Pandora's Legion

15

Joe Wolf had done his homework, and then some.

He had been up almost constantly for fifty hours, working the internet, maintaining email contact with Pakistan and Britain, and making phone calls at rude hours. At 0845 he walked into Derringer’s office.

“My god, Joe, you look awful!”

Wolf laughed. “You should see me from this side of my eyeballs.”

Derringer stood and offered his domestic ops chief some coffee. Wolf waved it away. “I’ve lived on the stuff since yesterday afternoon and I’m still wired. I may not come off my caffeine high for days.”

“I’ll whistle up some juice and rolls.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Wolf slumped into a chair and plopped a notepad on the desk.

Derringer picked it up. “What’ve we got?”

“What we’ve got is Dr. Saeed Sharif, DVM. At least I think that’s who we want. Everything fits: geography, timing, and known activities. The other prospects are far less likely.”

“What about our mysterious Dr. Ali?”

“Looks like an alias. Sharif is a leading veterinarian in Baluchistan. Very highly regarded — does all kinds of good work among the heathen. If he were Catholic, he’d be an odds-on candidate for sainthood.”

Derringer nodded. “Okay, but what’s the al Qaeda connection?”

Wolf massaged his temples, blinking his reddened eyes. “It’s a long story. Sharif attended veterinary school in England during the 1980s. Evidently he had a real good time. That’s not unusual for Muslims. I knew a couple of Saudis in college, and they burned the candle at both ends because they knew once they returned home the good times would come to a screeching halt.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So… Sharif had a very good scholastic record — what we’d call an A and B student without much effort. And here’s the kicker — he took some optional classes in microbiology. Anyway, he had time to play, and he played the field. He got a couple of girls preggers, as the Brits say, but his family bought them off. He was also a boozer, evidently a borderline alcoholic. But he got his degree in ‘88 and returned to Pakistan and opened his own practice.”

Derringer rubbed his chin. “That doesn’t sound like a candidate for a Muslim fanatic.”

“Well, somewhere along the way he got religion. I’ve not been able to track that yet. But he pops up as a player in 1991, about the time…”

“Desert Storm.”

“Check.” Wolf looked around. “Uh, Mike, about the juice and rolls?”

“Oops, sorry.” Derringer buzzed the outer office and relayed the request. “Go ahead.”

Wolf sat up straighter, ordering his thoughts. “At first he was more vocal than active, but after the Russians left Afghanistan in ‘89 he became more interested in the Taliban. He disappeared for several months in ‘92 and again at odd intervals. Apparently he was back and forth across the border. He may even have known bin Laden. Anyway, he was certainly no friend of the U.S. He resented the American presence and our support of the Northern Alliance, especially since Afghanistan had mostly been a Muslim theocracy before 9-11.”

“Any idea what turned him around?”

“Just a theory. I’ve been working with Dave Dare — or at least I think I have!” Wolf chuckled at the insider’s joke. Allegedly Derringer was the only SSI member who had ever met the mysterious intelligence chief. “The contact has all been by email and phone. Anyway, you were right about him. Whatever the reason he left NSA was a real bonus for us. He put his research people on the case and they gave me some promising leads. I was able to track a couple of Sharif’s vet school classmates and one of them kept in touch with him for about a year and a half afterward. He says that Sharif began to regret the good times he spent chasing and boozing, and was trying to redeem himself. I’ve had a couple of emails with Omar, who says that makes sense. He says that Islam accepts those who repent their evil ways and devote themselves to spreading The Word.”

“Well, it looks like this Sharif is spreading a lot more than The Word.”

“Damn straight. He’s spreading the Marburg virus.”

Leopole sat at the head of the table in SSI’s improvised headquarters, joined by Omar Mohammed and the team leaders. “Gentlemen, I’ve heard from Arlington again. I asked them what we really know about Sharif or Ali or whoever he is, and the research division has been working overtime.”

“What’d they find out?” Foyte asked.

“Mainly what you’d expect of somebody with his background. He’s smart, maybe brilliant. Just getting into vet school is an accomplishment — sometimes it’s easier to get into medical school. He had excellent grades and conducted some independent study in microbiology. That fits with bio terror, but of course that came years later.”

Steve Lee appeared relaxed, polishing the lenses of his glasses. “Okay, that’s the doctor. What about the man?”

“That’s the best of it,” Leopole responded. “Dave Dare and Joe Wolf worked up a likely profile. We know from Ali’s college pals that he was a boozer and a chaser in his youth. At some point, likely in the early ‘90s, he became a born-again Muslim, probably because of his work with the Taliban in Afghanistan. He maintains a successful clinic in Islamabad but that’s evidently a way to fund his pro-bono work with poor farmers and tribesmen. Dr. Mohammed says it’s likely that the do-gooder in him led to the Marburg project as a way of redeeming his misspent youth.” Leopole nodded to his colleague.

Mohammed consulted his notes. “According to the Hadith, if a Believer repents his evil actions and resolves not to repeat them, he can atone for his past by performing many righteous deeds.” He looked up from the paper. “I think that’s important — there’s a distinction between righteous deeds and good deeds, or hasanaat. Ali obviously believes that his Marburg project is righteous — beyond mere good deeds. He certainly doesn’t think he’s performing sayi ‘aat, or bad deeds.”

“That seems the size of it,” Leopole said. “Apparently Ali is trying to save his soul, and that’s a powerful motivation. It tells us that he’s not going to roll over.”

Fidgeting in his chair, Gunny Foyte grew impatient with the psychological mumbo jumbo. He had cheerfully capped an assortment of dinks, spies, and ragheads in his career, and he never found that their motivation made the slightest ballistic difference. “Why don’t we pay a visit to his clinic?”

Leopole permitted himself a rare smile. “We’re going to — at 0200 day after tomorrow. Depending on what we find, we’ll turn things over to the Pakis or we’ll lock the door as we leave.”

“So you don’t expect to find the good doctor on-site,” Foyte said.

“No, near as we can tell, he’s still in Baluchistan, somewhere around Chaman on the Afghan border.”

Lee put his military-issue glasses on again. “Okay, who goes to the big city?”

“I’m sending this your way, Steve. Pick the men you want— probably about six or eight — but leave your snipers and best field operators in case we need them here. Then check with Terry. He’ll have the 727 ready this afternoon. I’m coordinating with General Hardesty, who will clear things with the Paki police via the embassy.”

“You mean we’re working with the locals? I don’t think that’s…”

“No, no. Negative.” Leopole waved a hand. “He’s merely on call in case they get involved. Obviously, we won’t risk a security breach just for the sake of being courteous to our hosts.”

Lee sat back, mollified. “Roger that. If it goes like it should, nobody will know we’ve been there. But I’d like to arrive in time to survey the site in daylight, probably with my B and E guy.”

Mohammed wore a quizzical expression. “B and E?”

“Breaking and entry, Doctor.” Lee grinned at the seeming irony. “Yeah, it’s illegal as hell, but we’re not stealing anything unless we find the virus. In which case we’re doing some righteous work ourselves.”

“Quite so,” Mohammed chuckled.

“Rix is really good at picking locks and neutralizing security systems, so the whole op should be covert. If we’re busted, I imagine that General Hardesty will arrive in the nick of time.”

Leopole nodded again. “Roger. He’s tight with the chief of police and other security agencies. You’ll meet him right after landing.” Leopole almost adjourned the meeting. “Oh, it goes without saying that Dr. Padgett-Smith will go. She’s needed to ID any suspicious elements in the office.”

“Can she do it right there? I’d think it’ll take some time.”

“You’re right, Steve. She’ll have some biohazard containers to transport anything suspicious, and Hardesty is arranging for access to a government lab. She said that’s likely to take several hours at least.”

“Where is she, anyway?”

“She’s at the range with some of Red Team, getting more trigger time.”

Lee shook his head. “Now why can’t I find a girl like that?”

The pointed white dome of King Faisal Mosque stood in startling contrast to the rocky ruggedness behind it. Flanked by four tall, elegant spires, the architectural masterpiece drew hushed respect from the mostly agnostic Americans.

Looking in his rearview mirror, Buster Hardesty indulged in a knowing grin. “It affects everybody that way. I see it almost every day and I still gawk at it.”

Things were crowded in the rented minibus, far more so than during the seventy-minute flight on the 727. But most of the passengers turned in their seats as Hardesty drove eastward on Siachin Road. “Man, that’s big!” exclaimed Kenny Rix. “How many people will it take, sir?”

“Oh, about seventy thousand. I’ve never been there during prayer, but my Paki friends say that sometimes it’s full up.”

Padgett-Smith sat on the inside in the third row, her head covered with a shawl. She wanted a better look but still was impressed with what she glimpsed. “Winchester Cathedral has nothing on that,” she murmured. “Except nine hundred years.”

“Whole lotta prayin’ goin’ on,” said Brian Guilford, a lapsed Presbyterian and practicing former Marine.

Lee, riding shotgun, consulted his city map. He had tracked the route north from the airport as Hardesty had taken Shaharra-Islamabad to the mosque before turning right at the mosque. His finger sought the F-6 area in the northeastern part of town. “If Ali’s clinic is on Ataturk Avenue, that’s not far from the diplomatic enclave.”

“Correct,” Hardesty replied. He took his time, avoiding the manic driving habits of many motorists in the capital. For a moment, Major Steven Lee, U.S. Army (Ret], mused on the irony of an active BG playing chauffeur for a retired 0–5. But Hardesty seemed a mission-oriented type — something of a rarity among attaches. “The embassy is up ahead of us, on Ramna in the complex, but we’ll pass the turnoff to Ataturk along the way. It’ll help get you oriented.”

Lee asked, “Sir, when’s a good time to look at the clinic?”

“Probably around closing time. There’s more traffic, you can drive slower and blend into the crowd better. I also have some overhead imagery for you.” Hardesty braked abruptly to avoid rear-ending an ancient Volkswagen. “Who’s your second-story man?”

Rix leaned forward from the second row. “That’d be me, General.”

Hardesty’s gray eyes went to the rearview mirror again. “Outstanding, Mr. Rix.” The B and E specialist was impressed: the general had had only the briefest introductions at the airport but seemed to remember everyone’s name. Must be all those diplomatic parties, Rix surmised.

Hardesty continued. “I’ve, ah, obtained some information about the clinic’s security system. Because the vet has medical drugs, there have been a couple of attempted break-ins. Your Dr. Ali, or Sharif, installed electronic sensors linked to a security firm that can roll the cops in a couple of minutes. But it’s a pretty basic system: you can probably run a wire around it in short order.”

Rix sat back, appreciating the attaché’s efficiency. “Roger that, sir.”

Entering the diplomatic enclave, Hardesty turned into a tree-lined area and stopped the bus. “We’re quartering you in some rented bungalows a few miles from here, strictly for security reasons. Obviously we can’t put you up at the embassy. I’ll get you set up and then Major Lee and Mr. Rix and I will take a look at the clinic. There’ll be a full briefing after dinner, and you’ll meet one of our medical assistance people who’ll go in with you to read the labels. Any questions?”

Lee turned in his seat. “Yes, sir. Uh, General, I do wonder about your direct involvement. Isn’t that risky? I mean, our running orders stressed that no military personnel were to be involved.”

A grin ghosted across Buster Hardesty’s face, then vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “That’s odd. The Secretary of Defense never mentioned that to me. Maybe I’ll have to check with him to clarify his orders in, oh, a week or so.”

Lee realized what the attaché had actually said. This is too important a mission to cater to the Secretary of State, and if there’s any trouble, it’ll take a well-connected general to sort it out. He wanted to give Hardesty an ooh-rah punch to the shoulder. “Good to be back at the operator’s level, isn’t it, sir?”

Hardesty leaned over and winked. “Never been out of it, son. Never been out of it.”

Steve Lee ran the final comm check from his position atop the building across the avenue from the veterinary clinic. Beside him were Padgett-Smith and an embassy doctor, wearing biohazard suits in case a hot zone was established inside. Another man stood by in a trailer in case decontamination measures were called for. That left two pair as lookouts and backup at both the front and rear, covering Rix and his two partners. The sentries used night vision to check the dark corners away from the streetlights.

“Front door, clear.”

“Back door, clear.”

Lee checked his watch: 0143. He keyed his mike. “All clear. Stand by.”

Almost two minutes later the wailing of sirens stabbed through the night. Lee looked over his shoulder and glimpsed flashing lights as police and emergency vehicles sped to the south. Buster’s diversion, right on time. Lee knew that the police patrol schedule was upset by two large fires in the G6 area along Hakeem Road.

“Echo Team, go.”

On the west side of the building, Kenny Rix threw the switch activating the temporary circuit he had built around the alarm system. He punched in the test code, got a green light, and gave a thumbs-up to his partners. “Echo One here. We’re moving.”

Because the windows were barred, the team had little option but to enter through a door. The men moved to the nearest access, away from the avenue. The door was still illuminated by streetlights, but only indirectly.

Rix knelt at the door, adjusting a red-lensed Surefire on an elastic headband. He opened his kit, selected a likely probe, and inserted it in the lock-picking gun. Getliff and Skowen knelt six feet to either side of him, covering their respective zones with suppressed pistols. Each operator also carried a Taser for lesser threats.

Rix began mumbling to himself, a sign that Tom Skowen knew well. Apparently the lock picking was not going well. Kenny’s usually inside in thirty seconds. The sentry glanced at his friend and saw Rix remove the pick from the gun, replacing it with another. The motions were calm, methodical. Take your time in a hurry.

More seconds passed, each with its own beginning, middle, and end. Corry Getliff backpedalled a few steps, risking a spoken query. “Kenny, can I help?”

“Get back,” Rix snapped. He resented the solicitous gesture as much as he regretted the tone in his voice. Take it easy, he told himself. He lowered his hands and rocked back, resting on his heels. He flexed his fingers and popped his knuckles. Skowen heard the noise in the still night air. He was surprised at how loud it seemed.

Rix turned the adjustment wheel on the gun, selecting full engagement. Then he inserted the pick again and flexed the gun’s mechanical trigger. The probe elevated four centimeters, engaged the tumbler, returned to horizontal, and sought the next detent. The pressure told him he was there.

Rix pulled the door open and Skowen stepped inside. As Rix followed, he heard Lee’s voice in his ears. “Echo, contact! Two items headed yours. Twenty meters.” All three operators dived inside. As last in, Getliff twisted the lock and scurried away from the glass door.

Two uniformed men came around the corner, chatting idly. Getliff spoke no Urdu but judged from their tones that they may have been discussing soccer or women. Something innocuous.

One man idly pulled on the door, ensuring it was locked. Without breaking stride, the pair continued its rounds.

Rix exhaled. He realized that he had stopped breathing. He whispered, “That was close!”

Skowen croaked, “Who the hell are they?” The irritation was audible in his voice. “Damn if I know. They must be some kind of security firm. No guns so they’re not police.”

“Damn it, Hardesty never mentioned rent-a-cops!”

“He prob’ly didn’t know.”

“There’s always somebody doesn’t get the word,” Getliff said.

Rix spoke into his headset. “Control, Echo One. We’re in. Send the doc.”

“Roger that, Echo. You’re clear.”

Rix did an interior survey of the alarm system, looking for a secondary circuit. Finding none, he quickly unlocked the door leading to the lab area. He passed some empty cages, recalling Hardesty’s briefing: Dr. Sharif, aka Ali, did not board his patients.

Moments later Padgett-Smith entered with her embassy counterpart who would double as interpreter. Skowen led them to the rear. “The storerooms are back here, Doctor. That’s where you’d start, right?”

“Quite right. Thank you,” she replied. Wearing her bio suit minus the helmet, she strode to the lab.

CPS would have liked to turn on the interior lights but Lee had cautioned against it. Somebody might see a tiny glow from outside and become suspicious. Everyone used subdued illumination, moving slowly and cautiously in the semi-darkness.

Padgett-Smith opened the first cabinet, revealing several shelves of containers. Her newfound partner, a communicable disease specialist named Carter Fox, read the labels. He found most in English. “Allwormers, roundwormers, ectoparasiticides, you name it. Dog and cat treatments.”

“Ovine miticides and lousicides. Sheep stuff.”

Padgett-Smith’s violet eyes scanned the well-stocked room. “If he’s keeping any filovirus here, it’s likely in deep storage, not on the shelf. Let’s have a look at the refrigerators.”

There were three large units, labeled according to the family of serum they contained. Starting with the nearest, Fox noted that about one-third were labeled in Urdu. He read each one in turn, examining the contents for apparent consistency with the label. “Clostridium perfrigenes C and D. That’s antiserum, likely for goats.”

Padgett-Smith started on the next refrigerator, looking at the English labels.

After fifteen minutes neither doctor had found anything untoward. Rix called a progress report to Lee. “Control, Echo. Negative items so far.”

“Roger that. You’re still clear.”

Another half hour passed. Lee made two calls in that time, using the cell phone that Hardesty had provided. The distractions to the south had begun to wear off; most of the police cars had returned to their usual patrols and the fire trucks were preparing to leave. Lee knew that the two roving guards were bound to return but he had no way of learning when.

A Honda sedan with light bar on the top cruised by. Lee saw it coming a block away but wanted to keep transmissions to a minimum. He relaxed a bit when it turned north, parallel to the clinic.

Then Rix’s voice destroyed his composure. “Boss, we got something here.”