The Widow's Strike pl-4

by Brad Taylor

  The major health bodies, such as the World Health Organization and the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, were all petrified of H5N1, as it had upwards of a 70 percent mortality rate when contracted by humans. The good news was that while it could spread like wildfire in birds, killing them in the hundreds of thousands, it didn’t transmit human-to-human very easily. In fact it was nearly impossible. So far, almost all of the deaths related to bird flu were the result of someone working with infected poultry or other avian species.

  The bad news was that viruses mutated continuously. All health organizations felt it was only a matter of time before this occurred with H5N1, creating a virus now transmittable human-to-human, bringing on a pandemic that would dwarf the 1918 Spanish flu due to the interconnected reality of the modern world and its proven lethality.

  Cailleach Laboratories had proposed forcing a genetic mutation, in effect creating the killer, then developing a vaccine to combat it. It had already been done once for simple research purposes, raising a hue and cry from the US National Science Advisory Board for Biosecurity. They demanded censorship of the details to preclude someone with nefarious purposes from re-creating the study. The controversy had provided the genesis of the idea.

  Cailleach had no intention of keeping the time bomb intact for potential abuse. Once the vaccine was created, they would destroy the virus and bide their time, waiting on the natural mutation. When it occurred, they’d make a proverbial killing, as it took upwards of six to nine months to create a new vaccine. While their vaccine would most assuredly not be perfect, as there was no telling how the virus would mutate, Cailleach would be head and shoulders above everyone else, getting a vaccine out much earlier and making an enormous profit in the panic from the onslaught of the pandemic.

  The downside to this, of course, was the virus itself. They were playing with fire, and they knew it. They’d decided to set up shop in Singapore because of the stringent US requirements for inspections and licensing. Not to mention the litigious nature of American society. Vaccine production in the United States had dropped from twenty-seven producers in the 1970s to three today, simply because the cost wasn’t worth the risk. At the end of the day, you could prevent the disease, then find yourself on the short end of a thousand different lawsuits claiming everything from flat feet to deafness due to the vaccine.

  Chip had been told Cailleach could handle the production safely, inside the Biopolis campus in Singapore, a biomedical complex that was fast becoming the world leader in such research. That statement had just been proven wrong. Instead of becoming the world’s savior at the onset of an outbreak, they had come close to causing it. He shuddered to think of the potential liability. The exposure.

  He was brought out of his thoughts by the limousine’s stopping. He exited outside the southwest gate to the White House, wondering how he was going to maintain focus for the Oversight Council update, given what he’d just heard.

  After clearing security, he went through the gate and entered the Old Executive Office Building, adjacent to the West Wing. He walked up to the conference room a little early and found Kurt Hale at the podium, ready to brief.

  Being one of only two civilians on the council, he always felt out of place at these meetings and rarely said a word. But he’d played a significant role in President Warren’s reelection and remained a valued adviser, so he’d agreed to a seat on the council, only voicing his opinion when he felt he had something to offer.

  In short order, the room became crowded with the other members of the council, a low murmur spreading as the officials talked among themselves, waiting on the president. He entered at the stroke of the clock, saying, “Let’s get this rodeo going, Kurt, I don’t have a lot of time.”

  Kurt began with an overview of Knuckles’s status and the risk of Taskforce exposure. The discussion brought Chip back to his own near miss, and he let the voices drone on, thinking instead of what cleanup still remained in Singapore.

  He returned to the conversation when he heard the secretary of state, Jonathan Billings, raise his voice.

  “What do you mean, ‘exploring options’? Pike was supposed to go to the embassy as the president of Grolier Recovery Services. According to the ambassador, he hasn’t shown up yet and he’s been there for a couple of days.”

  Kurt said, “I know, I know, but they’ve got Knuckles for a homicide now. It’s become more serious than Pike just solving the problem by walking into the embassy and waving some business cards. Maybe it’s time for official intervention.”

  Billings didn’t respond, looking to the president, who said, “What’s coming out officially on that? Anything?”

  Billings said, “No. Nobody has notified the embassy at all. As far as they know, Knuckles is still just another arrested American. Nothing on the death in the prison.”

  President Warren said, “Okay, then we continue as planned. We can’t amp it up until they do.”

  “But Knuckles is in trouble,” Kurt said. “From what Pike said, he’s in real danger. We wait, and it may be just to process a body back home.”

  The president held up his hand, indicating the conversation was over. “We wait. This is the closest we’ve ever come to exposure of the Taskforce. You know that. Knuckles can take care of himself for a few more days.” President Warren looked at his watch, then said, “What else have you got?”

  When Kurt didn’t respond, he said, “Look, have Pike keep an eye on him. I won’t let him get killed. We’ll pull out the stops if we have to. Just give it some time. I don’t feel we need to man the battle stations just yet.”

  Kurt took a breath, then switched gears, putting on the screen the picture of a swarthy fiftysomething man with a jet-black mustache, looking vaguely like Saddam Hussein before he was jerked out of a spider hole with a Prophet Moses beard.

  “The penetration of the metropolitan police bureau worked, although not like we thought. It turns out they’ve been following a Persian-carpet salesman from Iran, not our suspected Hezbollah facilitator. They’ve kept track of him because of the Iranian bombing there last year, only they don’t know what they’ve got. This man is Brigadier General Malik Musavi of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard’s Quds Force.”

  He let that sink in, then continued. “Malik is a very, very big fish. He’s been on the US screen for a long time, conducting all sorts of external operations, including the attempted assassination of the Saudi diplomat here two years ago. He hasn’t been operational on the ground in years. His job is simply supervising external missions from inside Iran.”

  President Warren said, “How sure are you?”

  Kurt smiled. “Positive. We have his photo from years ago, and he’s traveling under his true name, just with a different occupation. Don’t know why he would do that, but it’s him. No doubt.”

  The secretary of defense asked, “What’s he doing? What’s this mean?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question. We have no idea.”

  “And you want Omega for him? Is that it?”

  “Well… that’s not my call. Just bringing it to the council’s attention.”

  Hearing the discussion, Chip finally spoke up. “But he’s a state entity. An official Iranian general, not some substate whack job with a bomb. It’s outside of the Taskforce mandate.” He turned to President Warren. “Isn’t it?”

  Warren took a breath and let it out. “What about that, Kurt? Chip’s right. Expansion of the mandate, isn’t it? You’re not allowed to mess with any official state activities. That’s CIA all the way.”

  Kurt said, “Well, it’s not as black and white as taking out a Russian would be. It’s a hell of a lot more gray. The Treasury Department has already labeled the Quds Force as a specially designated terrorist group and frozen any assets they could find, and Iran is on the official US list of state sponsors of terrorism.”

  Billings said, “That doesn’t make them a foreign terrorist organization. Your mandate exists within the State Department�
�s official FTO list, and they’re not on it.”

  Kurt said, “Yet. You and I both know there’s a bill in Congress right now to force the State Department to call the Quds Force a foreign terrorist organization, making them on par with al-Qaeda.”

  The secretary of defense spoke up. “Enough of the bullshit about lists. You don’t even have a mission. A reason to go after this guy.”

  “That’s true, but I do know the guy’s a killer. Responsible for American deaths all over the place, from Iraq to Afghanistan. I don’t know what he’s up to, you’re right, but I do know how to find out.”

  “How?”

  “Give me Omega, and I’ll ask him.”

  12

  Malik fidgeted outside the pastry shop, feeling exposed by all of the CCTV cameras around the mall, waiting on the target to arrive. Thinking again that this plan was borderline idiotic. Wondering if he wasn’t about to be part of the second set of Iranians that did some buffoonery on Thai soil.

  Their initial attempt had been Friday night — last night — when they’d tried to take him at the nightclubs off of Royal City Avenue but had failed due to the crowds around. The perfect opportunity just hadn’t presented itself, even as the Foursquare intelligence had proven very accurate.

  Missing the objective on Friday had caused Malik considerable concern. He didn’t want to wait another week for the boarding school to release the son again. Sanjar, the computer expert, had recommended using a downtown mall called Terminal 21 the following day, Saturday.

  Malik said, “A daylight kidnapping? In a mall? No. If it comes down to that, we wait a week.”

  “But I’ve studied the mall. Kavi always checks in to a place that sells desserts and coffee on the fourth level. Like clockwork.”

  Malik told him to bring up Terminal 21 on his computer and saw the thing was a monstrosity, with every floor named after a different section of the world, from the Caribbean to London. What was worse, it was connected directly to the Asok Skytrain stop, which would be the way Kavi entered and left.

  Malik said, “And how do you propose to get him from the fourth level to the street? Perhaps I could come in with a large Persian carpet, try to sell it, and when that fails, you could knock him out. I’ll simply roll him up in it, in full view of everyone. Then we’ll carry him out right to the Skytrain. Is that what you’re thinking?” Malik turned away, saying, “We wait until next Friday and try again.”

  “Sir!” Sanjar said. “Please listen. The dessert bar is right next to a hallway leading to a stairwell. That stairwell connects to a parking garage on the third level. This will work.”

  “You cannot attack him in the café!” Malik snapped. “I don’t care how close the stairs are! Three feet is too far.”

  Roshan, the engineer, spoke up. “Sir, I don’t think we’ll need to attack him. Kavi is completely ignorant of personal safety. I think we could engage him in conversation and have him follow us to our car.”

  Eventually, Malik had broken down and agreed to try, which left him sitting nervously across the way at another café, wanting to bolt from the overt risk he had been talked into taking.

  He saw the target enter and begin talking to other Thai teenagers. He watched the doctor’s son fiddle with his phone and knew he was logging in his location. Malik shook his head, still befuddled by the social networking site. The time slipped by and he thought about aborting.

  Abruptly, the other Thais left, taking him by surprise, and Malik called his men forward. Roshan and Sanjar entered the café and ordered something, but he couldn’t tell what.

  He watched Sanjar sit near Kavi and begin working his own smartphone. Logging in his Foursquare location and letting Kavi watch. Shortly, the two were engaged in conversation, with Roshan joining.

  Malik had given them twenty minutes and no more. If Kavi wasn’t leaving with them by then, they were to abort.

  Twenty-five minutes in, Malik got angry. He texted Sanjar, punching the keys on his phone.

  Get OUT.

  Sanjar glanced his way, then began working his thumbs over the phone. Malik felt his cell vibrate and read, 2 min.

  He was about to respond when the group stood up. Laughing, with his arm around Sanjar’s shoulders, Kavi walked out of the café and entered the hallway. Never suspecting the danger he was in. Never realizing that there were different types of predators in the world.

  They went down the hallway and turned into a stairwell. Malik followed discreetly behind, watching them act like the best of friends. Malik took note of the cameras in the hallway and knew they had taken a great risk. If he couldn’t convince the father to call the school and prevent a search, it wouldn’t take much to have their faces all over the country.

  They went down one flight, Malik hanging back until he heard the door to the parking deck open, then rushing forward. He entered the garage in time to see Roshan open the back door to their car, then Sanjar wrap his arms around the doctor’s son, causing a look of bewilderment on Kavi’s face.

  A look that changed to fear when Roshan brought out the hood.

  13

  Sitting across Highway 107 in Chiang Mai, I felt the first trickle of adrenaline when I caught sight of Jennifer walking out of the prison entrance with Piggy holding her arm. I watched her say something to him, then walk briskly to her car, retrieving her purse from the front seat. I knew why. She couldn’t very well have taken that into the prison, because I’d given her a little hush puppy for protection. A Ruger Mark III .22 with an XCaliber Genesis suppressor.

  Designed mainly for removing guard dogs, it would do the job up close on a man. And if Jennifer had to use it on Piggy, it would definitely be up close.

  She walked back to him and followed to an old Toyota, getting in the front seat. I waited until they’d cleared the parking lot, headed north on Highway 107, before I triggered.

  “Koko’s on the move. Target’s with her.”

  Decoy said, “Roger.”

  All I could do now was wait for phase two of the mission, either getting married up with the cloned PDA or getting a Prairie Fire alert from Jennifer requesting backup. I prayed mightily that it would be the former.

  It had been forty-eight hours since my meeting with Izzy, and we’d used every bit of that time conducting reconnaissance, from developing a pattern of life on Piggy to finding out the procedures for vehicle transfers of prisoners. I’d visited Knuckles twice during that span, ostensibly to make sure he was well, but in reality to glean as much information as I could. On the last visit, I’d seen someone had played drums with his face again and was convinced I was doing the right thing. Unfortunately, the prison didn’t agree with my assessment. Getting him out had turned into a long string of dominoes, with every one a potential single point of failure.

  The prison was fairly new, in the northern section of Chiang Mai outside the city proper. Built to relieve overcrowding at the old prison downtown, it was now overcrowded as well, housing both people serving time and people awaiting sentencing and subsequent transfer to a permanent facility. That was the only good thing, as prisoners were moved out daily, thus making it routine.

  My stroke of genius was to use this routine and convince them that Knuckles was being transferred to Bangkok, the theory being that Chiang Mai would forget him once he was out the doors, and Bangkok wouldn’t check on him until prodded by the State Department — which would never happen. With the bureaucratic chaos that was Thailand, he wouldn’t be missed for weeks — if not years.

  Unfortunately, because of Knuckles’s little fight, Piggy had moved him into the newest section under his personal command. This made his transfer no longer routine, as Piggy himself had to approve the release, and we’d never pull off this charade against anyone with a reason to stop it. A single phone call would be the domino that fell flat.

  I had to get Piggy out of the prison, and I was using Jennifer to do so. Remembering his comment on our first visit, I knew he’d run at the chance to hop in the sack with her.
All she had to do was pretend like she was reluctantly doing it for a quid pro quo for Knuckles. The naïve American about to learn a hard lesson in life.

  When I’d given her the mission she’d balked, saying, “Why do I always have to play some sort of floozy? Surely there’s something else I can do to get him out.”

  I’d said, “Jennifer, we need him out of the prison for an hour. A coffee break won’t cut it. Given the drive time to his house and back, that means only thirty minutes of stalling. Thirty minutes and you can flee the house like you misunderstood.”

  “Come on. Did you see that guy? You’re putting me in a house by myself with someone who wants to attack me.”

  Like an ass, Decoy had blurted, “Yeah, but you’re good at that shit. I remember what you looked like in Prague dressed like a hooker.”

  I saw her eyes water, and she left the room. Too late, I realized she was reliving the attack on her just months ago, and now, callously, I was throwing her directly into what she feared the most.

  Decoy said, “What did I do? What was that about?”

  “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  Besides Jennifer, there were just two people on earth who knew what had happened to her: me and the guy who’d done it. Since I’d slaughtered him with my bare hands, that left only me, and Jennifer wanted to keep it that way. Nobody else on the team had a clue, and now they were potentially about to misjudge Jennifer’s reaction as her not being able to handle the stress of mission profiles because I’d been blind to her specific fear. I couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t have them questioning her capabilities for the wrong reasons, because it might prove catastrophic under fire.

  I stood and said, “Wait here a second.”

  Before I could leave, Jennifer reentered, eyes clear and voice firm.