by Daniel Kalla
Savard was relieved when Alex Clayton, the Central Intelligence Agency’s Deputy Director of Operations, interrupted both her unhappy ruminations and her subordinate’s endless rambling. “Yeah, Dr. Graves, fascinating stuff,” Clayton said, but his stifled yawn belied the remark. “Can you get to the part where you update us on the powder trail from the anthrax mail out?”
Oblivious or indifferent to Clayton’s condescension, Dr. Clive Graves responded in the same nasal monotone. “We know the powder is consistent with what was developed in Baghdad in the late 1980s, but we haven’t matched it with any of the U.S. control samples. We’ve tested the known substrate from the labs and universities with legal access to anthrax in every state. We’re in the process of subtyping—”
“So the trail’s gone cold, Doctor?” Clayton cut him off.
Graves pushed his glasses back up his nose. His shoulders sagged. “Um, I’m not in the detective business, so those aren’t the, er, terms I would choose...” he stammered.
Always protective of her staff, Savard stepped in. “Even in ballistics, a far more traceable science, you need to find the gun before you can match a bullet to it. Short of what we’ve known for some time—that the powder on those letters was consistent with what the Iraqis and Soviets were producing in the eighties—we will never be able to narrow down the origins until you and your colleagues . find us some source material to compare it to.” She leaned forward in her seat and eyed Clayton steadily. “Find us a smoking gun, Alex, and we’ll tell you if it’s the right one.”
Clayton chuckled. “I’m not packing today, Gwen.”
Though Savard maintained a healthy suspicion for anyone associated with the CIA, Clayton’s ability to laugh at himself and his organization—an exceedingly rare characteristic among the spies she’d met—endeared Clayton to her. In spite of his brash, reckless demeanor, she liked the guy. Not quite enough though to ever accept one of his offers for coffee or a movie.
“So, in summary, you’ve made no progress on the anthrax case,” Moira Roberts interjected with a heavy sigh. In just a few months on the job, the Deputy Director of the FBI had already cemented her reputation as a humorless and brusque bureaucrat In her early forties like Gwen, Roberts was one of the youngest deputy directors in the FBI’s history, but with her gray hair and formless matronly wardrobe, few realized she was still on the young side of middle age. “Dr. Savard, is there any possibility we can move on to variola major?”
Gwen Savard resisted the rising ire. Who was this woman trying to impress by tossing around esoteric phyla names? Even the people in the know, and Roberts wasn’t one, always referred to it as smallpox. But Gwen refused to let Roberts draw her into another confrontation in front of the whole committee. She wasn’t about to give the otherwise male group more locker-room fodder with another demonstration of alpha females butting heads.
“No problems with smallpox,” Gwen said, realizing the irony of her remark but choosing not to rephrase it. “Vaccine production is on schedule. We should have 300 million doses available by spring. The logistics of the vaccination program are still being hashed out. Public Health estimates a minimum of one year to inoculate the majority of the population.”
The group discussed the smallpox vaccination program a few minutes longer, before moving on to monkey pox. Every week the committee covered all the communicable big hitters of bioterrorism: anthrax, botulism, stnallpox, Ebola, cholera, the plague, Q fever, typhoid, shigellosis, brucellosis, and tularemia. The panel cut across all government and scientific agencies. Aside from CIA, FBI, and Homeland Security, there was at least one representative from the Centers for Disease Control, Department of Justice, Department of Health and Human Services, Department of Energy, and the Department of the Environment.
The last item on the agenda led to a sobering discussion on the vulnerability of the East Coast’s water reservoirs to tampering, one of the committee’s favorite topics. And with good reason.
Clive Graves pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose again and sorted through the notes in front of him. “It would not necessarily involve a significant amount of the botulism toxin either. If they could push the water concentration to a level in the neighborhood of one nannogram per milliliter, we are talking about thousands, potentially hundreds of thousands, of fatalities,” he said in a delivery so flat that he managed to make one of Gwen’s greatest fears sound tedious.
Moira Roberts nodded somberly. “We can only provide so much security for every reservoir in the country,” she said. “This is another example of why it is so vital that we have better information on terrorist activity abroad.”
“Of course, Moira, if only the CIA did our job better we would be worry-free.” Clayton laughed facetiously. “Let’s not forget how long the last batch of terrorists was operating on our soil before they acted,” he said calmly.
Roberts eyed him coolly. “There’s no reason to finger-point, Mr. Clayton. I am merely suggesting that local security alone will not remove the threat.”
“And I am telling you,” Clayton said, matching her clipped tone, “that the CIA cannot track every person on the planet with a petri dish and a hate-on for the States.”
Rubbing her temples, Savard sat back and allowed the heated debate to rage on concerning the level of security at water reservoirs. While Clayton and Roberts squared off, the rest of the group fractured into its usual factions—the scientific and environmental types on one side, the security and military types on the other.
After about fifteen circular minutes, Savard reluctantly cut Clayton off in midsnipe at Roberts. “We’ve only got a few minutes left for roundtable discussion,” Gwen said.
Clockwise, they went around the long oval table. After allowing each of the fifteen members to raise issues and concerns, which in most cases led to venting about budgetary limitations and overstretched resources, Gwen spoke up. “We spend most of our time and energy at this table anticipating terrorist threats from laboratory-generated or artificially acquired agents.”
Gwen scanned the table and noticed several no-shit expressions, but a few faces creased with curiosity. “The most devastating of these pathogens—smallpox, Ebola, and so on—are secured in a very few select labs,” she pointed out. “Moreover, they’re fastidious agents, exceedingly difficult to work with. Now granted, it’s not difficult to get your hands on some of the other organisms in quesdon—anthrax, for example. But those agents are not person-to-person transmissible. And thus far, the distribution methods have been, thankfully, primitive and limited.”
Gwen noticed Roberts fidgeting with the papers in front of her. Clayton leaned back in his chair with hands folded behind his head, but his half smile suggested he might step in with a “get to the point” comment at any moment.
“The recent SARS epidemic got me thinking,” Gwen said. “If I were a terrorist, why would I go to the effort—in most cases futile—of trying to breach lab security?”
“Oh?” said Roberts, skeptically. “What would you as a terrorist do, Dr. Savard?”
She scanned every face at the table before answering. “During the SARS outbreak, imagine how easy it would have been to go to Hong Kong, infect yourself, and then intentionally spread it elsewhere.” She paused before turning to the FBI Deputy Director. “Man-made propagation of a natural epidemic. That, Ms. Roberts, is where I think the terrorists will get the best bang for their buck.”
CHAPTER 3
DOWNTOWN CAIRO, EGYPT
Hazzir Al Kabaal sat in his thirty-second-floor office, gazing out the window. The smog was less of a factor than usual and the Nile wound resplendently below, but the publishing magnate was too preoccupied to notice.
As he had every five minutes for the past two hours, Kabaal hit the “send/receive” icon again on the computer in front of him. Like each time before, all he saw in response was the same frustrating “no new messages” reply.
What is the hold up? he thought for the umpteenth time as he dusted away im
agined particles on the sleeves of his navy silk jacket. Vanity was one sin Kabaal had yet to overcome. He rationalized away his hand-tailored Italian suits and hundred-dollar haircuts as necessity, arguing that Mohammed would have understood the need to assimilate among the enemy. But Kabaal worked hard at maintaining his Omar Sharif-like good looks. At fifty, he was still in top physical shape. And he made a point of pride to never be seen publicly unless immaculately dressed.
He tapped the “send/receive” button again. The lack of response was taxing the patience of the man whose patience and resolve had grown to legendary status after he transformed a series of obscure Arabic newspapers into a publishing conglomerate, one paper at a time. As a result, Kabaal wound up controlling a huge sphere of influence in the Arab world while amassing a personal fortune.
Though his papers’ readership was fiercely loyal, running an Islamic newspaper within Egypt’s corrupt autocracy posed a daily challenge. Tacitly, most government officials agreed with his Islamic Brotherhood’s beliefs. Denunciation of Israel was accepted, even encouraged, but the officials showed far less tolerance of similar condemnations of the U.S.A. or Europe. And retribution for criticism of the Egyptian government was swift and harsh. After publishing what authorities perceived as an attack several editors had learned firsthand the brutality of the Egyptian judicial system. Not Kabaal. He had a sixth sense for knowing how far he could push. Or at least, he thought, he used to.
Kabaal tapped the key again, but the screen offered nothing in return. Discouraged, he leaned back in his seat and mulled over the details of his initiative. As he pictured the fallout, he felt the unwelcome twinges of doubt stir inside.
Kabaal knew that few would have considered him capable of militancy. Most people saw him as a progressive Arab businessman. His extravagant wardrobe aside, he’d spent much time in the West. He completed his master’s degree at the London School of Economics where he had experimented with alcohol and Western women who were easy prey for his exotic good looks and worldly charm.
But things had changed since those halcyon student days. Kabaal had reconnected in a far deeper sense with his Islamic roots. And, as he had learned from Sheikh Hassan, with commitment came obligation. Obligation to disseminate the word of God. Obligation to strive for a state where religion and life weren’t forced asunder as they were in the hedonistic West or corrupt Arab monocracies. The Sheikh made it clear that it was Kabaal’s duty to push his brothers, by force if necessary, toward a nation like the Prophet Mohammed’s Al Madinah, where the Shari’ah (or Islamic law) ruled supreme.
Still, Kabaal had been slow to reach for the sword. When the twin towers fell in New York he even allowed a few of his papers to criticize the action. But then Kabaal watched with a sense of bitter betrayal as the West mounted a savage retaliation—Afghanistan, Palestine, and finally Iraq. The last aggression galled him the most. When the supposed weapons of mass destruction never materialized, “democratization” became the catchphrase. What hypocrisy! Kabaal knew it was always about the oil. And now the U.S. was already eyeing Syria and Iran with her gluttonous insatiable appetite for oil and power.
Sheikh Hassan had predicted it all. In a voice that trembled with passion when the cleric spoke of the degenerate West, the Sheikh argued that the Crusades had never ended. In every country where Islam met Judeo-Christianity, war was ongoing. A war in which Islam was the victim. And as the Sheikh pointed out, when facing the bombs and airplanes of the infidels, what choice did the outmatched righteous have? Guerilla warfare was the only option. When Islam was under threat, no weapon—regardless of its unorthodoxy or lethality—was beyond consideration.
While the Sheikh’s arguments moved Kabaal, until recently his involvement in the cause had been limited to financial support. And he supported it generously. Through murky, circuitous trails, his funds found their way to coffers across the globe. From the Hezbollah in Lebanon to the Abu Sayyef in the Philippines, Kabaal’s “endowments” allowed The Brotherhood to pursue the cause.
The time had come for Kabaal to jump into the operational field. He intended to do so with an eruption that would reverberate around the globe.
If only he heard back from the Malays.
He clicked the “send/receive” button again. This time, a bar popped up as the antivirus software scanned the message. A moment later the message opened on his screen.
Shipping update. Items: Religious Texts.
Unavoidable delay with Chinese customs. One container damaged beyond repair.
Discarded prior to shipment. Other container arrived with all the books intact.
Awaiting further distribution instructions.
Yours,
LS.
Kabaal smiled. The Malays had done well. Very well.
He deleted the message and turned off his computer. “And so it begins,” he said to no one.
CHAPTER 4
UNITED AIRLINES FLIGHT 640, EASTERN ATLANTIC
Had Noah Haldane waited another millisecond before yanking his leg out of the aisle, the drinks cart would have steamrolled over his foot.
“Sorry, sweetie,” the chunky middle-aged flight attendant chirped in a southern drawl. “Almost crushed your little piggies, there.”
“No. My fault,” Haldane said as he shifted in the seat and repositioned his pillow to no avail. In spite of his fatigue and the relative comfort of the first-class surrounds, he wasn’t any closer to sleep.
“You look so uncomfy, hon,” the woman said, flashing her teeth and gums in another huge smile. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Can you make the last twenty-four hours of my life disappear?”
The flight attendant laughed so vigorously that her voluminous, dyed blond hair shook. “Honey, I absolutely can.” She leaned forward and rummaged through the cart before emerging with three minibottles, each one squeezed between neighboring fingers of her right hand. “Vodka? Gin? Or is this a job only Johnny can handle?” She shook the miniature Johnny Walker whiskey bottle between her thumb and forefinger as if it were a small bell.
“I’ll start with vodka.”
Haldane nodded his thanks as he sat up in his seat and accepted the glass of vodka on the rocks. Conceding that sleep wasn’t an option, he reached for the stack of printouts that the WHO had e-mailed him.
He forced himself to focus on the different pages. Lab reports, medical consults, and bureaucratic memos were mixed willy-nilly in the pile. Déjà vu overwhelmed the emerging pathogens expert. The rural Chinese origins, the pattern of dissemination, the inconsistent care—he had seen it all before with SARS. But sifting through the patient records, Haldane reached the same conclusion the local authorities had. This was not the rebirth of SARS. This had the potential to be far worse.
Haldane understood that time was no longer a luxury for the WHO or him. He had so much to do in the upcoming days and hours, but his mind kept drifting back to the scene shortly before his departure at his Washington suburb home in Glen Echo Heights, Maryland.
Chloe Haldane had yet another ear infection. A month shy of her fourth birthday, she had already suffered through a lifetime’s worth of ear infections. With an insider’s knowledge of side effects and complications, Noah Haldane viewed his daughter’s antibiotic dependency dimly. He wasn’t much more excited about the prospect of the myringotomy, or drainage tubes, that loomed in Chloe’s near future.
Like many men, Haldane had entered fatherhood without much in the way of expectations, aside from the presumption of sleepless nights. But he took to the role with a passion he never imagined possible. From the moment he had first held her, Chloe became the focal point of his life. When not working or traveling, he happily dedicated the rest of his time to his daughter. In spite of his hectic schedule and the forced time apart, he still changed more diapers and attended more Baby Dance and Gymboree classes than most of his male counterparts. Chloe made it easy for her dad. His bias aside, she had a joyful temperament. So much so that when she was eight months o
ld her parents took her to a pediatrician, concerned that she never cried. With a laugh, their doctor reassured them that time would soon rectify the deficiency; and with the onset of her ear infections, the tears did come. Even then, it only put a temporary dent in her otherwise sunny disposition.
Haldane lay beside Chloe in her bed. Cramped as he was, almost hanging off the side of the single bed, he loved the chance to snuggle in tight while reading her favorite stories. With their heads touching, he could feel the warmth from her brow. Her fever had yet to break. But after the fifth story, her disproportionately loud snore assured Haldane she had nodded off. Realizing that this would be his last chance for weeks, maybe months, he lay beside Chloe for half an hour longer before rising, kissing her on the forehead, and heading downstairs.
When he walked into the living room, he found his wife sitting sideways on the couch with knees bent and bare feet drawn up on the gray fabric. She nursed a mug of tea in her hand. With her other hand she brushed away a few strands of the long dark hair that drifted over her eyes. “How’s she doing?” Anna asked.
“Still feels warm.” Haldane said as he joined her on the couch. “But she’s asleep.”
Anna nodded, but her eyes focused on the coffee table beside him. “Will you be back in time for her birthday?”