The Devil's Hand

by Carr, Jack

  Hard-looking operators emerged from the SUVs. Crimmins noticed a man in each element held a MK 48 7.62x51 machine gun. The others had M4 carbines with suppressors.

  Maybe I can still push this thing out of the way and get us out of here.

  As he put the minivan back in drive and stepped on the gas, he heard the unmistakable sound of a suppressed automatic weapon erupt to his left. Steam exploded from the engine as the open-bolt machine gun tore through the hood and front quarter panel of the vehicle.

  Crimmins took his foot from the gas pedal and put the van in park. His hands slowly went to the wheel.

  Don’t give them an excuse.

  “Woody, put down the AR,” he said.

  “What the fuck just happened? My fucking arm’s broken!”

  As Worthless Woody attempted to prop himself up with his one good arm, the side door opened and he found himself face-to-face with James Reece.

  CHAPTER 68

  Russell Senate Office Building

  Washington, D.C.

  SENATOR THWAITE WATCHED THE president’s address from the Oval Office in disbelief.

  He looked so presidential and reassuring, so sure of himself.

  How could this be?

  “I want to assure the American people that the end of the crisis is near. We have confirmed through exhaustive international investigations by the world’s leading infectious disease specialists that this new virus is indeed a hemorrhagic fever. It originated in Angola but has burned itself out on the African continent. It has done the same here in the United States. We have studied the Angolan virus closely and determined that it will not spread via respiratory pathways as we saw with COVID-19. Once again, to be perfectly clear, this is not spread like the flu or COVID-19 or the common cold. We had early spikes in Aurora, Colorado, and Richardson, Texas, with one-off cases in Atlanta. Since those early spikes the curve has flattened naturally, and current infection rates are almost at zero.”

  I don’t believe it, Thwaite thought.

  Even though it was just after noon, the senator held a drink in his quaking, clammy palms.

  “I can now assure you that this terrible disease has taken the worst of its toll. It has impacted our society and tested us to our core. But, we are Americans. We will rise above the fray. The scientific community is working on a vaccine so that if we ever face this enemy again, we will be ready.”

  Thwaite leaned back in his desk chair.

  He’s actually turning this into political capital. The son of a bitch.

  “There have been reports that the virus was a bioweapon delivered by a foreign enemy. These reports are false. There have also been reports that the virus escaped from a lab here in the United States. Those reports are false.”

  “What are you up to, Mr. President?” Thwaite whispered.

  “I want to address the rumors that there are strategies in place to eradicate viruses on home soil with incendiary bombs. I want to address those rumors honestly. I recently became aware of plans put in place during the Cold War, plans that remained in place until today.

  “Effective immediately, I have signed an executive order placing what are known as ‘eradication measures’ on hold. A bipartisan commission will submit a report to me within ninety days concerning these legacy policies, with recommendations on how to proceed so that in the face of a future virus we have other options at our disposal. I commit to you tonight, there will be full transparency in these proceedings. We will harness the power, ingenuity, and brilliance of our scientific community, technology sector, and pharmaceutical industry to develop the most effective means of combatting emerging hemorrhagic viruses. You have my pledge that you, the people, will be heard and we will move forward together, stronger and united.”

  This is unbelievable. He can’t do this.

  “Our thoughts and prayers are with all of those affected by the virus, and with the frontline workers who care for them. We are with you. No effort or expense will be spared to provide you with the resources you need to see this through. May God bless you and may God continue to bless the United States of America.”

  The video feed switched to a panel of very relieved-looking news contributors. Thwaite continued to stare at the television, not hearing a word.

  The phone buzzed on his desk. Slowly he hit the intercom button to connect with his receptionist.

  “Isn’t this wonderful news, Senator?”

  “Uh, what?”

  “The president’s address. The virus is no longer spreading. We are going to be okay!”

  “Uh, yes, Caryn, that’s, uh, incredible news.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, I have a call waiting for you from the FBI. It sounds important.”

  “The FBI?”

  “Yes, Senator. A Special Agent Andrew Kline would like to speak with you.”

  “Please take a message. If he requests a meeting, please schedule it out as far as possible.”

  “Uh, yes, Senator.”

  Thwaite terminated the connection.

  Deliberately he opened a desk drawer and removed his secure phone, looking at it skeptically.

  Without another viable option, he called Sawyer.

  “Did you see it?”

  “I did,” Sawyer responded. “And I was just about to call you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, a source at the FBI has informed me that you and I are both under investigation for the attempted murder of James Reece and Haley Garrett in Virginia, along with a host of other less serious offenses.”

  “I’m thinking now would be a good time to vacate the premises.”

  “I’d agree with you.”

  “Out of the country.”

  “I’m way ahead of you. Meet me at Signature Aviation at Dulles. If you aren’t there in forty minutes, I leave without you.”

  Thwaite dropped his KryptAll and BlackBerry into the drawer. He took one last look at the portrait of his father and then departed for the airport.

  CHAPTER 69

  Embassy of Pakistan

  Washington, D.C.

  HAFEZ QASSEM SAT AT the conference table in the secure room in the basement of the Pakistani embassy in Washington, D.C. Without taking his eyes from the box, he made a slight motion with his right hand. An administrative assistant sliced through the packaging tape and looked to the intelligence chief for further instructions. With another wave the underling was dismissed, relieved to be out of the presence of the Iranian intelligence chief.

  It had been labeled a diplomatic pouch but clearly it was not.

  The box had been addressed to Qassem personally, which was an anomaly. The Americans knew he operated out of the embassy and even surveilled him occasionally, as they did with all members of the Iranian staff. It was expected for adversaries and even allies to spy on one another. It was all part of the game.

  Qassem’s job was strategy. He was no longer a tactical player. He hadn’t been for a long time.

  The box had the return address of a UPS Store in Annapolis. He observed it for any suspicious signs, signs that should have been warnings to some of his brethren in Hezbollah and the Quds Force when mailing death had become a popular tactic of the Israeli intelligence services. It wasn’t leaking. It didn’t smell. There were no protruding wires. It had been swiped for chemical residue and the Pakistani embassy had the dogs sniff it for explosives; a company provided the service off embassy grounds so as not to offend with the filthy animals. All those tests had returned negative.

  It had also been x-rayed.

  The electromagnetic radiation had revealed the contents.

  Qassem knew what it was. He needed to confirm who it was.

  Qassem was confident it would not explode. It contained a message meant for the lead Iranian spy in the United States.

  Qassem stood and pushed away the cardboard to reveal the next layer. Whatever was inside had been wrapped in aluminum foil and plastic wrap. It reminded Qassem of a wrapped present the Americans were so fond of giving one a
nother on the bastardization of the prophet Jesus’s day of birth, when Isa ibn Maryam was sent with the injil to foretell the coming of the prophet Muhammad.

  ruh min Allah

  The spirit of God.

  The Iranian spymaster carefully sliced through the foil with a jambiya, the traditional curved blade of his ancestors.

  Nizari Ismailis.

  Carefully he parted the shiny plastic and aluminum barrier to reveal the tan plastic top of a cooler. He worked his fingers down the front and lifted the rubber latches, continuing to inspect for wires just in case something had been missed in its prior security inspection. It was also never beyond the realm of possibility that someone in the ISI, Pakistan’s intelligence service, wanted him dead. One could not be too careful in the world of espionage.

  All clear.

  Then, slowly, he opened the lid.

  Looking up at him was the severed head of Ali Reza Ansari.

  Instead of horror, Qassem studied the upturned eyes of the man he’d passed the Marburg virus to just weeks earlier.

  Dried ice had been packed around the head to keep it fresh so that Qassem would have no trouble with identification.

  There was something peculiar about the mouth. A piece of plastic was protruding from between purple lips.

  Qassem pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, extracting a Ziploc bag with a single piece of paper inside. He turned it over.

  It read simply: “Sept 10th.”

  They know.

  Hafez Qassem reached for the phone on the table to his right.

  “Ready the plane. I will be returning to Iran tonight.”

  CHAPTER 70

  REECE SAT IN THE back of the smallest version of Mercedes’s venerable Sprinter van. This one was painted white with a floral business moniker on each side. If someone googled the business to find the website and called the listed number, they would hear a recording in which a pleasant woman’s voice would explain that they were busy arranging flowers and would return the call as soon as possible. The call, of course, would never be returned.

  Inside it was anything but a flower delivery van. The walls, floor, and ceiling were lined in black sound-dampening material and there was no access to the driver’s compartment. Shackles were attached to the floor and wall. A bench seat was built into the right side and one chair was bolted into the floor.

  “Okay, he’s departing the embassy on foot. No variation from his daily profile other than the time and the fact that his phone is still inside.”

  “Good copy,” came Ox’s voice over the encrypted radio.

  “You get that, White Knight?”

  “White Knight copies,” Reece said into his radio. “Just need to know if he is going home or to the airport.”

  “He’s taking route three,” a voice informed them.

  The voice belonged to the UAV operator whose ISR platform had electronically tagged their target.

  They had been tailing Qassem for six days and had identified three routes he used to walk from his office in the Pakistani embassy to the house the Iranians rented for him through their Pakistani surrogates in the North Cleveland Park area of the city.

  Hitting him at the embassy was a no-go and security at the rented apartment was run through the Pakistanis.

  He varied his daily routine, but one could only take so many routes home. There would always be an identifiable choke point. Choke points presented a problem when dealing with a trained intelligence operative; they knew the choke points as well as those who hunted them. That’s why Reece wasn’t going to hit him at a choke point.

  * * *

  Qassem noted that pedestrians were on the streets as they emerged from self-imposed isolation and returned to businesses in the aftermath of the virus scare. Some 5,872 Americans had died from the virus, most of those in Aurora and Richardson, with a few isolated cases in Atlanta; Ali having to use the remote dispersal device had hurt their numbers. Releasing the virus in high-traffic areas before hitting the hospitals had been a stroke of genius. It had been Ali’s idea and reinforced to the scientific community that medical staffs were getting it from patients just by breathing the same air.

  Another 257 people had died in clashes with the military and law enforcement. In Qassem’s estimation, American confidence in government, elected politicians, and the military had hit rock bottom, but unfortunately there were glimmers of recovery. The new president was leading the country out of the pits of despair and working with Congress on an economic stimulus package focused on Colorado and Texas. Americans were a resilient lot. President Christensen had flown immediately to Texas following his address to the nation. In a video that had since gone viral, a camera crew caught Marine One making an unscheduled landing on University Park Field near the hospital in Richardson that had first reported the virus. A body bag had been removed from a refrigerated truck. It was on a gurney and was draped with an American flag. The president had placed his hand on the flag, taken a knee, and bowed his head in prayer. He had then stood, saluted, and walked back to the waiting aircraft. The media suggested the president was paying his respects to an Air Force doctor who had led the hospital through its darkest hours.

  The president had then walked the halls of medical centers, first in Richardson and then in Aurora. He wore no PPE. He shook hands, gave hugs, and offered hope. Hope was something that Hafez Qassem knew was a course of action reserved for those without viable alternatives.

  Would the Americans grab him in broad daylight? The FBI would. They would come screaming in, driving black Suburbans with their badges out and guns drawn for a very public arrest. What the FBI would not do was send him a severed head in the mail. This was something else. A different type of animal was hunting him.

  He’d exited the embassy and passed the Malaysian and Egyptian embassies on International Court North West. He walked north to avoid the Israeli embassy. He moved onto a wooded path near the Austrian embassy to cut through to Thirty-Sixth Street. From there it was a short walk to his residence.

  At first Qassem thought he was having a heart attack. When he felt the second impact he knew it was something else. His neurological system shut down as his brain lost the ability to communicate with his muscles and he toppled to the ground face-first.

  He rolled to his side and grabbed at the impact area. That was exactly what the designers of the weapon had intended. Qassem’s hand connected with the exposed wire attached to the four barbs of the 12-gauge projectile. His hand convulsed. He was unable to pull it away and another 500 volts surged through his system.

  * * *

  Logan cycled his Taser X12 Mossberg and emerged from his hide site, forty feet off the path. He was joined by a second operator who did the same, both quickly approaching the Iranian spy and ready to hit him again with the 500 volts of the specially designed less-than-lethal shotgun rounds. A third man approached with an Axon Taser 7 in the low ready. When he was ten feet away, he pressed the trigger and sent the attached barbs into the downed man, shooting 3,500 volts through his body. His two partners slung their Taser X12 XREP shotguns and quickly zip-tied the man’s hands and feet. He would be dead weight for at least twenty seconds.

  They carried him thirty yards to Thirty-Sixth Street NW, where a flower delivery truck had backed over the curb, its rear doors already open. They loaded him inside and attached him to a chair with restraints before exiting into the street, securing the doors behind them.

  CHAPTER 71

  QASSEM OPENED HIS EYES and attempted to raise his arms to the areas on his chest and stomach that burned, but was unable to move. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he became aware that he was in a moving vehicle and that his legs, arms, and head were strapped to some sort of a chair.

  He was not alone.

  A figure was sitting on a bench seat across from him, a figure dressed in a fully encapsulating orange biohazard suit. Strapped to the face of the man wearing it was a black rubber mask attached to a self-contained breathing apparatu
s beneath the suit. Even in the dim light Qassem recognized the man behind mask.

  “I know you, don’t I?” Qassem asked.

  “I think you do. I take it you make it a point to know the target when you send a hit team to assassinate him,” Reece said though the internal microphone.

  “James Reece, you killed eleven of my men.”

  “I did.”

  “I should have sent more.”

  “You should have sent professionals.”

  “Ah yes, fortunately for you, professionals are hard to come by in this country.”

  “You’ve used amateurs before.”

  Qassem paused and attempted to tilt his head but it remained clasped to the chair.

  “I am a diplomat, Mr. Reece. As I am sure you know, you are in violation of international law, specifically the Vienna Convention. I have diplomatic immunity.”

  “You are a spy. We have a separate set of rules for spies.”

  “Usually, one would need proof of some sort. You wouldn’t want to create an international incident. Even with evidence you can only expel me.”

  “Usually that would be the true, but this is far from a usual case.”

  “Do you plan to torture me, Mr. Reece?”

  “Your fate is in your hands, Qassem. I know you planned the Marburg attack, that you passed Variant U to Dr. Ali Reza Ansari of Biodine Medical Systems, that you wanted us to think it was a respiratory-spread virus that would kill ninety percent of the country in an attempt to get us to trigger an eradication protocol that has been in place since the beginning of the Cold War.”

  Qassem remained silent.