Ironside nods, while the other keeps talking.
«So, in summary, we have a private jet carrying no other than Pyotr Dmitri Zaytsev, a real masterpiece of shit, and his plane is heading rapidly to New York. At the same time, we have a possible accomplice aboard of an airliner with more than 240 people on board, which is flying over Africa. On one of the two aircraft, or both, there is the serious possibility of the spread of an extremely virulent pathogen, but we don't know if it has already been released or not.»
«They said what it is?»
«According to what the Russians say, it's a modified strain of Ebola virus, extremely contagious and laboratory modified to make it unstoppable. Jesus curse the criminals who make these monsters. Some things are already dangerous by God's will. I don't even want to imagine what would happen if it were to reach a populated area.»
«It seems unlikely that they got it stolen from under their very nose. On the other hand, if it was an intentional move they wouldn't have bothered to warn us. It's a weird scenario. Do you think we can trust them?», asks Ironside as if thinking aloud.
«What can I say, John. Thank God they have notified us in time, even though I'm not sure I can figure out why they told us about the other plane too, the one heading for Paris.»
«Well, they don't make a good impression in this circumstance, the reasons may be different. On that air route, many US citizens travel from South Africa going to the US, through Europe. The plane flies over Algeria, and I think the Russians are well aware of our bases in the Algerian Sahara desert. In addition, in this affair the Russians have already contacted us, they probably don't want to bring in other nations...»
The two reached a security door, Ironside swipes his ID badge into an optical reader.
«... and lose their face with them too», concludes Thompson, giving voice to the implicit conclusion of the discourse. «I think you've got the point, John.»
The door opens with a hiss, Thompson goes through with a sigh.
«Let's get to work, my friend, let's try to fix this thing as soon and as good as possible.»
Moscow
Leonidovich's eyes are nailed in those of Ivanov. The latter has a very pale complexion, and a shocked expression. «Cape Town? Holy God, we are all lost», says the scientist in an exasperated tone.
«Don't cross your bridges before you come to them, Dr. Ivanov, we can still handle the situation if you cooperate lucidly.»
«You don't understand! Zaytsev may have had contacts with who knows how many people before being tracked down by you, and even if there were only a few dozen cells in the vial, he could have reproduced them easily, to infect who knows how many people!». The scientist stands up and bangs both hands vehemently on the table.
«Chill down, Ivanov! If the pathogen is really as dangerous as you say, we would already be aware of some cases. You said yourself that the infection dynamics is such that it can't stay hidden for long, didn't you?»
«You have no idea of what we are talking about, Leonidovich! If you only realized how unmanageable that monstrosity is, you would no longer sleep peacefully in your lifetime.»
«That's why there are brainiacs like you, Dr. Ivanov», replies Leonidovich with a hint of sarcasm on the brainiacs word. «And this is why we must send you up to the firing line.»
Ivanov's eyes grow bigger while the other continues.
«Within less than half an hour you will board a supersonic jet. We must rely on you to save the credibility and the future of our country. Of course, you won't say anything to the Americans about your classified research and discoveries in Antarctica. In our communication we mentioned a viral strain, a variant of Ebola, developed in the laboratory. It's on the basis of this information that you have to handle the situation.»
«This is completely insane!» exclaims Ivanov, losing his cool. «That thing can't be contained, you can't handle it! We can only hope that the stolen vial is still intact or it has been destroyed. However, if the infection has spread to even just one human being... It won't take great intelligence to realize that it's quite another thing than Ebola. The Americans may be arrogant trigger-happy, but be sure that they aren't stupid!»
«We have no choice Ivanov!», exclaims Leonidovich raising his voice in an exasperated cry. «We have no choice! There is no way to stop those planes, but perhaps there is still time to do something. That vial came out of your labs, remember it. The responsibility for all this is only yours!»
Leonidovich accompanies those last words with a loud bang of his hands on the table. A few very long seconds go by, during which the government agent regains his calm and coolness. His tone is cold and threatening when he speaks again to the scientist. «Now you listen to me and open your ears all wide. I don't know what you have in your hands and I don't care to know why you have access to top-secret information, but I tell you one thing: you will help us solve this thing in the best possible way, or as sure as my life I assure you that you'll spend the rest of your life watching your back. No matter in which hole you'll hide, no matter how much time I'll need, days, months or years. Sooner or later I will find you and I assure you that you'll end your days in a dark place without windows. And believe me Ivanov, the things that you claim to have seen and experienced in these three decades in your laboratories will seem a sweet memory in comparison.»
Ivanov remains unmoved at that, staring Leonidovich in the eyes and shaking slightly his head.
Washington
Pentagon
Thompson and Ironside enter a huge room, the activity inside is intense and silent at the same time. The walls are lined up with displays. There are different workstations throughout the room, with operators working feverishly in front of each screen. A number of people move quickly around them, someone wearing military outfits.
Worker ants and soldier ants...
Ironside follows Thompson to one of the workstations.
«Mike, report on the situation.»
«Zaytsev's jet has already reached our airspace», hastens to answer a skinny guy with slightly too long hair, combed with a well-marked line that makes him look like a high school loser. «The Boeing 777 is currently flying over Mali. It will get into the Algerian airspace soon.»
A female voice emerges in the circuit of Thompson's communications headset. «Sir, Dr. Moore in video call.»
«Please switch it to the workstation next to Mike's, Janet, thank you.»
While Thompson and Ironside come closer to the display, the image on the screen changes, showing the face of a mature woman, who however retains a nerdy teenager appearance. Her red hair is in a showy bun from which the top of a pencil sticks out. She wears glasses with a pink plastic frame, and their lenses make her green eyes wider. A sprinkling of freckles enlivens her nose and the zone under her eyes. Her face has a massive bone structure, like one who has been overweight for a long time before a drastic diet. Nothing more about her is visible in the screen, she seems to wear a white laboratory coat. Thompson speaks first, going straight to the point. «Dr. Moore, I'm sorry to call you without any notice, but we're in the middle of an important situation. Have you been informed already?»
«I was told that we are dealing with a variant of Ebola virus. I haven't any other detail.»
«Actually this is what we know too. We have two planes, a small private jet and a Boeing with 250 passengers.»
«Don't you know if the virus has already been released?»
«Negative. We don't know this yet, but we must prepare for the worst scenario, and we must have clear ideas about what to do when these planes will land. What can we expect, Dr. Moore?»
The woman responds quickly and in an automaton-like tone. «Ebola is notoriously deadly. In the first cases, when it was still not well known, it caused a mortality rate close to 90%.»
The hushed voices inside the great hall fade slowly while the attention is drawn to the display where the scientist keeps talking. Only her voice, somewhat aseptic and impersonal as an autopsy r
oom, is heard beyond the buzz of the devices.
«Currently this rate has decreased slightly, influenced by the capacity to provide adequate care gained by the countries in which the infection cases occur. The average stands around 53%, varying from 64% in Guinea to 39% in Sierra Leone. These rates relate to the original strain of the virus, of course. Speaking of a variant, modified in a laboratory... Well, the mortality rate could rise to absolute 100%, but having no further details I can't guess a better estimate. I can provide you with further information about the symptoms and...»
«That's fine, thank you Dr. Moore», cuts Thompson. «This isn't necessary right now. Please, be ready to leave in twenty minutes: we'll send someone to pick you up. We are arranging a rescue team and we need you. You have free hand in the entire operation. That's all for now.»
The picture of the woman in white coats, her expression a mixture of dismay and surprise, disappears from the screen before she can reply.
Thompson already moved back to Fred Gilmour's workstation. His display is showing a map of the North America outlines with a flashing red dot. Two other dots, flashing green, approach it by the sides, following its route and reducing the distance at each screen update. «Where are our boys?»
«They are lining the target, sir», replies the boy. He seems to be just over twenty years old. His prominent nose and the small and close-set eyes give him an appearance that recalls a weasel. «Two F14 took off from the Ronald Reagan. Fortunately, the aircraft carrier is now in the middle of the Atlantic. We have a total of four airplanes. Two of them are heading east, approaching the route of the Boeing.»
«That sounds great, Fred», says Thompson. Then he moves a hand to his left ear and contacts the operator. «Janet, any chance to get into contact with the jet heading for New York?»
«Negative, sir, we tried to contact them, but they keep radio silence.»
Thompson squints while his thoughts issue a silent curse. «Janet, call the President, hand me the phone call in my office.» Then he turns to Ironside: «John, I have the President on line, give me a minute, manage the situation until I get back, we catch up later.»
Thompson turns, walking briskly toward one of the many security doors. He isn't out yet when Janet's voice breaks into the headset of Ironside. «Sir, I have the Russian contact on line again.»
«Okay, Janet, hand it to me on workstation 22.»
While Ironside leans on display, Leonidovich's face appears on the screen.
The Russian agent has a look somewhere between suspicious and annoyed, and says nothing for a moment, staying so still that Ironside doubts whether it's a static picture or a real time video call.
Maybe it's just a feeling...
A feeling due to the knowledge that he is facing an intelligence representative of a country other than his own.
The face of Leonidovich comes to life emotionless. The man expresses himself in English but his way of speaking immediately betrays his origin. «I thought I was going to talk again with Secretary Thompson», he says slowly.
«I am the Deputy Secretary John Ironside, Mr. Thompson is busy right now, feel free to talk with me.»
Leonidovich hesitates for a moment, considering whether or not to keep the conversation going, then he makes his decision. «All right, Mr. Ironside. The reason for this further contact is to emphasize how much our government cares that our nations work together to solve as soon as possible this unfortunate situation. One of our experts is already in flight. He will assist you to manage and contain the possible spread of the pathogen. The aircraft on which Dr. Alexander Ivanov travels is heading for the Algiers-Houari Boumediene airport. Obviously, there is no need to remind you how much our nation would appreciate the utmost discretion... This is all for now, Mr. Ironside. Do svidanja.»
The communication interrupts abruptly and the screen switches again to standby.
Algerian Desert
Berber village
Young Ahmed's dark eyes stare at the immense sea of sand that stretches out of sight before him. Life in the small village behind him flows languidly in the eternal struggle for survival in the hostile environment of the African desert, cadenced by the slow rhythms of daily tasks. It's a tiny cluster of huts, built mostly with earth and wood, protected by high rocky hills. The occasional sound of a donkey or a dromedary breaks the silence.
Beside the boy, one of the village dogs appears to be taken by the vision too. The half-breed doesn't have a name, nor do the other dogs lounging in the shade of a rocky outcrop. His coat is fawn, mottled by dark patches, similar to that of a hyena. He always follows the young Ahmed and responds promptly when he whistles to call him. Sometimes they play together, the boy throws a stone or a bone and the dog runs to bring it back, standing on his hind legs to lick the boy's face.
It's the only dog that behaves in this way in the village.
Once Mohamed-the-Elder, one of the village oldest men, during one of the evenings spent by the fire, told him about the mysterious djinn: « ...the spirits that wander in the desert, and sometimes assume the appearance of solitary wayfarers or animals, to make fun of unwary travelers and eventually kidnap them. »
«If I meet someone in the desert, how do I know if it's a djinn who has taken the form of a man?», once the boy asked.
The old man took a very long drag from a hookah and exhaled a smoky aroma, sweet and spicy, watching it dancing and getting lost in the starry sky. «You know... djinn are strange», he finally answered. «Though they may conceal their true shape, there is always... a detail that betrays them. Something that seems out of place. Take your dog for example. In my life I have never seen one getting up on its hind legs like that, and stand straight as a man would do. It's not natural.»
At these words the boy felt a cold shiver down his spine, but he managed to control himself without showing it. He was sitting with men, he could not show childish attitudes. «You're saying that my dog is a djinn?», he asked.
«Who can say? Look at the world, boy, find these answers yourself. Even though... if I were you I would be careful not to show him my back, especially when you are alone and in an isolated place...»
«Are they evil?», the boy asked, more and more intrigued.
«Answer this question, young Ahmed: is man evil by his nature?»
The elder inhaled another puff from the hookah, then he continued, without waiting for the reply of the boy. The smoke exhaled from the mouth and nose as he spoke, and joined the wrinkles on his face framed by completely white hair and beard. It gave him a mystical and otherworldly aura. «There are evil djinn, but not necessarily. They are capricious sometimes, that's true, but in most cases they are just sad and very, very lonely beings. Now that I'm older I can understand them well, even if my life, which appears so long to me, it's just a blink of an eye for them. They walk about here and there since the dawn of time, they have lived longer than any man on earth, and men... huh, they have known many. I don't blame them if they are bored and a little disappointed. It's said that some of them can give great gifts if greeted with kindness and with good hospitality.
Keep the words of an old man well in mind.»
The boy wished to reply, to ask more questions, but the elder Mohamed raised a hand, telling everyone to stay silent. «No more talk now. Close your eyes. It's a beautiful moonlit night, and if you listen carefully you can always hear those sounds... Al azif, the voices of the djinn who wander in the wilderness...»
The man stopped talking. An unnatural silence had fallen, and seemed also to cover the low crackling of the fire.
The boy closed his eyes, concentrating on the sounds around him. His breath... the sound of invisible insects... the cry of a newborn in the distance...
Then suddenly one of the donkeys issued a long and loud fart.
«That, boy», the old Mohamed exclaimed. «That is certainly a nasty evil djinn that lets its voice heard.»
The men laughed, passing the hookah. Ahmed also smiled, in their wake, but with the fe
eling that the old man was making fun of him .
Washington
Pentagon
Ironside updates Thompson about his conversation with Leonidovich. His superior gives a slight smile, producing a snap with a corner of his mouth. His eyes remain as sharp as ever. «Your intuition was correct, John. The Russians know that we have hidden bases in the desert. They have come to our own conclusion too. It's safer to handle this in an isolated place, surrounded by miles of sand and arid expanses without a living soul. With a little luck we might be able to land the plane, get rid of Zaytsev's accomplice, check passengers and crew, and eventually make their trip go on as if nothing happened. We may justify the landing as a mechanical issue.»
«I hope everything goes well, Richard, but if there's one thing I've learned in the field, it's that luck hardly occurs in these cases.»
«I know, John, I know. This is why I ask you to join Dr. Moore as supervisor of operations on the spot.»
Ironside's eyes don't betray any emotion, while the other continues.
«You're the only one I really trust. You're a former Marine, and your experience may be a determining factor, if events were to take a different course from what we planned. We will also send a reinforcement marines team with you and I will make sure that you have full cooperation from everyone.»
Ironside nods, Thompson staring into his eyes. «Taisha and Darla won't like this at all...»
«I realize it, but I'm sure it would be better to not make your wife aware of this operation, at least until it will be all over. I promise you that when this thing is resolved, I will ensure that you may spend more time with your family.»
Ironside smiles. «This won't happen anytime soon, Richard. Duty is duty, we'll have to wait for retirement for this, even though right now I wonder if we will ever get there.»
Cellular Activity- The Djinn Page 4