Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller (22 page)

“I did.”

Mitch slumped. “I guess that wasn’t
successful, or you wouldn’t be sitting in here now.” Mitch turned
toward his computer.

“I told you, she’s relentless. She’s not
going to stop nagging until she talks to somebody with an
important-sounding title. I honestly think that if I have to get
back on the phone with her, I might start jamming pencils into my
eye.”

Mitch hung his head and sighed again. He
hated talking to families of kids who weren’t responsible enough to
call or send an occasional email. Sometimes he felt like a
babysitter—just a damn babysitter. “
Sharp
pencils?”

“The sharper the better.”

“Okay. Summarize for me.”

“The kid’s name is Austin Cooper. Twenty
years old. Between his junior and senior year at Texas
A&M.”

“Texas A&M. Who goes there?”

Art rolled his eyes. “Don’t say that to her.
As a matter of fact, don’t say anything to her about Texas A&M.
You’ll get an earful of shit you don’t want to listen to. Trust me
on that one.”

“Got it. No Texas A&M.” But Mitch was
curious. “What kind of shit?”

“Did you know that Bevo, the University of
Texas mascot, supposedly got his name after the Texas Aggies snuck
in and branded a football score of 13-0 on his hide?”

“What?” Mitch shook his head. “I don’t even
know what you’re talking about.”

“According to her, the UT guys added on to
the 13-0 so that it became the word
Bevo
. That’s the name of
some cow that’s their mascot,” continued Art. “And that the Aggies
allegedly barbequed Bevo and served him at some alumni or football
dinner.”

“And this woman told you that?”

“Yes,” Art smiled. “But I Googled it while
she was yammering. It’s only about half true.”

Mitch frowned and shook his head. “Why’d she
tell you this trivial shit again?”

Art shrugged. “I think she knew I had sharp
pencils in my desk, and I hadn’t shoved one in my eye yet.”

They both laughed.

“Mitch, I swear to God, this woman should
work for the CIA, interrogating prisoners or something. She’ll wear
‘em down with her pointless bullshit.”

“Great.” Mitch thought
he
should be
doing that for the CIA. Well, not really, but it was better than
talking to lonesome mothers from Denver whose sons were trying
desperately to hack off the apron strings. “So this woman’s from
Denver. What’s her name?”

“Heidi Cooper.”

“And the kid. You said, Austin, right?
Austin, really? Who names their kid after a city?”

“Apparently, a dad who’s completely nuts
about his alma mater.” Art shook his head, reached out with a piece
of paper, and laid it on the desk in front of Mitch. “Those are the
particulars. The bottom line is, she’s worried about the kid, can’t
get hold of him, saw something on the Internet about Ebola road
blocks in Uganda, and she wants us to do something.”

“Like what?”

“Aside from finding the kid and telling her
he’s all right, I don’t know,” answered Art.

“She didn’t tell you?”

“I couldn’t hear that part. I had a pencil
stuck in my eye.”

Mitch grinned. “Does it affect your
hearing?”

“Depends on how far you push it in.”

Mitch picked up the paper and scanned down.
He looked up at the clock. “It’s a quarter to five. You get on the
phone, tell her I’ve been in a meeting with somebody important, but
I’ve got time to talk to her now. Be sure and tell her this next
part. Tell her I’ve got a meeting at five o’clock I can’t be late
for. And Art, if I’m still on the phone with her at five, you come
into my office and rescue me. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Okay. Put her through.”

“Yes, yes. I understand.” Mitch looked at the
clock. Five twenty-eight. He’d been trying to get off the phone
since five o’clock. Art was right about wanting to stick a pencil
in his eye. “Listen, Mrs. Cooper—Mrs. Cooper.” Stopping the stream
of words was like stepping in front of a train. “Mrs. Cooper!”

She paused for a breath.

“Please, listen for just a moment.” Mitch
risked a breath, hoping she wouldn’t start up again in that tiny
moment, “We’ll do everything we can to check up on Austin. I
promise you. I have a call starting in two minutes, and there is no
way I can miss it. Does Art have your number?”

“Yes, but you really—”

“Mrs. Cooper, please. We have your number.
I’ll call. I’ve really got to go. It was good speaking with you.”
Mitch hung up the phone. He yelled, “Art!”

Art hurried through the door with a question
on his face.

“Ugh!”

Art smiled. “Should I sharpen some pencils
for you?”

“Good God. If she calls back, please handle
it.”

“I’ll try.”

Mitch groaned. “Please
do
try. And try
to find that kid of hers before she calls back.”

“I’m working on it.”

Mitch looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get
on this call. Close the door, please.”

Art smiled, nodded, and quietly pulled the
door shut as he stepped out.

Mitch picked up his secure phone, navigated
the procedure for establishing a secure connection, and found out
he was the first one on the call. He breathed a sigh and leaned
back in his chair, wondering what the call was about. Before his
imagination went too far adrift, the line clicked.

“Hello?” Mitch asked.

“Hello,” replied his boss, back in Langley—or
wherever Jerry Hamilton was. “It’s just us on the call.”

“What’s up?”

Jerry said, “We’ve picked up some information
concerning a Najid Almasi. He associates with some naughty Arab
boys that like to posture and blow things up.”

“Which ones?” Mitch asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Jerry. “He’s been in
and out of the fringes of whatever group is in the headlines for
the past decade.”

“Almasi. The name is familiar,” said
Mitch.

“His father is in the oil business. Shitloads
of money. The name comes up from time to time, but we haven’t
established a firm link, so you may have seen it in a report
somewhere. The old man is dying. He’s been dying for a couple of
years now. Some kind of cancer, and the son—Najid—has been taking
over control of the family business. I’ve sent over the details in
a secure file.”

“Gotcha.” Mitch logged into his computer.

“We think Najid has ambitions. He’s some kind
of jihadist up-and-comer.”

Mitch smiled, thinking of what tended to
happen to guys who rose to the top of those org charts. “Big
dreams.”

“Yes. We’ve picked up some information
concerning Najid that we’re trying to piece together. He’s shifting
money out of stocks and into hard assets. He’s shorting airline
stocks—”

“Airline stocks?” That sort of activity
always raised the curiosity of intelligence types.

“He’s gone long on pharma companies, weapons
manufacturers, and other crazy shit, all on margin. He bought all
the bullets in the warehouse from a Pakistani manufacturer.”

“Their stuff is shit, you know that, right?”
Mitch said, “He doesn’t have high standards.”

“It’s about logistics, not quality.”

Mitch got lost, which wasn’t common.
“Logistics? What do you mean?”

“He’s having them shipped to the family
compound on the Red Sea, paying a premium to get them there in a
hurry.”

“What else?” Mitch asked.

“Food.”

“What do you mean?”

Jerry said, “He bribed the crew of an aid
ship to Somalia, or some such place, and diverted it to the same
place the bullets are going.”

Mitch thought about that for a moment. “He
converted his assets, then placed his bets on long and short
positions on margin? He starts building up the biggest doomsday
hoard at the family compound. Got it. How much money did he bet on
his stock plays?”

“Tens of millions on bets that shouldn’t have
any hope of paying off.”

“Something is definitely up. Maybe he’s just
scared shitless over the Ebola threat,” Mitch said.

Jerry moved right on. “We have reason to
believe he’s in Uganda now.”

“Here?” Mitch sat up straight in his seat.
“Where? Do we know?” He didn’t expect an exact answer on that, but
he got one.

“Some little town near the Kenyan border.
Kapchorwa.”

Mitch paused. “Kapchorwa? You’re kidding
me.”

Suddenly concerned, Jerry asked, “What do you
know about Kapchorwa?”

“Nothing, really,” said Mitch. “I just got
off the phone with some mother whose son is in Kapchorwa, and she’s
freaked out about not hearing from him, with all of these Ebola
rumors.”

“What’s the situation with the rumors there?
Have there been any confirmed cases in Uganda yet? Or more
specifically in the Kapchorwa district?”

Mitch continued. “Nothing official yet, but
the rumors have been going around all week about cases in Mbale,
which is a couple hours south of Kapchorwa. Some WHO teams have
been sent to the area, but there’s a bit of an uproar because no
one’s heard from them. At least one of the doctors is an American,
so the Ambassador has been involved in meetings on and off about it
all day.”

“What’s your gut tell you on this one? Is
there an Ebola outbreak in eastern Uganda?”

Mitch thought about that for a moment before
answering. “With Sudan to the north, and Congo both south and east
of us, we’re in the general vicinity of historical Ebola outbreaks.
So that part isn’t out of the question at all. But there’s a lot of
fear, and of course a ton of disinformation about it. You know
there are religious groups here convincing people that faith in God
will protect them from Ebola or that Ebola is a hoax?”

“You’re kidding me,” mumbled Jerry.

“No, real deal. Then there’s the social
stigma. Nobody wants his peers to shun him because he’s tainted
with Ebola. There’s a lot of reason here to hide it. So taking all
of those factors together, it could be here, or it couldn’t. The
only way to know for sure is to get confirmation from a doctor who
has seen it himself. So far, we don’t have that.”

“Mitch—” That was unusual, they never used
one another’s names on these calls. “Information has come to us
through the ambassador’s office that another WHO team is assembling
to go to that part of the country. Get yourself included. See if
you can convince them to get on the road tonight, if you’re able.
Fly, if possible. Bring some security if you can. Be discreet, but
do it. If this Najid character is up in Kapchorwa, and he thinks
there’s an Ebola outbreak underway, he’s only there for one
reason.”

“You think he wants to collect samples so he
can weaponize it?” Mitch hoped the answer was no. Was it possible
that could be done?

“That’s the fear.”

Mitch asked, “Do these guys have the
resources for that kind of work?”

“I doubt it, but you never know, right? We
need to find out,” Jerry reckoned.

Mitch rubbed his face without even thinking
about it, and thought about the right way to say what he was going
to say next. “If I find Najid in Kapchorwa, what do you want me to
do?”

“Learn what you can. If he’s there, you may
find out whether he’s a shadowy knucklehead who keeps bad company
and makes bad choices, or whether he’s an aspiring player. If he’s
a player, he’s a well-funded, potentially dangerous enemy.”

“I understand.”

“Call in the cavalry if you need to. I’m
trying to get approval to send a team your way.”

“Already?” That surprised Mitch. “You’re that
serious about this?”

“Don’t get too excited. I may not be able to
get it approved. I’ll send you their information if I get it
arranged. Listen, this is a top priority—urgent.”

“I understand.”

“Keep me in the loop,” said Jerry.

“I will.” Mitch hung up the phone.

The Land Rovers and two more vehicles taken
from the dead doctors up the road were headed east, loaded with
young jihadists. Salim, wondering what had happened to Jalal, was
with several dozen others using empty waste buckets and any other
container they could find to douse every structure in Kapchorwa
with diesel. On that point, the rooster man was explicit. Every
structure would burn—the houses, the storage sheds, the pile of
bodies behind the hospital, and the buildings housing the sick
townsfolk.

It was with a sick stomach that Salim thought
about all those dying people. It was with tremendous guilt that he
thought about Austin. What was Austin doing in the middle of
Africa? Austin, the same guy who’d been so patient in helping him
with his Algebra homework when they’d been freshmen at Thunder
Ridge High School, even when the rest of their friends teased him
for being the only Indian in the world who had difficulty with
mathematics. As if every brown-skinned person in the world was from
India. They just couldn’t accept that his family was from
Pakistan.

Simple-minded bigots, with racism wrapped in
jokes and topped with smiles. That’s what Salim thought of most of
those kids.

Nevertheless, through high school Austin and
Salim hung around in the same group. They’d gone to movies together
with their friends and had dinner at each other’s houses. Salim
knew Austin’s parent’s names, his dogs’ names, the familiar smell
of their house, and Heidi’s cooking—especially her homemade
ravioli. It was bad enough that his friend was dying of a vicious
tropical disease, but Salim was being asked to burn him alive.

Vehicles of every sort started to arrive in
the village from the east and were parked at the eastern edge of
Kapchorwa.

After the tank of diesel fuel was emptied and
spread over the houses, many men, presumably all Westerners like
Salim, got into the trucks and headed toward Kenya. Salim was one
of a dozen left at the west end of the village. They went to work
binding dry grass into bundles, and Salim immediately guessed their
purpose—torches.