Amanda's Story (2 page)

“Folder Empty.” The screen blinked. Two years of work was gone; his boss and mentor had deleted everything. A thrill of hope rushed through Ahmed; perhaps Avanti had succumbed to the same reservations that assailed him, but Ahmed knew the man too well and his heart sank. Avanti had his own agenda, and morality.

He quickly stood; a sudden thought and fear propelled him towards the freezer. A thumb print was required for access, and only his thumb or Avanti's would work. A moment later he found six empty slots in the orderly arrangement of twenty-four frozen vials. Avanti had it all—the research and the virus. The genie was out of the bottle.

He returned to his computer desk and slumped into his chair. Six vials were likely all Avanti could carry without raising suspicion, and by themselves posed little risk. Combined with the computer sabotage, however, it was clear what Avanti had intended. The virus and the computer files were all he needed to begin work elsewhere, away from the prying eyes and greedy hands of their Arab paymasters. Avanti's resentment of the Saudis far exceeded Ahmed's, and he had always suspected that the large, hirsute Ukrainian had ulterior motives. There was an airstrip, more just a straight strip of compressed sand, only a few miles from here, and it was likely that at this very moment Avanti was somewhere in the air, flying to freedom with their research and an insulated box that carried the six frozen vials.

The enormity of the situation paralyzed Ahmed. He knew that he should do something, tell someone that they had been betrayed, but to what end? Avanti was a clever and careful man; he would have planned his escape down to the final detail. The chances of him being caught, with the research and the vials being recovered, were nil, even with the long arms of the Arabs.

Still, I have to try,
he told himself, and reached for the phone. The instant he touched the plastic he had a vision of his body, along with the remaining research team, being thrown into a shallow grave next to a pile of stinking monkeys. There was no way the Arabs would allow him or anyone else to live once they had learned of Avanti's deception. Even if they believed that Avanti had acted alone, Ahmed and his team would still be viewed as unacceptable risks—risks that were easily eliminated. He pulled his arm back and stared at the phone. He was a dead man. Jaime Avanti, his friend, perhaps his best friend, had engineered his death. A few hours from now Avanti's disappearance would be discovered, then the theft of the computer files, and finally the missing vials of Hybrid virus. He could disguise the theft of the vials, but he could never reconstruct the hundreds of missing computer files. Avanti's final insult to the Arabs was to deprive them of not only their prize, but also of the data they had paid so much for, and in doing so had signed the death warrants of Ahmed and the rest of the research team.

His head dropped to the table and he began to weep. He didn't want to die, especially a meaningless death. The bravado and conviction about stopping the Hybrid virus was suddenly lost in the fear of his own mortality. He accepted that he wasn't a brave man, and hadn't been born with physical courage, but he had always believed that he had the courage of his convictions. But at this moment, the only thing that was important was the desire to live. He was filled with an overwhelming imperative to run, and his head quickly came off of the desk. His pupils dilated and his heart raced.

Where?
he asked himself.

Nowhere
, his mind answered. They were a hundred miles from anything that resembled civilization and safety; the camp had been placed here for this very reason. He could steal a vehicle, but it would need fuel, and that was kept at the opposite end of the compound for security purposes. There was no way he could commandeer a vehicle without alerting the soldiers placed there to protect them, drive across the compound, fuel the vehicle after subduing or subverting those soldiers, drive through the compound's main gate—once again through a phalanx of armed terrorists—and disappear into the desert.

“I see you have returned to work,” said a voice, in French.

Ahmed literally jumped in his chair, and wasn't completely certain but thought that he may have let out a small cry as well. Turning, he found the last person in the world he wanted to see.

Klaus Reisch was tall, thin, and rather sinister looking. He had an aura perfect for the compound's chief of security. “I see that Khalib reported back to you,” Ahmed said, after taking a moment to regain what little composure remained to him.

“Khalib reports to his superior, who reports to me.” Reisch walked arrogantly into the lab, pulled a nearby chair from beneath a table, and sat directly in front of Ahmed.

“You are not authorized to be in here,” Ahmed said, unconsciously leaning away from the German. Reisch looked like a lion studying a young gazelle, wondering if he should eat it now or later.

“Ordinarily that is true, but we have a problem, don't we, Professor?” Reisch reached for the keyboard, and after a few moments of rapid typing he turned back to Ahmed. “Do you see what I mean?”

The screen had a title written in English that read “Culture Results: Day 23;” the page that should have been full was completely blank. “I've only just discovered this,” Ahmed confessed weakly.

“I believe you,” Reisch said unexpectedly. “Where did Dr. Avanti go?”

“I have no idea.” Ahmed felt a line of sweat roll down his back.

“Do you know if anything else is missing?” Reisch leaned in towards the small man and used his size and eyes to hold him in place.

Almost as if the German had willed it, Ahmed's eyes darted to the freezer and back. He knew that the German had seen the unconscious admission and the only option open to him was the truth. “Six vials of the latest specimen are missing.”

“Is this the specimen that is responsible for the eight bodies downstairs?”

If Satan had a voice, it would be Reisch's
, Ahmed thought. “Yes.” His voice was becoming both softer and higher in pitch.

“Can you think of any legitimate reason why the Director of Research would copy all the computer files, delete them from the hard drive, and then leave the compound without permission with six vials of a lethal virus in his possession?” Reisch inched just a little closer. Ahmed tried to retreat but his chair hit the wall.

“None. If he were taking the samples and files for safekeeping he would not have deleted them here.”

“Those were my thoughts precisely.” Reisch slowly pushed back and then rose to his unnatural height. “I think it is best that you come with me. We need to keep you and the rest of your team safe.” He stepped aside and two men dressed all in black, from their berets to their combat fatigues and automatic weapons, advanced on Ahmed.

“What about the rest of the samples?” Ahmed's voice was as high as a little girl's.

“We will secure them,” Reisch said as both of his soldiers lightly steered Ahmed from the laboratory.

“Does it make any of you angry that a little less than a year has gone by and very few Americans remember what happened?” Mindy McCoy, super-model turned talk show host, asked the four women that surrounded her. She shifted her long legs and casually inclined towards the pale, blonde woman to her left, just as the voice in her ear had instructed.

For a moment Amanda met the gaze of her host, but she became distracted by movement just beyond the glare of the stage lights. Three large television cameras prowled the permimeter of their group, and she could almost feel them focusing in on her face. She had said very little during the fifteen minute interview, and it was becoming uncomfortably obvious. Heather Waylens shifted her legs as well, just not as casually as Mindy, Reflexively, Amanda glanced across the stage at the older woman's stony glare. It communicated one message to Amanda: “Do your part.” A weak, joyless smile crossed Amanda's face as she stared into the cameras. She took a long breath as the panel, the audience, and the TV world waited. “At this point in my life it takes almost everything I have to get out of bed in the morning. I simply don't have the luxury of being mad at anyone.”

Mindy McCoy and the rest of the world waited for more, but Amanda's gaze had returned to the floor. The moment began to stretch, and just as everyone began to shift rather uncomfortably, Heather and one of the other panelists jumped into the void. At first their comments stepped over each other's, but it was Heather's voice that prevailed. “The American mindset is always looking forward. It is a requisite for progress and one of the reasons that America leads the world in so many ways. Of course, the cost of that is a short memory. We have to guard against the mistakes of the past being forgotten so that we as a people can incorporate those lessons as we work to fulfill our great destiny …” Heather continued for a full two minutes before yielding the floor back to their host, who immediately took them to a commercial break.

The stage quickly filled with show personnel. Despite the attention of her make-up artist, Mindy whispered to Amanda: “Honey, we need a bit more from you.” Her careful and practiced elocution had been replaced by a more natural drawl.

“Hold still or you won't be beautiful,” the make-up artist scolded Mindy.

“Amanda,” Heather called, but the frenetic activity gave Amanda a convenient excuse to ignore her summons. “You need to tell your story, for everyone's sake,” Heather pleaded, with a tone that was much too close to a demand.

“Especially yours,” Amanda whispered to herself. Everyone was trying to turn her grief to their advantage, particularly Congresswoman Heather Waylens. Her husband, the previous Representative of Kansas' Third District, had died along with 202 others, including Amanda's husband and their two-year-old son, when Delta flight 894 crashed into an Iowa cornfield. The governor of Kansas appointed Heather to serve out her late husband's term, but she had every intention of holding onto that seat well beyond the remaining sixteen months, and perhaps other seats as well. She used her loss and the pain of others to further her ambition, and right now Amanda hated her. She had never hated anything or anyone in her entire 24 years, but she was certain that at this instant she hated the Congresswoman from Kansas. It was a good hate, a righteous hate that for a moment burned brightly in the confines of her hollow soul, and then, just as quickly as it had flared, it began to fade, depriving Amanda of its heat and energy, leaving her drained from the emotional effort.

A figure suddenly blocked the bright lights, and Amanda found a young, slight man scanning her face. “Just checking for shiny spots,” he said, leaning in close and inspecting her forehead. “Sweetheart, you were made for TV,” he sang while straightening, and playfully patted her nose with his powder-puff.

“Coming out in thirty seconds,” a voice screamed, and the flurry of activity that surrounded the group spun even faster. Something touched Amanda's hand and she turned to find Mindy's face inches from hers.

“I know that this makes you uncomfortable, and it's more than a little intimidating, but try and forget all this.” Her arm swept across the stage. “Ignore the lights, the cameras, even the Congresswoman, and just talk to me as if we were in your kitchen; just us two girls, no one else.” Mindy's eyes sparkled, her smile was natural and infectious, and Amanda realized that Mindy had more going for her than just a singular beauty, a perfect figure, millions of dollars, her own TV show, and uncounted adoring fans.

“I'll try,” Amanda answered.

“People want to hear what you have to say. They should hear it and, between you and me, I would prefer that it come from you rather than a politician.” Her head gave a quick jerk towards Heather.

“It's difficult for me to care about what other people need.” Amanda paused as the stage lights came up. “That didn't come out right.” She smiled. “I probably should be angry— maybe at the mechanic who didn't fix the door correctly, or Delta Airlines for not ensuring that he was properly trained or, as Heather would like people to believe, the Transportation Board and the government for allowing Delta to perform their own inspections. Maybe I should take it all the way up to God, who gave me something wonderful and then snatched it back. But what does it matter; in the end they're still gone, and their absence is all I can feel.”

“You're trapped,” Mindy said.

“I'm stuck; that's what everyone tells me. It's why I'm here, to get ‘unstuck.'” Amanda briefly smiled, but then her head sagged as she began to examine a spot on the stage a few feet in front of her shoes.

“But you don't want to get unstuck, because as long as you still feel their absence, in some way they're still with you,” Mindy said softly, with a tone that revealed more than understanding. “Getting unstuck means taking a step away from their memory and is an acknowledgement that they are never coming back, that things will never be as they were.”

Amanda looked up from the studio floor and found Mindy's eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“My parents, when I was thirteen,” Mindy said, answering Amanda's look. “The details aren't important; what is important is that I know what it means to be stuck. I know what it's like to have others tell you that you need to do this or that, feel this way for this amount of time, and then move on to this next stage. But they really don't understand what being stuck means. In some ways it's an acknowledgement of the people that we've lost, how their passing has torn out a large part of you, and that ‘moving on' means filling that void with something other than them. In some ways it's a violation of their memory.”

Amanda stared into Mindy's flawless face and realized that someone else in the world understood—that she really wasn't alone. Since the accident, she had met with more than a dozen other “survivors” of Flight 894, and each of them had managed to either move past their grief or controlled it well enough to put on a brave face, which only increased Amanda's isolation. “But you survived,” Amanda managed to say with only a slight waver.

“For a long time that's all I could manage.” Mindy's perpetual smile had a painful edge as her hand slipped into Amanda's and they shared a private moment on national television. “My director is having a fit upstairs because we are so far off topic and I'm starting to sound more like Dr. Phil than an empty-headed talk show host. I think he's afraid that if I show more than one dimension I'll demand more money.” The studio audience erupted in a mixture of laughter and applause. “Well, I think we are right on topic.” Mindy let go of Amanda's hand and half-rose from her seat. She faced the camera and had to shout over the audience, who began to cheer. “A year ago two hundred and three people died in what some say was a plane crash that should never have happened, but the human toll was far greater than that, and these four ladies, along with hundreds of others, will have to deal with their loss every day for the rest of their lives. My next two guests will hopefully try and explain why. Coming up after this short video salute to the victims of flight 894 are Kevin Tilits of the National Transportation Authority, and Dennis Hastings, president of Delta Airlines.” The audience cheered louder and the stage lights dimmed.

A stagehand appeared at Amanda's side and began to unclip the microphone attached to the collar of her blouse. “Please follow me,” he told Amanda rather curtly the moment she was free.

“Can you give me just a moment?” she asked the young man. “Thanks, Mindy,” she said, reaching for her host's arm.

“Can you stay until we're done here?” she asked Amanda, who nodded. “Good. Will you please escort Mrs. Flynn to my dressing room?” she ordered the stagehand as much as asked him, and then returned to the argument she was having with her director.

Amanda followed the irritated and stressed man offstage; apparently Mindy's dismissive attitude towards the crew was not entirely unusual, and Amanda felt obliged to apologize for his help.

“Don't worry about it; she always gets this way when the boss man is riding her.”

“I think she's in trouble because of me,” Amanda said as they navigated through a maze of cables, wires, and video equipment.

“Are you kidding me? That was great TV. It'll be all over the entertainment channels in an hour, and tomorrow our share will be up by at least ten points. If she keeps this up she won't have to ask for more money, they'll be throwing it at her.” He opened a door for Amanda, and as she walked through she felt his eyes follow her into the room. “Do you have anyone here with you? I could bring them up while you wait.”

“That would be nice, but I don't want to impose.”

“You're not imposing; it's my job.”

“My mother-in-law, Lisa Flynn, is in the yellow room. She's about five-five, short brown hair …”

“It's OK; I think I can find her. I'll be back in a moment.” He shut the door and the latch closed with a muted click.

Mindy's dressing room was sparse. She had a table covered with a variety of cosmetics; above it was the obligatory mirror rimmed with bright lights, and aside from a small sofa and a recliner, the only other thing in Mindy's room was a television, which was tuned to her show. Amanda quickly turned the TV off, as the video showing the remains of Flight 894 focused on an undamaged teddy bear lying on its side. Behind it was a shattered airplane seat. This particular frame had become the symbol of the tragedy, and it pierced Amanda to the core. It was the main reason that she had been invited here. The bear's name was Fred T. Bear, and Amanda had bought it for her son's second birthday, a month before he died. She had no idea whether the seat behind Fred belonged to her son, her husband, or someone else. It didn't really matter, they were gone; only Fred had survived, and he was safely wrapped in plastic somewhere in her in-laws' home.