The Deadliest Strain

Chapter Seven

For five years, she'd kept up the lie and not one person had questioned her identity. There'd never been any hint of a doubt. No one had ever asked if she wasn't the person she claimed to be. Until now.

Rahaf hadn't been found because the Americans thought they had her in their prison. Fahimah had no doubt that if they went searching for her sister, they'd find her. There were so many informers. From the little news that had been trickling inside, she knew the country was in the middle of a civil war. There were so many desperate people that could be bought for so little. There would be no sense of loyalty toward an Iraqi scientist from Saddam's regime, especially when that scientist was a woman and a Kurd.

No one knew how much Rahaf had risked in attempting to save her people. No one knew what she had sacrificed.

Now that the Americans knew, no place would be safe for her sister. Rahaf would never have a chance.

Fahimah pressed her forehead against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to block out the pictures the American agent had shown her. She couldn't forget. She had seen the wounds herself… in real life. She'd seen what that microbe or bacteria or whatever they called it could do to a person in such a short time.

Her sister's leg had been exposed to the bacteria in the lab. As Fahimah watched and listened to her sister's cries, a retired Kurdish doctor had amputated Rahaf's leg. She still would have died from the disease without the serum she had to inject in herself continuously over the following days. If what the agent was saying was true, the same serum could have possibly saved the lives of those American children — the ones in the pictures. Perhaps the same serum could have stopped the bacteria from emerging into something much more contagious.

Abruptly, she turned away from the wall. She didn't want to feel sorry for them. Fahimah told herself she had no sympathy left in her, not after all the years that they had left her to rot in one prison cell after another, left her locked up without ever being charged for any crime. The twisted irony was that Rahaf had never committed any crime, either.

Fahimah had never seen the hallways they'd passed through to get to this room. She looked up at the high ceiling, the whitewashed walls. The door had a small window with some kind of silver glazing that blocked any view of the hallway. She guessed they were probably watching her through it. She looked up. A lightbulb dangled from the middle of the ceiling. The cot in the corner had clean sheets, blankets and a pillow. The room was unlike any cell they had ever locked her in. On the table next to it, a tray of food sat untouched. This was nothing like the food she'd been fed for all these years. It looked like ghormeh sabsi, a Persian dish of greens served over rice. The smell made her remember Oxford, of the little restaurant on Cowley Road.

Fahimah hadn't thought of those days for a long while. It seemed like another lifetime.

The photos came into her mind's eye again. She'd been told they were only children. She and her sister had suffered when they were that young. After all that had been done to them and to their family, after all that they had witnessed, she'd had many occasions in her life to wish that they had died. The old anger rose up in her, and she hated her inability to stop it. All her life, Fahimah had forced herself not to feel the past, not to care about it. For longer than she'd been held prisoner by these people, she'd taught herself how to be indifferent, not to remember. But the floodgate was bursting open, the pain was rushing in, the memories were all around her. The helplessness was overwhelming, but she couldn't fight it. The burning in her brain was too much. She couldn't escape it.

The closest thing within her reach was the tray of food. She pushed it from the table with one sweep of her hand, sending everything flying into the middle of the room. Fahimah listened to the clatter of the metal dishes, eyed the scattered food. There was strength in the release of anger.

She'd put up with imprisonment for five years… and for nothing. They would go back to the university in Baghdad.

They would find other professors who would remember her. They would detain and interrogate students who must have graduated by now, but who would be able to help them. They would dig into her personnel files. Fahimah had studied at Oxford. Yes, she had a British accent, for she'd spent nine years of her life in England. She'd always been careful to hide it. Today it had ruined everything. All the American agents had to do now was just ask. They would find her sister. And now, with what was going on in America, the disease caused by the bacteria, they would pin the entire thing on Rahaf.

The bedding was next. She tore the blanket off. The sheets ripped in her thin fingers. Her own strength surprised her. She didn't know where it came from, but it was there. She upended the mattress, ripped the pillow open using a sharp metallic edge of the cot. Clumps of synthetic foam spewed out. She wanted to find relief in this destruction. But there was no relief. Her anger only escalated.

Enough was enough. She had paid for the nonexistent crime that these Americans thought her sister was guilty of. She and Allah were witnesses to the fact that Rahaf had paid a stiff penalty, too. Fahimah couldn't take it anymore.

The cot was light, and she lifted it and threw it against the door. The loud bang echoed through the room. She looked around wildly, at the chaos she'd created. This should have made her feel better. But it didn't.

Suddenly, she felt very tired. She crouched against the wall for a moment and caught her breath.

The agents from the U.S. were here to make a deal, to convince her to help them. At least, this was what the one named Newman said. He was clearly in charge. She had to take advantage of that before they were certain of the truth. They had played her. She could do the same.

Fahimah stood and walked to the door. She raised both fists to the small window and hammered on it.

"Why did you have to show those pictures to me? I had nothing to do with it. I hate you. I'm tired of this. Do you hear me?"

She looked over her shoulder at the cot sitting on its side, at the sharp edge sticking out at the corner. She stepped away from the door, jerked at her sleeve and looked at her wrist. With a grim smile, Fahimah looked back at the cot and started toward it.

They must have been waiting just on the other side of the door, for she didn't have to take more than a couple of steps. There was a click behind her and the door opened. Agent Newman stepped in ahead of two guards.

"Stop right there, Dr. Banaz. We don't want to do anything stupid, now, do we?"