The Pandora Deception--A Novel

by David Bruns

  After a stop for coffee, Michael settled into his office chair with a sigh of satisfaction. He liked to get into the office early so he could plan his day before anyone else showed up.

  The screen saver showed a detailed map of the Nile River basin. His latest project was an analysis of the water-security issues of the region. His eye traced the thin band of green that wound through brown deserts in Egypt, Sudan, Ethiopia, and Eritrea. For centuries, the Nile River had been the thread on which their lives had hung.

  But all that was changing now, and swiftly.

  The commissioning of the Merowe High Dam north of Khartoum, Sudan, brought much-needed flood control and energy to the host nation, but heightened tensions between Egypt and its southern neighbors.

  Meanwhile, on the Blue Nile, Ethiopia and Eritrea, two of the poorest countries in the world, had finally resolved a decades-long territorial dispute. A 2018 peace treaty provided much-needed stability, and foreign investment flooded into the region. The Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam, or GERD, would be the largest hydroelectric power plant in Africa and a massive development boost for the region.

  But water resource allocation was a zero-sum game. Gains by Ethiopia and Sudan were Egypt’s loss. At least, that was what some politicians in the region were stating.

  Don had been correct to pinpoint this region as a potential flash point. The region was a double threat. Terrorist groups looked for existing points of conflict to exploit for their own gain, and the Nile River basin was a tinderbox waiting for a match. It was just a matter of time before ISIS refugees set up shop in this volatile region.

  Even more concerning were the Iranians. As they lost ground to the Saudis in the Yemen proxy war, there was growing concern that Iran might try to open up a new front on the opposite side of the Red Sea.

  Either scenario was a perfect fit for Emerging Threats.

  As he did every morning, Michael scanned the English-language news sources from the region looking for anything with the potential to escalate. The classified intel briefings would come out later in the morning. This was his way of staying in touch with how the news media outlets saw the ebbs and flows of the regional happenings.

  A news alert from Al Jazeera flashed up on the screen: Hundreds dead in car bomb attack.

  Michael clicked on the link. Under the blaring BREAKING NEWS banner, a dark-haired man in a navy-blue suit was speaking at the camera.

  “… a vehicle-based improvised explosive device claimed the lives of hundreds of workers at the Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam today in western Ethiopia…”

  The picture over the anchor’s shoulder showed the carnage of a massive car bomb—a blackened crater, an overturned dump truck, emergency-response vehicles, and working men in yellow safety vests carrying people.

  In the background, an enormous concrete structure rose up in tiers. Michael clicked on the printed news story and scanned the contents with growing concern. A bomb hidden in a food truck had been detonated in the lower dam basin. Hundreds of workers were killed or injured. The bombers had chosen the spot carefully. The concave structure of the lower basin concentrated the blast to maximize the casualties.

  Finally, at the bottom of the page, Michael saw what he was looking for: a claim of attribution.

  The Mahdi. Michael had never heard of any terrorist group named the Mahdi. He performed an unclassified web search and got an immediate hit.

  Michael stared at the screen. The website was a simple black homepage with a two-line message in the center of the screen:

  The Day of Judgment is upon us.

  The Mahdi has returned.

  It took Michael a moment to realize that the website had recognized his originating ISP and translated the text on the screen to match his native language. That was high-level programming, not commonly found on a stand-up site for a terrorist group.

  He clicked on the link, and a video came up. A prompt box popped onto his screen: Choose your language.

  A terrorist website that asked for his language preference to view a video?

  Intrigued now, he clicked on English.

  His screen shifted to a high-definition video of a well-appointed room with colorful rugs on the floor, a low-slung Arab-style floor sofa with plush pillows, and a rich tapestry along the back wall.

  A man stepped into the frame, his face and hands blurred to avoid identification. When the man spoke, although his voice had been run through a synthesizer, he spoke excellent English.

  “For too long, the infidels have used their money and their power and their weapons to subjugate the children of Islam. No more. I am the Mahdi, the Redeemer, the Reborn, the Uniter.

  “The Day of Judgment is nearly upon us. I call on all people of this region to reject all foreign investment in the Bahr al-Nīl, the Nile River basin. Anyone who accepts money from infidels or participates in building programs by infidels is subject to the wrath of the Mahdi.

  “By now you have seen what I am capable of doing, but I do not condone violence. I honor life and faith. I am the Mahdi. Follow me.”

  When the video ended, Michael played it again. It was short, no more than a minute, but well produced, with excellent graphics and background music. He was willing to guess that the blurring tech on the man’s face and hands and the voice synthesizer work were both top-notch.

  Whoever this Mahdi was, he had skills. He was just about to watch the video again when Janet entered the office.

  “We’ve got something,” he said. Janet crowded close to his screen as he replayed the video for her.

  “They want your language preference?” she asked.

  Michael replayed the video a fourth time. “And that’s not all. The quality of this production is all top-notch stuff. If these guys are ISIS castoffs, they have seriously upped their game.”

  “Have you told Don about this yet?”

  When Michael shook his head, Janet picked up the phone. A few minutes later, Don was standing behind Michael’s workstation.

  He crossed his arms and listened with pursed lips as Michael demonstrated what he had found and gave them both the highlights on the tech used to produce the video.

  “Have you tried to break into the website yet?” Don asked.

  “I was just getting there,” Michael replied. He shifted his screen to look at the website coding and immediately ran into a firewall.

  “Hmmm.” Michael opened a second screen and pulled up his tool kit.

  After a few minutes, he sat back. “These guys are good,” he said. “Really good. This might take some time. If Dre were here, she could knock it out much faster than me.”

  Don clapped Michael on the shoulder.

  “You leave Dre Ramirez to me, Michael,” he said. “Stay on this lead. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Mossad training facility, Negev Desert, Israel

  Rachel fell in love with Scorpion’s Ascent the first day Mossad sent her there.

  She fell out of love with Scorpion’s Ascent the very next day.

  The Mossad special operations training center was deep in the Negev Desert in southern Israel. The landscape was stark. Long reaches of bare mountains and ancient wadis, carved by millennia of wind and water into fantastic shapes. A few kilometers to the west, tourists climbed the famed Scorpion’s Ascent, unaware that some of the deadliest killers in the world trained within their sight.

  The setting was beautiful, the trainers were top-notch, the facilities were outstanding, and it was unbelievably boring.

  The routine of the facility was ironclad. Early mornings were spent with physical training, followed by breakfast. The rest of the morning hours were spent in the classroom on language training. In addition to Hebrew, Rachel already had decent Arabic, strong English and Portuguese, native fluency in Amharic from her Ethiopian heritage, and conversational Somali. Her new course of study had her learning a Sudanese dialect of Arabic as well as branching out into French.

  After lun
ch, they trained with small arms, a different handgun or rifle each day, so they were familiar with whatever weapon was available on a mission. On alternate afternoons, they trained with knives or hand-to-hand combat techniques.

  Rachel liked to take a long swim before dinner or get a massage. After-dinner hours were filled with intel briefings.

  The days passed like carbon copies of one another. The schedule varied not at all. Even the intelligence briefings began to sound the same.

  And that was the problem. All Rachel really wanted was another assignment, something far from this contained existence. Someplace where she knew no one. Someplace where she was forced to expend her entire intellectual and physical capacity to stay alive.

  Rachel never intended to pursue a career as an Israeli agent. She had been studying for a doctorate in African languages and literature when Mossad first approached her. She was under no illusion why they had come to her and they did not do her the disservice of pretending otherwise. They were looking for officers of color, operatives who could blend into the population on the African continent.

  She accepted their invitation for a weekend seminar on a lark, thinking it might make good fodder for a book one day. In the space of those two days, she met her future husband and found her vocation in life.

  Her relationship with Levi lasted less than two years, ending when her husband’s remains came home in a container the size of a shoebox. Her relationship with Mossad lasted for the rest of her life. The staff psychologists told Rachel she had an addiction to adrenaline, to action, to running away from her problems.

  They were right, but she didn’t care. She was good at her job. For her, that was reason enough to keep going.

  One psychologist, after hearing about Levi’s death, wrote in her consultation notes that Rachel was searching for her own shoebox. Rachel had a hard time disagreeing with the woman.

  But until then, she lived for the next mission. The next opportunity to suspend her existence as Rachel Jaeger and become someone else.

  On a mission, there was no past, no future, only the now. Constant movement, constant awareness. On a mission, no one had time for regrets.

  After dinner, she often took a short hike into the desert just as the sun was setting. The brutal heat of the day waned in these moments and she loved the way the setting sun turned the barren landscape into a rich palette of deep reds, purples, and blues. This was her meditation, her one moment of the day when she stilled her mind and tried to be at peace.

  After a few days at Scorpion’s Ascent, there was no peace for Rachel.

  At the end of each day, before she went to bed, Rachel sent a message to her kidon leader. A reminder that she was still waiting.

  What do you have for me? she would text Noam.

  Be patient, he would always text back.

  But patience was the one quality Rachel Jaeger lacked.

  CHAPTER 13

  World Health Organization, Eastern Mediterranean Office, Cairo, Egypt

  Sven Gunderson was a tired man. He ran his hands through his thinning white-blond hair and squinted at his computer screen again. The rumor in the ranks was that the organization was set to raise the retirement age from sixty to sixty-five. But they wouldn’t make it effective until the end of next year, so if he made his decision now …

  He moved to his window overlooking the streets of Nasr City, Cairo. This was a quiet suburb, with safe streets and walled gardens shaded by palm trees. Yet, only a kilometer away were teeming streets and squalor.

  He was fifty-nine now, almost sixty. If he announced his retirement soon, he would be in compliance with current rules and could use the long transition period to train his replacement.

  His replacement … another issue to solve. Headquarters would want one of their own, but this region needed someone with real field experience, not some bureaucrat from Geneva looking to bolster his résumé.

  The Eastern Med had been rocked by the Arab Spring. And where there was political chaos, disease followed. Syria, Yemen, Somalia, Tunisia—he’d been on the ground in all of them … and he was tired.

  Sven deserved retirement. Someplace warm. Someplace that was not Cairo.

  When he was a young doctor, fresh out of medical school in Stockholm, he wanted to save the world. Now he wanted to save himself from the world.

  He turned back to his desk, decided. He would draft his retirement letter this weekend and schedule a sit-down with the secretary-general at the next meeting in Geneva.

  The intercom on his desk buzzed. “Sven, Dr. Tahir is here. She doesn’t have an appointment. Should I set up something for later in the week?”

  Sven hurried back to his desk. “No, I’ll see her now.”

  Talia Tahir—she would be an interesting choice as his replacement, he mused. An unconventional choice, but with so many positive attributes. A woman, with deep experience in the region, and impeccable professional credentials. A magnificent young doctor, Madame Curie in the body of a supermodel, someone had once commented to Sven.

  He pinched his lip. Yes, Talia Tahir could be a perfect choice as his replacement.

  At the same time, Talia showing up for an unannounced visit with the head of the office was a flashing red warning sign. He’d seen this story play out many times in his career.

  A young doctor joins the WHO wanting to save the world … until they get a taste of what the world can do. There was so much pain and suffering out there, and the WHO staff saw the worst of it. The Ebola outbreak of 2017, for example. He and Talia had been in Sierra Leone together, working side by side eighteen hours a day, seven days a week.

  Most new recruits lasted no more than a few years before the world broke them. Talia had been here for eight years and most of it in the field. It was time she made a move into management, before the organization lost her to the private sector.

  He punched the button on his phone again. “Shani, please bring in coffee, will you?”

  The door to his office opened, and Talia Tahir stepped in. Tall and slim, with flowing auburn tresses and skin the color of molten caramel. An open white lab coat covered a sleeveless dark blue sheath dress that fit her figure like a glove and set off her brilliant blue eyes. She crossed the room with an easy, confident stride.

  “Talia,” he said, as he kissed her on both cheeks. “You’re just back from Yemen, right?”

  She smelled heavenly, a subtle mixture of jasmine and musk that evoked smoldering innocence. He ushered her to the sitting area in his office.

  “I’m so glad you stopped by,” he said. “Please, have a seat.”

  His heart sank at the sight of a manila folder in her hand. Talia would be one of the prepared ones, the kind who would bring a signed resignation letter to a meeting like this.

  Shani brought in the coffee service, a welcome chance to gather his wits. Talia took over from the secretary, pouring the thick, sweet liquid from the copper cezve into two brightly painted cups.

  “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you, Sven,” Talia said, her voice low and professional.

  Sven accepted the cup and saucer. She had managed to achieve the exact right amount of foam on the top of the liquid.

  “Well, that makes two of us,” he said. “I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  A tiny crease formed on Talia’s brow when she thought hard about a problem. “You should probably hear what I have to say first.”

  Sven eyed the manila folder. He needed to take charge of this situation. He could not afford to lose this doctor from his team.

  “If you don’t mind, Talia, I insist on exercising my prerogative as your supervisor.” He put his drink down and rested his folded hands on his crossed knees. “You know how much I appreciate the work you’ve done for this organization.”

  Talia started to protest, but he stopped her with a gesture.

  “You are a gem,” he said. “You’ve been to Yemen—what? Three times in the past six months? Before that, Syria, the C
ongo, Sierra Leone. There is no assignment too tough for you, no ask too big.

  “I think it’s time this organization showed its appreciation for your truly remarkable work. I’m leaving in the new year, and I want you to take over this office.”

  He returned to his coffee, enjoying the surprised expression on her face.

  It was Talia’s turn to set down her saucer. She picked up the manila folder, and Sven’s heart dropped. He’d missed the warning signs. Big Pharma would snap up this experienced doctor in a split second. He’d been so wrapped up in his retirement planning, he’d blown it.

  “Now I feel like a heel,” she said. “I need a favor. For a friend.”

  Sven was so relieved he almost dropped his cup. He took a sip of the sweet dark liquid.

  “The Brazzaville office is moving into a new facility,” Talia began, “and my friend was in charge of the sample transfer.” She gave him a pained smile and blushed. “There were problems and the samples were destroyed.”

  Sven knew about the new location for the WHO Africa office in the Republic of the Congo.

  “Problems? I didn’t hear anything,” Sven replied, trying not to gush at the fact that she didn’t want to resign.

  “There was a power failure and … Oh, I’ll just tell you the whole story. It’s going to come out eventually.” She threw up her hands.

  “There was a malfunction in one of their freezers and they lost all their samples. It wasn’t her fault, but she’ll get blamed. A woman in that office … it’s not like here, Sven, with you.”

  Suppressed tears made Talia’s blue eyes sparkle. She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry to put you on the spot like this, Sven. She’s like a sister to me and this could ruin her whole career.”

  Sven toyed with his coffee. Each regional office in the WHO was entrusted with a full slate of biological samples of the world’s most deadly viruses to use for quick-response comparisons in regional outbreaks. Cryogenic storage was an imperfect solution in places with challenged infrastructure.