Pandora's Legion

34

Agent Runnells needed a pit stop.

Based on fourteen years of Border Patrol experience, Robert Runnells knew that around 0100 hours, he would have to stop somewhere to relieve the pressure in his bladder. His wife and doctor both told him that he drank too much coffee — the nightly caffeine intake did more harm than good. Privately he was grateful for his swing shift assignment: he had worked graveyard before and that was a non-starter.

“Ah, Katie, pull over, will you?”

Agent Branch knew the drill by now. In the two weeks she had been partnered with the veteran, she had developed a grudging admiration for his professionalism, if not for his un-PC attitudes. She considered it a definite sign of progress when Bob Runnells had suggested that they alternate driving the Dodge SUV.

Branch slowed and turned off the packed-dirt road. In deference to her training officer’s thin veneer of modesty, she turned off the lights but left the engine running. Runnells opened the right-hand door and exited, walking twelve paces rearward.

Katie Branch rolled down her window and looked at the sky. One nice thing about USBP work: it allowed an agent to enjoy an uncluttered view of God’s handiwork. She smiled to herself. Burly, curmudgeonly Bob Runnells believed in a supreme being but fortunately he kept the evangelical rhetoric to a minimum.

Agent Branch did not share his confidence in a higher power. Between them, the Baptist and the agnostic had worked out a tenuous truce. Tonight the stars were clear as diamonds on black velvet, twinkling at Kathryn Branch across thousands of light years.

Sometimes there really did seem to be a Plan.

Sixty meters south of the parked SUV, three men watched with rapt attention. Their night vision equipment — Gen III — was adequate for their purpose. Fourth-generation NVGs afforded more clarity and detail, but the price also soared commensurately. Tracking La Migra was a professional necessity, but smuggling was a business and, like any firm, the one run by Pablo Ramirez tried to keep the overhead to a minimum.

Lying atop a hummock, Ramirez scanned the area to either side of the white and green Dakota. After a few moments his partner whispered, Quantos?

Ramirez held up two fingers. Dos.

By tacit consent, they edged downward, reaching the bottom of the rise. Ramirez had seen one man relieving himself while the other remained in the vehicle. The leader signaled to his team: We wait. It should not be long.

Getting across the border had been relatively easy. A few minutes’ work with pliers and wire had removed a section of cyclone fence nearly one meter wide. Previously prepared for that purpose, it had been replaced upon crossing to the American side. The egress route half a kilometer away was similarly ready. Even in daylight, one had to look closely to pick out the clipped segment.

Ramirez settled down to wait. At twenty-nine he was a fifteen-year veteran of his trade; in that time he had learned the ultimate value of patience. It was his major advantage over the Norteamericanos. For all their wealth and vehicles and helicopters and surveillance gear, they lacked his sense of time, the most valuable commodity on earth. It was an asset to be accumulated, saved, and expended when profitable.

Of course, it also helped to buy information now and then.

Ramirez gave a tight-lipped grin in the shadow of the hummock. The Yanquis’ new intelligence structure, intended to produce greater efficiency, had yielded new vistas. Ramirez had predicted that with greater information sharing among federal and state agencies, more windows would open on the American government’s operations. Ramirez’s uncle, who taught the boy his trade, had always been an advocate of informed planning. Were he still living, Tio Guillermo would be astonished at the extent and the means of acquiring intelligence about one’s enemies.

That was, after all, how Ramirez knew that this stretch of border would be lightly patrolled tonight. Two groups of emigrants led by expendable coyotes ensured that most of the Yanquis’ attention was focused on areas well east. It was just another part of the overhead.

Bob Runnells finished “wringing out the sock” and walked back to the SUV. He opened the door, illuminating the dome light, and Katie Branch could not resist a jibe. “Feeling better, sir? A couple pounds lighter?”

The senior agent summoned up a loud, clear belch. “Why, yes. Thank you for asking. And how’s your itty-bitty bladder?”

She responded with a dramatically sour expression. “Men!”

“We’re disgusting, ain’t we?”

“All I can say, sir, is that you’re lucky there’s no third sex. Sir.”

While Runnells pondered the biological and physiological possibilities, Branch turned off the engine and slid out of her seat. “I feel like having a snack. What do you think? Sir?”

Runnells checked his watch. “Well, it’s a little early for dinner, but I don’t see any harm. Whatcha got tonight?”

“Honestly, Bob, I don’t want to play Trade the Lunchbox again. I brought what I like, and since I’m a vegetarian, you wouldn’t want any of my food anyway.”

Female and vegetarian. What’n hell’s the BP comin’ to? “Well, I don’t know about that. Didn’t you bring some dessert? I have some of Betty’s oatmeal raisin cookies.”

“No dessert for me, sir. I’m dieting. Gonna make a personal best in the physical fitness test next month.” She produced a bag of what Runnells was pleased to describe as trail mix and unscrewed a bottle of green tea. By mutual consent they walked aft and turned the rear door into a tailgate party.

Runnells secretly admired Katie Branch’s athleticism. At twenty-five she was slim and fit, a far better physical specimen than he had ever been. The downside was, the girl couldn’t shoot to save her life— so to speak. She carried the standard-issue Beretta 96 because she had to, and twice had been sent to remedial marksmanship training. Runnells, a lifelong hunter, had shot on the USBP pistol team. More than once he had told the trainee, “I spent a lot of time and effort learning to shoot so I wouldn’t have to run.”

Katie Branch could not envision herself shooting anybody: probably not even to save her own life. She had joined the Border Patrol for a variety of reasons, chiefly to bring some informed sympathy to the undocumented workers who were the agency’s reason for existence, and to enjoy the outdoor work environment.

Pablo Ramirez heard the Dodge’s engine shut down. The silence was entirely unwelcome.

He bellied up the hummock again and turned on the Litton NVG. Both agents were standing at the rear of the vehicle, apparently eating. Occasionally he could hear their voices. One was higher pitched than the other — a woman?

Ramirez checked the illuminated dial of his watch. He could wait a few minutes longer but if the unexpected SUV did not move on, his schedule would be jeopardized. The station wagon that would transport the two Muslims to wherever they were headed lay nearly two kilometers northwest. Ramirez knew that the driver would not overstay his appointed time, and that meant loss of the delivery fee: half the potential revenue.

The two human forms glowed greenly in Ramirez’s scope. They were damnably unconcerned with the passage of time — the value of which increased with each passing minute. Bastards. They should be reported for slacking off.

That would be something: a Mexican criminal reporting two American agents for idling away the night, impeding the righteous progress of the smuggling trade.

Ramirez waited another minute, then returned to the base of the hummock. “Listen,” he whispered. “We cannot wait any longer. We will take a detour to the west about a hundred meters and pass behind the vehicle. Everyone crosses the road at the same time — understand?” He drew silent nods from his two immediate accomplices. They had worked with him for periods varying between months and years. All understood the rationale: by crossing together, total exposure time was reduced to the minimum. And though crossing in front of the SUV would largely block the Americans’ view of the road ahead, the seven men in Ramirez’s party would leave a noticeable cluster of footprints. Crossing behind the vehicle eliminated that danger.

Ramirez dispatched Jorge to bring up the two “packages” with their escort. In minutes the group was ready to move, swinging southwesterly, keeping to the defiles and occasional hummocks.

“I’ll take a little walk before we go,” Branch declared.

“You too?” Runnells could not resist a jibe. “I thought you gal athletes never had to go potty. Muscle control or something.”

“Where’d you hear that? Sir.”

“Uh, must’ve been locker room talk in grade school.”

Branch stuffed the remains of her dinner into the Ziploc bag and secured it in the truck. Then she walked into the darkness behind the SUV.

Thirty meters out, she glimpsed — something. A shadow, a movement ghosting through the periphery of her vision. She froze in place. Her instinct was to call out: issue the usual challenge. Alto! But she could not be sure what it was — perhaps a coyote or javalina.

She pulled the Maglite from her duty belt and shone the tight, powerful beam ahead of her. Two men were caught in the white band, twenty meters away. One stopped briefly; the other sprinted out of view.

It did not register in Kathryn Branch’s mind that both were armed.

She found her voice. “Alto! Migra!”

The second man reacted in a most peculiar fashion. Instead of fleeing or raising his hands, he dropped to the ground, facing Agent Branch. She noticed something long and black in his hands, and her brain finally defaulted to the recognition mode. Rifle!

She realized her mortal peril. With her right hand holding the light, she could not draw her Beretta. She switched the light to her support hand, fumbled for the pistol and managed to draw the weapon from the thumb-break holster.

It did not occur to her to move.

Two loud reports shattered the desert air.

The first round went wide to the left, its aim spoiled by the bright light. The next, more carefully directed, struck Branch in the solar plexus. She seldom wore her ballistic vest, but it would have done no good against a rifle. The 7.62 round from a stolen Mexican Army G3 did what it was meant to do. It delivered 2,300 foot-pounds to her 125-pound body.

Because Branch was shot through and through, she did not absorb the full energy of the projectile. But the massive disparity was enough to drop her instantly. She lay on her left side, stunned and gasping for air. As she exsanguinated into the dirt, crumpled beneath a mesquite tree, she barely registered that she was dying.

When Bob Runnells heard the shots, he dropped his sandwich and called “Katie!” He found himself eight strides toward her direction when he realized that he should call for help. His Beretta had assumed its familiar position in his dominant hand; left wrapped around the right with the muzzle low. He paused momentarily, fighting a two-front war between Duty and Honor, and opted for Honor. He turned forty degrees left, running bent over, hoping to flank the shooter.

He badly wanted his Remington 870 with six Hornady 12-gauge rounds, but field agents were prohibited personal weapons.

Kneeling behind a depression, Runnells pulled his light and laid it alongside his pistol’s frame. His thumb rested on the button, ready to illuminate any threat. He was conscious of his breath as he sucked in desert air, his eyes swerving left and right, near to far as much as possible in the dark.

He left cover again, searching the night for some sign of his partner. Something moved ahead of him; he stopped, knelt, and waited. He heard Spanish. “Quien es?”

Runnells resisted the urge to shoot the Mexican. Bracing his light against the pistol, he thumbed down the switch.

Eighteen paces ahead of him were two men, one with a G3. Years of training kicked in. Framing his black sights in the white light, Runnells shouted, “Alto!” as he stroked the trigger once, twice, thrice.

Struck by two.40-caliber rounds, the man dropped his rifle and swerved away, out of view.

Another alien appeared, then a third. Two were armed and both opened fire: one with a G3, the other with a Ruger pistol. The three combatants exchanged gunfire within shouting distance. It lasted less than five seconds.

Runnells’ vest stopped two 9mm rounds, but the 7.62s bored through him and knocked him on his back. Then he was aware of someone standing over him, and the eruption of an impossibly bright light in his face that ended all cognition.

Pablo Ramirez cursed long, silently and fervently. A firefight with the Border Patrol was the last thing he wanted on Planet Earth. The only positive aspect was the conclusion. Two dead Yanquis versus two of his men wounded; one seriously.

Ramirez forced himself to focus. He sprinted to the Dodge and noted the doors shut, the radio apparently unused. He dashed back to his men, finding one receiving rudimentary first aid. “Jorge, take Casique home. The rest, come with me. Now!”

Supported by his friend, Casique Estrella looked at the first dead American. He realized the body was female. He muttered, “I never killed a woman before.”

Jorge de la Cruz pulled his partner’s arm around his neck. “Amigo, I never saw a cow in a bull ring, either.”

Ramirez turned to gather up his group and counted heads. He heard soft moaning. “Donde es…”

Joaquin pointed toward a prostrate form. One of the couriers was bent over the other, wailing an incomprehensible dirge that penetrated the night air.

SSI had an early morning call from Burridge’s deputy.

“Derringer here.”

John Demeter’s voice still carried the flatland tones of Nebraska though he had not lived there in nearly thirty years. “Admiral, the secretary is attending a meeting at State but he left standing orders to notify you immediately of any change.”

“Yes, John. Go ahead.”

“There was shooting on the Arizona border last night. Two agents were killed and apparently at least one of the perpetrators was hit. No body but quite a blood trail.”

“Yes?”

“Well, it was a small group — the field supervisor puts it at six or seven. There were two larger groups farther east, and they may have been decoys. Anyway, the killers left a fair amount of material behind. Probably a lot of confusion with the shooting in the dark. Anyway, one of the items was a prayer book.”

Derringer felt himself growing testy. Cut to the chase! “So?”

“Oh. Well, apparently it’s a Muslim prayer book. Not Arabic, either.”

“Pakistani?”

“We’ve not had it fully analyzed, but I’m told it could be Urdu.”

“Where’d this happen?”

“Between Bisbee and Nogales.”

“GPS coordinates?”

“Ah, we don’t have that yet: just the preliminary report. But I checked the map, and it’s roughly 110 west by 31.5 north.”

Derringer recorded the lat-long, then asked, “What time?”

“Apparently about 1:00 A.M. local. Call it… five-six hours ago.”

Damn it to hell! Derringer made a conscious effort to ease his grip on the phone. “John, that means they’ve got a big jump on us. My crew landed at Tucson last night, expecting to operate across the border. I’ll get right on to them and deploy to Phoenix, unless you think we should continue as planned.”

“Well, Admiral, I’ve consulted with our operations office and they say this could be an elaborate ruse. But if so, it’s very well planned. There’s blood on the prayer book. We recommend that you keep a small team to watch Tucson and send the rest to Phoenix. You have the contact info there?”

“Affirm. It’s in the contingency plans.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll have the secretary call you ASAP.”

“Right.” Derringer punched the button, ending the call and buzzed his secretary. “Peggy, have everybody meet me in the conference room immediately. Things have turned to hash again.”

“Mr. Padgett-Smith? I am Dr. Singh. We spoke on the phone.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you for your call, doctor.”

The Indian physician spoke excellent English with precise diction. But he did not want to leave anything uncertain. He extended an arm down the hallway. “We can speak more comfortably in my office.”

Charles Padgett-Smith had not made a small fortune by missing the nuances. “What is it, Doctor?”

Singh glanced around, unwilling to speak in public. He cradled his clipboard in both hands and regarded the Englishman. “Sir, your wife’s condition is quite grave. It worsened overnight.”

The financier swallowed. Hard. Finally he found the words. “Is she going to… die?”

Singh had years of experience with such things. It did not matter. Without intending to, he looked at the floor.

When Derringer entered the conference room Sandy Carmichael got up and poured another cup of coffee. Derringer noted that her hair could use some attention, and there were unaccustomed wrinkles in her blouse. Joe Wolf, who typically ran toward disheveled, was rubbing his temples again — another sign of fatigue. Most of the other staffers also showed signs of working late-late. Or, more accurately, early-early.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Derringer interjected, “let me say something.” He paused, waiting for the staff’s full attention. “Most of you look like hell.”

His quip had the desired effect. The laughter was neither forced nor polite. “Just remember, regardless of how you feel, think about our operators. They had one night back in this country before taking off for Arizona. Along the way they’ve had to junk their plan for cross-border ops and now work out a discreet surveillance routine in one of the world’s busiest airports.” He spread his hands. “Basically, they left on a camping trip and now they’re attending a convention. I checked with Phil Catterly, who’s still with them, by the way. He estimates most of our people have forty-eight to sixty hours of useful work in them. After that, they’re going to start crashing.”

Carmichael absorbed that information, then asked, “Given the limited time we have to work with, what’re our priorities?”

“Sandy, you said it. We have to think fast and work fast. We’re going to improvise like hell today.”

Derringer explained the overnight developments and waved down the comments from astonished staffers. “I’ve called Frank and Terry in Tucson and told them to leave some guys there to cover the airport in shifts. But I think that Phoenix is the target because it’s a much larger facility. If the Marburg gets a grip there, the effects could be devastating. Closing down one of the six biggest airports in the country is just a start.”

The phone, fax, and email traffic was relentless. Joe Wolf tried to make sense of it and declared it an impossible task. “It’s what I was afraid of,” he said. “Information overload. We just don’t have time to sort it all out.” He held up a sheaf of emails and notes from phone conversations. “After this is all over, people will look at the record and think, ‘My god, they were dumb. It was right there!’”

Derringer conceded the point, then conned the SSI vessel back on course. “Joe, we can’t worry about that now. Let’s stay focused on our operating area.” He used PowerPoint to produce a map of Phoenix. “This is the fifth largest metro area in the country. There’s always public events; just look at this weekend’s schedule.” He ticked off several items from a website. “The Diamondbacks are in San Diego, but ASU hosts Oregon State. There’s also a trade show at the civic center and a big gun show at the fairgrounds.”

“Any of those events draws thousands of people,” Carmichael said.

“That’s right. But look at it from the suiciders’ perspective. Sure, there’s thousands of people at those events. But they’re mostly local. Anybody infected here mostly stays here. At the airport you get it both ways: people coming and going. Somebody exposed to Marburg here can be in LA or Boston or London in a matter of hours. And there’s no need for the suspects to go through security. Just wander around, spreading the virus by contact with doors, lavatories, escalators. You name it.”

Mohammed nodded in agreement. “We can’t cover many places so we concentrate our people at Sky Harbor?”

“That’s right, Omar. All our eggs go in the airport basket.”

Hazrat Sial, aka Baldah, felt more comfortable than any time since the night on the border. Poor Mian; he died in pain in a strange place, without a known grave. But Sial took comfort from Imam Taamir, a Los Angeles congregational leader who was obviously capable yet personable, as far as his position allowed. He was not given to small talk, and spent much of the trip in silence beside the holy warrior while one of two aides drove the Mercedes.

At length the cleric said, “I marvel at Dr. Sharif’s vision, my friend. To think that he conceived this plan before he even met you.”

“Is it true that he is dead?”

“Martyred. He is martyred.”

“As is my brother, Mian.”

“Truly. They are both with God.”

Sial sat quietly for a moment, sensing the first stage symptoms: fever, chills, and a pulsing headache, all as the doctor had foretold. Then he found the words he sought. “I can feel the disease growing inside me. Shall I really be with Allah, wise one?”

Taamir knew enough of the plan to take precautions. He did not touch the courier, though if the cleric absorbed some of the virus, that was God’s will; part of the jihad. He nodded — sagely, he hoped — and replied, “It is so. He who spends himself in a righteous cause earns entry to Paradise.”

For all his devotion and study, Hazrat Sial was still a twenty-year-old farmer’s son from the hills of Baluchistan. “I… I confess. I am afraid.”

Taamir turned to survey the biowarrior. “That is understandable, my brother. You are bound on a journey which few have the courage to undertake. For that, you deserve all praise.”

“I expected to die with Mian. We were to have one another’s comfort. Now…”

The imam was quick to respond. The boy needed handling. “Now you are receiving the comfort of God himself. Take that, accept it. Believe it!”

The young Pakistani made no reply. He merely turned his head, watching the desert landscape cruise past at a hundred kilometers per hour.

“Remember another thing,” Taamir added. “You shall not be truly alone.” He gestured to the front seat where an aide rode in silence. “Mohammed will stand vigil over you. As I explained, he will not be able to provide direct assistance, but he will observe your actions and the response of the infidels. He can deceive them, delay their efforts perhaps. And report the fulfillment of your work.”

The passenger looked over his shoulder at Sial. The man’s name was not Mohammed, but that was of small concern. As the imam had directed, the aide would maintain his distance from the courier, but remain in sight to lend encouragement should the jihadist waver. At least it sounded convincing at the time.

Derringer walked into the conference room. “Carolyn Padgett-Smith is critical. She’s not expected to live.”

“Oh, no…” Sandy Carmichael’s voice was hushed.

Omar Mohammed’s reply was muted. He had not believed she would live this long.

“I just heard from her husband,” Derringer continued. “He said she’s rallied a little after last night when a naturopath visited her. She seems to think it’ll help but Charles… well, he doesn’t.”

Sandy shook her head. “Why would that veterinarian want to kill her? Was he just spiteful? I mean, it was over!”

Mohammed found his voice. “We shall never know, Sandy. But I can speculate. Sharif spent many of his formative years in England. He lost his way from the righteous path, and he may have blamed British women in part. After all, he committed the sin of fornication, and there is evidence that he developed the Marburg virus as a means of proving his conversion.”

“By becoming a holy warrior.”

Mohammed nodded. “Exactly.”

Leopole and Catterly convened the briefing in their suite at the Skyview Inn on Van Buren Street near the airport. The room was crowded as twenty-two operators arrayed themselves on sofas, chairs, and the carpeted floor. The door kickers were augmented by Terry Keegan and Eddie Marsh, who had to fly the 727, plus Wolf’s investigators, Sherree Kim and Jim Mannock.

Leopole made the introductions. “Sherree and Jim know the basics of the case and interviewed the original Marburg volunteer’s parents. They flew out here commercial to join us.” He allowed a slight grin. “Beyond that fact, I wanted them here just because they don’t look like any of you guys.”

When the chuckles died down, Leopole turned to business. “Guys, I’ll say it loud and clear: this entire operation is about deniability, as much as in Pakistan. We’ve been contracted because the government is not permitted to target ethnic groups or individuals, even if the rest of the world knows who poses the threat. Yes, it’s stupid and it’s counterproductive. But that’s the way it is.

“Officially, we’re just passing through the airport, and if we happen to see something suspicious, we notify the security people or we take direct action: our call. As soon as you have a suspect in hand, turn him over to the authorities — and vanish. If there’s any reporting at all, the media will be told that security forces made the arrest or that private citizens noticed suspicious activity, depending on the immediate situation. In any case, nobody is to connect SSI with this operation.

“Schedules: we’re going to spend rotating shifts in each terminal or riding the shuttles: eight hours on, six off, until further notice. If nothing turns up in a couple of days, we’ll probably go home.

“Now, we have liaison officers who officially don’t know what we’re doing but who can run interference. Check your notes: you have Mr. Timmons and Mr. Meagher from TSA plus Mr. Shub and Ms. Calthrop from DHS. If you have any problems — any at all — call or page them and they’ll clear the red tape for you. At least one of them will be available round the clock. The ID you’ve been given should get you through any security gate in the airport, but only show the badge if you’re questioned.”

Bosco fingered his badge in the laminated plastic holder with the metal clip. As instructed, he would keep it hidden unless needed.

“As far as the gatekeepers are concerned, you’re all members of the airport security detail. But our bigger concern is keeping you from being noticed by our suspects. That’s why I asked most of you to wear travel attire and to carry a valise or suitcase. You have ticket envelopes for the appropriate airlines in your terminal, and at this rate, we can keep teams in each terminal for the next twenty hours or so.”

“Comm. You have hand-held radios in your bags. We’d like something less conspicuous but that’s what we’ve got so that’s what we’ll use. Pay attention to the public address system. If you hear a call for me or Dr. Catterly that probably means somebody’s spotted a suspect. If your radio’s down, tap in the access code on a white courtesy phone or dial the 800 number at a pay phone. At that point, we’ll establish a rotating surveillance of the guy so he doesn’t spot one operator in particular. If he does something overt, use your judgment. That could mean anything from tackling him to shooting him. If it develops into a chase or there’s multiple suspects, use your respirator, goggles, and gloves. By then we won’t be playing like tourists anymore.”

Leopole gestured to Catterly, who rose to speak. “I can’t add much to what I said before, but I’ll review the basics for the new members. As a frame of reference, Marburg has a similarity to streptococcus. ‘Step B’ kills healthy tissue by breaking down the body’s protein matrix. The infected area creates a growing number of dead cells, which gives the bacteria more room to grow, creating a vicious cycle. The more they grow, the more toxins are produced and the more cells are affected. It’s a lot like gangrene: the dying tissue has to be amputated before the infection proves fatal.”

“So how’s that different from Marburg?”

Catterly shook his head. “In that respect, it’s not. Strep B is most common in babies and pregnant women, but across the board the main difference is the degree of virulence. You don’t get twenty-five percent mortality from strep. You do with Marburg. You could say that it’s Strep B on steroids: more aggressive and it works faster.” He made a face. “I don’t even want to think about Ebola right now.”

Sherree Kim raised a hand. “Doctor, what are we looking for? I mean, what kind of action could be called overt?”

“Just keep this in mind: the virus is best spread by direct contact with body fluids of the carrier. So anybody who spits on door handles, railings, or phones is a suspect. If he licks his hands and rubs them on a surface, that’s a red flag, too. If he pours something or drops a liquid, notice where. HazMat teams are standing by. They can handle just about anything from a bite to decontaminating a bus.” He paused for emphasis, then added, “I just pray they don’t have to decontaminate an airport.”

Mannock spoke for the first time. “When do we start?” Leopole checked his watch. “First shift hits the airport in twenty mikes.”

“Stop at once!” Hazrat Sial shouted to the driver.

The limousine urgently braked to a stop along 1-17, and Imam Taamir guessed the reason. He was quickly proven right. Sial had barely opened the rear door before voiding his stomach onto the ground. He dry heaved several times, emitting gagging and retching sounds that caused the cleric to turn his head.

When the Pakistani recovered his composure, he sat upright again. “Water,” he croaked. “Mohammed” passed a bottle to the jihadist, who rinsed his mouth and spat out the remnants of his previous meal. From ingrained habit, the youngster replaced the cap and offered the plastic container back to his accomplice. The man in the front seat waved a hand. “You may keep it.”

Sial grasped the meaning. The response had far less to do with manners than with the donor’s welfare.

The biowarrior shut the heavy door and laid his head back on the upholstered seat.

Taamir nodded to the driver and the Mercedes pulled away.