Plague

by H W Buzz Bernard

  “I gotta tell ya,” Zambit said, “the law enforcement guys here were skeptical as hell when I told them you couldn’t identify your source. But that aside, they said they’ll get some patrol units out to the subdivisions, but it’s going to take time. They have to muster resources first. Local departments are typically on minimum staffing this time of night. Not only that, a lot of their personnel are already deployed downtown and at the airport to guard high-value targets. Bottom line: the forces up where you are are sparse.”

  “Hold it,” Dwight said. He pulled the Mercedes to the side of the road, flipped on the overhead map light and re-examined the paper bearing the names of the subdivisions. “I have an idea. I know where some of these places are—not far from where we... I am. I’m already on my way to check a couple of them out. If I see anything suspicious, I’ll call 911.” He ran his finger down the list. “I’ll take a look at Elysian Fields, Magnolia Heights and, uh, Crystal Corners. See if you can vector the cops to the other subdivisions.”

  “Okay. Hang on. I’ll run your proposition past the guys here.”

  Dwight put his phone on mute and explained to Richard what was going on.

  Zambit came back on-line. “Okay,” he said. “Your plan has a green light. But if you spot something, instead of calling 911, call the task force duty officer. He’ll have direct contact with the patrol cars he’s dispatching.” Zambit gave Dwight the D.O.’s phone number, then added, “Ya know, I don’t know whether to hope you’re right or wrong about this, Dwight.”

  “Me either, Boss.”

  As Dwight accelerated away from the curb, Richard removed his handgun from the center console of the Mercedes and placed it in his lap.

  “We aren’t gonna need that,” Dwight said. “All we’re going to do is a little early-morning recon. If we see something hinky, we dial the boys in blue and let them do their thing.” He tapped his finger on the piece of paper on which he’d written the duty officer’s phone number.

  “And if the cops can’t get here in time? From what you’ve told me, this isn’t a case where the good guys can be just a second or two behind the power curve and come out winners. If this Ebola stuff gets airborne—”

  “I know, I know.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I know that, too.”

  They rode in silence for several minutes.

  At five thirty they pulled into Elysian Fields. Dwight eased the car through patches of fog while Richard acted as lookout. They’d driven only a short distance into the subdivision when the glow of headlights appeared behind them, diffuse and dim at first, refracting through a gauzy, drifting mist. After that, they grew steadily brighter and more distinct.

  “Turn here and douse the lights,” Richard said as they approached a cross street. “Kinda weird for someone to be out and about this early on a Saturday.”

  “You mean like us?” Dwight said.

  He turned, switched off the headlights, pulled the car to the side of the road and killed the engine. Both men slid down in their seats. Whoever was behind them turned, too. High beam headlights bounced off the rearview mirror illuminating the interior of the auto.

  “I don’t like this,” Dwight muttered. He fumbled for his cell phone.

  Richard tensed and raised the barrel of the SIG so that it was in position to fire.

  Dwight looked at him wide-eyed. “You wouldn’t really, would you?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

  The approaching vehicle moved around the Mercedes and slowed. A loud slap, something striking the pavement, sounded from outside. Another “whap” followed, this one a bit more distant. Richard chanced a peek over the dash.

  “Newspapers,” he said. “Those are newspapers landing in driveways. Early morning deliveries. A few homes still get them. Okay to breathe again.”

  “Good. I was about to turn blue. If a black man can do that.”

  They resumed their reconnaissance, making a slow loop on the main road that circled an eighteen-hole golf course. They encountered no traffic and began exploring side lanes and cul-de-sacs.

  “A quiet Saturday morning in the ’burbs,” Richard said.

  “Except for us and the newspaper guy,” Dwight answered. “Ya know, somehow I can’t imagine Ebola here.”

  “No one could imagine jetliners flying into the World Trade Center, either. Not before it happened, anyhow. So I guess we’re forced to imagine this, even anticipate it. Ebola on our front doorsteps. A—what did you call it?—chimera virus. Airborne.”

  “It’s ironic,” Dwight said, dimming the dash lights to allow better outside visibility. “First commercial jets, now a microscopic virus. The greatest terrors come from the air.”

  “No, not from the air, I think, from men’s minds.” Richard held up his hand. “Hold it.” Dwight slowed the car while Richard studied a street sign. “Take a left here,” Richard said, “I think this is the road we came in on. Let’s check it again.”

  A heavy, humid haze hung in the air even as the mist began to disperse, but darkness still blanketed the subdivision. Dwight flicked the headlights onto high beam. “It’s funny,” he said, “as far as I know, the people bent on murdering us have never really articulated a demand or cause, except to kill us.”

  “Yeah. And we kill them back.” Richard sighed. “And then they kill more of us, and we kill more of them. God, it’s like a cosmic pissing contest.”

  Dwight reached the main road outside the subdivision and stopped. “Nothing here,” he said. “I think the wild goose is gonna win this one.” He turned the car around and headed back into Elysian Fields. He took a right on the road circumnavigating the golf course. “One more loop and we’d better press on.”

  Richard wasn’t listening. “Look,” he said softly. His heartbeat kicked into overdrive.

  “Yeah, yeah, I see it,” Dwight said, his voice strained, tense.

  A pickup truck, with only its parking lights on, sat on the side of the road.

  Dwight slowed the Mercedes and crept up behind the truck. “Jesus, man. You see what I see.”

  The truck had a hose assembly—a reel—and a small tank mounted on the rear of its bed.

  “Drive by slowly,” Richard said. “I’ll take a look.” He hunkered down in his seat so only his eyes cleared the bottom of the window. Going about 10 mph, Dwight drew alongside the pickup. The writing on its door said “Martinez Yard Care.”

  “Is it Barashi?” Dwight asked, his voice breaking.

  They passed the truck and Richard sat up. “Kermit the Frog could be driving the damn thing for all I know. It’s dark, and the windows are tinted.”

  “Did you see anybody?”

  “A figure wearing a baseball hat.” Richard wondered if Marty could be in the truck. Wondered if she were still alive. A surge of nausea tweaked his stomach. How could things have gotten so out of hand?

  “We need a closer look.”

  “And just how the hell do you propose we do that?” Richard snapped. “You want me to go tap on the window and ask whoever’s in there if he can spare a cup of Ebola? Then if he blows my head off, you’ll know we’ve got Barashi?”

  “Easy, man. I’m on your side.”

  Richard held up his hand, a peace gesture. “Sorry,” he said, “not your fault. I’m pissed at myself. Pissed for getting Marty into this mess. Pissed for having to drag you into it. Pissed because I’m so damn helpless. Pull around the corner and stop. Let’s think this thing through.”

  Dwight turned into the next street and pulled to the curb.

  “Maybe it’s time to call the cops,” Richard said.

  Dwight shook his head. “I don’t know, Rich. The guy could be just some poor Mexican dude waiting for first light to start his day’s work. I don’t want to come off as Chicken Little on my first call. Hold
something over the dome light. I’m gonna run back to the corner, see if I can get close to Kermit.”

  Richard laid a restraining hand on Dwight’s arm. “Stay in the car,” he said. “No heroes. Let’s just keep an eye on the truck. Chances are nothing will happen ’til sunup.”

  “Might be too late.” Dwight unfastened his seat belt. “You were the one who said we can’t afford to be behind the power curve on this one.”

  “Dwight—”

  “Look, I’m the perfect night stalker. Blend right in.” He nodded at the interior light. “Cover it.” He paused with his hand on the door handle. “If you can manage, turn the car around. Just in case this guy decides to move, we need to be ready to follow. Lights off.” He opened the door and slipped out.

  “People used to listen to me,” Richard said into the darkness.

  Dwight dashed to the corner and knelt behind a bush. A startled chorus of crickets ceased its early-morning chant as his knee touched down on the damp, dew-laden grass. A dog barked, baritone and resonant, alert to something non-routine, different.

  Dwight quickly realized he wasn’t the perfect night stalker, at least not here, not in an upscale, white neighborhood. He was big, black and bald, wearing short pants, squatting behind a bush in the dark.

  Someone yelled at the dog to shut up. It didn’t.

  Dwight stuck his head up over the bush. The pickup, perhaps fifty yards away, hadn’t moved. He couldn’t tell if anybody was in it or not. It was parked just beyond the ring of illumination from a nearby streetlight.

  An exterior light on the house whose yard Dwight was in flicked on. A man in a bathrobe stepped onto the porch. Beside him stood a dog the size of a Clydesdale pony. Dwight shifted slightly to his right, attempting to get out of sight of the man and his pony, yet not reveal himself to whoever was in the truck. He buried as much of his body as he could into the shrub. He figured he probably looked like a 250-pound ostrich trying to hide in the Australian desert.

  “Anybody out there?” the man with the Clydesdale called.

  “Jesus, like somebody’s going to answer,” Dwight muttered to himself. He snuck a peek at the truck. It remained parked.

  “Who’s there?” the man shouted. “I’m going to let my dog go.”

  For a moment, Dwight didn’t know if he were more frightened of the fact that the reincarnation of the Hound of the Baskervilles was about to be set loose, or that there could be a truckload of Ebola-Zaire parked about a chip shot away.

  It became a moot point as he heard the distinct sound of a round being chambered into an handgun and a voice from behind him saying, “Don’t move.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  NORTH METRO ATLANTA

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 24

  Richard figured the entire neighborhood probably was awake by now, as the incessant, challenging bark of a dog, probably a very large one, grew more urgent. He heard a shout, a male voice; then a female voice responding, one with authority. The barking ceased. Silence ensued. He felt for the SIG and peered into the darkness, but could see no one.

  He snapped off the cover of the Mercedes’ dome light and removed the bulb. Leaving the handgun in place, he reached across his body with his left hand and opened the car door. He stepped from the auto, shut the door quickly and stood. “Dwight?” he hissed.

  Only the desultory chirp of a tired cricket reached his ears. Enough ambient illumination existed from the street lights that he should have seen Dwight, but the virologist was nowhere in sight. Then, a soft footfall behind him. He whirled.

  “Sorry, partner. Looks like I’m a POW.” Dwight stood with his hands on top of his head, fingers interlaced, his bulk shielding his captor.

  Richard reached for his weapon.

  “God, you’re such a Maulesel,” von Stade said, stepping from behind Dwight and leveling a handgun at Richard. “Stubborn to a fault. Just leave the damn pistol where it is.”

  Richard complied, hope sucked from him like the littoral ocean in the face of a tsunami. He’d been a fool to think he could match up against a cold-blooded, professional killer. Stubborn to a fault? How about stubborn to his death? And Dwight’s.

  “Hands on your head.” She motioned with her gun.

  “I can’t lift my right arm.”

  “Yes, I forgot. Left hand then. Keep your right arm where I can see it.” She stepped closer, her watchful gaze flicking between Dwight and Richard. Outfitted in khaki slacks and a light blue windbreaker, she appeared almost military. Her manner matched her dress: self-assured and imperious; efficient and professional. A stone-cold killer at the peak of her game.

  “Turn around,” she ordered.

  Richard met her stare, yet there was no real connection, only a vacant look between victor and vanquished. He didn’t move.

  “Around,” she said again, more sharply.

  He turned slowly, every muscle in his body knotting. At least it will be quick. I probably won’t even feel it. Just an impact, then nothing. I cease to exist.

  Von Stade removed the SIG from his waistband. “This is illegal, you know.”

  “A capital offense?”

  A scuffling sound erupted behind him, sudden movement. He turned his head. Dwight, on the ground, thrashing. Von Stade crouching next to him, the barrel of her pistol pressed against his temple. “Moron,” she said. With her left hand she pointed the SIG at Richard. “I can fire both guns at once if you’d like to keep testing me.”

  “Why wait for an excuse?”

  A car engine started up somewhere near the main road. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

  “Get up,” she said to Dwight. She stood and backed off, gun at the ready. She motioned for Richard to face her.

  Not yet, then?

  “You’re familiar with Brer Rabbit?” she said, ejecting the clip from Richard’s 9mm and extending the empty weapon toward him, butt first.

  Richard stood motionless, a cigar store Indian. He looked at Dwight, Dwight at him.

  “Brer Rabbit,” she repeated, “an American classic. I’ve actually read it. ‘Don’t fling me in dat briar patch,’ sezze.” The words were of the Old South dialects attributed to slaves. They sounded strange rendered in a German accent. She waggled the SIG in front of Richard, demanding he accept it.

  He did. The woman clearly had run off the tracks, was cruising with her mainsail at half mast.

  “Brer Rabbit, Brer Fox, de Tar Baby,” Dwight said, his voice ringing in sardonic mimicry, an early 20th century minstrel. “Law, honey, you ain’t heard dem stories by that ole darkey, Uncle Remus?” His words were directed at Richard.

  Von Stade smiled, nodded. “Think of me in the Brer Rabbit role, Mr. Wainwright. Telling you, Brer Fox, over and over not to pursue what was going on at BioDawn. You did just the opposite, of course; pitched yourself into the briar patch. Just like I knew you would.”

  Richard gaped. “Knew I would?”

  “After you accepted the job at BioDawn, I didn’t have much time to research your background and develop a profile on you. But from the limited material I was able to get hold of, I could tell you were the kind of man who didn’t back off from challenges. Who’d be hands on and involved. To put it bluntly, who’d be my bloodhound.”

  “Bloodhound?”

  Von Stade waited, silent.

  Richard understood. “You wanted me to ferret out Barashi?”

  She nodded. “I was treading a fine line, between urging you on—reverse psychology—and scaring you off. Turned out you had enough chutzpah for three guys.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Not Veronica von Stade.” She slipped her 9mm into a shoulder holster. “The Special Operations Division of Mossad, Metsada, killed von Stade over a decade ago. Her assassination was carried out covertly, and the public never learned of
it. Her legend, it turned out, provided useful cover for other Mossad ‘black operations’—no offense, Dr. Butler.”

  “No, of course not. Christ on a crutch, you’re Mossad? Israeli intelligence?”

  “Technically, the Institute for Intelligence and Special Tasks. Mossad is Hebrew for ‘institute.’” She held out an ID card for the men to look at. It identified her as Hadassah Seligmann, a senior Mossad agent. She continued to speak with a German accent, but it seemed more civil, more refined now.

  “I don’t understand,” Richard said. “Why did you need me? Surely you’re backed up by the resources of Mossad, and, I would assume, the FBI and CIA.”

  “I’m not. To tell the truth, I’m not even here. Not officially. This is personal, off the books. Mossad has its hands full at home these days. Barashi is old news. But not to me.”

  The sky began to morph from black to pale gray. Objects become more distinct as the first scattering of indirect light fell over them. From somewhere above the tattered layers of thinning mist, the high, piercing cry of a hawk greeted the dawn. Much closer to where the group stood, the rattle of a diesel engine clattering to life snatched Richard’s attention. The pickup.

  “Well, you may be a lot closer to Barashi than you ever imagined,” he said, inclining his head toward the truck.

  “Checked him out already,” von Stade—Seligmann—said. “Scared the pants off him, but he’s legit. A Guatemalan with a Green Card. He’s got his own yard care business. Just waiting for first light to spray some weed killer on his clients’ Bermuda grass. But I assume that, or something like that, is probably Barashi’s cover.” It was a question, not a statement.

  “Maybe you’d better finish your story first,” Richard said. He still had not bought completely into Seligmann’s abrupt transition from hit woman to Mossad agent. But then again, maybe the two personae weren’t really that far apart.

  “My car’s around the corner, up the street. Let’s go.” As they walked, Seligmann continued her tale. “Barashi got his initial training in biowarfare from the Russians at a place called Koltsovo in western Siberia in the early 1990s. His intent was to come to the U.S. and covertly, but under legitimate cover, start his own biowarfare program. But on his way to America he made a stop in the Middle East. He assisted Hamas in launching a limited bio-attack on Israel. The weapon of choice was plague bacteria spliced with a gene that makes diphtheria.”