Pestilence (Jack Randall #2) (2 page)

“Yes, the Americans,” the robed man replied. ”Let them come.”

“Oh, they will my friend. You angered them once before, and they robbed you of an eye. I imagine they will want more this time. I would not underestimate them.”

“Yes, I will be leaving as well, but not for long. I will see you again?”

“Perhaps, Allah willing, but most likely not.” The Arab offered no explanation.

“I understand.”

•      •      •

Djimon increased the speed of the forklift after rounding the corner. After driving daily for three months now, he considered himself an expert. He had not spilled anything since his first day. He had feared that day was his last, but the Americans were forgiving, and he had been given a second chance. He had been offered the job after befriending one of the many officials who worked there. His sister was employed by the woman and watched over her child while she and her husband worked. While Djimon’s job did not allow him access to the embassy itself, he worked right next door in the warehouse, moving supplies all day and loading and unloading trucks.

Djimon was very proud of his job and worked hard for the Americans he had come to respect. The constant flow of humanitarian items he moved every day had removed any doubts he’d had before. Other boys his age would curse the Americans, saying they were taking over their country and treading on their beliefs. Djimon knew better. The job he did every day had proven it. How could he deny the generosity of his employer when he himself moved every pallet of food, medicine and clothing that came through the building? He saw the destinations on the crates. All for his countrymen and all for free. They paid him well, treated him with respect, and fed him twice a day, also for free. He had discovered chocolate from the Americans, and they would often dip into certain crates before they left the docks so he could take it home to his younger brothers and sisters. Not once had they questioned him on his religion or interfered with his prayers. No one had tried to convert him, or offered him anything that went against his beliefs. While his employers drank alcohol and ate things he found foul, he had soon realized that his people also did some things that the Americans found unpleasant. But he had come to accept them as he had been accepted by them.

Today his supervisor was a man named Ken. A simple name he had easily remembered. Ken, he had learned, did not work for the American government, but for one of the drug companies that were supplying the medications that fought AIDS. Medications his country needed desperately. Ken was a stern man, not as friendly as his other bosses. When the medications arrived they were always brought by the same three men: a driver, a passenger, and a man who rode in the back with the pallets. All of them were heavily muscled and heavily armed. They were polite but serious men, and Djimon feared them greatly. Violence in his country was a fact of life, and Djimon knew the look of men who were no strangers to the deliverance of death. He always worked quickly to unload the crates when they arrived, the sooner to get the men on their way. Today was no different, and Djimon was now placing the crates in their proper locations according to the numbers stamped on each.

But he had a problem. He had been treated to a good breakfast by the Americans. Complete with orange juice, which he loved. He had drunk his fill to the amusement of the bosses and was now going on several hours of driving back and forth with a full bladder. There were three crates left, but he had to pee. Now.

The current pallet on his lift contained shrink-wrapped boxes of medicine vials. Today they were yellow tops, as opposed to the red tops that had arrived last week. It had confused him at first. The vials were the same in every other way. Same size, same shape, same number on the side. Yet he was told he could never mix the boxes. The yellows went in their designated area, the reds in theirs, and were stored in separate ends of the warehouse.

Surely he could park the lift in the red zone for a moment? Just long enough to pee. He looked around for Ken, who usually watched his every move when moving the drugs. He saw him at the other end of the warehouse. He was talking on his cell phone and not looking his way. Djimon quickly parked the forklift in the red zone, leaped off and ran toward the bathroom on the other side of the office. He only needed a minute.

•      •      •

Muzzammil stared at the street light. Normally he was impatient and often would run the lights, but today they seemed to be blinking green just for him. He dared not run it. His truck was heavy and slow, and the cargo too precious.

He squeezed his eyes shut in a silent prayer and mopped the sweat from his face. He had always been comfortable in the African heat. It was all he had ever known. But today he was sweating. Despite the sweat in his eyes, his vision was unusually sharp today. He found himself noticing every little detail of life swarming around him. He was also keenly aware of his heart beating in his chest. Something also unusual, but it had been with him since he had departed the garage. The act he was about to perform was keeping the adrenalin flowing through his system.

A blaring horn forced his eyes open. The light was showing green.

“Allah Akbar,” he mumbled as he slipped the truck into gear.

He could see his target over the cars in front of him from his elevated position in the truck. Keeping his acceleration slow, he opened a gap in the traffic in front of him. He looked for the promised snipers on the buildings around his target, but saw nothing. Soon the gap was large enough and he floored the gas pedal, working the clutch and gears, coaxing as much speed as he could from the heavy vehicle. The weak point in the concrete barrier was marked with graffiti and he kept his eyes focused on his target. He was within one hundred meters when he heard the first shots. Two of the guards at the gate fell to the pavement, and the third took cover behind the kiosk. As he shifted gears, Muzzammil ducked down as low as possible as bullets from the embassy rooftop shattered the windshield into a spider web of cracks. The truck had reached its top speed and he angled not toward the gate and its snake-like concrete entrance, but to the outside barrier ringing the building. The embassy had not upgraded the perimeter with concrete and steel posts as other embassies had, and was instead utilizing pre-formed concrete fencing of the type seen on highway projects. They were not anchored down and the graffiti directed him to the joint where two barriers met. Muzzammil sat up and braced himself before impact, gripping the wheel tightly. He must not let go too soon. Shots continued to ping the truck around him, but the shooters had the wrong angle to reach him in the driver’s seat.

The impact threw him forward and his nose crunched as his face impacted the wheel sharply, almost causing him to lose his grip on the wheel. His view was a kaleidoscope of sun, glass, and the interior of the truck as he was thrown violently around the cab. His face struck the wheel a second time as the truck suddenly stopped and listed to the right.

Muzzammil pulled himself up and assessed his position. It was strangely quiet. As he gazed through the shattered windshield he discovered he had penetrated the barrier and come to rest against the wall of the embassy itself. He looked down to see his hand still gripping the wheel in a white-knuckled grasp. The wire was still attached to his wrist. His hearing suddenly returned as a bullet impacted his chest. He saw his blood pour down the front of his shirt to join that streaming from his nose. He breathed deep and coughed, adding more blood to the mixture. His gaze once again fell on his left hand.

•      •      •

Ken Gates was not pleased. He had just received a verbal lashing from his boss half a world away and was now looking at an empty forklift. Worse yet, it was parked in the red zone with a load of yellow tops still on the skids. He’d told the boy very plainly how important it was to not mix the two. Something he kept an eye on at all times. The goal of this drug treatment was too important, and while Ken was sure he wasn’t privy to the whole plan, he had received the lecture and taken the shot. He was committed. He really had no choice. Everyone was committed, one way or the other, everyone.

He was about to hop on the forklift and move the pallet himself when he heard the sounds of gunfire. He stopped and listened closely, but sound was dampened in the large warehouse. As he listened he heard the sound of the toilet flushing. He turned to see Djimon hurrying around the corner from the bathroom. He opened his mouth to admonish the boy for his violation, but before he could do so, the wall in front of them disintegrated in a ball of fire, throwing debris across the room, crushing them both.

•      •      •

The Arab smiled as the sound of the explosion echoed across the city. His view of the building was now one of a giant dust cloud that moved toward him, assisted by the dry wind. He had given the boy as much time as he could, and while he would get the credit for his sacrifice, the Arab had been forced to use the remote device. He now carefully disassembled the device and added it to a small metal waste can he had previously filled with paper and bits of wood. Only when every surface was exposed, both internal and external, did he set the paper aflame and place it out on the balcony. He did not worry about being seen as the sky was now blacked out by the dust cloud rising from the embassy and traveling on the wind. He left the room and, wrapping his head in cloth, exited the building into the chaos of the street. Joining a group of fleeing people, he moved swiftly down the street away from the embassy. The wind moved the small sandstorm he had created along with him.

His day would now consist of a long walk out of the city, followed by a day and night in the African bush. He would then be given new papers and smuggled on a truck across two borders before arriving in Sudan, where he would be welcomed as a brother. A hard journey, but a small price to pay.

90% of the ocean’s edible species may be gone by 2048.
November 13, 2006—USA Today
 

—TWO—

J
ack cupped both hands around his coffee mug as he leaned on the railing and gazed out over the deserted beach at the Atlantic. The only movement he saw this morning was the wind blowing snow across the dunes and the slow progress of a container ship on the horizon. It was the same view he’d had for the last month of his mandatory vacation.

He sipped the coffee and tried to think of what was on his list for the day. Not much. After his last investigation had come to its climactic end on live television, he had been in the press for some time, again. Not something his wife had approved of. The FBI had been forced to initiate an internal investigation into him and his team under the pressure of a few politicians, all hoping to score some political capital against their rivals in the current administration. The hearings and depositions had become regular additions to the news cycle for several weeks. They had picked through every aspect of his past, from his days in collage through his time in the military, his inherited business, and finally his days with the FBI. Thankfully, a member of the Senate had become exposed in a nasty sex scandal, and the press had turned their attention to a juicier subject.

The fact that Jack had been under the bare light bulb of the investigation that produced no wrongdoing by him did not sit well with the oversight committee. Despite the Director of the FBI backing him, the Attorney General had suggested some time off. It was delivered with a medal no one would ever see, and a personal letter from the President himself, but it still did not ease the pain of being sidelined. He had tried to look on the bright side. It did give him the time off he had promised Debra. She had been forced to leave her teaching job due to the press following her every move. The charity work she did had at first suffered also, but had enjoyed a surge in donations once the story got out that the FBI’s hero favored their cause. Their time together had been strained, but they had gotten through the tough part, and were now finding new routines to replace the old. Well, at least she had. While their relationship had improved greatly since his last case, there were still some things to work out. They were both trying.

While his wife spent her full time at her charities now, he had surrendered the house in Kenwood to escape the press and placed himself in exile at the beach house he had inherited from his father. The drive was too far for the Washington press, and the winter cold meant his seasonal neighbors were not due for a month yet. Jack had the entire dead end street to himself.

He’d avoided the TV for the first couple of weeks, but soon his thirst for news overwhelmed his dread of seeing his own face on the screen. He had found time to read the directions for the remote and had discovered his father had programmed the same “favorite” channels in as he would have selected. Something he hadn’t come to a complete opinion on yet.

The problem was Jack had nothing to do. He was no longer a corporate business man. Although he kept tabs on his father’s company, (his now, but he would never see it that way) he found little pleasure in reading quarterly reports and expansion summaries. The people he had left in charge when he left to join the FBI were doing fine work, and would most likely be better off without him jumping back in for what he hoped would be a short leave of absence.