Plague

by H W Buzz Bernard

  Special Agent Babb clenched his fist and hammered the table in front of him. A pen resting by his notepad hopped into the air like a startled frog. The other men in the CDC anteroom—Dwight, Zambit and agent Merriwether—twitched reflexively at the explosion of frustration.

  The group remained silent until Merriwether spoke. “We’ve set up surveillance on all individuals with suspected terrorist links, no matter how vague, in the Atlanta area. We’ve even dragged in a few for questioning. We’ve talked with residents of the Arab and Islamic communities, even with a handful of mullahs. Nothing. If we’re dealing with a terrorist cell, it’s certainly been able to maintain a subterranean profile.”

  “What if we’re not dealing with a cell?” Dwight asked. Unconsciously, he tapped out a soft rhythmic beat on the floor with his right sandal. Zambit glared at him, and he stopped.

  “You mean, what if we’re dealing with an independent operator? A lone wolf?” Babb said.

  Dwight nodded. “A lone wolf or maybe just two or three guys on their own.”

  “Could be. Or maybe it’s a sleeper outfit. Like those Russian agents we ran out of the country in 2010.”

  “You think it might be Russians?” Zambit asked.

  “No. I’m not saying that. I’m saying it could be a group that’s integrated itself into our culture and been living here for years, running under the radar. Seemingly ordinary folks.”

  “Okay, not Russians then,” Zambit said, “but how about some of those right-wing, American militia whackos, like blew up the Oklahoma City federal building?” He looked around the table, apparently seeking support.

  Babb shook his head. “Doubt it. You may have answered your own question. They like to blow up stuff. Weaponized Ebola is a little too sophisticated for them.”

  “I agree,” Dwight said. “Whoever bioengineered this virus is brilliant. He may be bent on mass murder, but he’s an exceptionally gifted individual. I’d guess we aren’t dealing with a run-of-the-mill terrorist—sorry, I’m afraid that’s an oxymoron.”

  Babb steepled his hands beneath his chin. He remained silent for awhile, apparently churning something over in his mind, then said, “Let me toss this out. If we consider motive, it pretty much points the finger at an Islamist or Islamist group—”

  “Islamist,” Dwight said. “Someone who adheres to radical Islam?”

  “Yes. I suppose it’s religious profiling, but those are the guys who’ve been trying to snuff us out for the last three decades. I’m thinking the motivation, whether it’s hatred or ideology, has been nurtured for a long, long time. Probably whoever we’re looking for, and let’s assume it’s a he, isn’t driven by simplistic, traditional notions of martyrdom. He’s not anticipating a romp in eternity with a harem of virgins, and he’s not after post-attack financial support for his family. He very well could be operating independently. He may be getting his money from an anti-U.S. organization or even a government, but I have a feeling he’s calling the shots, not the other way around.”

  Dwight drummed his sandal again. “In other words,” he said, “we might not hear from this guy again until he’s ready to attack?”

  Zambit stretched his left leg underneath the table and stepped hard on Dwight’s tapping foot “Cut it out,” he mouthed.

  Dwight stopped, but glowered at Zambit in return.

  “Just for the record,” Merriwether interjected, looking at Babb, “what makes you think it’s a he?”

  “Male chauvinism, maybe. But assuming this individual is from an Arab or Islamic culture, it’s males, much more likely than females, who would have had access to the education and training necessary to pull off a feat like this. And to answer Dr. Butler’s question, yeah, this guy may not surface again until he’s ready for the big show.”

  “What about a lab?” Merriwether asked. “He’s got to have a lab someplace, doesn’t he? Maybe we should be looking at that angle.”

  “I suppose he could have jury-rigged something in a basement or attic someplace,” Zambit said. “It might not meet any viable safety standards, but it would be damn hard to find.”

  “I disagree,” Dwight said, his words curt. He welcomed the chance to tread on his boss’s toes, if only metaphorically. “If you’re messing around with Ebola, you’d want a highly sophisticated facility. Given that our terrorist buddy probably isn’t operating out of a government lab, we might want to look at university-affiliated or privately run facilities that have Level-4 capabilities.”

  Zambit fixed Dwight in an icy gaze.

  “Shit. Why didn’t you mention this sooner?” Babb snapped. “Talk to me.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Dwight said. “Those labs have pretty tight security. If there were some hanky-panky going on, we probably would’ve caught a whiff of it by now.”

  “Names and places, please.” Babb sat with his pen poised over a notepad.

  After writing down the information, he handed the pad to Merriwether. “Get on it,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” Merriwether excused himself and left the room.

  “So where are we?” Zambit asked.

  “On a 100-foot bungee drop with a 101-foot cord, I think,” Babb answered. “We’ve got somebody running around out there with weaponized Ebola, and we don’t have a clue who he is or where he is, and it’s sudden-death overtime. He’s launched one little pinprick attack, so limited we can’t even find evidence of it, and killed how many?”

  “Seven. Five remain hospitalized,” Dwight answered.

  “And a major attack?”

  “Multiply that number by a thousand. Ten thousand. Hell, I don’t know,” Dwight said, “millions.” An atavistic dread stirred within him again. “Remember, this stuff spreads like the flu, through the air, person to person. It’s not just the initial attack that would kill people, but the exponential spread of the virus afterward.”

  “Has Homeland Security been notified?” Zambit asked.

  Babb nodded. “Yeah. But I don’t know what they’re going to do, if they’re going to raise the alert level or not. They’re between a rock and a hard spot. If they jack up the level and don’t give specifics, then the alert probably gets ignored, you know, ‘There they go, crying wolf again.’ If they offer details, that there’s suspicion a deadly virus is about to be unleashed in Atlanta—and we’re not even sure of that—does that help or hurt the situation?

  “Would people know what to do or how to behave? My guess is, they wouldn’t. Chances are, all such a warning would accomplish would be to throw the city into a panic. Yet, if a warning isn’t issued and an attack occurs... well, I’d hate to be in Homeland Security’s shoes.”

  Babb stood and gathered his paperwork. “Gentlemen, I don’t know about you, but I’m going out and get drunk. Care to join me?”

  Dwight stared at Zambit. Neither responded.

  “It’s a joke, gentlemen, a joke,” Babb said. “But it’s the only humor I can find in this.”

  “Actually,” Dwight said, “I thought it was a pretty good idea.”

  NORTH METRO ATLANTA

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 22

  Alnour Barashi retained one notebook, one chronicle of his work, and slipped it into a desk drawer in his office. The remainder of his notes and records he’d shredded. One journal would be enough, one record of his legacy; a legacy that began in Koltsovo and would end in Atlanta. He understood what he was about to do could easily cost him his life, but it was a potential sacrifice willingly accepted. His name, he had no doubt, would live in legend through centuries to come as the one who at last brought America to its knees; as the one who triggered the re-ascendancy of Arab and Islamic cultures. No longer would his people suffer death, depravation and humiliation at the hands of the U.S. and Israel. America would be so mired in its own tragedy, one that would relegate 9/11 to the background of histor
y, that it would cease being a significant player on the world stage. An invisible death was about to blanket the imperialist nation, unfurling over it like a burial shroud.

  Barashi policed his lab and office, making certain no critical evidence remained. He was confident the facility would not be discovered before he launched his assault, but just in case, he’d removed the viral cultures and thoroughly sterilized the lab equipment. The lab eventually would be unearthed, of course, but investigators, while suspecting what it might have been used for, would never be able to prove it. Not that it would make any difference after the fact.

  He sat behind his desk and lit a cigarette. He dropped the match into a ceramic ashtray shaped like a double helix, a gift from Uri Sherbokov at Vector. Barashi inhaled deeply, then leaned back and blew a spiraling column of smoke toward the ceiling. He thought about his trusted agents, Ebraheem Khassem and Mahmoud Al-Harbi.

  Al-Harbi, an Arab-American and convert to Islam, knew nothing about the true nature of the Ebola project. His job had been essentially administrative: ordering supplies, handling correspondence and meeting with other scientists in the facility to coordinate their “supporting” research. He additionally was tasked with keeping other researchers at arm’s length from the “classified” work being carried out in the building’s bioengineering laboratory. Al-Harbi was safely removed from the stage now, however, dispatched on a trip to California to shop for a new electron microscope.

  Khassem, however, worried Barashi. Khassem was the only other person who knew what was going to happen. The potential weak link. Yet Barashi was reluctant to eliminate him, for he was a friend as well as a brother Arab and Muslim. Still... He inhaled again and tapped a glowing ash into the double helix. I shall have to watch him. Just in case, for he has seemed distracted and distant as of late.

  He spun lazily in his chair and surveyed the office, its walls, bookcases and table tops. He would come back tonight, his final visit, and remove the remaining items, his journal, a few text books and a collection of electron micrographs. Then he would begin his countdown.

  He had known Anneliese less than a week, so it seemed strange he should miss her. Perhaps it was her efficiency, her concern for him, the lilt in her voice, the sweetness of her perfume. But Richard knew that wasn’t it. Be honest. It was her sexuality, her passion, her directness that had almost consumed him. In the end, though, it was Anneliese who had been consumed. And the answer to whatever had ignited her pyre, and the key to the threats and mysteries that permeated his life, lay in the blockhouse. That much he was sure of.

  He knew now what he was going to do next. In the wake of his visit with Marty and her verbal absolution for his sins, real or imagined, he finally was able to concentrate, to define a course of action, to plan a counterattack. Threats from Veronica von Stade notwithstanding.

  He called up an employee roster on BioDawn’s intranet and obtained the office location of Trey Robinson, the corporate security manager. Second floor. It was late evening now, and Richard assumed most employees had departed the building. He descended the stairway to the second level, stopping and listening on each landing for footfalls or voices. Nothing.

  He reached the second floor and paused after he stepped into the hallway. No one talking. No elevator whine. No sound of doors being opened or shut. He walked to Robinson’s office and tried the knob on the solid wood door. Locked. Not that he would have expected otherwise. It was a simple lock that required a key inserted into the center of the knob. The kind a movie hero can always pick. But Richard didn’t know how. Old fashioned way then.

  He knocked softly on the door. No one home. He stepped back and listened again for telltale sounds of late-working employees. All that reached his ears was the white-noise silence of an office after-hours. He judged the distance from his hip to the door, shuffled back a half step, drew his right knee up and launched a kick. His heel hammered home just below the knob. The door sprang open, ripping away part of the frame and splintering the wood around the knob. Low bidder, a wonderful thing.

  He stopped and listened one more time. There seemed to be no reaction to his forceful entry. He slipped into the office, shut the damaged door, switched on a light and seated himself behind the security manager’s desk. He surveyed the room. To his left, standing shoulder to shoulder, were several four-drawer file cabinets. To his right, resting against the wall, was a long oak credenza topped by several bowling trophies and pictures of, presumably, Robinson’s family.

  Richard, deciding what he was looking for would be kept within easy reach, ignored the cabinets and credenza and started with the desk. A vertical row of drawers lined either side of the desk with the top drawer in each row secured by a small key lock. Richard had guessed that would be the case, and withdrew a sturdy screwdriver from his suit jacket pocket. He went to work on the right-hand drawer, sliding the blade of the screwdriver into the drawer, then leveraging it against a broad steel pin that secured the drawer into its frame. A loud pop announced success. The drawer and all those beneath it sprang free. In the bottom drawer he found what he was looking for: several sets of key cards. He pocketed the cards, shut the drawer, flipped off the light and stepped into the hallway. He froze. The electromechanical groan of the elevator assaulted his ears.

  He moved back into the office and listened. The elevator stopped. He heard its doors slide open—damn it, this floor—then the determined gait of someone heading in his direction. He calculated whether he had enough time to dash for the stairwell at the far end of the hallway. Not a chance. The thud of heavy shoes drew closer to the office.

  Chapter Fifteen

  NORTH METRO ATLANTA

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 22

  Richard guessed the approaching footfalls belonged to a security guard. Must have triggered a silent alarm. Plan B, then. He stepped into the hall just as Ralph Pepperill, the night security supervisor he’d met earlier in the week, drew abeam of the shattered door.

  “Sir?” Pepperill exclaimed, his lean face unable to hide his surprise at seeing Richard.

  “Someone broke into Trey Robinson’s office,” Richard exclaimed. “I was just leaving work, taking the stairs, when I heard a loud crash come from this floor. Decided I’d better investigate. I found Robinson’s door like this. Thought I heard someone running away, but I’m not sure.”

  “It set off an alarm,” Pepperill said. He leaned around Richard, trying to peer into the darkened office. “I’d better call the cops.” His breath reeked of hard salami and cheap mustard.

  Richard dropped his hand to his coat pocket, attempting to conceal the bulge of the pilfered key cards. “No,” he said. “This is a DOD matter. Contact Robinson first, then we’ll see where we go from there.”

  “I’d better have a look,” Pepperill said, not responding to the suggestion and reaching for the light switch in Robinson’s office.

  Richard laid a restraining hand on him, gently. “Don’t touch anything in there, Mr. Pepperill. It’s a crime scene now. Slap some yellow tape across the door and leave someone up here tonight. Call Robinson first thing in the morning.”

  “SOP is to call him immediately, sir. I can’t wait ’til tomorrow.”

  Richard started to protest, but realized he probably was treading on dangerous ground, that his reticence would sound suspicious. “Fine,” he said, “follow procedure.” He knew the time frame for what he wanted to do tonight was about to be compressed. He hadn’t counted on this. Well, maybe Robinson lived a long way away. Maybe he’d gone out to dinner. Or a movie. Or a ball game.

  “What about the police, sir?” Pepperill picked at his teeth.

  Richard shook his head. “No. I’ll be the spear catcher for that decision, Mr. Pepperill. Get Robinson out here first.”

  “You’ll be around, sir?” Pepperill asked as he walked toward the elevator.

  “In the area,” Richard said. A premonit
ion slithered into his thoughts and flicked its tongue. He sensed he’d initiated something he was going to regret.

  What the hell. He patted his pocketful of key cards and waited until Pepperill had departed before descending in the elevator.

  Outside, the peeps, squeals and rasps of night creatures competed with the low throb of traffic noise off a nearby freeway. Richard stood in the shadows of BioDawn’s main building and watched the patrolling security truck. A young man was behind the wheel. Pepperill, he assumed, was occupied trying to get in touch with Robinson. Richard waited until the truck reached the far end of the parking lot, then walked briskly toward the fence surrounding the blockhouse. He’d picked two of the stolen key cards as the most likely candidates to open the gate and held them at the ready.

  Sweating profusely, perhaps as much from apprehension as the stifling humidity, he reached the gate. He jammed the first of the cards into the reader. Nothing happened. The red light on the mechanism continued to wink insolently at him. He withdrew the card and tried again, this time inserting it more slowly. Still nothing. He slid the second card into the reader. This time there was a metallic click, and the light flashed green. The gate, mounted on rollers, trundled open, pulling back parallel to the fence. Richard stepped inside. He glanced into the parking lot to see if the security patrol was returning. He couldn’t spot it and decided it was somewhere behind the buildings that comprised the corporate complex.

  As the gate rolled shut, Richard moved toward the main entrance of the blockhouse. For this door, he’d selected only one card, one conveniently marked bldg 4. He inserted it into the reader. The indicator light blinked green, and the door clicked. He pushed it open and stepped into the building. He checked his watch. He’d allow himself fifteen minutes, twenty at the most.

  He stared down a long, brightly lit corridor. Except for the hum of the air conditioning, there was no noise, no sign of activity in the blockhouse. He walked down the hallway—it appeared to be the main one—inspecting the layout of the interior and listening for any sounds that suggested the presence of someone else. The heels of his leather shoes echoed off the hard tile of the floor. The walls of the hall, painted a drab green, stood in stark contrast to the mahogany-paneled opulence of the building in which he worked. He felt as if he were strolling through the corridor of a deserted hospital.