by Daniel Kalla
As soon as he stepped into the room, he tore off his mask. He wadded it into a ball in his hand. “I hate these things.”
“Odd for a doctor who specializes in communicable diseases,” Gwen said, instinctively taking a step back from him.
Haldane flashed a mischievous smile. “Yeah, well, I now realize I might have made a fundamental mistake in career planning.”
“You too?” She laughed. “Aren’t you gambling with us by removing the mask?”
“I don’t have a fever or cough; besides, I haven’t touched a Caesar salad in days, so chances are my breath won’t kill you.”
Gwen pulled off her mask and folded it on her desk. “How are you holding up?” she asked.
“Going stir crazy. I’m already sick of the room-service food, not to mention the way we have to exchange trays with them like we’re radioactive. Otherwise, I’m terrific. You?”
“Same.” She nodded. “I’ve got so much to do. Hard to know where to begin.”
Haldane sat down on the couch across from her chair and leaned back with his hands folded behind his head. “Let’s start by comparing notes.”
Gwen admired his calm. And she found it difficult not to notice his blue-gray eyes. When he had turned to sit down, she caught herself noticing the way his jeans clung to his muscular rear end. Snap out of it, Gwen! she told herself, but she wrote the inappropriate thoughts off as a symptom of her isolation. Forcing them from her mind, she focused on summarizing for Noah her discussions with Clayton and Hart.
When she finished, Haldane said, “The Secretary might be right. No guarantees we could stem the flow of the virus even if we could shut down the borders.”
Gwen didn’t feel like arguing the point again. “And you? What have you learned?”
“Mixed news on the global front.” Haldane shrugged. “Hong Kong, maybe because of their SARS experience, has been the most successful in limiting the virus’s spread. Less than one hundred total cases and no new ones reported in forty-eight hours. The story is not so rosy in London.” He shook his head and sighed. “Over 700 infected with 145 dead so far. Sporadic clusters of infections have spread to mainland Europe—six in Amsterdam, two in Brussels, three in Hamburg—all traceable back to that first woman in the elevator. You heard about Chicago. And here in Vancouver, there are at least fifty-five infected and thirteen dead.”
Gwen sighed. “Which could rise to fourteen very soon.”
Haldane looked down at his feet. “Yeah, Jake is not doing well,” he said softly.
“It’s so damn unnecessary!” She studied him for a moment without speaking. Then she bit her lower lip. “Noah, are you scared?”
“Of coming down with this virus?”
“Yeah.”
“Very. But the odds are stacked in our favor.” He tapped his fist on the sofa beside him. “It pisses me off, though.”
“What does?”
“Being imprisoned here”—he circled a finger around the suite—“while that virus is loose out there. I should be in Chicago now, not stuck in quarantine.”
“Me, too.”
He looked up at her with a frown. “Actually, where I should be is home in Maryland. It’s my daughter’s birthday in three days ... I promised her I’d be there with balloons.”
Recognizing the pain in his eyes, Gwen felt a pang of sorrow. “It’s not fair, Noah.”
Haldane shrugged. “Fairness seems to be in pretty short supply these days.”
The phone rang. “Gwen Savard,” she said into the receiver. She listened to the woman on the other end of the line and then closed her eyes for a moment. “I am so sorry,” she said, before hanging up the phone.
“Jake Maguchi?” Noah asked.
“Yes.”
“Damn it!” Haldane punched the sofa beside him. “Why would anyone—” He stopped in midsentence. He snapped his fingers at Gwen and pointed to the TV. “Turn the volume up!”
Gwen followed his eyes to the TV screen where the words “Breaking News” flashed above the head of a concerned-looking anchorman. She hit the volume button just in time to hear the anchorman say somberly: “If American troops do not withdraw in the next four days, the group, calling itself The Brotherhood of One Nation, has vowed to ‘unleash an army of martyrs’ to spread the virus across the country.”
CHAPTER 26
HARGEYSA, SOMALIA
The Brotherhood of One Nation. Their name dominated the Internet. Sitting alone in his plush office, Hazzir Kabaal shook his head in disbelief. Sabri and he had only hit upon the name the day before issuing their taped ultimatum. Now it was on the tongues of people around the planet.
Kabaal surfed all the major news outlets from his own newspapers’ Web sites to the other major Arabic, European, and even the U.S. network sites. The only news item competing for any global attention was the photo of the operation’s latest martyr, Sharifa Sha’rawi. Her restored face ran side by side to most of the stories concerning The Brotherhood’s claim of responsibility. When he first saw the photo from Vancouver, it was so lifelike that for a disoriented moment Kabaal worried she might have been captured alive.
Poor Sharifa, Kabaal thought. Orphaned as a young child, she had grown up without a chance of finding a husband. At the pivotal moment of her mission, she had been turned away at the U.S.-Canadian border without ever reaching her target of Seattle. Nothing in life had gone well for the unfortunate girl. Now even in death she had found mishap when her body had broken free of the bindings and surfaced on a riverbank, jeopardizing the entire operation.
That mistake would have been less problematic were it not combined with Kabaal’s self-confessed misjudgment in stopping Abdul Sabri from killing Sergeant Achmed Eleish earlier. As soon as Kabaal heard a policeman had been nosing around the Al-Futuh Mosque and asking about Sharifa, he knew it could be no one but Achmed Eleish. Now the relentless detective had uncovered Sharifa’s name.
But Kabaal noted with guarded optimism that Sharifa was still described as an “anonymous terrorist” by the media. Perhaps Eleish had not shared his detective work with anyone. Maybe, as Abdul Sabri had suggested before leaving to find Eleish, the policeman was determined to single-handedly dismantle their operation. Kabaal dearly hoped so. As a force of one, Eleish was no more than a flea on a camel, but if he turned to the Egyptian authorities or worse the Americans ...
Hazzir Kabaal refused to obsess over Eleish’s intentions. Kabaal knew he was as always in Allah’s hands. Still, His ways were mysterious. Mistakes had crept into the operation where none had been before, but those blunders and their inherent dangers were not what kept Hazzir Kabaal awake night after night.
No. It was the resurgence of his doubt.
Their plan had thus far had an even greater impact than Kabaal anticipated. Perhaps, too successful. What if the virus they had freed was already unstoppable? Or what if the American President didn’t bow to their demands? They would have no recourse but to follow through with their threat to unleash the promised army of martyrs.
CAIRO, EGYPT
Sergeant Achmed Eleish had spent a busy twenty-four hours since solving the mystery of the Vancouver terrorist’s identity. Most of his time had been dedicated to convincing Samira and his two daughters that they would have to leave Cairo. The girls were appalled at the thought of abandoning their teaching responsibilities in the middle of the school year. It took all Eleish’s powers of persuasion to finally convince his family to temporarily relocate to his cousin’s house in Alexandria.
After his two daughters had already boarded the train for Alexandria, Eleish stood alone on the platform holding his wife’s hand. Samira’s eyes were dry and her poise as unfaltering as ever, but earlier in the morning he had heard her sobbing softly in the bedroom, unaware that he was still at home.
Staring into his wife’s stoic face, Eleish had trouble keeping the tears from his own eyes. He squeezed her hand tenderly. “It will just be a short while, Miri.”
“I know,” she said s
oftly.
“I need a break,” Eleish continued rationalizing aloud. “Maybe in a few days I could come up and join you in Alexandria. It would be like the old days. A family vacation with the girls.”
Samira smiled poignantly. “That would be nice.” Then she added distantly, “Like the old days.”
The loudspeaker called out the final boarding call for the Alexandria-bound train.
Samira leaned forward, touched her fingers to his lips, and then turned to walk up the train’s steps. She stopped on the last step. “I won’t tell you it’s not worth it,” Samira said. “I know you have no other choice, but please, Achmed, be careful. Don’t trust anyone. His influence reaches far and wide.”
“I promise.” Eleish’s voice cracked. “I will come for you soon.”
She smiled and waved once, then disappeared into the train.
After the train pulled out, Eleish found a public rest room in the station and changed into a galabiya that he hadn’t donned in almost ten years. He had once swum in the garment, but now it fit too snugly. He studied his profile in the mirror, surprised at how his belly had grown in the interim. He lifted the bottom of his robe and tucked his automatic handgun into the leg holster beside the handcuffs.
From the train station, Eleish went directly to the Al-Futuh Mosque. He parked a few blocks away and walked a circuitous route to the mosque, pleased that the pedestrian traffic had thinned in the late afternoon. The fewer people he saw, the better.
He timed his arrival to coincide with Maghrib, the evening prayer, knowing that most of the congregation would leave for dinner afterward. As Eleish walked down the dusty, smoggy Cairo street, he paused when he heard the beautiful adhan, or call to prayer, echo out from the loudspeaker of the mosque’s prayer tower. Though headed for inhospitable territory, he felt no apprehension, knowing that he approached the house of God.
He joined the traditionally dressed congregation—men in white galabiyas and women wearing jihabs and floor-length black coverings—as they shuffled into the majestic gold-domed mosque. Eleish had little concern of raising suspicion among the regular congregation. He doubted his own brother would recognize him in his galabiya.
Inside, the women and men separated into their respective sections in the large prayer hall. Facing the qibla (the wall directed toward Mecca), Eleish recited his prayers with genuine vehemence, but he kept a watchful eye on the old man standing on the pulpit by the qibla. He had never before seen Sheikh Hassan at prayers.
The Sheikh wore a traditional clerical robe along with a white Islamic turbar and a long gray beard. Stooped forward and with a rough tremor in both hands, the emaciated cleric epitomized the frailty of old age. But when Hassan spoke in his low-pitched staccato, his voice resonated with a ferocious power that erased the ravages time inflicted on his body. Eleish had no doubt that the Sheikh was a man born to lead.
After prayers ended, Eleish didn’t exit through the same doors as most of the others. Instead, he wandered out into the courtyard under the arcaded portico. With his arms folded across his chest he pretended to admire the wells and fountains in the courtyard while he passed the time.
After a few minutes a tall, robed, bearded man with a thick neck and opaque brown eyes approached him. “My brother, is it not time to leave for dinner?” the young man said with a hint of warning.
“Of course, of course,” Eleish said, recognizing the man for some sort of guard despite his plain robe. “I was simply admiring your beautiful mosque. I am from the north, but I have long heard of the splendor of the Al-Futuh Mosque. Words are cheap, though. It is such a joy to behold in person.”
The man nodded, unmoved. “Let me walk you out, brother.”
Eleish uncrossed his arms and flashed the gun that he had concealed under his sleeve since extracting it from the leg holster in the courtyard. “I would prefer that you walk me into the madrasa,” Eleish said, in reference to the school and residence behind the mosque.
The man’s eyes blackened. “Pointing a gun in the house of God?” he snapped without a trace of fear.
“Now,” Eleish growled and waved the gun at him. “Either you start walking, or you die here ... in the house of God.”
The tall man glared at Eleish; hatred crystallized in his eyes.
Eleish recognized the look. He had seen it in the faces of other extremists, right before rash reactions had led them to a quick martyrdom. Eleish steadied his gun, aiming at the man’s face. But rather than rush at Eleish, the man casually turned and began to walk across the courtyard. Never lowering his weapon, Eleish followed him across the courtyard and into the building behind.
They walked down a dark narrow corridor, whose faded gray walls were devoid of any decoration. “I want to speak to the Sheikh,” Eleish said.
“You mean, to kill him,” the young man said flatly while keeping his head fixed straight in front of him.
Eleish shook his head at the man’s back before realizing the futility of the gesture. “I mean to speak with him,” he said.
“Then follow me.”
Their footsteps echoed in the otherwise still hallway. They walked past a series of doors toward an L-turn at the end of the corridor. Just as they reached it, the creaky sound of a door opening behind them caught Eleish’s attention.
“Son, is that you?” a deep voice asked.
Even before glancing over his shoulder, Eleish recognized the Sheikh’s voice.
“Go back to your room, Father!” the tall man screamed. In one motion, he pivoted and lunged at Eleish.
Eleish jumped back. Stumbling, he had to steady himself against the wall behind him, just as the young man landed hard at his feet and grabbed wildly for his ankle. Eleish jerked his foot free of the man’s grip. Once he had regained his balance, he knelt forward and rested the gun’s muzzle against the fallen man’s forehead.
“No!” Sheikh Hassan screamed. “Leave Fadi be! Save your bullets for me.”
Without budging his gaze or the barrel of his gun, Eleish spoke to the Sheikh in a calm but commanding tone. “I have not come to kill anyone. But so help me Allah, I will kill both of you if need be.”
Lying on his belly, the young man stared up hatefully at Eleish, his eyes challenging him to pull the trigger.
The Sheikh must have recognized the expression because he shuffled closer and spoke to the young man. “Fadi, leave it be. The man has come to talk. So we will talk. All are welcome here.”
Eleish rested a foot on Fadi’s back. “Put your hands behind your back!” he barked.
Fadi glanced over to the Sheikh before complying.
With his free hand, Eleish reached down and pulled a pair of handcuffs from under his robe and then cuffed the young man’s hands behind his back. Once Fadi was secured, Eleish turned to the Sheikh. “Where is a private place for us to speak?”
Hassan pointed a shaky hand back to the door from where the light emerged. “In my room.”
Eleish pulled Fadi to his feet. He pushed him forward as they followed the shuffling cleric back to his room. The last one to step inside, Eleish closed the door behind them. Smelling musty from stale air, the room looked more like a dusty old library than someone’s living quarters. Aside from a metal cot in the corner, the room was littered with old books and parchments. The bookshelves overflowed. And stacks of books rose from the floor. A large leather-bound volume was open on the reading stand with a magnifying glass resting atop.
With a wave of his gun, Eleish directed Fadi and the Sheikh to move to the far wall.
Standing against the wall, the Sheikh opened his mouth in a forlorn smile, which exposed two decaying front teeth flanked by spaces where other teeth should have been. “How can we share any kind of discourse at gunpoint, my son?”
Like a tail wagging on a wolf, the grin struck Eleish as out of place on the feisty old cleric. “We will manage,” Eleish said.
Wide-eyed, Fadi glanced at Hassan, but the Sheikh shook his head ever so slightly and then turned ba
ck to Eleish. “It is God’s way.” He shrugged calmly. “Are you a believer, my friend?”
“In what you preach?” Eleish asked.
“In Allah,” Hassan barked, but then resumed his pleasanter tone. “And the life he commanded us to live as told to the Prophet.”
“I am a Muslim,” Eleish said.
“Then we are brothers,” the Sheikh said confidently. “And we have nothing to fear of each other.”
“I wish that were so,” Eleish said. “I am just not sure which of us has more to fear.”
“Clearly it is you.” Hassan raised a defiant, tremulous finger. “I fear nothing but the judgment of God.”
Impatient, Eleish shifted from one foot to the other. He waved the gun at the Sheikh. “Hazzir Kabaal. You know him, don’t you?”
Hassan folded his skinny arms across his chest. “Why do you ask after him?”
“Do you know him?” Eleish said, raising his voice along with the barrel of the gun.
“Abu Lahab is a student of mine,” Hassan said.
“Where can I find him?” Eleish asked.
“Not here.”
“Where is he?” Eleish spat.
The Sheikh shrugged. “I am not his keeper.”
Eleish’s irritation got the better of him. “Do you have any idea what sort of crimes Kabaal is responsible for?”
Hassan grunted a bitter laugh. “Abu Lahab acts in the service of God.”
“The service of God?” Eleish snorted. “The man has spread a deadly virus among innocent people. He murders women and children in the name of Islam. Do you call that the service of God?”
“Innocent?” Hassan grimaced as if pained. “There is nothing innocent about the enemies of the faithful. Open your eyes!”
“To what?” Eleish shot back. “The bilious hatred that you preach.”
“I do not hate anyone,” Hassan said calmly. “What I preach is the preservation of our way of life.”
Eleish shook his head vehemently. “The Koran extols peace and tolerance. You and your kind... You twist the beautiful words until nothing is left but bigotry and loathing.” He sighed heavily. “There are so few of you hate-mongering extremists. And so many of us peaceful Muslims. Yet your kind defines the face of Islam to the rest of the world. And what an ugly face it is.”