by Carr, Jack
Ali approached the front door and knocked three times. The door opened immediately. The young student had been eagerly waiting.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum,” Sebastian said.
“Never use Arabic or Farsi with me,” Ali said, pushing past the young medical student and making his way inside.
Worn hardwood flooring in dire need of attention led to a small living area, where a couch too small for the space faced an old brick fireplace that at one point had been painted white in a failed attempt at modernization.
“Do you have a cell phone?” Ali asked.
“Yes, but it’s in my apartment. I’ve never taken it here.”
“Good,” Ali said, still weary, as he entered the small kitchen.
An avocado-green refrigerator hummed away next to a four-burner electric stove, and a microwave sat at an angle on the rust-colored countertop.
Ali parted the thin drapes above the sink and looked into the street beyond the yard. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No vans with tinted windows, no unmarked Crown Victorias desperately trying to fit in.
“Show me,” Ali said.
Sebastian led the way to a door off the hallway and unlocked the dead bolt. His hands trembled for just a moment in anticipation.
Ali knew all about Shahram Pahlavi. The regime had groomed him since birth, through his parents, who were long-term penetration agents. The Americans were so stupid. Why they kept allowing the sons and daughters of those who wanted to destroy them inside their country baffled him. You did not see Americans flocking to Iran, Russia, China, or North Korea to conduct subversion operations and change the fabric of those societies. That is why those countries would endure and why America was doomed to fail.
Shahram seemed eager to please. By design, he knew next to nothing about the BioDine executive who now followed him into the makeshift lab. No name, no background. Ali already had a plan to kill him, after his usefulness expired.
Ali surveyed the virology lab: clear plastic sheets, the ventilation system duct-taped to the outside vents. The state-of-the-art lab equipment he had ordered through intermediaries was all set up and running.
“I need to check the cells,” he said.
Sebastian tapped the space key and brought the computer monitor to life. The high-resolution black-and-white image came into focus, displaying what looked like a worm with one end curled into a ball.
“Just as I was instructed. They’ve been growing for twenty-eight days. Fifteen separate cell lines. No contaminants.”
Ali moved in front of the keyboard and zoomed in on the cells, confirming what the younger man had told him.
Nodding, Ali asked, “What do you know about Marburg Variant U?”
Sebastian swallowed. He knew the story. It was a case study in improper safety protocols when handling level-four pathogens.
Marburg Variant U? His visitor couldn’t have a sample of that. Could he?
“Marburg. A virus first discovered in a lab in Marburg, Germany, in green monkeys from central Africa. They were working with kidney cells just like these,” Sebastian said, nodding at the cultures just beyond the clear plastic slats.
“That’s right. That was 1967. Monkey handlers in Marburg, Frankfurt, and Belgrade were all infected. They died in ways the researchers had not seen in their previous experiments. The virus liquefied organs and brain cells. Almost ten years later 430 people died in Zaire and Sudan with similar symptoms to what had been observed in Marburg, but this was another filovirus.”
“Ebola.”
“Ebola Zaire and Ebola Sudan,” Ali corrected.
“I’ve studied Ebola,” Sebastian said. “Under a microscope like this one, filovirus strains look almost the same.”
“Ebola’s mortality rate is between seventy and ninety percent. For our purposes, we needed something even more toxic.”
“Marburg?”
“Not just any strain of Marburg. Variant U.”
“That is one of the most closely guarded pathogens on the planet. Only the Russians have a strain, if memory serves.”
“Not just the Russians, Sebastian. With the fall of the Soviet Union, their scientists were more than willing to sell it. China has it. North Korea has it. Iran has it. And, most importantly, the Americans have it.”
“Where did we get this strain?” Sebastian asked.
Ali paused.
“Where do you think?”
“Iran?”
Instead of confirming, Ali continued, “What do you know about bioweapons?”
“My studies have all been on virology and immunology, not weaponizing viruses.”
“I will guide you through this. Before we begin, it is important for you to understand just how careful we need to be. You’ve done a more than adequate job setting up the lab in accordance with my instructions. What we don’t have is a decontamination station. I didn’t have you build one because it wouldn’t matter. If you prick yourself while handling Variant U, you have less than two weeks to live.”
Ali had to hit the right psychological tone to ensure Sebastian believed he was a part of the team and would survive the mission.
“At its height, the Soviet State Center for Virology and Biotechnology, also called VECTOR, was one of the most advanced bioweapons labs in the world. In 1977 Dr. Nikolai Ustinov was injecting Marburg virus into a guinea pig when he accidently injected the virus into his thumb. The animal was not strapped to a board and Dr. Ustinov was not wearing the proper biohazard suit or gloves required for the experiment.”
Sebastian whispered a prayer to Allah.
“As you know, all viruses have unique characteristics. That is what allows us to differentiate them from one another and develop vaccines specific to the particular disease. The more deadly they are, the harder they are to spread, killing their host before they can move on to another body with healthy tissues to destroy. High contagion rates such as H1N1, flu, and COVID-19 have kill rates between 0.01 percent and perhaps as high as 0.2 or 0.3 percent. By contrast, the 1918 Spanish flu and the swine flu in 2009 caused worldwide panics because of the respiratory nature of the spread. Hemorrhagic viruses, like Marburg, only spread through direct blood-to-blood contact or secretions with broken mucous membranes, making them difficult to transmit. Once contracted, however, Marburg is a true killer, with an infection fatality rate of 85 to 90 percent and death in thirteen days.”
“Forgive me, if it only spreads through blood-to-blood contact, what is all this for?” Sebastian asked, pointing to the equipment he’d so painstakingly prepared over the preceding months.
“Because the variant extracted from Dr. Ustinov can be aero-solized.”
“al-Ḥamdu lillāh,” Sebastian whispered.
“Dr. Ustinov was immediately quarantined in the facility behind pressure-locked doors. As his body and brain liquefied over the next two weeks he kept a diary, documenting the progression of his deterioration. It started with a headache, fever, and nausea, followed by toxic shock as his eyes filled with blood and the capillaries throughout his body began to hemorrhage. Near the end he was literally bleeding through the pores of his skin, to say nothing of the blood and liquefied organs oozing from his nose, mouth, penis, and anus. The blood- and mucus-stained pages were collected and transcribed before being incinerated. When Ustinov’s body had nothing more to give the invading filoviruses, when his cells had all burst, he finally succumbed. His body was doused with a chloramine disinfectant and welded into a metal box to seal the deadly African pathogen inside.”
“But not before the Russians took samples from his organs,” Sebastian deduced.
“That is correct. Additional testing showed something interesting. Do you know what it was?”
Sebastian took a moment before responding.
“The virus had adapted. Lab-grown viruses are often more potent than those found in nature.”
“Not only was it more deadly, it was also more stable. They named it Variant U after its creator. Do you know what they did next?
”
Sebastian didn’t hesitate this time: “They weaponized it.”
“Yes, they weaponized it for an aerosolized delivery via vapor. They tested it on monkeys in a facility in Kazakhstan and on human test subjects in Africa. It became the most potent bioweapon in the Soviet arsenal.”
“And you have it with you?”
“I do. It’s time to make a weapon.”
* * *
Dressed in full Level A hazmat suits with respirators, Ali and Sebastian went to work. Ali’s hands moved deliberately in the encased glove box as he carefully cut open the bottle of hand sanitizer that he’d received from Hafez Qassem. He slowly extracted a small test tube of plasma under the vented hood, plasma originating in Dr. Ustinov’s dead body in 1977. The most deadly pathogen in human history was now in the basement of a run-down house in Denver, Colorado.
Over the next three days, Ali and Sebastian transferred Variant U blood plasma to the cell culture plates in a process called transfection. A virus that had been sitting dormant for decades had been given a host. It had been lurking in the shadows, waiting for its opportunity to multiply. When Ali injected it into the cell culture, the virus was resurrected. The doctor would have liked a real-time x-ray fluoroscopy to confirm the procedure was working, but the samples they observed under the electron microscope indicated it was growing.
Within a week, each of the culture disks contained millions of copies of the disease.
Variant U had come back to life.
CHAPTER 17
Interstate 90
REECE HAD NEVER DRIVEN from Virginia to Illinois. When he was stationed on the East Coast, he and Lauren had big plans to explore Maine, the Shenandoahs, New River Gorge, the Okefenokee Swamp, and the Florida Keys. Instead, the newlyweds never left Virginia Beach, a series of back-to-back workups and deployments taking precedence. He smiled at the memory of buying their first home together on the water in the SEAL-dominated Chick’s Beach area and of the night Lauren had shared the news that they were expecting their first child. He thought they would all have plenty of time to travel together. He had been wrong. Lauren and Lucy were dead, murdered because of a government-private sector conspiracy that Reece had dismantled piece by piece. His wife and daughter had been murdered by the same government Reece now served.
Not forever. I’m going to do this job, get the intelligence from the Agency I need to find Nizar Kattan, and put him down. Then I’m out.
The former SEAL had never been the biggest fan of flying. Even in SEAL training it had always been a relief when the red light switched to green and the jumpmaster pointed at the exit ramp or door. He’d had to touch down on more than a few airfields that required excessively aggressive landings where there was nothing for Reece to do but brace for impact. That, and pray. Reece would much rather be in control of his own vehicle, on the open road with access to his weapons. On this particular drive, he needed to think.
As the miles clicked by on the odometer of his old 1988 Land Cruiser, Reece attempted to shake the memories of the dead. Lauren had always rolled her eyes at the classic off-road vehicle. She knew that Reece loved the car for some reason and that it was just part of the package. His old FJ62 had recently been upgraded with a Corvette LS3 engine, giving it more power than most modern trucks and SUVs. From the outside it looked like a standard 1980s four-by-four. That vintage exterior cloaked what was on the inside an entirely new machine. Restored by the experts at ICON in California, the old truck was a sleeper.
Grey Man Tactical rigid MOLLE panels were attached to both seatbacks and held a fire extinguisher, medical kit, tourniquet, knife, and Winkler tomahawk. The firearms conveniently secured to the black plastic panels had been transferred to Goose Gear overland storage drawers. Reece had installed them in the back of the vehicle, in preparation for his drive to Virginia from Montana before his Clandestine Services Class had kicked off. It was better to keep the AR, shotgun, and scoped long gun out of sight, even if he did have U.S. Marshals Service credentials in case he was stopped. That was one of his asks of the president. He had once been issued a Marshal’s badge as part of an operation on U.S. soil when he was in the SEAL Teams. It opened doors and kept the operators out of trouble with local law enforcement in case they were rolled up. U.S. Marshal creds were also federal, meaning he would not have the issues that Texas Rangers Frank Hammer and Manny Gault had when they left the Lone Star State hunting down Bonnie and Clyde. The arsenal that Hammer carried around in the backseat of his 1934 Ford Model 40B in pursuit of the infamous killers actually dwarfed what Reece had hidden in the back of his Land Cruiser. The former SEAL needed to be a bit more subtle.
Get in the game, Reece.
He’d been taught the basics of surveillance and surveillance detection routes in the SEAL Teams as part of his training in PSD, or personal security detail, operations. His team had been the first tasked with protecting the interim Iraqi government officials after the invasion, a mission most of them thought would be suicide. He had also done some work with the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team on close target reconnaissance, which included driving into enemy territory to gather intelligence prior to a hit. Reece’s troop had two HRT members and two field agents assigned to them in Iraq, investigating connections to planned terrorist operations in the continental United States. Of all the missions Reece had conducted over the years, the ones that gleaned intelligence on threats to the homeland were the ones of which he was the most proud. More than a few acts of terror had been thwarted on foreign soil before they had a chance to take flight.
He was never a fan of the PSD mission. Reece preferred to be on offense, taking the fight to the enemy rather than standing next to a politician with what was essentially a target painted on their back. The year of training he had recently completed at the Farm built on the lessons he had learned in the SEAL Teams. The CIA was all about their SDRs. Using the SDR techniques had become second nature. They augmented his proficiency acquired through operations in Iraq, Afghanistan, Mozambique, Albania, Ukraine, and Russia. That real-world experience was enhanced with the scenarios they’d put him through at Camp Peary. He knew that to execute his current mission successfully, he’d need an entire team conducting both physical and technical surveillance to build a pattern of life and confirm they were targeting the correct individual. With that information, they could then decide upon the time and place of the elimination. Then why was Reece driving to Chicago alone?
He needed time to think.
The president of the United States has asked you to complete a mission.
You could say no.
Or was saying no not an option?
Reece had raised his right hand to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.
Protect and defend the Constitution…
Protect and defend…
What are you doing, Reece?
You are protecting the country you swore to defend.
Are you?
Or, are you an instrument of vengeance, the personal assassin for the most powerful man in the world?
Are you working for the very government that had a part in killing Lauren and Lucy?
Are you doing this to avenge the attacks of 9/11? Attacks that would pull the country into a twenty-year war and see your friends and teammates die in battle?
Are you doing this to prevent a future attack?
Or, are you doing this so that the president of the United States will owe you a favor? Is this about getting the support you need to kill Nizar Kattan, the sniper who put a bullet through Freddy Strain?
Are you doing this so you can use the power of the executive branch to decipher the letter your father left you? The letter you found the night you called Vic Rodriguez and agreed to join the ranks of the CIA’s paramilitary branch?
Or, are you doing this because all you know is the kill?
Later. Focus on this mission.
These terrorists helped plan 9/11, Reece.
They could be planning future attacks.
Twenty years later.
What are you, Reece?
A soldier, an intelligence operative, a hunter of men? An assassin?
You told the president you would do it.
For God and country.
God and country.
As the truck pushed westward, Reece convinced himself that what he was about to do would bring justice to those who had perpetrated the most devastating attack on the United States in modern times. The Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor before Hawaii was even a state. They had bombed military targets. The Twin Towers were not a legitimate military target. Deliberately targeting civilians was the very definition of terrorism.
Reece thought of all those who had jumped to their deaths rather than face the prospect of being burned alive; fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters. All they had done was go to work one sunny Tuesday in September.
He thought of the president’s fiancée. Had she jumped? Had she perished of smoke inhalation? Had she been burned alive? Had she been trampled to death in a stairwell? Or had she died in darkness, hunkered in the corner of an office as the North Tower imploded around her? The president would never know. No one would ever know. But there was something he could do about it now.
The animals who attacked the nation deserved what was coming, regardless if one day had passed since that fateful morning or twenty years. The president thought so, too. There was a reason he’d issued a presidential directive, notifications based on the Authorization for the Use of Military Force. These were legitimate military targets. Though it was not clear that they posed an imminent threat, it was not clear that they did not, either. They needed to be removed from the battlefield so that they could not be used to enable further attacks. The president was sending a message, one that would not be broadcast on cable news channels, but one that would be received by the terrorist network loud and clear.