The Deadliest Strain

Chapter Twenty-Four

At first, it was hard to swallow the fact that Fahimah was in charge and that they had to follow her suggestions or nothing would happen. Once Austyn decided not to dwell on minor details, though, or allow his ego to come into the equation, life became much more bearable.

She had come back, he kept reminding herself. This said something, at least, about her commitment to the mission. She was going to help them. So be receptive to what she wants, he told himself.

"I just got a report from Washington of another outbreak," Matt said in a low voice as he caught up with Austyn in the hotel hallway. He had his bag slung over his shoulder.

"Where?"

"New York City."

"Terrific," Austyn said, shaking his head. "They really need that. How bad?"

"I don't have any details yet."

"Okay. What else?"

"Not much."

"No holding out on me, Sutton."

"NFI," Matt said.

"What?"

"They're calling it NFI. Necrotizing Fasciitis Infection. It's now important enough to earn its own initials." Matt had a peculiar look on his face. "I actually used to be a member of NFI."

"What was that, the name of your garage band?" Austyn didn't know Matt's exact age, but he figured it couldn't have been too many years ago since he was in high school. "I assume the initials didn't stand for the same thing."

"No, I was a junior member of the National Fisheries Institute. I was about eight. Got an official membership card and a newsletter and everything."

"Great, Sutton. I think this heat must be getting to you." Austyn shook his head. "National Fisheries Institute."

"I'm sure the current members aren't going to be too happy with it."

"Probably not," he said, adding wryly, "but hopefully they'll understand."

Austyn stared at Fahimah's door. She was supposed to pack and meet them right here, outside her hotel room. They were all going to meet here.

How long could it take her? he thought. She owned two pieces of clothing and a toothbrush, for chrissake. It wasn't like she had to fix her hair.

He shook off his impatience. "Okay. Anything else from Hanlon?"

They'd come up with a new plan and sent it on to Homeland Security in Washington. They weren't about to risk taking any of their military escort across the Iran-Iraq border. The consequences would be too great if the mission tanked. They didn't need to ignite an international diplomatic crisis in the midst of everything else that was going on. With the new arrangement, Matt would stay behind in Erbil and handle communications with Washington. The escort would remain here, as well. If they needed an airlift from the border, he'd arrange it.

Austyn was staying with Fahimah. He wasn't in the military. If they got caught and the Iranians started digging, they might consider him a spy. But Matt was going to make sure no files would show up on him and figure out a new identity for himself.

Austyn knew he was putting his life at risk. But it didn't worry him. Once they crossed the border, Fahimah could blow the whistle on him, but in his gut, he had a feeling she wouldn't.

After all, she'd come back.

Ken would drive them the 150 miles to Halabja, which was only a stone's throw from the Iranian border. Fahimah still had family there, and she hoped she could find more details on Rahaf. Perhaps they would even know which camp she was working in now. From Halabja, Fahimah and Austyn would have to go up into the mountains to sneak across the border to the refugee camps.

Fahimah had assured him that crossing the border wouldn't be a Von Trapp Family ordeal. Though it could be dangerous, there were actually quite a few roads that crossed into Iran. Of course, some roads were more used than others. After all, she said, smuggling was a profitable business. She told him the Kurds went back and forth on a daily basis. The two of them could do it, too.

Sutton was talking, all seriousness again. 'They're going with the hypothesis that some kind of product tampering is being used as a means of spreading the microbes. The first victim in each outbreak was fighting a cold or something."

'That's a big step."

Matt nodded. "But they've yet to identify the specific medication that might be involved. They're cross-checking for something used by all the victims. So far they've ruled out prescription drugs. And they've narrowed the search to the possibility of a cold medicine that could be bought over the counter."

Austyn thought of the cabinets and drawers of cold medications that every household in America kept. The victims were spread across the country, so the tampering couldn't have been done at a purchase point, like a grocery store or pharmacy. Also, there'd been no cases reported outside of the U.S. He figured that should narrow their search to a national distribution center, one that possibly served both Arizona and Maine.

If he were back in the States, he'd be involved with the day-to-day investigation of it. This was the jurisdiction of his department. He reminded himself that he was working on this case.

"Boston could have been a mess," Austyn said with a frown. "It's a good thing none of the baked goods were contaminated."

He hadn't been able to get hold of Faas Hanlon last night, but he'd spoken with one of the special agents working directly with the intelligence director, so he was reasonably up-to-date on all the new cases. Austyn had passed on the information Fahimah had given him. He'd been contacted soon after with a curt message from Washington. He had authorization to proceed according to his own discretion. The mission was now solely in his hands. And Fahimah's.

"New York could turn out worse than Boston," Matt commented. "Eight million people within three hundred or so square miles."

Austyn agreed. "New York could be one serious…"

His voice trailed off as the door to Fahimah's room opened. Finally. She came out carrying a small duffel bag.

For a second, Austyn forgot what they were talking about. She looked different, healthier. There was color in her cheeks. Austyn knew she'd sent one of the hotel workers that morning to get her some things. He noticed that she was wearing a pair of leather walking shoes that were definitely better than the plastic army-issue sandals she'd been wearing.

"I overheard you saying something about New York City," she said. "Has there been another case reported from there?"

"We don't have all the facts and figures yet," Matt told her.

She nodded, but Austyn could see the news upset her. She looked at Austyn.

"You didn't shave," she told him. "That's good."

He ran a hand over his face and jaw. He didn't have time. After everyone returned to the hotel last night, he'd been up with the rest of them planning what needed to be done. He'd grabbed only a couple of hours of sleep and taken a quick shower this morning to help him wake up.

"I've been thinking about how to explain you, in case we get caught by an Iranian border patrol."

Austyn was glad she was thinking about it.

"I have some ideas, too. We'll talk on the way."

He looked at Matt, hoping that the younger man was okay with that. Matt gave him a reassuring nod. Ken came down the hall.

"I assume everyone is ready," he said, looking at Austyn's and Fahimah's bags. His eyes lingered on her face. "I'd say you're getting back to normal very quickly, Dr. Banaz. In fact, I'd say you look beautiful this morning. Austyn, I don't think it'll be safe to let her out of our sight again."

An immediate blush colored her cheeks.

"Don't forget," Ken told her comfortably with a nod toward Austyn. "There's still plenty of time to ditch this one, you know."

"Thanks for your input, soldier," Austyn said curtly.

Ken pretended to ignore him. "Seriously, I can cross the border with you. I even speak the language. It would be so much easier to pass me off as a local than this red-blooded American boy standing here."

Austyn was starting to become annoyed with the man. He should have checked to see if Ken was married or not. Sometimes these guys needed a reminder… like a call from the wife and kids. In this case, Ken needed a knock on the head with a two-by-four.

"You speak Kurdish with an American accent," she told him, shaking her head. "I much prefer him not speaking at all."

Austyn took Fahimah's bag off her shoulder.

"Let's go, partner," he said, giving her a wink. She was so fair-skinned that every emotion poured right into her complexion. The word partner seemed to almost fluster her.

A crack-of-dawn departure had been out of the question, so Austyn had settled for anything before noon. They weren't going to leave through the front door of the hotel and have the dozens of people having tea on the sidewalk witness it. The van Ken was going to drive had been parked in the back, accessible through the kitchen door.

Coming out into the alley, Austyn saw they had a different vehicle from the van they'd driven last night. This one had a number of large dings in the front and sides. He glanced at Ken questioningly.

"I wanted to make it more authentic. Up here, along the border, they either drive a brand-new, hundred-thousand-dollar European car, like a Mercedes or BMW, or they drive some old shitbox that's on its last legs."

"How do you know that?" Fahimah asked in surprise.

"I saw it at Zahho, on the Iraqi-Turkish border. I was passing through about a month ago. Big money and abject poverty all mixed up in one big bag."

"Smuggling money?" Matt asked.

"Construction money," Ken told him. "Rebuilding projects and new construction everywhere you look. Some are cashing in and some aren't."

Austyn eyed the beat-up van. "I see that we aren't."

"Things have changed since I went away," Fahimah said, climbing into the backseat.

Ken sat behind the wheel. When they were all in, Matt handed Austyn a bulging envelope from his bag. He opened it as they pulled out of the alley.

"You're now from Argentina. You have a passport with your picture and a phony name on it. Most of the South American countries have tourists who travel in Iran. There are also maps, Iranian money — rials and toman — and a couple of pocket dictionaries for appearance. You have English, Spanish, Kurdish, Arabic and Farsi. There are some other travel documents… paper visas into and out of Iraq and Turkey. Also, postcards friends supposedly sent to you from Argentina."

"You've been busy." Austyn opened the flap of the envelope and looked inside. "Argentina?"

"Is that a problem?"

"No, that's actually good. I've been there before."

"I know. And you speak Spanish."

Austyn figured that there was nothing in anyone's personnel files that Matt couldn't access if he wanted to. That was his thing. He probably knew more about Austyn's background than he could remember himself. He pulled out the passport.

"We've put in entry and exit stamps from a dozen different countries. You like to travel."

Austyn looked deep in the envelope. There was something that looked like a badge at the bottom.

"What is that?" He reached in for it.

"You're a writer. Freelance and novels. You don't have a press visa, though, because this project is your own idea. You hope to sell it afterward."

"The badge?" Austyn asked, pulling it out.

"Buenos Aires Herald. That was your last newspaper job. The badge has a hole punched in it, meaning it's no longer valid. You kept it for a keepsake, though."

Matt handed him another bag.

"And what's this?"

"Camera. Everyone who goes into the refugee camps takes plenty of pictures. If you're going to write an article or a book, you'll need a ton of pictures," Matt told him. "Also, there are chocolate bars, some canned goods, first aid stuff. I called one of the American reporters who's in Erbil and tried to get an accurate account of the stuff they carry with them. He's the one that reminded me about the camera."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?" Austyn asked, impressed.

"For your sake, I hope I have," Matt said.

"Now, what about Fahimah?"

"She has everything she needs."

"What do you mean?"

"I duplicated her old papers and printed all the documents she would normally carry with her. She's got a somewhat beat-up booklet that's the Iraqi equivalent of our birth certificate, her university ID card, travel permits issued by the new government."

"But she was presumed dead after a bombing at the university," Austyn reminded his partner.

"There's no way for them to know that. So many people die every day in Iraq that they're about two years behind in issuing death certificates, and a lot will never be issued. And you saw what we checked online. There isn't even a reasonably functional Web site for the university. I tried to call the university yesterday. There's no place to check information at all there. And why should they check, anyway? She's a Kurdish woman. No threat. Kurds are mostly respected in Iran. You're the dangerous one."

Austyn realized that Matt was right. She'd probably be safer across the border than she'd been in the past five years, if not longer.

"And she has those documents."

"I gave all of them to her this morning. We went over them. She should be all set," Matt told him. "By the way, she returned the laptop to me. She didn't think it'd be safe where you two are headed."

"The laptop isn't safe but we are?" He smiled.

"No," Fahimah interrupted. "We won't be terribly safe, either."

Austyn nodded his thanks to the other agent and stuffed the envelope into his bag. He and Ken each had a couple of DOD satellite phones on them. They had been given the three phones yesterday by the special units group in Erbil. These phones had their own dedicated gateways, so there was no out-of-service area anywhere. The decision whether they should take the phone across the border or not would wait until they got closer to their destination. Austyn figured he'd keep the one he had until the very last moment, even if he ended up chucking it.

"Okay," Matt said. "This is where I get out."

"This is the Brayati section of the city," Ken told him, pulling over. "See that mosque there?"

"Yeah."

"On the far side of it, you'll find a bazaar where you can pick up a taxi. He'll charge you a fortune, but he'll get you back to the hotel, anyway."

"Don't worry about me," Matt said. "Good luck to you guys. And don't lose contact with me."

He climbed out and crossed the intersection without looking back at them.

The day was warm, and the new vehicle had no air-conditioning. Fahimah already had her back window open. Rather than staying in front, Austyn moved into the backseat with her before Ken pulled out into traffic.

"You don't mind playing chauffeur so that we can get some work done back here, do you?" Austyn asked Ken.

"It doesn't matter if I mind or not. You're going to do it, anyway," the other man grumbled.

"Exactly." He patted him on the shoulder.

"We have a hundred fifty miles to go before we reach Halabja," Ken told them as he settled into the flow of traffic. "There will be a number of roadblocks between here and there."

"Who's manning the roadblocks?"

"Mostly Peshmerga, the Kurdish armed forces," Ken explained. "There might be some others set up by individual villages. I told you, the people here are sick of violence."

"How about Americans?" Austyn asked.

"There's one roadblock, but that's not a concern," Ken said. "They know we're coming. Most likely, we'll be waved through."

"What do the Peshmerga look for at the roadblocks?" Austyn asked.

"Mainly Arabs." Ken looked in the mirror at them. "I'm not exaggerating. There's racial profiling to the max around here. The Kurds hate Arabs."

Austyn saw Fahimah look out the window. She wasn't contradicting anything Ken was saying.

"And what else are they looking for?" he asked. "Weapons?"

"Maybe. They might search the car for God knows what… maybe something else that they'll like and decide to keep."

"Will they check papers?" Austyn asked.

"You never know, but that's a possibility. They might want to know what you're doing here, where you've been and where you're going and all that. They could be as tough as the Iranian guards you'll face crossing the border. So you have to get your stories straight before we get to any of these roadblocks."

Austyn pulled out the envelope Matt had given him and emptied the contents on the seat between him and Fahimah. She looked over, watching what he was doing.

"Do you know what you're going to tell them?" he asked her.

She nodded. "I am a professor of political science at the University of Baghdad. My name is Fahimah Banaz."

"What are you doing here?" Ken asked her from the front seat.

"I'm visiting family at Halabja. That's where I am from originally," she said. "Of course, I'll answer all of this in Kurdish, and they'll have no problem with it. My Argentinean colleague here could have a problem."

"Only if you tell them to pee in my tea," Austyn said under his breath.

She smiled and Austyn found himself distracted.

"How about crossing to Iran? What are going to tell them if they stop you?" Ken asked.

"The same thing. And I'll tell them I'm looking for some family members that might be in one of the refugee camps across the border," she said. "I'll tell them I want to take them back to Iraqi Kurdistan with me."

"That's the magic word," Ken said. "I've heard they're so overcrowded in the camps that any time you're going there to bring someone back, they have no problem with it."

"What about if they ask for the name of your family?" Austyn asked her.

"I can give them three dozen names… perhaps even more. I have many family members who went missing during Saddam's campaigns of terror," she said quietly. "I will also be speaking Farsi with them, so that's another feather in my cap."

"That works for me," Ken commented.

Austyn replaced his own passport and documents with those establishing his Argentinean identity. "Where do you want my real passport?" he asked Ken.

"There's a slot that leads to a compartment under the rug behind your seat."

Austyn made sure there were no cars tailing them or anyone to see what he was doing. There was an advantage in leaving when they had. There wasn't too much traffic and the neighborhoods were beginning to thin out. He looked over his shoulder and found the spot Ken was referring to. He deposited the extra papers there and pulled the rug back over the slot. He opened the passport and studied his new name and information, which he went over with Fahimah.

"Someone might ask what you are doing with this guy." Ken said when they were finished. "What will you say?"

"He contacted me through the university because I teach political science. He's writing a book about Kurdistan and the refugee camps. I was going to Halabja, anyway, so I offered to bring him along."

"And going over the border?" Ken asked.

"The same thing. I'm serving as his translator. He doesn't speak Kurdish or Farsi," she answered simply.

Austyn was impressed. She spoke with such authority that it was difficult to challenge what she said. He guessed she was an excellent teacher.

"Won't they find something majorly wrong with the fact that you're an unmarried woman and traveling with a foreign male?" Ken asked.

"No, not at all," she said confidently. "We are in Kurdistan, and I teach at the university. This will stop anyone from asking such a frivolous question. The Islamic fundamentalists don't have so much influence on the way people live in the north. At least, they didn't five years ago. And based on what I saw on the streets last night and heard from my friends, I'd say things are—"

"Well," Ken said, interrupting. "This came up sooner than I thought." He slowed the van.

Straight ahead, the traffic came to a standstill. Past the half-dozen cars, armed Kurdish soldiers were checking every vehicle going in either direction.

"They usually do this when people are coming into Erbil, not leaving it," Ken commented.

"What are we doing traveling with you?" Austyn asked Ken.

"I'm giving you a ride."

"Why?" Austyn asked.

"I'm on leave for forty-eight hours. Sightseeing. Met at the hotel and, rather than let the two of you travel by bus, I offered to give you a ride."

"U.S. soldiers are instructed to travel in groups when on leave," he pressed. "What are you doing alone?"

They inched forward.

"My girlfriend is stationed in Sulaimaniyah," Ken said smoothly. "I'm going there to meet her. I don't need a crowd with me."

They moved ahead a little more. The soldiers were checking the car ahead of them.

"Your girlfriend? Aren't you married?" Austyn asked, testing.

"I'm making up stories, remember?" Ken replied.

The car ahead of them left the checkpoint, and a Peshmerga soldier waved them forward. Ken stopped where he was directed. The soldier looked in the van at Ken's uniform and nodded.

"IDs, please," the soldier said in a thick accent.

Austyn handed over his fake passport and Fahimah's university ID to Ken, who handed them to the soldier. Another armed Peshmerga fighter circled the van, looking in.

The soldier looked briefly at Ken's and Austyn's documents and handed them back. He glanced at Fahimah's next and tapped on her window. She opened it. He looked at her ID again and stared at her face a couple of seconds.

"Jawerrwani," he said, walking away and taking her identification. The soldier waved to two other soldiers, who moved in front of the car, blocking them.

"What did he say?" Austyn asked.

"He said to wait," she answered.

"We're not starting out too well, are we?"

"I don't know what the heck this is about," Ken grumbled, taking the phone out from under the seat.

It wasn't like Fahimah to get nervous, but Austyn saw her tuck her hands under her legs. She looked anxiously in the direction the soldier had gone. He was now talking to someone sitting in a car across the road. Whoever it was, he seemed to be in a position of authority. The other man took the ID from the soldier and looked at it, too. He yelled out something to the two Peshmergas blocking their path.

"He said we need to pull to the side," she explained, translating for them in a thin voice.

"I heard him," Ken said. "Shit, what do they want?"

"Do you have any idea what this could be about?" Austyn asked her.

She shook her head. "Pull over to the side," she suggested. "The traffic is backing up behind us."

"I don't give a damn about traffic," Ken said.

The Peshmerga in charge walked across the road to them. He was a younger man and had the strut of a bantam cock. He was wearing no uniform but was dressed in the traditional Kurdish garb of baggy trousers and a plain jacket with a colorful sash. His shoes set him apart. He was wearing new Reebok sneakers. Ken stepped out of the car.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Austyn didn't know if this was by choice or if Ken had forgotten to speak to them in Kurdish. He quickly got out of the car, as well.

"Both of you… inside your vehicle," the man said in fairly good English. He pointed to Fahimah. "But you, khanoom, you come with me."