside of the region. Signs of the disease, many confirmed, were occurring from Edinburgh in the north, across into Wales, and into the heart of England.
‘How do we deal with this? We can’t isolate every place that is affected,’ the Prime Minister said at the emergency meeting in Downing Street.
‘We can only shut the country down. Follow the American lead,’ Ellen Hamilton, his deputy, declared.
‘We’re not America. We’re England, and we do not follow what they do.’ Tom Davis still maintained some of the fire-brandishing that had made him such a formidable unionist.
‘This is not about America or Britain, this is about survival,’ Hamilton replied.
‘Where in America are the results? It seems to me that they’re in collapse, and the disease is still out of control.’
‘You’re right,’ his deputy continued, ‘and it’s exactly where we will be in another two months. Unless someone has a better solution, we need to shut the country down. Save as many people as we can.’
‘I’ll concede that the best we can do is to save as many as possible. At least we may still be able to call ourselves Great. The issue of global warming and overpopulation is off the agenda for now.’
‘That’s a highly callous and offending remark.’ The Deputy Prime Minister had campaigned vigorously in Parliament for the latest international agreements on the reduction of pollution emissions to be accepted, and for the smaller family.
It was the Prime Minister who had resisted her most, especially on the issue of family size. ‘Why should I expect the English to cut down to one or two when the immigrants take no notice and breed six, seven, or eight?’ he had said in the privacy of the Cabinet room.
She had to agree with him on that point, but she wanted compulsory restrictions on numbers and, if they didn’t comply, their right of residency in England, revoked. He came from the north, and it had been the support of the local Islamic council that had ensured he kept his seat at the last election.
He may have agreed with her, wished he had after learning just before the meeting that two of the sprayers, the brothers Ahmed and Yousaf Taseer, were the sons of a principal supporter in his electorate. He had even had his photo taken with them some months earlier in a sign of community unity.
‘Callous, maybe,’ he replied, ‘but realistic. We’re looking at how many deaths in England?’
‘Twenty to thirty percent,’ said Gary Houston, the Minister of Health. ‘Devon and Cornwall will lose about sixty percent, that’s close to one million. The best estimates are around twenty to twenty-four million nationwide. The worst hit areas will be where there are high concentrations of populations.’
‘You mean the migrant areas – the Muslims, the Hindus?’ Deputy Prime Minster Hamilton said.
‘At least that solves our immigrant problem,’ the Prime Minister said before Houston could reply. Tom Davis, Prime Minister, the former union leader was an unfeeling, uncaring man, even if he had laboured all his life for the man in the street, the underdog. It had all been pretence and now, at the time of his
government’s greatest challenge, he had shown himself for what he was. He had let his guard down.
‘Can we get back to the current situation?’ the Minister of Defence and Member for Exeter, Eric Porter, said. ‘This bickering is non-productive. It’s my electorate that’s the worst hit and my wife is still there.’
A soft-spoken man, always impeccably dressed, he endeavoured to maintain an air of dignified restraint. He had renounced the baronetcy that a predecessor had purchased in the 1600s. No longer addressed as Sir, it was now plain Mr. although the stately home on the banks of the Exe River had been kept. Whether he was a Mr. or a Sir, he was not willing to live in suburbia with the people he represented.
‘You’re right, Eric, let’s get an update,’ said Tom Davis, regaining control of the meeting. ‘Who’s in charge of the military operation? Do we have the Chief of the Defence Staff here?’
‘Yes, General Sir David Button is waiting outside.’
‘Then call him in. We don’t have all day,’ the PM barked.
***
‘Sir David, let’s have an update.’ The Prime Minister had managed to get rid of the system of knighthoods and titles during the last year, but the General received his three years earlier, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had to accord the necessary respect even if it galled him every time he addressed someone by their honorary title.
He never considered for a moment that being addressed as the Right Honourable the Prime Minister was such a title, but then that was the arrogance of the man.
‘The line separating the West Country from the rest of England has been established over a length of forty miles,’ the General explained. ‘It’s solid, as long as the people abide by the rules. All roads have been blocked; there is no movement in either direction. A few incidents, mainly people, wishing to return home to their loved ones west of the line.’
‘What are we doing about those?’ the Deputy Prime Minister asked.
‘As long as they sign a document stating they accept the conditions and that they will not attempt to return, then we let them go. We’ve refused a few children returning from school, mainly on the insistence of their parents.’
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