All except Sohrab, that is. Three years into the microbiologist’s doctoral work on some mundane technique of molecular virology, Attenborough had been convinced that Sohrab was ready to commit. He was upset with the results of recent national elections bringing a crazy religious extremist into power and—even more importantly—angry with his father over the de facto disowning of a younger sister.
A perfect combination.
And yet somehow he just wouldn’t take that final step. The numbers being thrown around at the end were incredible, with a signing bonus that would have been more appropriate for a Red Sox rookie than an unproven research scientist. But it wasn’t the science that Attenborough’s handlers in Langley were interested in. It was the fact that a real live Iranian citizen with top-level connections and a guaranteed government job was even considering their offer. That kind of intelligence was priceless, at least as far as they were concerned.
At the end of the day, it wasn’t about the money. Sohrab loved his father and his country, and the simple fact of it was that he couldn’t bring himself to turn on them. Not yet, at least. He graduated with honors, promised to stay in touch, and hadn’t been heard from since.
What happened? Attenborough read the article one more time. Just three short paragraphs, noting that the story had been extensively covered by the Iranian media, and that Sohrab was suspected of sharing classified information with enemies of the state. No mention of the nature of his work or his father’s position in the government.
So who had finally gotten to him? And how? Attenborough couldn’t help but feel somewhat vindicated, after all the criticism he’d taken for failing to close on the recruitment. He’d planted the seed, after all. But that feeling paled in comparison to the empathy he felt for Sohrab’s current position.
Be strong, my friend
. He knew enough about the current regime not to wish that fate on anyone.
A persistent mockingbird sang from its perch at the top of the lilac bush. Each melodic phrase repeated several times, then on to something new. Attenborough checked his watch. His contact wouldn’t be there yet, down at that monstrosity of a building hidden in the woods outside D.C., not for another hour. And much as he wanted to learn more, Attenborough knew they wouldn’t tell him much anyway. That was not his role in the game.
At the end of the block, a small crowd was gathering outside the local bakery. He stood up and stretched his arms.
A blueberry muffin might be just the thing.
Fadi Haddad sat down on a tall stool behind the cash register and wiped his forehead. It was already busy at The Lonely Cedar, and he simply didn’t feel like being his usual effusive self. But Ahmad made him promise to show up at the restaurant, just like always, and generally keep up appearances in every other way, or Myriam would suffer. Sweet, dear Myriam. It was a cruel way of guaranteeing his cooperation, but effective. They knew a Muslim father would give his own life before bringing harm to his only daughter.
At least she seemed to be doing okay so far. Ever the charmer, she’d convinced the guys to let him bring her laptop—no internet connection—along with a stack of DVDs, and set up her own little space in the unit across the hall from the makeshift lab. But would she ever forgive him? The cold hatred in her eyes didn’t leave him with much optimism.
And Nour. She knew something was going on. How could he hide it from her, the woman who stood behind him so faithfully all these years? He made up some story about Myriam going to a friend’s lake house for the week, her phone going overboard off a kayak, and that would have to do. So far she did not seem to be making a connection to his quick temper and long absences, and he knew she would never go to the police behind his back.
“Fadi, not even a greeting for your favorite press secretary today?” He looked up to see Andrew Mills standing in front him, along with the same young girl he’d brought before. “If you had any idea of the stress I’ve been dealing with this week, you’d already have a plate of hummus and some of that savory minced lamb ready and waiting.”
Haddad jumped to his feet, beaming a wide smile he hoped looked genuine enough. “
Marhaba
,
marhaba
, Andrew. And you, young lady, welcome. Twice in one week?” He moved around the register and extended both hands. “To what do I owe this great pleasure?”
“Other than serving the best Lebanese food in town, you mean?” Mills said, laughing. “Anna here made me bring her back.”
“It’s true,” she said. “Best hummus I’ve ever had!”
Now Haddad’s smile was genuine—funny how a simple compliment could lighten the mood so quickly.
Andrew kept hold of both offered hands, longer than normal, and then pulled him in closer. “I also need to pick your brain on something.” His voice was lower now, almost conspiratorial. “See if you might be any help in tracking down two unsavory visitors recently arrived from the land of the cedars.”
Haddad tensed and froze for a split second.
What do they know?
Then all smiles again.
“Of course!” he said, guiding them to an empty table. “But first, you must eat something—these conversations are much better on a full stomach. What can I get you started with?”
Anna sipped at a tall glass of ice water. In spite of all that gushing, her stomach was in too many knots to make even the most appealing hummus plate look appetizing. Andrew had dragged her along for the excursion, apparently thinking his friend Fadi’s connections in the immigrant community might produce some leads the federal intelligence agencies weren’t already tracking down. Fat chance.
But Cole was safe, that was the important thing. And he was on his way there, to D.C., even now. Andrew wouldn’t fill her in on all the details, but she had learned that her brother was rescued late the night before from the LRA camp and that he passed on some kind of vague intelligence about a possible bioterrorism threat. The very same threat they were now naively trying to investigate through an unsanctioned interview with this poor restaurant owner.
“So what do you think, Fadi?” Mills paused to shovel another scoop of the lamb into his mouth. His appetite had not been negatively impacted by the week’s events. “Anyone else in the area you might be able to connect us to?”
Anna thought the owner looked nervous, but of course she’d only ever met him once before. The restaurant was packed, and they were keeping him from his other customers. Andrew’s questions seemed a little presumptuous—as if every one of the thousands of Lebanese people in D.C. knew exactly what was going on with all the others. She didn’t imagine that Haddad appreciated the assumption very much, either.
“You know, Andrew, it’s been a long time since I came here from Lebanon. You have even visited my birthplace more recently than me, I think?”
“Guess that’s right,” Andrew said. “You’ve never been back since you first came over?”
“Not even when my father died, no.”
“And you don’t know anyone who has stayed more connected to events back home?”
“My home is here. But what I can do is this.” Haddad placed both hands on the table. “I will talk to my imam this evening. See if he has heard anything worth passing on.” He stepped back. “In all honesty, I don’t like to be involved in this.”
Andrew leaned across the table. “I can appreciate that, I really do.” He pulled out his wallet and handed the man a business card. “That has my cell on it. Call anytime.”
What do you mean, hanging out here for a few days?” Cole was leaning against the tall hospital bed in his negative pressure room at Walter Reed, but stood up straight now. “With all due respect, sir, I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit in this shoebox watching Oprah while the powers that be decide if they’re going to take this thing seriously. I’ve seen what the virus can do, way too close for comfort.”
“And that’s exactly why he doesn’t want you out and about, potentially spreading it around yourself.” Colonel Sam Simmons, USAMRIID commanding officer, stood next to Bill Shackleton from the CDC. Cole’s welcoming party. “Just be thankful you’re not in the Slammer up at Fort Detrick. At least here you’ll have a bunch of pretty young Navy nurses taking care of you.”
“But I don’t need taking care of, that’s the point.”
Cole caught the glance exchanged between them.
“Cole, I’m going to be straight with you here,” the colonel said. “Bill and I both agree there’s not a good reason to keep you cooped up like this. You’ve been vaccinated, you’ve never had a fever, and the rapid test results don’t show any signs of viral DNA in your blood or sputum.”
“So what’s the issue?”
“It wasn’t our call,” Shackleton said. “The national security advisor felt differently.”
“General Howard?”
“Retired General Howard, yes.” Emphasis on the
retired
. It was clear the colonel was not a fan.
“Even though you’re the subject matter experts.”
“Yep. Let’s just say the medical concerns might not have been the only factor in his decision.” Colonel Simmons looked at his watch. “I do feel bad, but the decision’s final. And we should let you get some rest.”
“Ha,” Cole said, moving quickly in front of the door. “You really think you’re going to get out of here that easily?”
“What do you think?” the colonel said, turning to Shackleton. “You need to be anywhere?”
“No, and it’s only fair we bring him up to speed.” The director of Viral Special Pathogens put a hand on his stomach. “But you haven’t let me eat anything all day. I’m famished.”
“Tell you what,” Simmons said. “Let’s grab something from the galley, just downstairs, then we’ll come on back up to chat a little more. You want something, Captain?”
Cole didn’t want to let them leave, but he trusted these guys. They’d be back. “Something really American, that’s my only request.”
The last twenty-four hours had been a total blur. The Air Force had wanted to transfer Cole straight onto a waiting C-17 Globemaster after the Osprey landed in Uganda, but he insisted on finding someone to tell his story to first. That someone turned out to be the Kampala deputy station chief, already at the airport with a team of Ugandan military intelligence waiting for the next hop back to Virunga. The Ugandans would be escorting Vincent Lukwiya to an undisclosed location to begin his interrogation, and the CIA wasn’t about to let that happen without one of their own along for the ride. Cole hardly had time to blurt out the details before she was being called up into the same Osprey he’d just gotten out of.
“Promise me you’ll pass this on?” he shouted.
“I’m on it—that’s my job.” He could barely hear her over the rotors, and then the ramp was raised and they were gone.
Cole still didn’t know what had come of the information, other than Colonel Simmons’ implicit reference to some kind of homeland threat when the two of them first walked into his room. They were the only non-medical people he’d seen since getting off the plane at Andrews. He’d been expecting a more immediate military or intelligence debriefing on his experience of the last few days, but there was no sign of any interest on that front. An ambulance was waiting for him on the runway, and they took him straight to Bethesda. It was almost as if Simmons and Shackleton had come more as a personal favor than because they thought he might have any actionable intelligence to share.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, then lay his head back on the pillow.
A knock at the door startled him. That was fast.
“This American enough for you?” Shackleton set a white styrofoam container down on the bed, opening the lid to reveal an overstuffed hamburger surrounded by a mountain of fries. “Burger night downstairs. They were out of beer.”
Cole remembered Shackleton’s dry sarcasm from the month he spent as an intern at the CDC, way back in vet school.
“Perfect, thanks doc.” He tore into the burger, savoring the familiar taste of home. Not free range Wyoming-quality, but it would do for now. “So what else can you tell me?”
Ten minutes later, he’d heard the whole thing. A weaponized chimera pox virus—that explained a lot about what he’d seen in both the dead gorillas and Marna’s rapid demise. He’d tried to keep any nagging thoughts of her as far away as possible over the last couple days. There would be plenty of time to mourn, but this wasn’t it. Even still, the confirmation that her death was not a completely natural phenomenon only served to harden his resolve. This thing wasn’t over yet.
And Leila? They hadn’t exactly gotten on like best buds there in Rwanda, but he never would have pegged her as a spy. Not in a hundred years. She was book smart, no doubt about that, but not street smart like an Iranian agent in the States would have to be. The pieces didn’t quite fit together either. If Iran were responsible for the virus—and there didn’t seem to be much of a question about that now—why would she have high-tailed it back there so fast and blown her cover? No, he wasn’t convinced yet.
This was all fine and good. But they still hadn’t given any more indication of much concern about an imminent threat here at home. Time to get some answers.
“And what about the story I passed on from Uganda?” Cole asked. “I assume you heard something about it, based on what you said when you first came in.”
The colonel raised his eyebrows, then walked over to shut the door. “That’s being treated as very sensitive information.”
“Makes sense. But not if you’re trying to keep it from me. I’m the one who got the story in the first place.”
“And you’ll be recognized for that, trust me.”
“Recognized for it?” Cole set his soda down on the bedside table, a little harder than he meant. Maybe before all this he would have cared, wanting to be sure he got everything he was due—military awards, some good press, maybe even a phone call from the president. But not now. Not after Marna, and Proper, and so much more than his own success on the line. “That’s the last thing on my mind. I just want to make sure the right people are in the loop—that they’re taking this seriously.”
“Oh, everyone’s in the loop,” Shackleton said. “We spent a good hour down in the Situation Room earlier today. Lots of debate over just how serious the threat is.”