Forest Park: A Zombie Novel (6 page)

Harris didn’t answer him.

“General Shapinkov. He was in Batumi without authorization, and is presumed dead.”

It was a while before Harris decided to answer. “Aleksandr was a great man and a good friend. The last time I spoke to him was during a conference in Israel. You attended, but I don’t believe you had the good luck to meet him. It was during that conference that I presented him with a gift, a Desert Eagle; a simple gesture for all the good will he has shown over the many years.” Harris turned to Ambrose. “He loved his guns; all Russians do. He told me he felt like John Wayne with it hanging off his hip.” Harris chuckled to himself. “He was good man. If Aleksandr was in Georgia, he would have been there for a reason. He was a slippery son-of-a-bitch, so maybe it’s best you leave this one to me.”

“I’m happy to continue to ---” Ambrose started when Harris’s phone suddenly began to ring.

“Leave it to me,” Harris said before he answered the phone. “Gibson, let me guess what this is about.”

Ambrose walked out of Harris’s office suspicious and determined to find out all he could.

ISTANBUL

SULTANAHMET NEIGHBORHOOD

EMINÖNÜ DISTRICT

Istanbul was a city balancing on the edge of two worlds, linked by the Bosporus, the natural border between Europe and Asia.

The ancient metropolis, originally founded by Greek colonists, had eventually become the capital of the Eastern Roman Emperors Nova Roma. The city had a perpetually turbulent history, just like the river that passed through it. Change had never been a stranger, and agents of change were never far from her heart.

The sun beat down on Sergei’s exposed head. He could feel it penetrating his skull from the outside- in, as he sat quietly with his legs crossed. He hadn’t been sleeping well; he’d been having dreams --- strange dreams, dreams he couldn’t shake.

Since arriving in Istanbul, it had been one vodka after another, in celebration and commiseration. However, drinking was not the sole reason for him being there, he was there to do a deal. That was why he found himself sitting hung-over and alone in a small park in between the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia.

God, I’m hungry, he thought, as an old humpbacked sweetbread seller wandered toward him, away from a large group of tourists who were posing for photos across from the Hagia Sophia.

The man carried his sweet breads in a round wicker basket on his head, jumbled together, one on top of another. The bread looked so inviting and smelled fresh even from a distance. Sergei reached into his pocket and offered the old man some change, a few coins more than a piece of the bread would have cost. The old man snapped up the few extra coins and gave Sergei a generous portion.

Sergei tore off a chunk of the bread and shoved it into his mouth; it was crunchy on the outside but soft and sweet once he bit into it. After chewing for a while, he reached down between his legs and opened his backpack for a chilled bottle of water. As he took a large mouthful, he closed his eyes.

THE MEETING

“Sergei, Captain Sergei Bragin? It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Sergei opened his eyes and tried not to appear startled. He was safe. He was in a public park surrounded by his team who were watching his every move, armed to their teeth and ready to strike if need be.

The stranger wore a red keffiyeh and a simple white cotton shirt and linen pants, and on his feet were open-toed sandals. Sergei extended his hand and firmly shook the one offered to him.

“It is a beautiful day to make new friends, and I’m sure we will be great friends,” the man said. The stranger spoke in Russian, but it was heavily accented.

“Al Rashid?” Sergei asked.

The man nodded. “Yes, I am, my friend.” Al Rashid released Sergei’s hand and leaned over to him, close enough to whisper into his ear. “You know, I had seen your face once before in Chechnya, although that was some years ago now.” Al Rashid then leaned back again. “But all that is in the past.”

Sergei had no memory of the other man; in country, he had trouble telling them apart. “All in the past.”

“Good then, we’re no longer enemies, and this is now truly a meeting between two new friends who would like to do some business together.” Al Rashid lit a cigarette as he sat down next to Sergei. “But before we discuss business, how are your boss and my other friend General Shapinkov?”

“He’s very well, but very busy.”

Al Rashid smiled and then after a small pause he replied, “Tell him I do not think him a coward for not meeting me himself. Both he and I have had a regrettable past. Blood’s been spilled on both sides. Even so, I have been fortunate. I have had Allah! Subhan Allah, Glory be to God to protect me and mine,” Al Rashid said while gesturing with a wave of his hands. “Allah has guided me well on my journey through this life, and maybe someday he will also guide you? God be willing.”

“I’m an unbeliever,” Sergei said.

Al Rashid frowned. “A pity,” he replied and then continued, “But of course, I have other-worldly protections --- other than Allah. Protection much like you have here today, my friend.” Al Rashid scanned the park and the immediate surroundings. “But we need not concern ourselves with such things in the company of friends,” he said, smiling.

“Indeed,” Sergei said, lying.

“Now, let’s get down to business. I have with me a flash drive with some numbers or whatever on it, and I was assured by my bank manager,” Al Rashid said with a grin,” that these numbers will allow you access to a vast sum of money which the general has requested. Do you have what he promised me?”

Sergei nodded. “Everything is in the backpack.”

Al Rashid clapped his hands together with a dubious excitement. “Very good! You need honesty in a friendship, don’t you, Captain? Without it, things wouldn’t be good for either party. I only hope this does as promised?”

“Are we done?” Sergei answered, his tone now becoming colder.

Al Rashid raised an eyebrow as he got to his feet. “So it seems we’re not friends after all. What a shame,” he said as he started to walk away only to stop again, to eye the Russian one more time. “Travel well, Captain,” he said before walking quickly through the grounds of the Blue Mosque and exiting by the ancient Roman Hippodrome, where a black sedan was waiting for him among the tourist buses and worshippers.

Opening the rear door, he slid into the back seat like a fox down a hole, as he gently placed the backpack down on an immaculate tan leather seat.

“Were there complications?” Haroun, Al Rashid’s driver and lieutenant asked as they entered into the traffic.

“It all went well.”

“Is it what you were after?”

“I’m sure of it, and if our informant is correct, then this is a thousand times more powerful than anthrax! It’s something else entirely, something new,” Al Rashid said.

“What do we do now?”

“Now, we put everything into motion; it begins tonight. The operational window we have been given is very limited, we’ll only have access to our targets for the next forty-eight hours, that was all that could be arranged, so to hell with the risk. I’m willing to wager everything on moving without delay. Action defeats inaction, my friend, and soon the CIA and the FSB will be asking questions, and I have no doubt they’re already doing so as we speak, and each answer will lead them closer to us. The more time we waste waiting, the less chance we’ll have for success,” Al Rashid said. “By the way, I also want those Russian mercenaries dead. I can’t afford to have anybody linking us to Batumi.” Al Rashid lit another cigarette. “I want that man’s head detached from his body before sunset,” he added, referring to Sergei.

“I’ll take care of it.”

NEW YORK

Daud sprayed a light mist of cooling cologne to his exposed neck as he strolled along with the crowd. A young woman walking alongside him giggled and then whispered something to her boyfriend, who laughed along with her. Daud offered the couple a friendly nod and a smile, as they moved slowly among the heaving mass toward the cab rank at JFK airport.

Daud hadn’t known, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have felt offended --- not today of all days --- that people had made several complaints about his excessive use of cologne during the long flight over the Atlantic. His only concern was that it drew too much attention to himself, but time’s limited and the window for action was small; he had to put those concerns behind him.

Daud’s day of travel had begun in the early morning at Ataturk International Airport in Yesilkoy, Istanbul. From there he had flown direct to Frankfurt in Germany, where he had spent several hours reclining on the metal benches at the airport, and wandering freely around the duty-free shops, while sipping strong Turkish coffees and chatting. He waited at Frankfurt for his connecting flight to the US. He knew that his fellow brothers had also flown on to other large cities, such as London and Athens, or Rome and Paris – many of them caught other connecting flights to North America and China, Singapore, Japan and New Delhi.

The idea as explained to Daud was that operatives like himself would fly to different destinations around the globe and connect with various cells in differing cities across each nation where applicable. Using public transport, each cell member would infect as many members of the global public as they could, especially targeting large commuter hubs and medical facilities.

Duad asked for, and received, the prime target of New York, thanks to his close friendship with Al Rashid. He would be among the first of thousands and then millions to die within the next few days and weeks, and as strong a believer as he was, the thought of dying weighed heavy on him regardless of faith. Duad prayed that he would somehow be able to witness the end, and that Allah would spare him from the grace of Heaven, if only for a short time, at least long enough to witness the death of New York.

Daud saw who he was looking for; Awad was waiting for him behind the wheel of a taxi that appeared out of service.

Like Daud, Awad was a fellow Saudi, and had been driving yellow medallion taxis throughout the area of the five boroughs of New York, Queens, the Bronx, Brooklyn, Staten Island and Manhattan for several years. He was an engineer by trade, but was of far more use to the local cell by being a verbal link. The use of cell phones was forbidden --- only direct in person contact for the passing of information was allowed, leaving the apparent randomness of passenger pick-ups an excellent avenue for communication.

Awad departed from the taxi rank, turned on to Rockaway Boulevard, and then on to Atlantic Avenue, where he eventually crossed the Manhattan Bridge into the Lower East side – the immigrants home of New York.

Both men drove the road into the city without a sound passing between them. Daud used these few moments of silence to think. Glancing over his shoulder while deep in thought, he saw the Brooklyn Bridge arching across the dark water that surrounded Manhattan, and then it all suddenly became very real. He was never going to see home again.

He saw the city’s lights for the first time as they reflected ornately over the rolling water, which was so different to the desert plain with its cold wind at night and its sandy gales, and its horizon that shimmered with a pale blue.

In the desert, you stood surrounded by expanse and silence. It was home and fragile. Its life didn’t rely on coppered wire and fibre optics; this city was the real illusion --- the mirage.

“Awad, will we see the Statue of Liberty from here?” he asked when he finally spoke.

The other man shook his head. “No. It’s on the other side, opposite Battery Park. It’s a little out of our way,” Awad said.

Daud nodded. He felt a little foolish. He wasn’t here to sightsee. It was cities like this that kept the corrupt house of Saud in power, but once places such as New York and London were gone, then places such as the holy city of Mecca would be handed back to the people it belonged to.

Awad drove past the Madina Masjid Mosque on the corner of First Avenue and Eleventh, and as he did, he pointed out the Mosque to Daud and asked him if he wished to stop. Daud waved Awad forward. A few minutes later, Awad brought his yellow cab to a stop outside of an overcrowded tenement, which was the home of the cell. It was one of three in New York alone, and among a large network within the US.

After prayers and blessings, the eleven co-conspirators settled down on a variety of wonky chairs and stained couches placed in a disjointed semi-circle around a very nervous Daud.

Awad stood watching the group from behind as the eleven said their names in turn. Khalid,

Omar, Said, Yusuf, Isa, Samir, Khalil, Jafar and on through to Fuad.

Daud took a deep breath in an attempt to settle his nerves --- sweat began to pour down his brow; he wasn’t feeling well --- he certainly didn’t feel up to giving a rousing speech, but he was the only man in the room who knew Al Rashid personally. He was also the sole man in the apartment who had met with Osama Bin Laden during his training in Pakistan a few years before Osama’s death.

Daud began his speech. “I have never been to the United States before, but I have traveled across the globe, and in these travels I have seen many things. I have talked to many people...” He paused for a few moments; his head was beginning to spin. “I have fought more than my share of wars against the West and against our own corrupt leaders. I have seen our children cast aside like rubbish, and I have seen our culture manipulated by the Western run media --- I have seen our nations fall into disunity time and time again.”

The co-conspirators sat quietly and listened.

Daud’s eyes were on fire (more so from fever, than fervor), and to his own amazement, it seemed as if God had graced his tongue with a fluidity it had never known before --- but still, something deep down inside of him was gnawing away at his essence, his stomach begun to churn.

“Our nation’s leaders chase after money; they don’t seek reform. They ignore education; and the cries of the Palestinians being treated like animals in their own homeland of Palestine by the Jews...”