Jan Coffey Thriller Box Set: Three Complete Novels: Blind Eye, Silent Waters, Janus Effect

by Jan Coffey

  “Your people have determined that the only known match for the bacteria was found in her lab,” Percy reminded him sharply.

  “We’re getting sidetracked, gentlemen.”

  Everyone in the room swung around to look at the large screen TVs at the far end of the room. President Penn’s face was stern and he had the look of an annoyed school teacher.

  Over a dozen top people from various branches of the armed forces filled the table in the room. The Vice President was here as well. The head of the Joint Chiefs sat beside General Percy, and the commander of CENTCOMM—the Unified Combatant Command unit for the Middle East and Central Asia—sat on the other side of him. President Penn was on the center TV screen. The flanking screens showed the others gathered in West Wing conference room. The Director of the CIA sat opposite the National Security Advisor. The Speaker of the House and the head of FEMA were both in attendance. Faas looked at the Director of Homeland Security seated beside the president. It would ultimately be President Penn’s call, but the Commander-in-Chief’s face was giving nothing away.

  The meeting had a short agenda. Updates were provided on Reynolds Pharmaceuticals’ ramped up schedule for the DM8A antibiotic. The first batch was coming off the production line in five days. There were distribution issues that needed to be addressed—where, how many units, instructions and waiver information in the event of release and public consumption. They still didn’t know if this specific antibiotic would have any effect on the strain of microbe that was producing the new Necrotizing Fasciitis they were facing. They couldn’t afford not to pursue every option, though. Faas hoped the reports from the FBI labs in Phoenix where the bodies had been moved would be encouraging. A number of simultaneous tests were being conducted using DM8A on lab samples while the autopsies were being conducted. NIH was running those tests.

  Another topic on the agenda pertained to how much of this potential disaster President Penn would relate in an address to the nation tonight. Reporters were acting more like wolves than usual. They were everywhere, hounding everyone.

  The situation threatened to spiral out of control. The National Guard—already stretched thin because of deployments overseas—had already been called to Phoenix, Los Angeles, and San Diego, in response to looting last night after the first of those photos showed up on the major networks. The government had made no other response except to call for calm. All questions would be answered tonight. Penn’s advisors knew it was only a matter of time before the deaths in Maine would be tied to the outbreak in Sedona. They needed to head that off, but they needed to have an emergency response strategy in place that would help to calm the fears of the public.

  Faas Hanlon had been running worst-case scenarios in his head for days, now. An outbreak in an urban center. New York. LA. Chicago. D.C. Preliminary reports were telling him that the super microbe could possibly be transmitted by way of water supplies, though they were still working on the lifespan of the bacteria, as well as its susceptibility to heat and cold. Those worst case scenarios, he knew, represented an international disaster that would make the plague look like a walk in the park. After all, the Black Death had only killed about a third of Europe’s population. This plague could change the world in ways that were unimaginable.

  Faas knew he was the only one in this room who was possibly holding a trump card. The phone call from his agents in Afghanistan had come late last night. Dr. Banaz was admitting that she’d developed a remedy for this strain of bacteria years ago. She was willing to take them to where she’d saved a back-up of the files that had been destroyed in the raid on her lab. Faas knew this was the biggest break they had so far. And that was why he’d insisted on speaking first at the meeting and putting everything he and his people needed on the table.

  Austyn Newman and Matt Sutton were both competent agents. Austyn was upbeat about the prisoner’s cooperation, but at the same time he’d voiced his concern that this could be a ploy on the part of Banaz. He told Faas that she could be using this simply as a way of giving them the runaround. Faas was willing to risk it, but Austyn would need to press her all the time. And if he decided that no files really existed, he was to cut the wild goose chase short.

  That trump card could still turn to shit in his hand, Faas knew, but he would hold it as long as he possibly could.

  Austyn had also mentioned his suspicion that US forces might have captured the wrong Dr. Banaz five years ago. Faas had directed him to keep this bit of speculation quiet, at least until they had substantial proof. If they didn’t have Rahaf Banaz, then at least they had an important connection to her. And that was good enough for now. If Rahaf Banaz was still alive, and Austyn was escorting her sister around Kurdistan, then the wild goose might just come to them. Stranger things had happened.

  “Specifics, ladies and gentlemen,” Penn said. “Deputy Director Hanlon, you need to be as specific as you can be in terms of timeline, manpower needs, and destination parameters. And you, General, need to decide how you can assist Deputy Director Hanlon’s agents.”

  An Air Force general at the far end of the table leaned in. “Mr. President, Erbil International is a good sized airport. Our jets fly in and out of an airbase adjoining it daily. I can arrange for the transfer of the prisoner from Afghanistan to Iraq.”

  The commanding general of the Marines in the Middle East chirped in, as well. “We have a special task force that is headquartered just outside of Erbil. We can arrange for an escort when they arrive.”

  Commander Percy looked across the room at Faas, his glare probing but a few degrees less hostile. “Dr. Banaz’s lab was raided in Baqouba, Diyala province’s capital city, thirty-five miles northeast of Baghdad. Now she wants us to take her to Erbil. Why would a scientist keep back-up files a hundred sixty miles away, in an area outside of Saddam Hussein’s control, an area that has been closely monitored by the United Nations since the first Gulf War? Our intelligence never mentioned the possibility of a lab facility in that region. Doesn’t the whole thing smell like a con job?”

  “It does have a peculiar odor, General. We don’t deny that.”

  Percy continued. “Even if these files exist, how could she have put them there and why? Even five years ago, it would have made more sense for this woman to tuck away an encrypted file in some corner of cyberspace where she could access it from anywhere in the world.” He shook his head and turned toward the TV screen. “This sounds like an exercise in futility, Mr. President.”

  “I understand your concerns, General.” Faas thumbed through the file before him, forcing himself to keep a civil tongue in his head. “Mr. President, I don’t have answers to all of the general’s concerns, but I can shed light on some of them.”

  “Briefly,” the president ordered.

  “Yes, sir. The reason why we give any credence to the information Dr. Banaz has given us is because she is of Kurdish descent. She was born and raised in the village of Halabja in Northern Iraq. She lost her parents and all but one of her siblings in Saddam Hussein’s Anfal campaign.”

  Faas looked around the room, contemplating if he should say more. He believed the Banaz woman’s motivation to help them was based on what had happened to her family, but most of the people around the table were in the military and would know what Saddam’s forces did to the Kurds. He was about to move on when the president broke in.

  “And the Anfal campaign is relevant to this discussion?” President Penn encouraged.

  “Yes, sir.” Faas glanced down at the page in his file to make sure he had the correct dates and numbers. “As you know, Anfal was an anti-Kurdish campaign led by Saddam Hussein security forces between 1986 and 1989. The plans for the attacks were orchestrated by Ali Hasan al-Majid, a cousin of the Iraqi leader. Chemical Ali’s trial in Iraq specifically described the use of ground offensives, aerial bombing, the systematic destruction of settlements, mass deportation, concentration camps, firing squads, and chemical warfare.”

  Over twenty years had passed since the campai
gn against the Kurds, but from the expression on the faces of the people in this room, no one had forgotten why the world was a better place without Saddam and his henchmen. Of course, there were still some unresolved issues with what had happened back then, including American support of Saddam. Faas knew that some of the people who were present in this room may have played some role.

  “The village of Halabja was the target of a poison gas attack in March 1988,” Faas continued. “The estimated casualties in that village alone were seven thousand. In all, the Anfal campaign destroyed four thousand villages, killing more than one hundred thousand Kurds and displacing another million.”

  No one said anything. Faas didn’t look at Percy, but he could feel that the general was about to explode. He quickly got to the point.

  “Regardless of the fact that her education was paid for by the Iraqi government and that she returned to serve in the chemical labs of Saddam’s regime, Dr. Banaz never severed her connection with her past.” Faas Hanlon took out a folder and held it up. “In this recent CIA report on Rahaf Banaz, intelligence shows transfers of money that date from the very start of her service up to the invasion of US forces. In short, Dr. Banaz transferred the majority of her income to a number of institutions in Kurdish region.”

  “What kind of institutions?” someone asked.

  “Humanitarian aid groups?” the Marine general chirped in.

  “Our information comes from groups we have connections with,” Faas told the room. “Some of the money was clearly intended for humanitarian efforts. Some of the money, though, made its way into the hands of Kurdish resistance groups. Naturally, we can’t determine at this point how supportive she was of groups that opposed her boss, but what is clear is that she has never stopped identifying herself as a Kurd.”

  “She sounds like a loose cannon to me,” General Percy said.

  “I agree,” Faas countered. “But right now, at least, she’s cooperating with us.”

  “Does she understand the urgency of this matter?” the head of FEMA asked from the West Wing conference room. “It would be so much faster if she’d just give us the location of those files and let us get them for her.”

  “She has good reason not to trust us,” Faas said directly to the camera feeding the images to the White House. “As I said at the beginning of this meeting, Dr. Banaz has spent five years in American prisons without a trial or legal recourse.”

  The Marine general leaned forward. “This may be an erroneous assumption, but since she grew up in the village of Halabja, it is logical that Halabja would be her destination. The location of the village isn’t particularly ideal for us, being as close as it is to the Iranian border. But our patrols do go in and out of that sector regularly. If that’s where she says she wants to go, we can arrange the escort…with General Percy’s authorization, of course.”

  The Air Force general at the far end of the table spoke again. “Gentlemen, since the fall of Saddam’s government, we’ve had only sporadic, isolated violence in Erbil…unlike most of Iraq. Of any region in the country, that one would be probably the safest to take her into right now.”

  A brief buzz of individual comments started around the room and then stopped abruptly when General Percy laid his meaty hands on the table.

  “What’s she bargaining for, Hanlon?” Percy asked gruffly.

  “Her freedom,” Faas replied, looking the general steadily in the eye.

  “All right, then.” Percy didn’t blink. “But I won’t forget who’s putting the lives of American soldiers on the line.”

  Eleven

  Brickyard Prison, Afghanistan

  They had nothing to say to each other, and yet Captain Adams never ceased with the effort to engage Fahimah in small talk.

  Thinking about it, Fahimah decided that it would be a difficult transition for anyone, especially an Army captain in charge of a facility like this, seeing a detainee moved from dangerous ‘enemy to America’ status to ‘we-depend-on-you-to-save-our-country’ status in the matter of an hour or so. But the new status was exactly that, and Fahimah was being treated accordingly. The pendulum had swung completely.

  Being able to move about without shackles and handcuffs and blindfold made her feel immediately that she’d rejoined a world she never thought she’d belong to again. Given a change of clothing was another positive step. But none of this compared with the change in her jailor’s attitude. She was given choices in food and even in the clothing she wished to wear, to some extent. She’d been allowed to take a shower in a private stall. She’d even adjusted the temperature and decided on the length of time she wanted to stay under the warm, cleansing water. This had been the most luxurious, the most stunning, of all her newfound freedoms.

  Fahimah knew all of these were part of the ploy, of course. Another chapter in her long record of captivity. They could snatch it away at any time. Still, she was willing to go along with it all, even if it made the future more unbearable than the past had been. It bought time. It would give her a chance to find her sister. It was the only chance they had, and a small key opens big doors.

  “You have good weather to fly in,” Captain Adams said to her, moving around her desk to the window, where a small air conditioning unit was working overtime, blasting only slightly cooler air into the room. She looked past the captain’s shoulder.

  Two days in the row, she was getting a glimpse of blue sky. The captain’s office was on the second level of the old brick making facility. Two small windows overlooked a partially paved road with a view of mountainous terrain in the distance. Until yesterday, Fahimah didn’t know what kind of building they were keeping her in. She’d heard someone say something about being in Afghanistan weeks ago, but she still didn’t know what part of the country she was in or how many other people were imprisoned here.

  She glanced at the table next to her, toward the magazines they’d given her that morning. Long ago, she’d locked up her mind, sealed her thoughts in an impenetrable bubble, but last night she’d made the decision to unseal that part of her. As a result, for the first time in perhaps years, she’d found herself starved for news. There was so much that had been happening in the world, so much that she had missed.

  The news of Saddam’s hanging had been a surprise, but not a shock. She’d figured that was only a matter of time anyway. There had to be a great deal more important news. She’d asked about a few things, but the Americans were clearly a little hesitant about how much they should tell her. When she’d been captured, half the world had been searching for a devil named Osama bin Laden. Arabs were a difficult lot, she thought, and the Saudis were the worst. Always stirring the pot of misery, and simply to drive up the price of their oil a few bloody pennies.

  The few magazines they’d given her had offered very little of what she was after. Celebrity marriages between people she’d never heard of were breaking up, and a movie star was adopting what appeared to be a fifth or sixth child, but overall the magazines offered no perspective of what was happening in the world. Still, she had read the magazines cover-to-cover in the matter of a couple of hours.

  “Do you have a home, a place where you can go back to, once this…this business is all finished?”

  Fahimah was surprised by the question. She looked up. Captain Adams had moved to the front of her desk, her hip resting on the corner of it. The woman was looking directly at her. Fahimah had to remind herself that she should carry no grudge against this person. Governments and policies she could blame, but individuals like this one were only pawns in a larger and more complicated game. The same thing applied to Rahaf and Fahimah herself. They’d lived in a country that was run by a butcher. That did not make them butchers. In fact, they were just the opposite.

  Still, despite this logic and the conscious desire to put animosity aside, it was terribly difficult to warm to a former jailer. Abuses occurred here; individuals were being denied the so-called inalienable human right to a trial, and Captain Adams occupied the top position
of authority in this prison. Fahimah could not pretend to be friendly with the person holding the key to the shackles. She would play along with this pretense of freedom, but she would not forget that there were many others still locked in the cells below. If they were here, she guessed, they were in the same situation as she. No trial, no jury, no idea of what was going to happen to them tomorrow or next week or next year.

  “I don’t know,” Fahimah shrugged. “I don’t know what is left of my country.”

  Adams nodded with understanding, crossing her arms over her chest. Her expression became pensive. “This war has taken much longer than any of us thought it would. There are times I think the same thing about my own home and family.”

  Fahimah appreciated the candidness. From the horrible photographs she’d been shown by the agents, it appeared that people in the US were under attack, too. Her thoughts immediately focused on what she’d promised Agent Newman. She hadn’t lied. A remedy to the microbe existed. She’d seen Rahaf taking it. But if they were to find the remedy, then she would have to keep alive the hope that her sister was still living…and that Fahimah could find her. She rubbed the back of her neck. Thoughts of the plots she would need to hatch once they got to Erbil Airport crowded her mind. There was so much that she still needed to figure out.

  There was a knock on the door before the two American agents entered. She hadn’t seen or spoken to either of them since last night. Each man gave her a long hard look, as if he were seeing her for the first time.

  Rather than a new pair of coveralls, Fahimah had borrowed some clothes from Captain Adams—camouflage fatigue pants, a white cotton shirt, and plastic sandals. In spite of her very short hair, she didn’t want to look like one of the soldiers. Of course, she thought, there weren’t many American soldiers who looked half starved. She’d been somewhat shocked this morning in the bathroom at how frail she looked.