Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller: Book 2 (20 page)

It was Maggie’s face Paul saw when the television screen flickered to life. The neighbor Maggie, whom Heidi had told about Paul’s prepper stash that day after his first trip to Costco all those weeks ago. It was Maggie who Paul was worried would tell everyone in the neighborhood about his fifty-pound bags of rice and other goodies.

Paul got a sinking feeling as though the world had slipped into slow motion, and he watched Maggie’s face. She’d been listening to a question from the reporter and in response, her bushy eyebrows wriggled into a pained plea for validation as the rest of her face tried hard to hide the orgasmic joy she felt by tattling on the neighbors.

On the television screen, Paul saw the headline in white text, outlined in yellow on a stylish background of cobalt blue with black pinstripes. Quotes surrounded the words, “Paul Cooper lied.”

The guilty weight of all of Paul’s choices crashed down on him. Embarrassed pain ripped away the curtain of his self-esteem and sucked the breath out of his chest.

“She likes to talk,” Maggie said in answer to the question asked before Paul’s television came to life.

The screen split in two with Maggie’s face in a window on one side and the anchor’s face on the other. The anchor asked, “She likes to talk? She just came out and told you that Paul Cooper was going to infect himself with Ebola on purpose?”

There it was, the paralyzing truth.

“That’s right,” Maggie nodded. “I usually keep to myself, but Heidi can’t. She’s always talking to everyone in the neighborhood, just telling them any old thing.”

“And what did you do when she told you this?” The anchor asked.

Maggie was put off by the implication that perhaps she should have done something when she’d heard the news. “I didn’t think anything of it. His son just died, you know.”

“What happened to his son?” the anchor asked, with the appropriate sympathy in her tone.

“He died of Ebola in Africa,” answered Maggie. “He was one of those kids wasting their parents’ money trying to find himself by vacationing around the world. You know the type.

“Fuck you!” Paul screamed.

Getting the interview back to the pertinent points, the anchor asked, “Did you have any idea that Paul Cooper would carry through with a plan to infect himself?”

“No,” Maggie put on a sad face. “He lost his son. He was depressed, I imagine. People don’t think straight when they lose a loved one, especially a child.”

The television screen dropped the image of Maggie and filled with the news anchor’s sad, but pretty, plasticine face. “Loss of a loved one is indeed difficult.” Her face changed back to mannequin neutrality, with the hint of a smile. “After the break, we’ve got a video from the dashcam of a Texas Highway Patrol car that allegedly shows Paul Cooper on a routine traffic stop, at a time when he claimed to be on that much talked-about trip to Lake Granby, where he met the infected Liberian man.”

Paul turned off the television and turned his chair around so that he could look out the window again at the rain and the gray clouds. He was screwed.

“All I’m saying, butt-wipe, is I got things to do today. I don’t know why we’re driving all the way to this part of town just so you can show me some surprise.”

Jimmy made a left turn off the highway exit ramp and then looked over at Larry, asking himself for the thousandth time why he didn’t find a new partner. The answer was always the same. Well, the answer
became
the same through the years, after Jimmy developed the capacity to be honest with himself on the subject. Jimmy was too lazy to find somebody else. Larry was loyal enough, productive enough, predictable, and easily manipulated. “It’ll be just a few more minutes.”

Larry huffed and looked out the window. “All these people down here got their big-ass cracker box houses. Bunch of soccer-mom stickers on the windows of their SUVs. They make me sick.”

“Uh-huh,” Jimmy agreed, though he didn’t care.

“Look around man,” Larry pointed down a side street. “Every lawn is mowed and the bushes are all trimmed. You don’t see no brown grass. Nobody’s got a car up on blocks anywhere. Rich fucks. Dentists and lawyers, all of ‘em, I’ll bet.”

“Probably.” Jimmy stopped at a red light.

“No potholes,” Larry groused. “That’s why we got potholes in our streets. All the tax money goes here to make sure their streets are perfect.” Larry pointed at the road ahead of the truck as his anger grew. “Look, man, you see?”

Jimmy nodded as they passed the second road repair crew in just as many blocks.

“Perfectly smooth roads. This place makes me sick.”

“Then you’ll be happy in a minute,” Jimmy told Larry when the light changed.

Larry looked out his side window and said nothing. Jimmy, happy for a respite from the complaining, said nothing more as he drove the truck through two more stoplights. The wide street climbed a hill, and just past the crest, Jimmy took a left turn into a complex of expensive-looking townhouses with perfectly manicured landscaping.

“What’s this?” Larry asked as they drove onto a street between rows of new-looking townhouses sided in old-looking bricks.

Jimmy looked at the map on his phone and slowed the truck as he did so. He looked up at a street sign, then back down at his phone.

Larry asked, “What road you lookin’ for?”

“This is it.” Jimmy took a left turn. A block down, Jimmy made another left turn and slowed to look at the numbers on the sides of the buildings.

“Whose house we lookin’ for?” Larry asked.

At a curve in the road, Jimmy pulled over and parked, but left the engine running. Jimmy looked at the buildings again and pointed to a townhouse on the end of a building. “Paul Cooper.”

Larry looked at Jimmy while he tried to make the mental connection. His face turned to anger, but he said nothing.

“The guy in the news,” Jimmy hinted.

Larry looked back at the building. “The guy in—the guy who infected himself with Ebola?”

“That guy,” Jimmy confirmed.

“He’s in there?” Larry asked.

Jimmy shrugged. “I doubt it. Last I saw on TV, he was still in the hospital. If the police don’t toss him in jail when he gets out of the hospital, he’ll be back here soon enough.”

“You think—” Larry paused as he put his thoughts together, “since he got better, he’s the guy we can get our first batch of blood from.”

Jimmy smiled, but it looked more like a snarl. “
He’s the guy
.”

Larry rubbed the whiskers on his chin. “I know you’ve been thinking about this, but I’ve got questions.”

“Okay.”

“I never paid much attention in school.” Larry put his fingers to his lips as if smoking an invisible joint. “Too much of that. Know what I mean?”

Jimmy laughed and nodded. “Yeah.”

“But I know if we take the blood out, it’ll con—, congranu—”

“It’ll coagulate,” said Jimmy, knowing Larry would never come up with the word.

“Right,” said Larry. “What do we do about that?”

“I got a buddy who works as a plasmapheresis tech down at the donation center.”

Larry was confused.

“Where you donate your plasma when you can’t make rent. They give you thirty bucks and some cookies.”

Larry thumped two fingers on the crook of his elbow. “Been there.”

Jimmy reached into his pocket and took out a vial of clear liquid. “I got a whole box of this shit from my buddy.” Jimmy handed the small bottle to Larry.

Larry took the bottle and held it up to read the label. “Heparin?”

“And Coumadin,” said Jimmy, nodding. “It keeps the blood from clotting, so you can run it through the machine.”

Larry rubbed his whiskers again and said, “Those machines are big and heavy.” He pointed at Paul Cooper’s townhouse. “Where do we get one, and how do we get it in there?”

“We don’t,” said Jimmy, shaking his head. “Like you said, they’re big and heavy. We don’t know how to work it. If we went that route, we’d have to get my buddy, the plasmapheresis guy, in on the deal for a share. I don’t know if he’d be down for this kind of work. He doesn’t mind stealing a box of Heparin to make a few bucks, but I don’t think he’d approve of what we’re gonna be doing with it.”

Larry put on a confident face as he agreed with Jimmy’s conclusion.

“Most people are too afraid of the law to break it by much.” Jimmy laughed.

Larry laughed. “That’s the truth.”

“That’s why we just take the blood.” Jimmy reached over and took the vial of Heparin back from Larry. “We use this to keep the blood from clotting. I got bags and needles and stuff. My buddy got us everything we need. By the way, that stuff wasn’t cheap. I covered the cost, but I’m repaying myself before we divvy up the profits.”

“Yeah, man,” Larry nodded. “Of course.”

“Oh.” Jimmy laughed again. “I almost forgot about the best part.”

“What’s that?”

“Nobody’s gonna give a shit.”

“How’s that?” Larry asked.

“You’ve seen the news, man,” said Jimmy. “Everybody hates Paul Cooper.”

“Yeah?”

“Man, you don’t play the sympathy thing all over TV, and then have it come out that you lied about everything. People hate that shit. Especially with Ebola in Denver now.”

“Over a hundred,” Larry cut in. “Maybe two hundred. I heard it on the radio this morning.”

“All potential customers.” Jimmy laughed. “And they all blame Paul Cooper. If he turns up dead, everybody in Denver will be a suspect. It’s the perfect crime. When it comes out in the news that somebody stole all of Paul’s blood, it’ll make it easier for us to sell our stock. It’ll be like the news channels will do our advertising. People will believe we have what we say we have, and they’ll pay us top dollar for it.”

Firas Hakimi was dead. That was the news Hadi had just passed along to Najid as he walked in the shade of the date trees just inside the northern wall. After imparting the news, Najid instructed Hadi to find out who Hakimi’s successor would be. With every member of Hakimi’s inner circle either dead or sick, Najid would be surprised if Hadi came back with any name at all. Hakimi’s organization would likely fall apart. If any of his low-level zealots survived the epidemic in Syria, Najid decided he might try to recruit them at a future date. He’d put Hadi on collecting a list, if he could.

But those thoughts were for another day.

This day was for joy.

Najid Almasi, recent heir to the Almasi fortune, had already tripled his wealth. He laughed out loud into the solitude of the grove. The servants knew he liked to walk in the date grove to find his peace, find time to think. They left him alone, except when urgency demanded otherwise.

The wealth was mostly paper wealth. That, and the skyrocketing value of the gold and silver stored in the bunkers beneath the compound. When the international monetary system collapsed, as it surely appeared to be on its way to doing, all of that paper would be worthless. Until then, Najid Almasi—rich already—was in the upper echelons of the list of wealthiest men in the world.

Short-lived though it would be, it felt good.

The morning’s best news was that of the Ebola counts. Hadi no longer presented graphs of infection projections. He presented numbers of reported cases. The most infected city in the world was Nairobi, an unfortunate result of its containing an international airport relatively close to Kapchorwa. All of Najid’s jihadists had passed through Nairobi.

No new numbers were coming out, however. After Nairobi passed the hundred thousand case mark, the city sank into a chaotic state. The government stopped communicating with the outside world. Everyone speculated that the city’s government and the Kenyan government simply didn’t exist anymore.

Frankfurt, the most diseased city in the West, reached thirty-six thousand cases, with more reported each day. It seemed to be following Nairobi’s path into oblivion. Of the American cities, Dallas was suffering most. Its case count had passed the thousand mark and—

A blaze of brilliant light flashed from out on the water, past the end of the pier.

Najid’s skin felt suddenly sunburned.

His beautiful white yacht ruptured in exploding flames.

A second flash. More fire.

The sound of the first explosion shook Najid. The tanker ruptured into flames. Explosions burst everywhere. Najid dove for the ground.

Giggling, Barry said “See, see.”

Olivia did. First the three ships anchored offshore were hammered with a series of missiles that engulfed them in flames and sent one almost immediately under the waves. Najid Almasi’s compound lit up next, with explosions ripping through every major structure on the property.

“When is this?” Olivia asked.

“The feed came in last night,” answered Barry. “This might be twelve hours old.”

The video showing the carnage did so in pixelated black and white imagery. It was nevertheless satisfying to see all those bodies that just moments before had been little black ants moving about—unsuspecting of what was coming, much like the world had been unsuspecting when Najid Almasi launched his attack. After the explosions flashed away, none of the bodies moved. Only the flames and the smoke were alive.

“Remember,” said Barry, “You never saw this.”

“Gotcha.” Olivia couldn’t take her eyes off the screen. “I wish—”

“I know,” said Barry. “That we’d gotten to him sooner.”

“Yeah.” Olivia watched the black figures. Still, none of them moved. “Do you think we got him? Almasi himself?”

“Intelligence said he was there.”

“Human intelligence?” Olivia asked.

Barry tapped the screen. “We’ve got him on video in the compound. He didn’t leave before the attack. Nobody did, unless they burrowed through the sand.”

Olivia nodded. If only they’d gotten to him much, much sooner.

Barry said, “I thought with your brother and all, you’d appreciate seeing it.”

“Thanks,” Olivia said, putting a hand on Barry’s shoulder. “I do appreciate it.”

Barry turned off the video. “Did you hear about Eric?”

“No.”

“He took a leave of absence.”

“I just saw him yesterday,” said Olivia.

“It was his last day for a while.”

“For how long?” Olivia knew the answer, and she knew the reason. It felt right to ask anyway.

“Don’t know,” said Barry. “His wife got it.”

“Ebola?”

Barry nodded in confirmation.

“The kids?” she asked, hoping they were safe. In truth, if Eric’s wife had it, her children would soon follow. That seemed to be Ebola’s M.O., to seed one member of the family and then massacre the rest.

Barry shrugged.

Olivia muttered, “It’s everywhere.”

Barry nodded emphatically at that. “At least Almasi got his.”

“At least that.” Olivia sat herself on Barry’s L-shaped desk, well away from his computer, and leaned against the cubicle wall.

Barry spun lazily around in his chair to face her.

“Who takes Eric’s place while he’s out?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said Barry. “Eric’s boss is in the hospital, too.”

Before she could ask, Barry nodded.

“Nobody tells me anything since my clearance got suspended.”

Barry looked suddenly very thoughtful.

“What’s that?” Olivia asked.

“What’s what?”

“That face you just made when I mentioned my clearances. Do you know something you’re not telling me?”

Barry pursed his lips and glanced back at his computer monitor. “Your clearances weren’t revoked. You know Eric disabled your clearances in the system when the CIA made a fuss, right?”

Olivia shrugged. She didn’t have any insight into how the administrative parts of Eric’s job worked. “Are you telling me he could have re-enabled it whenever he wanted?”

“Technically, yes,” said Barry. “He had the ability to re-enable whenever he saw fit.”

“Bastard.”

“Don’t get offended. It’s more complicated than just Eric.”

“Now that he’s out, are you telling me I’ll never get it back?”

“No,” said Barry. “I’m not saying that, at all. With Eric out, approval requests automatically go to his boss. With his boss out, they go to his backup approver.”

“Wait, you’re losing me. Approval requests?”

“If you went into the permissions admin web tool on the intranet, and submitted a clearance request to Eric, the approval would come to me.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Barry shook his head.

“You could take the suspension off my clearances?”

“As long as Eric’s out. What he does when he comes back is his business.”

Olivia smiled. “Will you come by my desk and walk me through it? That app is too counterintuitive for me. I want to make sure I fill out the forms correctly.”

“I’ll come by after lunch.”