by D C Alden
He looked up at the monitors, then settled back into his seat, filled with a restless energy. Another few days and he would be in position, waiting for the signal, ready to deploy.
No, he corrected himself.
Ready to make history.
The C-17 touched down in a cloud of spray at Ramstein Air Base, a little under two hours after lifting off from Vienna International Airport.
The aircraft avoided the bright cluster of terminal lights and taxied towards the southern perimeter of the airfield where personnel wearing rain slickers and waving orange wands guided the Globemaster towards an unlit and rarely used concrete apron. There, the engines were shut down, and it waited silently beneath a fine drizzle. Two dark coloured minivans glided to a stop a short distance away. The ramp was lowered and Mike Savage led his team off the plane, leaving the frustrated medical personnel and their isolation equipment behind. Wearing civilian clothes, they bundled their gear and the still-hooded Lucas into the waiting minivans.
It took two minutes to travel from the apron to the dark building partially hidden by the thick woods that surrounded the airbase. Stan Lando was waiting for them in the lobby. He shook hands with Finch and his SEALs. Mike’s team followed behind. Lando watched them escort the prisoner down the hallway.
‘Jeez, he’s a big fucker.’
‘Curled up like a baby when we found him.’ Mike stepped a little closer. ‘He’s lucky to be alive, Stan. Those Austrian troops were operating on a shoot-to-kill policy.’
‘No Nunez or WMD’s either,’ Lando added. ‘The intel was off.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘Let’s save it for the debrief.’ Lando pointed down the hallway. ‘We’re in room fourteen. You guys grab a coffee and some chow and we’ll get into it in thirty minutes.’
It was well after midnight when Mike had Lucas escorted to the interview room.
Miller handcuffed his right wrist to a steel loop set into the table. The walls were covered with soundproof tiles and the dead air inside the room smelled of cigarettes and sweat.
Tapper set up the audio equipment and gave Mike a nod. Miller whipped the hood off Lucas’s head and left the room. The bearded Brit blinked several times as his eyes grew accustomed to the bright overheads.
‘Where am I?’ he asked, his voice croaky, his head swivelling around the confined space.
Mike and Lando were sat across the table. Mike was the first to speak. ‘You hungry? Thirsty?’ Mike knew he would be; Lucas hadn’t been fed or watered since his capture.
Tapper came off the wall and popped open a tin of soda. Lucas snatched it up and tipped it into his mouth, gulping noisily. He devoured the offered candy bar just as quickly. Mike waited until the big man had finished.
‘You’re a lucky guy,’ he told Lucas.
The Brit rattled his handcuffs. ‘I don’t feel so lucky.’
‘All your tree-hugging buddies are dead,’ Lando explained. He cocked a thumb at Mike. ‘If it wasn’t for my colleague here, you’d be lying toes-up in a Vienna morgue. Take a moment to think about that.’
Lucas stared at the two men sat in front of him, at Tapper leaning against the wall. ‘I want to speak to a lawyer. A British one.’
Lando looked confused. He turned to Mike. ‘You pass any British lawyers out in the hallway?’
Mike shook his head. ‘Can’t say I did.’ He turned around. ‘What about you?’
Tapper glared at Lucas. ’I doubt there’s a Brit lawyer anywhere within a five hundred mile radius.’
Lucas’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’ve got rights,’ he muttered, unconvinced.
‘Not anymore.’
Lucas swallowed, his free hand stroking his thick beard. ‘Who are you people? I mean, I know you’re Americans.’
‘He’s a quick study,’ Lando smirked.
There was a knock at the door and one of Lando’s team entered. She handed over a note and left the room without a word. Lando read it, then nudged Mike.
‘Let’s talk.’
Mike followed him out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. ‘What’s up?’
Lando handed him the message. ‘DDO wants this guy returned to Vienna, asap.’
Mike raised an eyebrow. He read the message, saw the name of the CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations. Authority didn’t come much higher than that.
‘Why?’
‘Must be a political angle here.’
‘The Austrian op was total overkill. I’ve seen less carnage after a Paveway hit.’ Mike lowered his voice. ‘You know what I think? I think if Lucas goes back to Vienna, he’ll be dead by morning.’
‘I agree, something stinks.’ Lando looked at his watch. ‘I’ll give you one hour, Mike, so squeeze the guy hard and fast. And lay off the heavy stuff, okay? He goes back to Vienna in one piece.’
‘Can I hold on to this?’ He waved the message slip.
Lando nodded and Mike stepped back inside the interview room. He gave Tapper a covert wink as he re-read the message in his hand. He sighed dramatically, then looked at Lucas and shook his head.
‘Wow, you guys fucked up big time.’
Lucas frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘One of your people in Vienna; turns out she was a Russian intelligence agent. Moscow is going apeshit. They’ve called dibs on you, so you’re heading east. Sorry, buddy.’
Lucas bolted out of his chair, the chain around his wrist snapping tight.
‘Wait a minute. What Russian?’
Mike ignored him, turned to Tapper. ‘Let’s get him prepped for travel. And make sure he gets a decent meal before we hand him over. I doubt the Russians will care too much about feeding him.’
‘Hey! I told you, I don’t know anything!’ Lucas yelled, his voice pitching up a notch. ‘I was in Vienna for less than a week. I didn’t know anyone, and definitely no Russians.’
Mike stared at him. ‘Not interested, buddy.’ He headed for the door.
‘You can’t do this! I’m a British citizen!’
Mike stopped and turned around. ‘Let me tell you what you are; you’re a major player in an international conspiracy, which, by law, renders you legally stateless. That means the security apparatus of any country on this planet can claim you if they have an interest.’
‘In your case it’s the Russians,’ Tapper added, ‘and stateless individuals rarely make it back from the motherland.’
Lucas’s head swivelled between the CIA men. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘You ever hear of Black Dolphin?’ Tapper asked him.
Lucas’s face had paled. ‘No.’
’It’s a lifers prison near the Kazakhstan border, filled with Russia’s most dangerous criminals; serial killers, child rapists, cannibals, terrorists — you get the picture. Once they’ve squeezed you dry they’ll probably dump you in there. There’ll be no file, no paperwork. You’ll just disappear.’ Tapper shrugged. ‘That’s how they roll. You should prepare yourself.’
Lucas stared at them open mouthed, his eyes wide. When he spoke, his words trembled. ‘I’ve done some bad shit, I admit it, but I don’t know anything about a Russian agent, I swear. Please, don’t let them take me.’
Mike stood in front of the table, his arms folded. ‘Moscow has claimed you, so deal with it. Besides, you’ve told us jack shit. We don’t even know your last name, and quite frankly it’s better for us if we don’t.’
‘Lucas Wynn,’ he blurted. He rattled off his place and date of birth, his address in the UK, the names of his parents and siblings.
‘That’s nice,’ Mike told him. ‘The Russians are real big on family. I’m sure your roomies will find all that fascinating.’
‘I’ll tell you everything,’ Lucas jabbered. ‘I’ll tell you about the tramps, the virus, the incinerator, everything.’
Mike frowned. ‘Tramps?’
‘You know, homeless people. We killed loads of ‘em. With the virus. It worked too. Fucking lethal that stuff.’
Lucas stared open-mouthed. ‘How?’
’One of your people was an undercover cop. She survived your hit job.’
’She?’
‘A young woman. She gave a very detailed brief about her time with the Global Liberation Front. In fact, she mentioned you by name.’
Lucas dropped back into his chair. ‘Olivia,’ he whispered. His body deflated like a balloon, his forehead resting on the table. Then he bolted upright. ‘Can I see her? It wasn’t my fault, see? Marion ordered me to do it.’
Mike picked up a tablet and swiped it open. He showed Lucas the photofits. ‘That’s you. This woman is Marion, right?’
Lucas nodded, made scissor fingers. ‘She’s cut her hair since. Dyed it too.’
‘Was she at the warehouse in Vienna?’
‘Yeah, but she left with Philip, just before you lot showed up.’
‘Who’s Philip?’
‘A friend of Marion’s. She ran the UK operation and Philip looked after Berlin.’
‘What’s in Berlin?’
‘That’s where they made the virus. Where they kept your bloke. Nunez.’
Mike took a second or two to digest what he’d just heard. ‘Are you talking about Lance Corporal Hector Nunez?’
Lucas nodded. ‘They dug him out of the rubble in Baghdad, kept him in some kind of steel box thing. Scared the living shit out of me when I saw him. That was the first one I’d ever seen.’
‘And this was in Berlin?’
‘That’s right. At some old hotel, just outside the city. Me and Marion went there once, to pick up the first batches for testing. After that I’d drive over to France to collect them. They were disguised as mixers, you know, for gin, vodka, so I could smuggle them through customs. Clever stuff.’
‘Who was making it?’
Lucas shrugged. ’No idea. Scientists I suppose. I never saw ‘em.’
Mike’s fingers worked the tablet. He browsed to the Wall of the Fallen website, the one that listed everyone killed in Baghdad. He enlarged the picture of a fresh-faced Latino Marine with a dark buzzcut. Lance Corporal Hector Nunez, USMC. He flipped it around, shoved it under Lucas’s nose.
‘Is that the man you saw?’
Lucas nodded. ‘That’s him. He doesn’t look like that anymore, though.’
‘Is he there now? In this hotel?’
Lucas bit a nail, spat out the clipping. ‘I doubt it. They chopped him up.’
Tapper’s face twisted in disgust. ’They what?’
‘That’s what Marion told me. It’s how they made the virus.’
Mike leaned closer. ‘Tell us about Philip. Age, height, hair colour, anything you can.’
Lucas frowned and stared at the table. ‘Same age as Marion I guess, early forties, thin, going a bit bald on top. He was German, I think. Then again, I heard him and Marion speaking some other funny language. I can’t say for sure. I only met him once.’
’To clarify, Philip and Marion were in charge?’
‘And Gunter Warburg. He bankrolled everything. Used to be a politician or something. Google him.’
‘Where’s Warburg now?’
‘At the factory, in Vienna.’
Mike and Tapper shared a look. The guy was probably being scraped off the walls at that very moment.
’To clarify, Philip and Marion were in charge?’
‘Yes,’ Lucas nodded. Then he snapped his fingers. ‘Wait, there was someone else, an American. I heard Marion talking to him a few times, on that satellite phone of hers. I had my earbuds in, you know, listening to music, but sometimes I’d switch it off and listen to her.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘I can be smart too, you know.’
‘An American? You’re sure?’
‘Definitely. He was loud too. A typical Ya — ’ Lucas bit the word off and cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, Marion did a lot of nodding and listening, like he was giving her orders. And he coughed a lot too. I could hear him hacking away down the phone. A smoker, probably.’
‘You hear anything else? Names, places, dates, anything?’
’Nope.’
‘And Philip and Marion left before we arrived?’
‘That’s right.’ Lucas spent a minute or two explaining their escape.
’So let me understand this,’ Mike said, leaning over the table and fixing Lucas with a hard stare. ‘Marion had you clean up the UK operation, making sure you left no witnesses behind. You then accompany her to Vienna, where the Berlin team have gathered, at which point the police show up and kill everyone in sight. Except Philip and Marion.’
‘And me,’ Lucas told him.
‘That’s right, and you.’
The Brit frowned, and Mike thought he could hear the man’s cogs grinding. Then his eyes widened, and he slapped a big hand on the table.
‘They knew you lot were coming, didn’t they? That’s why they were in such a hurry.’ His head drooped, his thick beard brushing against his chest. ‘I worked with Marion for a long time. We got on, y’know? I thought we were friends.’
‘She sacrificed you, Lucas.’
‘I did all her dirty work, killed all them smelly bastards, and for what?’ He looked up at Mike, his eyes wide, almost childlike. ‘I thought we were doing the right thing, saving the planet. She told us it was the only way. I believed her. We all did.’
‘Where were they going?’ Mike asked.
Lucas frowned. ‘Who?’
Mike clapped his hands in front of the Brit’s nose. ‘Wake up, goddammit! Philip and Marion; when they left the factory, where were they going?’
‘Munich.’
‘Which is probably bullshit. So where else would they go?’
‘No idea,’ Lucas said, and shrugged. ‘Somewhere with a lot of people I suppose.’
’To do what? Lie low? Hide?’
Lucas stared at Mike. ‘Haven’t you been listening? They’re going to release the virus.’
He took the stairs two at a time and headed straight to Lando’s temporary office, knocking once before marching inside. The field supervisor was busy eating a sandwich as he tapped away on his laptop.
‘He give you anything?’ Lando mumbled through his food.
‘We’ve got a problem,’ Mike told him. ‘We’ve got two targets in the wind. One of them is Marion, the UK intel subject. The other is a guy called Philip. They got out of the factory in Vienna just before the locals threw up the cordon. Like they’d been tipped off.’
Lando put down his sandwich and wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘The DDO will need more than that, Mike.’
‘He saw Nunez some months ago, at a location outside of Berlin. They had a lab there, tested H-1 on vagrants kidnapped from the city, just like the Brit operation. He said they chopped Nunez up to reproduce the infection.’
Outside, a C-130 barrelled down the runway in a cloud of spray, the roar of its engines rolling across the airbase. Lando pushed his plate to one side.
‘Say that again?’
‘Whoever’s running this operation has already tied up the loose ends. The UK and Berlin sites have been shut down. Vienna took care of the hired help. Now Philip and Marion are in the wind and they’re going to release H-1.’
Lando paled. ‘Have we any idea where?’
Mike shook his head. ‘Negative.’
‘You believe this Lucas guy?’
‘I gave him the Black Dolphin line. He’s cooperating, believe me.’ Mike placed his hands on Lando’s desk. ‘We have to find these people, Stan. And we’ll need every resource available. That’ll mean Oval Office approval.’
Lando reached for his phone. He punched a number and leaned back in his chair.
‘There’s something else,’ Mike warned. ‘There’s another player, a ringmaster, someone calling the shots. An American.’
Lando stared at him for a moment, then the call connected. ‘I need to speak to the DDO,’ the fiel
d supervisor said. ‘Right now.’
Bowel Movement
Mumbai, or Bombay as it was known before 1995, is the capital city of the Indian state of Maharashtra. It is the wealthiest city in India, and home to the highest number of billionaires and millionaires across the country. It is also the financial, commercial and entertainment capital of India, and one of the world’s top centres of commerce in financial flow, generating over six percent of India’s GDP. It houses the Reserve Bank of India, the Bombay stock exchange, the National Stock Exchange of India, and numerous Indian and multinational corporations. Its wealth and economic opportunities attract migrants from all over India, creating a melting pot of cultures and communities.
Philip knew much of this information about Mumbai long before his plane landed at the city’s international airport, but there was really only one fact that he was interested in, and that was the size of the city’s population. At the last count, Mumbai’s metropolitan area was home to over twenty-four million people, and even that figure was a conservative one. For a man who grew up in the remote, fertile countryside of western Poland, the number was staggering, as was the potential for chaos. Despite the mild claustrophobia Philip felt at being at the epicentre of such a vast human nest, he was excited by the prospect of unleashing the H-1 virus. He was genuinely interested to see how fast it would spread to the outlying regions of the city and beyond, and perhaps even to the Pakistan border, which would add its own incendiary ingredient to an already volatile mix of Indo-Pak politics.
Philip had entered the country using a Dutch passport, and had passed through customs without incident. A taxi had taken him across the city’s appallingly chaotic road network to the Hotel Manama, a pretentious two-star hotel frequented by international travellers on tight budgets, an establishment where Philip would blend in easily, and one where the duty manager was more than happy to take cash for Philip’s three day visit. The room was perfunctory, bordering on spartan, and his fifth floor window had a restricted and uninspiring view of the docks. But Philip had no interest in views, only in the hotel’s location. He unpacked, turned the air conditioner up and climbed into bed. He woke at seven the next morning feeling reasonably refreshed and ready to work.