Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller: Book 2

by Bobby Adair

  “So, this nurse, Alison no-last-name, who you think works for the police,” Buchanan made a vague waving motion into the air, “or maybe the FBI, told you that information about the source of the virus would help them find a cure.”

  “Yes,” Salim nodded quickly. “Yes, that’s exactly right.”

  Buchanan rolled back in his leather chair. Its oaken frame creaked so painfully under Buchanan’s weight, Salim thought it might collapse. Buchanan reached into a desk drawer and took out a disturbingly phallic cigar. He snipped the tip off the cigar with a brutal little flair. Grasping a decorative, metallic brick of a lighter from his desk, Buchanan leaned back in his squealing chair and torched the big cigar. His fish eyes twinkled through a fat puff of smoke as it rose toward the stained ceiling.

  Through the pointless cigar show, Salim silently kept his patience.

  Buchanan said, “You didn’t tell the police anything about where you were, because you were in a camp in Pakistan.” Buchanan looked down at Salim. “Pakistan, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some short Napoleonic terrorist man took you to a village in Africa, in some town called Kapchorwa, and infected you with Ebola. He then put you on a plane and bounced you around a dozen airports before you got sick in Dallas and wound up in the hospital—a hospital that has everybody in Dallas scared shitless, because people go in there to die.” Buchanan put a ridiculous emphasis on the word die, so much emphasis that it made Salim feel guilty for not having lost his life there.

  “You don’t want to get arrested for terrorism. And, I might add, if the people of Dallas thought you brought Ebola here, they might take you out and hang you.” Buchanan grinned at that. “Because you don’t want to get arrested, you keep mum about the whole trip overseas, even though the police and the FBI have your passport and have seen you’ve been to Pakistan and Nairobi, and wherever else you claim to have been.”

  Buchanan puffed an obnoxious cloud of smoke, somewhat at the ceiling, but mostly at Salim. “You think if you tell them anything—the police I mean—they’ll haul you off to Guantanamo, and you’ll never be heard from again. You think if you get a lawyer first, a lawyer like me, then you’ll be able to parlay your knowledge into a deal to get you amnesty. What’s more, you want me to take on a job that will likely consume all of my waking hours for the next two years, assuming you’re telling the truth. You don’t have one shred of identification to prove who you are. I haven’t seen one single story in the news to corroborate that you are the guy who passed out at the Dallas airport. It could have been anybody, based on what was reported. Oh, and the best part: you don’t have one red cent to pay me for my trouble. Is that about right?”

  “Yes,” Salim answered. “I mean, no. I mean, not now. I don’t have any money.” Salim saw that he was losing Buchanan, and given his luck at even finding someone who would take the time to listen, he figured he’d better play all his cards. “I don’t know how any of this stuff works, but I may be able to sell my story to Hollywood if you can keep me out of jail—kind of an insider’s view of the world of terrorism. I think it has potential. If we can make that happen—”

  “We?” Buchanan asked.

  “Yes.” Salim nodded vigorously, thinking he was somehow agreeing to a partnership. “Yes, if we can make that happen, the fees you earn from—I don’t know—being my lawyer through all of that will be significant. That can pay for the services of defending me.” There it was. Salim had told Buchanan everything. He slumped back in his chair and waited, while Buchanan filled more of the air around him with pungent smoke.

  “Here’s what I don’t understand, Salim.” Buchanan leaned forward and his rolls flowed over his side of the desk, the chair cried out under the shift. “I don’t understand why you’re not in Guantanamo already.” Buchanan drilled Salim with his stare.

  “I...I...don’t know.”

  “Because if you came into this country infected with Ebola, and had a Pakistani stamp on your passport with no credible story about where you’ve been for the last several months, I think the CIA would have your ass slung up in a dog collar somewhere, while some big fellows beat the truth out of you. That’s what I think.”

  Salim shook his head as he looked for a rebuttal.

  “I think you’re lying to me. I think you’re some Mexican kid—”

  “Mexican?” Salim couldn’t believe it.

  Buchanan bellowed right over Salim. “—probably a gang banger who sees this tragedy on the news, and thinks he can capitalize on the suffering with some kind of Hollywood movie deal, and all you need to do is stick to a story. You just need to be a good liar. That’s what I think. So why don’t you get the hell out of my office, before I come around this desk and kick your skinny little ass out myself?”

  Salim was reeling. He thought Buchanan was going to help him. “But—”

  “Go!” Buchanan shouted. “Git!”

  Chapter 67

  Olivia looked through the series of photos taken by the drone for the Battle Damage Assessment. The buildings were crumbled and blackened. Bodies were still strewn. The compound was remote, so it was not surprising that no one had come to investigate or bury the dead. Of course, with Ebola everywhere, who would?

  The three ships that had been anchored just offshore were out of commission. One had sunk, and Olivia saw the outline of its broken form beneath the clear water. One, she guessed, was beneath a cloud of oil that flowed down current. The beautiful white yacht had run aground next to the pier, and was listing far to starboard. Its superstructure was burned to the metal framework, and it looked like a hull full of twisted, black, modern sculptures.

  Her cell phone buzzed, as she glanced at it sitting next to her mouse pad. Bringing personal cell phones into the building was explicitly forbidden, but with Eric out, the building staff thinning by the day, and every other thing going on in the world, Olivia had a bad case of I-don’t-give-a-shit where that rule was concerned.

  She picked up the phone. “Social or business?”

  “What’s the difference?” Mathew laughed. “Seems like all we ever talk about is Ebola.”

  Olivia chuckled. “Sorry about that.”

  “How’s your dad doing?”

  “He’ll live.”

  “Did he really infect himself?” Wheeler asked. “I’m not judging. From a purely statistical perspective, it’s not a bad idea.”

  “I honestly don’t even know if its true,” she said. “You know how the media is. But he won’t talk to me about it so I can’t ask.”

  “Olivia, don’t worry about any of that. Just be thankful knowing that he’s got his antibodies now. He won’t get sick again. As bad as the rest is, that’s an enviable silver lining.”

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  “The NFL cancelled the season, so we can’t talk about football.”

  Shocked, Olivia said, “I didn’t hear about that.”

  “It had to be done. The commissioner just announced it. There’s talk of a national ban on assembly but people are in an uproar over that. They may have to word the ban differently, or just be more specific, like closing theaters and malls, shutting down the bus lines and passenger trains, that sort of thing. Otherwise, it’s an attack on our constitutional rights. Anyway, I got your message and just now had time to call back.”

  Olivia told Wheeler about her conversation with Mitch.

  “I didn’t suspect it was that bad in Nairobi,” said Wheeler.

  “If you graph out the daily case counts in Dallas,” said Olivia, “the graph goes parabolic, and it’s headed in the direction of Nairobi.”

  “I can believe it,” said Wheeler. “Dallas announced ten thousand cases yesterday, and this morning they’re already over twelve. At least things in Atlanta seemed to have slowed a bit.”

  “Still under ten?” Olivia asked.

  “Yes, but the number of dead is—” Wheeler couldn’t find the right words for a moment. “We’ve got twenty-one hundred dead
in Atlanta so far. Those are appalling numbers, but every day, when the mayor announces the numbers, he announces the total case count as well as the number of dead. Two thousand deaths over a little less than ten thousand cases seems to imply a mortality rate of twenty or twenty-five percent.”

  “But that’s not right,” Olivia observed.

  “Exactly. Eighty-four percent of our cases in Atlanta were reported in the past seven days.”

  “Parabolic,” Olivia confirmed.

  “If you look at the mortality rate of cases over seven days old, it’s nearly ninety percent.”

  “Nine out of ten are dying?”

  “So far,” Wheeler confirmed. “That’s with the best medical care we have to offer. It will get worse. We have people who reported over seven days ago and are still sick. I honestly don’t know where the mortality rate will peak.”

  “And when we run out of drugs to treat the symptoms?” Olivia asked.

  “It’ll get worse.”

  “Is there anything that can be done?”

  “Prevention,” said Wheeler. “The President is going to give a speech tonight and go through a series of recommendations. Everybody in the country needs to protect themselves. They need to avoid physical contact. They need to keep their distance. They need to wear masks and gloves.”

  “Do you think it will help?”

  “Yes,” said Wheeler. “I just hope we’re not too late.”

  “What about treatments?” Olivia asked. “Any headway there?”

  “We’re testing treatments with the blood serum of survivors, transfusing it into the newly infected. Preliminary results look promising.”

  “At least that’s something.”

  “It’s full of risk, but if it saves lives—” Mathew sighed. “Hey, I’ve got to go. A ton of stuff going on over here today. Thanks for the Nairobi info. Can I talk to your contact there?”

  “I need to get back with you on that one, okay?”

  “Okay. Gotta go.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  Going back to the Battle Damage Assessment, Olivia came across a casualty page with a number of definite casualties, and a number of probable casualties based on estimates of occupants in the buildings and inside the ships. The number that got her attention though was the number known to have survived, thirteen. One of the photos taken just after the explosions showed thirteen of the black bodies outlined on the ground, each with an orange circle. In a photo taken the next day, those orange circles remained but the bodies were missing. All of the other bodies were unmoved.

  Chapter 68

  Salim looked at the route information on the laminated card attached to the post that held the roof over the bus stop bench. The bus was supposed to run every thirteen minutes, or so the sign said. Salim had no watch, and of course, no cell phone, so no way to know how much time had passed. It seemed like an hour. He looked up and down the street for the tenth time. No bus was coming. It didn’t matter. He had no idea where he was going, but he had plenty of time to get there.

  He dropped back down on the bench. He thought about the hospital. He wished he’d been bolder as he’d rummaged through the discarded clothes, wished he’d taken a few credit cards, or a cell phone. He looked both ways down the street again. He wished he’d taken a watch. All he had was the cash he’d found—stolen—and the ill-fitting clothes. He wanted to get a hotel room, get into a bed, draw the blankets up over his head, and hide from his problems. His limited pocket of cash wouldn’t last long when paying hotel rent. He was smart enough to know that.

  Having mined his imagination for all the options he could conceive, having come to the end of his hope, he surrendered the last of his pride. He needed to call his father, admit his mistakes, and ask forgiveness. He tried to resurrect an old habit with a reach into a pocket for a cell phone that wasn’t there. He cursed. He stomped away from the bus stop, looking for a pay phone. He saw none. Had modern technology stolen all of those too?

  Salim walked down another street and passed business after business, looking for a pay phone that just wasn’t there. He got desperate, walked into a convenience store and asked to borrow the telephone, but was told to go away. He went into a dry cleaner and begged, even showing them his money, but was shooed away by two Asian women with distrustful eyes.

  He just needed to call his dad. Why couldn’t these people be a little more compassionate?

  Chapter 69

  Olivia answered her phone when she saw who was calling. “Hello?”

  “Olivia?” Mitch responded.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m in Kapchorwa, and there’s nobody here.”

  Olivia feared the possibility, but had held onto hope for better news. “What about Austin?”

  “I can’t say,” said Mitch. “We originally found him out behind the hospital, near a pile of burned corpses. He’s not there now, but I wouldn’t have expected him to be. A couple of doctors were with him when I left and a company of Ugandan soldiers was in town. The hospital looks like it’s been cleaned out.”

  “So there’s nobody? Nobody around to tell you what happened?” Olivia asked.

  “I’ve searched the town, I went to some of the nearby farms. I haven’t seen a soul.”

  Olivia sighed as she tried to think of a next step.

  “I’m sorry,” said Mitch. “I was hoping we’d find him here.”

  “That’s okay. We don’t know he’s dead. I can still have hope. What happens now?”

  “I haven’t planned past Kapchorwa,” said Mitch. “Besides, it’s dark here. I’ll spend the night in the hospital, if the monkeys will leave me alone. Any luck yet on finding a way for me to get home? Not that I’m pressuring you.”

  “Nothing yet. It’s more difficult than I thought. I didn’t expect to find much in the way of planes or ships, but it seems nothing at all is moving. How did you get across the border into Uganda?”

  “I drove. Nobody was watching the crossing. The soldiers on both sides either went home—or hell, maybe they died. Things are bad here.”

  “How are you keeping your phone charged?”

  “That’s classified.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  Mitch added playfully to break the tension. “Just kidding. Solar charger.”

  Olivia actually laughed. “Thanks for that. It seems like I never even smile anymore.”

  “You know, if you can’t find me a way home, I may stay here until everything blows over. You wouldn’t believe how beautiful it is here.”

  “Austin sent me pictures. I’d love to visit one day.”

  “You can crash at my place. I’ve got a whole town to myself, you know.”

  Olivia laughed again. “I need to ask you another favor.”

  “Another favor? Didn’t I just drive to another country for you?” Mitch chuckled to let her know he was still kidding. “Sure.”

  “I have a friend at the CDC, Dr. Mathew Wheeler. I told him about your observations in Nairobi. I think it would be helpful if you could talk to him directly. As bad as things are, nobody over here seems to have any idea where this is going.”

  “I don’t want to have to sell some doctor on—”

  “No,” Olivia interrupted, “it’s not like that. He’s open-minded and smart. We’re not getting any information out of East Africa now, and I think if he could pass along what you have to say, maybe we can take some preventive measures over here that will help. Everybody over here is scared, but based on what you told me, I’m think maybe we’re not scared enough.”

  “Sure. Just give him my number.

  “There’s one other thing I need to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I told you Najid Almasi’s compound got bombed, and that he was probably dead.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He might still be alive.”

  Chapter 70

  The morning sweltered in humidity. It was the third day after the elephant slaughter. Storms thundered over the mounta
in and down the western slope of Mt. Elgon. The rain didn’t come to cool the southern slope. The weather brought only sticky air, biting flies, and the stink of overflowing sewer pits behind the hostage hut.

  Most of the rebels left the camp early and headed down the mountain. With a quiet camp, Austin sat against the outside wall of the hut, waiting to be told what to do. Through the boredom of doing nothing, the sound of a truck in need of a muffler rumbled out of nothingness and slowly grew louder over the span of an hour or so. It seemed to be coming up the side of the mountain on rugged switchbacks, until unexpectedly, the noise of the engine stopped and brought an end to the most interesting thing to happen since they returned from the elephant hunt.

  Sander and Wei were in the main pavilion preparing a midday meal. Usually, it was Min and Wei who prepared the meals, but with everyone out of camp, Min had successfully lobbied a guard to allow him to stay on nurse duty. He knelt inside the hut, holding Tian’s hand and dabbing his skin with a wet cloth, trying to control a fever that wouldn’t abate. Ominously, Tian had found silence, and no longer interrupted anyone’s sleep with his pained sobs. His eyes hadn’t opened in days. Nobody said it aloud, but the looks on the other hostages’ faces told Austin that they all expected him to die.

  Austin wondered if that was to be his fate, as well.

  The man The General had sent to Kampala the day after Austin had been kidnapped never returned. Others sent since were likewise not heard from again. The General was worried and the worry carried down in the form of tense nerves to every rebel in the camp.

  Austin wondered if it was time to take his chances and escape into the forest. He’d been in the camp for maybe a month. He was wiry, and without any body fat to slow him down. He felt strong, but knew his strength wouldn’t last. There had to be a time, a specific day, when his recovery from Ebola and the loss of his body fat would leave him in the best physical condition he could achieve, before the debilitating effects of the starvation diet hit. A window of opportunity would open during which he could run and have a hope of escaping. Once it closed, he’d be at The General’s mercy.