The Genesis Plague

40

Stokes stared at the computer monitor, befuddled by this most peculiar turn of events. The mysterious blast had knocked two of the tunnel’s cameras offline. The heavy airborne dust was making it near impossible to see anything in the passage where Al-Zahrani had fled. What could have caused the explosion? Even a grenade couldn’t cause this much damage. And he didn’t recall seeing any of the Arabs holding one.

‘Shit.’ Stokes rubbed his knotted neck muscles. A sudden dread came over him. If Al-Zahrani was killed in the blast …Well that would prove most unfortunate. Could anyone have survived an explosion in such tight confines?

‘Come on … show me where you are,’ Stokes said, grabbing at both sides of the monitor with his hands and shaking it. ‘Come on you son of a bitch. Show yourself.’

The desk phone suddenly beeped.

A cautious voice came over the intercom: ‘Randall? Is everything okay in there?’

Stokes stared at the phone, sweat beading on his forehead. ‘Everything’s fine, Vanessa. Just fine, thanks.’

‘Okay. By the way, your wife called again and was asking what time—’

He jabbed a finger at the disconnect button. His swollen hands felt like they’d been held over fire. He rubbed his raw palms on his legs, leaving blood smears on his trousers. For a brief spell, his vision became blurry with stars as a wave of nausea churned his stomach. He put his head in his hands and waited for equilibrium to return.

What’s wrong with me?

Then his vision came back, crisp and focused.

Before he could give the bout of vertigo further consideration, he spotted movement on the monitor and his heart skipped a beat. Though hard to make out through the dust, a dark form was cutting swiftly through the passage. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Nerves ablaze, Stokes’s eyes moved from frame to frame hunting for the runner. ‘Come on … come on …’

The figure appeared two seconds later, slower now. It was one of the Arabs — which Arab was still unclear. On the periphery of the frame, the man stopped and pressed his back against the tunnel wall, panting. Stokes still couldn’t make a positive identification since the man was using the tail of his headscarf to shield his mouth and nose from the dust. But with the air in this section much cleaner, he let his hand fall away and the scarf dropped to his shoulder. However, he immediately crouched and directed his eyes to the floor.

‘Look up …’ Stokes grumbled. ‘Look at me, you son of a bitch.’

Then the Arab dropped to his knees and prostrated himself along the floor, hands pressed to the ground.

‘What are you doing?’

Then the Arab began a familiar-looking ritual. Stokes immediately cranked up the audio level.

The chanting came through loud and clear: ‘Allahu Akbar …’

Praying? ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Stokes said.

Only one way to get a fast answer. Stokes clicked on the control module window, resized it to long strip, and moved it to the bottom of the screen. Then he waved the mouse pointer over a square control button marked with a light-bulb icon.

‘Smile,’ he said. He clicked on the control button.

There was a slight delay as the command bounced through satellites. Then halfway around the world, the camera’s bright floodlight activated and lit the praying Arab from above.

The effect amused Stokes. The astounded Arab screamed out in fright. He seemed to think that Allah was shining his brilliant countenance inside the cave. His head snapped up and the dark eyes squinted into the blinding light.

With the runner’s face now in full view, Stokes smiled.