“Debate?”
“Your story checked out, Cole,” Simmons said. “A couple whiz kids over at NSA managed to make some educated guesses based on your information. French-speaking Arabs with a connection to Iran—apparently that was a pretty good indication these guys are Lebanese.”
“That’s what the Danish doctor thought too.”
“Well, he was right. We have two adult males traveling on Lebanese passports from Beirut through Paris and into Kigali about a week and a half ago.”
“So what connects them to the incident in Virunga?”
“Same guys left out of Kinshasa just four days later. No one travels across the Congo that quickly.” Shackleton said. “Another layover in Paris before they caught a direct flight to Dulles earlier this week.”
“Dulles, like Washington Dulles?” This was bad. “That’s only half an hour from here.”
Shackleton nodded. “Not exactly a very common travel itinerary.”
“And did you find them? They have a good explanation for all those flights?”
“That’s the tricky bit,” the colonel said. “They’ve been pretty tough to track down.”
“Tough meaning it took the FBI more than a couple of hours? Or tough meaning they’re still missing?”
“The latter.”
“Well shit.” A pile of cold fries still covered the bottom of the carryout box, but Cole wasn’t hungry anymore. “I hope they’re pulling out all the stops now to find these guys?”
Colonel Simmons rubbed his chin. “A task force has been created, and they’re starting to track down potential leads, yes.”
“Starting—”
“Short answer is no,” Shackleton interrupted. “The threat has not been given the priority any of us think it probably deserves.”
“But it
is
being handled,” the colonel said quickly. “Cole, I’ve already said more than I should have. You’re supposed to be spending these next few days recovering from your ordeal, not worrying about something that doesn’t really need to concern you anymore.”
“Doesn’t need to concern me?” Cole sensed the tension between the two older men. It was clear the career Army officer felt more of a duty to support his commander-in-chief’s decision than his civilian counterpart did.
“I don’t mind telling him like it is.” Shackleton stepped away from where he’d been leaning against the wall. “Not everyone agrees that this situation should eclipse some of the president’s other priorities right now, and they’ve come up with a whole list of reasons to play down the threat.”
“Like what?” Cole couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Questions about the credibility of this FDLR prisoner you spoke with, for one. Could he really distinguish Arabic from Farsi? Or was he just telling you what he thought you wanted to hear?”
“That’s a possibility, of course,” Cole said. “But it makes sense that the Iranians wouldn’t want to send their own guys in for a dirty mission like this. Why not task their adoring little proxy Hezbollah with the job instead?”
“That’s the assumption we’re working under, yes,” the colonel said. “But that doesn’t explain why they would come straight over here to the U.S. No one thinks Iran is that stupid. Kill off a few gorillas in some forgotten corner of Africa, so they can stay in the nuclear game? Sure. But not attack us here at home.”
“But what if Iran doesn’t have anything to do with their trip here?” Cole was at the window, looking out over the wooded grounds surrounding the nation’s premier military hospital complex. “Couldn’t they be acting on their own now? Finally going to stick it to Uncle Sam now that they got their hands on a real weapon? I mean, I think it’s pretty safe to assume they aren’t very happy with the president’s support of Israel’s recent incursions into southern Lebanon.”
“Yes, but—”
“Isn’t that what we’ve always been most worried about? Some rogue non-state agent getting hold of a biological weapon like this? We can put the pressure of international law and sanctions on a sovereign nation, but that doesn’t work for people who don’t play by the rules.”
“Cole, you don’t have to convince me here,” Colonel Simmons said. “I’ve spent my career trying to prepare for a situation exactly like this one. But not everyone’s persuaded.”
“What else are they saying?”
The colonel shook his head. “This is the worst one. The president’s team apparently has a hard time understanding how our guys could even bring the virus into the States, passing through international airports with their post-9/11 security restrictions.”
“Do they need a briefing on all the illegal drugs still getting smuggled into the country every day, in baggies or capsules inside people’s bodies?” Cole was pissed. “Hell, how about a mini-shampoo bottle or toothpaste container? When was the last time the TSA opened up one of those?”
“They don’t want to hear it,” Shackleton said. “They’ve got their task force, and they’re going to do things their way.”
“Still doesn’t make any sense,” Cole said.
Shackleton lowered his voice. “Do you know what we’re celebrating tomorrow, Cole?”
“I haven’t been gone that long, thanks.”
“But do you know what makes it special? The president’s been planning the biggest event in years—going to be quite a party down there around the Capitol.”
“Nothing to do with this being an election year, I guess?”
“Let’s just say the president doesn’t want to let anything rain on his parade. This thing starts getting treated seriously, and he thinks he’ll be forced to cancel the whole shebang.”
“Good to know his priorities are lined up right.”
“And if something happens anyway?” Shackleton said, lifting his shoulders. “We all know what a little terrorist attack can do for a president’s ratings.”
Colonel Simmons shook his head. “Watch yourself, doc.”
“Is that why they’re trying to keep me cooped up here like an invalid?”
The colonel placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your reputation precedes you. After that little foray into the Congo this week, they don’t want you stirring up any more trouble.”
A knock at the door, followed by a husky female voice. “Captain McBride?”
Cole opened it to a fierce-looking older woman in scrubs. A beefy military policeman stood against the wall outside the door. So much for the pretty and young Navy nurses. He forced a smile. “Could you give us a few more minutes?”
“Sorry, visiting hours are over.” She pushed in and motioned to the doorway. “Gentlemen?”
Shackleton was hunched over the windowsill on the other side of the room, like he was writing on something. He turned around with a nod.
“We’ll touch base in the morning,” Colonel Simmons said. “Do yourself a favor and get some rest.”
Shackleton reached out to shake his hand. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Cole felt a folded piece of paper against the man’s expansive palm and closed his fingers around it. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
The evening just got slightly more interesting.
Leila caught the cab driver looking at her in his rearview mirror. Was she just being paranoid, or did it seem like everyone was out to get her all of a sudden? When it was finally her turn to step up to the immigration counter back at Logan, the officer had done a double take at his computer screen before regaining his composure and handing the passport back to her. He managed to mumble a “Welcome home, ma’am,” but she caught him picking up the phone as soon as she started walking in the other direction. Then on her way through customs, another uniformed guy looked straight in her direction and nodded his head, radio to his mouth.
“You have a reason to think you’re being followed, Miss?” She recognized the Haitian accent immediately.
“Huh?” Leila glanced over her shoulder, then looked back. “I mean, no, why?”
His dark eyes held her gaze for a second. “I been doing this job a long time. The black Suburban a few cars back don’t blend in too well.”
She turned again. There it was, just coming off the bridge and following them onto Memorial Drive. So now she was on the Americans’ bad side too. Why even let her off the plane, then? Maybe they thought she was leading them right into some terrorist nest at home. As if the Revolutionary Guard chasing your plane down in Tehran weren’t bad enough. Leila still hadn’t decided if that had actually happened, but she knew she wasn’t making up Sohrab’s arrest. His face also appeared on the BBC at the KLM lounge in Amsterdam, right as she was trying to switch her onward flight from Atlanta to Boston. At least she didn’t run into any old classmates this time around. That had been a little awkward, walking all the way across the airport to the temporary storage lockers just so Khaled could switch out his sample merchandise for the next convention. He seemed to be doing pretty well for himself, at least.
Focus.
She’d been doing this all day, her mind racing off in odd directions right when it most needed to concentrate on the present. Whoever was following her would find out the truth soon enough. She was an American. A faithful one, forsaking family and religion for the country she believed in. Even when it hurt.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Please, just take me to that address on the paper, and I guess we’ll find out there.”
“Almost there. 81 Bradbury Court, yes?”
They had turned off Memorial, crawled passed a few of the old brick university buildings leading up toward Harvard Square, and were now on a quiet residential street lined with a mix of quirky old Victorians.
Did Sohrab really know someone here?
He’d given her the impression that he trusted this person completely—and that’s all she had to go on.
The taxi slowed and then stopped. “You sure you want to get out here?” The driver looked at her again, genuine concern written in the lines of his forehead. “I take you to a police station, maybe they help you out?”
“No, this is fine.” She opened her door. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”
The sweet scent of lilacs hit her immediately, bringing with it a flood of memories. Saturday afternoons studying for med school finals at the arboretum. The backyard full of them during those idyllic years as a child in Paris.
Focus.
Two large bushes grew up on either side of the trellised archway leading up to the house, their branches laden with heavy clusters of blossoms in every shade from white to deep purple.
“They stopped around the corner,” the driver said, motioning down the street with his head as he lifted her luggage out of the trunk. “I stay until you get inside.”
Up the short walk, past an equally impressive collection of roses, and onto the classic wraparound front porch. Leila raised a fist to the door. She’d never wanted to follow her father into the murky sea of politics and international intrigue. A big part of the decision to become a doctor was that it seemed like such a black and white way to make a positive contribution. Science and medicine to the rescue. And yet here she was, right in the middle of a world she’d done all she could to escape. But this was for Sohrab, for her adopted country, for that poor South African girl who died in her arms. Whatever bit part she’d been cast in the week’s crazy drama, this was her moment to shine. Her chance to make things right.
Arthur Attenborough had just poured himself a glass of Scotch when a light knock sounded at the front door. Strange, he wasn’t expecting anyone. But given his position, he often had international students stopping by for the comforting combination of a listening ear and strong drink. And ever since Jane’s death, he was even more happy for the company.
He rose slowly from the soft leather recliner—the old knees weren’t quite what they used to be—and called out in a loud voice. “On my way.” At the hall closet, he reached behind an assortment of hanging jackets to flip a small switch.
Just in case.
The Agency had set him up well, even if he didn’t always appreciate the inherent invasion of his own privacy. Just part of the job. The switch started a sound recording on the house’s integrated surveillance system and also sent an automated message to the Boston field office. They could theoretically listen in live to his conversations with potential recruits, but he doubted anyone was ever that interested. It was only when Attenborough reported to his handlers about an especially appealing candidate that he began getting the calls with advice and coaching on how to close the deal. After almost thirty years in the business, though, he’d realized he was a hell of a lot more experienced than most of the young intelligence analysts trying to tell him what to do. He knew who would make a good spy—who would be willing to turn on their own government—usually from the first meeting.
Except for Sohrab—his only mistake.
The morning’s news was still replaying itself at the front of his mind, but he hadn’t been able to find anything more than the most basic information about the arrest. Tomorrow he would make some calls, see what he could learn.
Attenborough looked through the peephole. A young woman, maybe thirty, looking quite overwhelmed. Maybe Pakistani? He didn’t know her.
The solid wood door opened with a creak.
“Can I help you?”
This old man with a thick shock of silvery white hair was not who Leila expected. His long face had blue-blooded Ivy Leaguer written all over it. Only now, as he stood there towering over her like some kind of WASPy giant, did she realize she’d assumed it would be another Persian. Not that Sohrab couldn’t have gotten friendly with a regular old American, but it was still a surprise.
He repeated the question. “Can I help you?”
“Um, yes, sorry.” She looked over her shoulder. The taxi driver was still there, but no sign of the Suburban. “Do you mind if I come inside?”
He gave her a questioning look, then stepped to the side and gestured through the door. She pushed it shut behind her.
“Thank you.” Leila stood there for a few seconds, choosing her words carefully. “I believe you might know my brother, Sohrab Torabi.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Please, come on in.”
She followed him into a quaint farmhouse kitchen and nodded gratefully when he offered her a chair at a little breakfast table looking out into the backyard.
“Something to drink?”