Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

  Noel paled. “I tried to find him a few hours ago, to get some help cataloging, and one of the workers said he’d taken a Jeep and left the site. I assumed he’d had enough of being surrounded by plague.”

  “But this makes no sense.” The censers would yield little on the black market. She pointed to the sorting table that bore jewelry and pottery shards. “All these jewels, gold. But he takes a censer?”

  She rubbed her temple, depressed about the dying men and the imminent failure of yet another dig. Her heart cramped with grief. “I would give away all these treasures if it meant those men did not die.”

  The sickening potion of antiseptic and antibacterial solution, mingled with the rank stench of vomit, rotting flesh, and feces, wafted into the room. Nausea surged up her throat, demanding escape, but she choked it back. Dr. Ellison, the head of the UN medical team, emerged from the second decontamination chamber.

  “How are they?” she asked, bracing for bad news that seemed as virulent as whatever was infecting the dig team.

  He stood almost a foot taller than her five-six, and his stooped shoulders were indicative of his desire to lessen that height. Today, she knew they sagged more than usual because of the weight oppressing them. “It’s not good.”

  She followed him from the tent into the scorching afternoon sun. With a skip to keep up with his long strides, Tzivia stayed close as they headed across the cordoned-off area to two large trailers, connected with joints and locks, that formed a massive mobile science laboratory. Dr. Ellison diverted and aimed to another trailer that served as offices and quarters for the medical team.

  “Are you any closer to identifying it?” she asked, anxious for answers. For relief from this nightmare.

  He shook his head, reaching the mobile office. They stepped inside, the air conditioning a shocking reprieve from the Saudi heat. Dr. Ellison strode to the back, where his small desk of clutter and crumpled coffee cups waited. He dropped into a chair and let out a heavy exhale. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Weariness tugged at his gray eyes, which matched his salt-and-pepper hair. “Traces of one disease, markers for another.” He shrugged and held up his hands. “Bubonic is generally treatable if caught early and antibiotics administered.”

  “So why are they dying?”

  “Because it’s also septicemic, in the bloodstream. As I said—traces of one, elements of another.”

  “Can you stop it? Are we safe to resume digging?”

  His intelligent expression furrowed. “Is that all you care about?”

  “No, what I care about is the people I hire falling ill. If they can’t go in those tunnels, I want to send home anyone not infected.”

  “Until we find out what it is and how they’re being exposed, whether through the spring down there or airborne or contact, nobody’s leaving.”

  Frustration coiled around her weary body. The medical team had been here for a week and were no closer to finding answers. “This is so insane.” She was beginning to feel like the plague whisperer, drawing the diseases of the past into the present. This site had been her chance for redemption.

  He eyed her, his jaw sliding to the side as he took on a speculative look. “What I want to know is how your blood is clear. Why haven’t you gotten sick?”

  It sounded like an accusation. Tzivia took a step back. Crossed her arms. “I stood in the same room that Basil was in. I worked the same tunnels as those men, so if you’re suggesting I’m somehow to blame . . .” Her courage waned when he didn’t argue. “Look, I’m not the only one—Noel hasn’t come down with it.”

  “Actually . . .” He slid a few files across his desk and lifted one marked GARELLI, NOEL. He flipped it open. Pointed to a rectangular section near the bottom, where it read: SUBJECT INFECTED. NO VISIBLE SYMPTOMS.

  Tzivia frowned. What did that mean? “So . . . he has it.”

  Dr. Ellison nodded. “He has it.”

  “But he’s not—”

  “Not sick.” Sighing, he flapped the file closed. “He’s a carrier. Happens every so often that an individual can carry a disease but doesn’t succumb to it.” He stabbed a finger at her. “But you.”

  Again, the accusation. Tzivia swallowed.

  “You aren’t sick or carrying.” His steel eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “How should I know?” She would not be made to feel bad for something that wasn’t her fault. Or that she had no explanation for. The same thing had happened in Kafr al-Ayn. Was it the same here? What made her immune? “Does it matter?”

  “It does—if you have a natural antibody, we need to know, figure out what’s preventing the disease from using your body as a host—it could help stall or neutralize the pathogen killing these people. We need another sample of your blood.”

  “You can have it.” Even if she had something in her blood to stop this disease, it would take time to find what and even more to replicate it as an antigen. “So bubonic and septicemic?”

  “The protrusions from the glands.” He motioned to his neck, where she’d seen the bulbous growths on the workers and students. “That’s indicative of the bubonic plague, also known in medieval times as the Black Death. But the discoloration of the extremities—tissue bleeding and death—that’s septicemic plague.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning a new variant, a combination of the two plagues. The New Black Death, if you will.” He lifted his eyebrows and sighed. “Meaning you have a whole lot of trouble on your hands, so let’s hope your blood helps us.”

  Tzivia lowered herself onto a cooler by the rear door. “H-how did it happen? What caused it?”

  “That could take months, years, to answer—or it might never be answered. When these diseases were virulent centuries ago, they were most often transmitted via fleas and infected rodents. Sadly, both plagues had high mortality rates.” Dr. Ellison ran a hand over his stubbled jaw and stifled a yawn. “You’ve already lost ten men. It’s contained, but if someone leaves or left . . .” He shook his head. “It’d be very easy for this thing to go global.”

  She swallowed hard, remembering Bhavin. “We’ve had one worker leave already.”

  “Dr. Ellison?”

  They both turned.

  A young scientist stood a dozen feet away. “He’s on his way.”

  Dr. Ellison nodded, then flicked his gaze back to Tzivia, his expression almost apologetic.

  “Who’s coming?”

  “You said someone left?”

  Strange twitching in her mind warned he was evading her question. Who had he called? They already had the Saudi Ministry of Health, World Health Organization, Global Health, and even soldiers to keep people out.

  “If someone left, we need to know. Track him down. Quarantine him until we determine if he’s infected.” But Dr. Ellison looked guilty. Afraid.

  She straightened, alarm spreading through her. “What did you do?”

  “Do you understand what will happen if this goes global, Miss Khalon?” His frown and furrowed brow came across as condescending, as if he were talking to a child. “I had to take measures.”

  Who had he called? “Who is—”

  “Do you realize how many people died in the bubonic plague?”

  Her stomach squeezed. “Who. Is. Coming?”

  “I will not let that happen here.” He shook his head, defiant for this sixty-something man. “Not when I have the power to stop it.”

  “Who?”

  He gave her a stern look that pushed her from the trailer. Tzivia rushed out, tugging her phone free as she did. The bright sunlight blinded her, making it hard to see the screen. After a few blinks, she went into her contacts. Found her brother Ram’s number.

  The nauseating smell of diesel fumes saturated the air, followed by a snorting rumble of a Deuce and a Half cargo truck. Tzivia stopped short at the olive drab green trucks pouring into the site. As soldiers flooded from the vehicles, Tzivia’s blood went cold.

  Dr. Ellison appeared behind her.

/>   “What have you done?”

  He scowled. “These men are disorganized, chaotic.”

  “Meaning the people you called are organized?”

  “These men are here to rob you.” Eyes on the men flooding across the dirt road, he spoke without looking at her. “You might want to leave.”

  “I’m not leaving anything.”

  ****

  — Washington, DC —

  Curiosity got some people in trouble. But it kept Tox alive.

  Something was up with the blonde. She didn’t fit. Not here, not with her affable nature. Not with her honesty. Not with the buzzing at the back of his brain. Something . . . something was . . . off. Familiar. Weird. He couldn’t put his finger on it. But he would.

  Arms hooked by guards with enough muscle and height to pound Tox into next year, he shuffled into the conference room, where the misfit team waited. He focused on Attaway as brute force shoved him forward.

  Tox caught his balance. Straightened. Turning his hands over, he made the chains shink. “If you’ll keep your pens and other sharp objects away from me, I think we can do away with these.” He knew his joke wouldn’t be appreciated, but the measures were overboard.

  “Remove them,” gruffed Hamer.

  As the guards unlocked the cuffs, he took in the room. The items scattered on the table—a field report, file marked CONFIDENTIAL, one labeled TS-1, another hidden beneath that seemed to indicate it was Above Top Secret, and EYES ONLY. A stack of papers rested in front of the woman, the top page showing a grainy black-and-white image. MacIver and Attaway waited, irritation scratching age lines into their faces. Especially Attaway’s.

  Tox nearly smirked. He wasn’t here because of the pardon. They’d sold him the “one last mission” lie before, and he’d bought it, hook, idiot, and sinker. They sure weren’t going to hand him freedom in a bow-wrapped box.

  Free of the shackles and security band, Tox was guided by a very firm grip into a chair at the head of the table. He didn’t fail to note that nobody sat within arm’s reach. And the guards maintained a close proximity. “Is this trust, Hamer?”

  “Tox, we’re going to get to the brunt of this,” Attaway said, as if taking charge would make him the man he wanted to be. “Mr. Hamer?”

  A buzz cut defined the SAD director, bespoke his military experience, and dictated how he’d expect to be treated. He opened a file and lifted a page from the large stack. He slid the paper down the table, the others passing it along until it fluttered to a stop in front of Tox. “That is a consolidated report on events to date.”

  Tox noted the DoD header and quickly scanned information. Two killings. One the commander of the US Special Operations Command. General Kerr. Tox had heard about this. “News said he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “He was,” Hamer snapped. “Only it was strategically wrong. They set him up.”

  “And Ambassador Lammers was killed—”

  “Assassinated,” Hamer interjected. “In London at the National Theatre.”

  “Two hits,” Tox muttered, glancing at the intel. “Did Lammers have connections to the military?”

  “Other than serving in Iraq One . . .” Hamer shook his head and pointed to the paper. “That shows our only clue about who is responsible for this.”

  They had a picture of the alleged assassin but not much else. He looked at those surrounding him. “All this brass and you don’t know who you’re sending me after?”

  “He’s a ghost,” a skinny suit answered. He looked to be in his mid-forties, neatly trimmed hair. Hamer’s colleague, Iliescu. “We’ve run facial recognition and can’t identify him.” He nodded to the page. “You’ll see we managed to track him to London. Then he turned up about two hours ago in southern Jordan.”

  “Jordan.”

  “Asset on the ground confirms it’s him.”

  “And this asset can’t identify and neutralize him?”

  “He can,” Hamer said, “but he won’t. Too many things would be at risk. And this needs to be completely black. No one can know you’re ours.”

  As he expected—on his own.

  Iliescu smirked. “We’re giving you a team.”

  Tox snorted. Shook his head and shoved the paper back. “No thanks.”

  He’d gotten into impossible scenarios before. Seen horrible things. Been the cause of deaths. Deaths that put him in federal prison. And they wanted to recycle all that? Do it again? No way.

  “Mr. Russell.” Mrs. Cortes’s voice had this quality that made his brain act like it’d flatlined. Made his mouth feel like it was made of stone and couldn’t move. Her chest rose and fell deeply. She was irritated. Or . . . nervous. Her green eyes came to his. “You’re a soldier.”

  “Was.”

  “Once a soldier, always a soldier.”

  “I believe that’s Marines, ma’am—once a Marine, always a Marine.”

  “The sentiment is true regardless of which branch you served. Am I right, Sergeant Russell?”

  Tox gritted his teeth.

  “Did you not recite the Oath of Enlistment?”

  What was she getting at?

  “‘I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.’”

  Silence dropped like a mortar, destroying his ability to talk or converse. The general and the suits sat in stunned silence as Tox stared down Mrs. Cortes. Worked to determine her purpose in throwing the oath at him. What was her game?

  “Well, Sergeant Russell, the president—your brother—has ordered you on this mission.” She licked her lips, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “As a thank-you, a reward, he has asked that I recommend you for a full pardon. Upon completion of this mission, I will make my decision whether to recommend to the pardon attorney that your freedom be returned.”

  She had chutzpah, he’d give her that. “Mrs. Cortes, you will pardon one life”—he locked onto her for several long seconds to let that sink in—“my life, if I willingly and knowingly put the lives of a team—six to twelve lives—at risk?”

  She gave a semi-acknowledging nod as she stared at a piece of paper. “‘ . . . I will teach and fight whenever and wherever my nation requires.’”

  “I don’t need—”

  “‘I pledge to uphold the honor and integrity of their legacy in all that I am—in all that I do.’”

  The futility of arguing as she quoted from the Special Forces Creed felt like a minefield ambush. He detested the way the others smirked. They all knew she’d cornered his honor.

  Her green eyes came to his. “Are you a professional soldier?”

  “I’m nobody.”

  A semblance of a smile tugged at her lips. “You’re Cole Russell. A legend who embodied the elite operator.”

  “That man died.”

  “I think he resurrected himself,” she said. “Because a dead warrior wouldn’t have come back.” Her voice was soft, but not in a romantic way. In a way that seemed to read from the very pages of his soul. As if she had explored those passages he’d blacked out years ago like an Above Top Secret file. “You broke into the White House but didn’t kill anyone, least of all Attaway.”

  Tox remained still, his heart skipping a beat.

  “And you’re here. Listening to us. To the details of this mission.” She smiled at him. “You knew it was important, whatever had Attaway risking an attempt to draw you out. You came because your warrior ethos demanded you answer the call for help.”

  The thought set off tiny charges in him, demanding he sever any opportunity for her to dig in and find more deadly revelations. He pried his attention from her and checked her guard dog. The man rested his elbows on the table, as if shielding her from the po
ison in the room. And Barry—confusion flickered through Tox at the pale expression on the man’s face. What was he worried about?

  “Russell,” Major General Rodriguez barked, shifting forward. “She’s right. Your curiosity got the better of you, dragged your sorry butt back from wherever you were living your poor excuse for a life.” He nodded to the report before him. “We need you.”

  Tox met the general’s gaze. Then MacIver’s. He trusted that guy as much as he trusted Barry. Tox slid his attention back to Cortes, who was rattling the charm on a gold necklace back and forth.

  Tiny fragments of some memory scraped and shrieked through the dark halls of his mind. Tox glanced down, trying to capture the fragment. Straightening did nothing to dislodge the unease slithering through his gut. Mrs. Cortes—who was she? The memory dangled in front of him, taunting. Elusive.

  “Well?” Rodriguez demanded.

  Ordered back to the present, Tox knew there was only one way he’d do this. “I want my own team.”

  Hesitation thrummed through the room, the suits conferring with the uniforms. Dragged on for minutes. Minutes that felt like hours.

  “Your team no longer has clearance,” Rodriguez said. “They were discharged.”

  “Honorably.” Because Tox had given up everything so Kafr al-Ayn didn’t destroy their careers, too. It might have ripped it out of their hands, but he’d made sure they could get jobs and pick up and move on. “Reinstate them.”

  MacIver chuckled. “Doesn’t work that way.”

  “If you can bring me back from the dead, you can clear five men for this mission.”

  “Five?” MacIver glanced at his notes. “You only have four.”

  “Chijioke Okorie is the fifth. He’s Nigerian, served in the NA. Start with him.”

  “He’s a foreign national. We can’t clear him for a black-bag operation,” Hamer said.

  “But you can resurrect a dead Special Forces soldier?” Tox cocked his head. “I thought you didn’t want the US connected? Having a foreign national could be a benefit.”

  Everyone stared. Nobody moved or responded. Because Tox had made his point.