BioKill (11 page)

Chapter Fifteen

“Is the virus
secure?”

“The spray cans are in our backpacks,” Bashir answered.

“Good, very good.” The driver, Egyptian by birth, the heavy weathered lines on his dark chiseled face mostly hidden by a trimmed black beard, peered through his sunglasses at the young man sitting in the front passenger seat to his right. Behind him he could see the other one, al-Nasseri, leaning forward in his seat, one arm resting on his friend’s headrest. Akins Bomani saw that both had a wide-eyed, excited expression, even through the false beards. They would need firm restraint.

“Put your seatbelts on, we do not want to attract attention from the infidels. Take off those beards and place them out of sight.”

“What do you think, Yusuf? They make me look older. I think I’ll keep mine on.”

Bomani wasn’t about to play games with these soft Americans. He was brought up on the streets in his homeland — and he was hard, tough and self-reliant. He could still remember the first man he killed when he was twelve years old. His father had placed the gun in his hand, the victim, a
kafir
, a Muslim unbeliever who rejected the truth of Islam, sat bound and gagged having been beaten by his father and uncle in the man’s own home. Bomani’s father told him to place the barrel of the gun between the man’s eyes and pull the trigger. That was forty years ago and even now he could feel the gun go off, bucking in his small hand, the blood and brain matter splattering his face and white robes. It was red and white and when some of it landed in his open mouth, warm and sticky. Bomani had lost count since then of the men and women he had killed. Now he kept his mouth closed, whether he used a gun, a knife or a club.

Bashir Zuabi ran a hand through his stuck-on beard, while trying to find a reflection of himself in one of the car windows. He felt a hard jab in his side; when he looked down he saw the barrel of a pistol pointing at his kidneys.

“I will not say it again.”

The two young men were left in no doubt who was in charge. The older man, the one wearing Western jeans and a long-sleeved blue shirt — the one with the real beard. They immediately pulled the whiskers off and buckled their seatbelts. Though neither knew what the other was thinking, both began to realize they were puppets — who had just met one of the puppeteers. The sounds of New York traffic surrounded them. Soon they would be leaving them behind for the quiet of the vast and sprawling countryside. Suddenly they became comforting, familiar. Gingerly, without moving his head, Bashir let his eyes move across to the driver. Bomani reached for his sunglasses and took them off, then turned his head towards his passenger. Their eyes met and Bashir felt himself start to tremble, as those incredibly dark, mesmerizing eyes bored through his head. He tried to look away but he couldn’t — it was Yusuf, in the back seat, who broke the spell.

“My name is Yusuf and this is Bashir — who are you?”

“I know who you are,” was the terse response.

“We did as we were instructed at the bus station, we’ve been told you’ll take us to our destination — but no one’s told us where yet.”

“You will know when we will get there.”

Yusuf al-Nasseri wiped his now sweaty palms on his trousers. “So what do we call you?” A reflection in the rear window driver mirror caught his attention and he saw the same cold eyes that had mesmerized his friend. The short conversation was over, without another word.

The red sedan maneuvered in and out of the busy streets, carefully avoiding any undue attention. A mobile phone call broke the silence. Bomani reached forward and picked up the phone from the dash.

“Yes…” He hung up. A few seconds went by. Without warning, Bomani suddenly lifted both hands off the steering wheel and slammed them back down, swearing. “
Xara!
The infidels are on to us, they know who you are and your mission.”

“Wha…What?” Bashir was confused. “How could they? It’s not possible.”

“We are at war,” Bomani replied with the benefit of experience. “Anything is possible.”

Yusuf shuffled in his seat, searching the surrounding buildings, vehicles, pedestrians, his eyes going from one perceived threat to another. Winding down his window he put his head out and looked upwards, searching the sky between skyscrapers for helicopters.

“Wind up that window and sit still, you fool. You do not panic or feel afraid when you are with me. If you do you will be of no further use to our cause.”

Catching his breath, Yusuf leaned hard back in his seat, his head pressed against the headrest. Within a few moments he regained composure and then wound up the window.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise, I just…”

“Do not be sorry,” snapped Bomani. “Be brave. You are Takfir wal-Hijra, you live for the cause, you must be prepared to die for the cause — become a
shahid
, a martyr. There is no turning back, you must leave your past behind and prepare yourself to meet Allah and be honored for all eternity by your brotherhood. Takfir is forever.
Allahu akbar
.”

Zuabi and al-Nasseri sat back, their shoulders slumped, resigned to the fact that their fate was decided. “
Allahu akbar
,” they replied together, though with noticeably less enthusiasm.

The vehicle drove on northwards within Manhattan then crossed over into the Bronx. Ten minutes later the sedan stopped next to an expansive area of woodland reserve.

Bomani took an old rag and started to carefully wipe down the steering wheel, dash and any other part of the vehicle he had touched. “Gather everything you brought with you and follow me.”

Bashir watched as their driver opened his door and stepped outside. “What about our fingerprints — do you want us to wipe down what we’ve touched?”

Bomani smiled. “There is no point.”

The two young men looked at each other, startled.

With one last look at the vehicle, Bomani was satisfied. He wound down the driver’s window and left the keys in the ignition.
Hopefully
, he thought,
that will be enough
.

As they moved deeper into the reserve, with its tall trees and dense undergrowth, Yusuf and Bashir had to hustle to stay close behind Bomani, not letting him out of their sight. Bomani seemed to know where he was going, as the suburban noises gave way to the unfamiliar sights and sounds of wildlife.

Seven minutes on the trees started to space out a bit further and light began to thrust itself down through the canopy to the three men below. Bomani stopped and gathered his bearings. They had come to the other side of the reserve — gradually the noise of everyday life grew louder. Instead of walking out onto the sidewalk, they remained in the cover of the trees and continued walking parallel to the road. A further five minutes went by. Both Yusuf and Bashir were over hiking and thankful when Bomani pulled up and left the trees for the sidewalk. He walked directly across the road to what appeared to be a group of old buildings, a pre-demolition area of abandoned warehousing. The younger two pulled their baseball caps as far down on their heads as possible, both feeling the eyes of the world were watching their every move. A siren from a police car blared in the distance. They looked at each other and prayed it didn’t come any closer.

“Here it is. Help me open the doors.” Bomani took a key and unlocked a padlock on a pair of old wooden doors. Inside, once their eyes became accustomed to the dim light, they saw a large SUV, its hood and front grille facing the doors.

“One of you get in, the other lock the doors when we leave. Make sure you have our canisters with you.”

The green 95 Ford Explorer’s engine started with a puff of smoke from the exhaust and pulled out onto the road. Bashir pulled the rickety doors shut and secured them with the padlock before clambering into the rear.

“Can you at least give us some idea where we’re going?” he asked.

Bomani looked into the rear vision mirror and shifted it slightly so he could see his back-seat passenger. “Your name is Bashir Zuabi, you are twenty-four years old, born to Nizar and Rasha in the American state of New York. You were raised in Islam but it was not until you visited your motherland three years ago that you became a true believer. You met Karam Azrak who showed you our order and the meaning of life and Allah. I know much more about you, more than you would care for me to say in front of your friend. I now think for you. I know where we are going. You don’t need to.”

“How do you know about me? How could you?”

“Allah knows everything.”

Chapter Sixteen

Director Hall was
still on the phone informing the Police Commissioner of the terrorist plot. Broadbank wasn’t happy about not being told earlier, but he had little choice but to comply with the instructions of Homeland Security. He was even less impressed when Hall told him explicitly not to identify the threat to anybody — and that included the Mayor.

“So what am I to do, Allan? Mobilize police, go to threat level orange — then not tell anyone what the threat is?”

“Exactly. Use the Advisory System, spread it far and wide, involve the public but do not — and I will repeat that, Denby — do
not
tell anyone the threat is bioterrorism. Not your 2IC, management team, not even the goddamned mayor. If this gets into the public arena, look out if you have any shares on the stock market — all hell will break loose, even if nothing eventuates. The nation’s competitors will jump on this. Shit, from what the experts are telling me, if this does get into our livestock, expect the US to lose billions of dollars. And Denby… I’m in direct contact with the President, so you better be more watertight than a duck’s ass. Hold on…”

Nicco was trying to get his attention.

“Sir, ‘the dashboard’ tracked the vehicle as it went north but we lost them when it went into the Bronx.”

“No cameras there?”

“Not a dickybird.”

“Denby, did you pick that up?”

“Not quite, I could hear you saying something about a dashboard?”

“Their last known location was entering the Bronx. The vehicle is a faded red sedan, registration number…” Hall clicked his fingers and Nicco handed him the written notes. “New York plates number P70 2AB, it’s a 1990 Nissan Maxima reported stolen two days ago.” Hall then read out the names and descriptions of the suspects and a partial description of the driver.

Commissioner Broadbank didn’t need telling twice. “I’ll go to orange straight away, we’ll say it’s another terrorist bomb threat. I’ll have personnel on the ground, with air support, scouring the last known area for the car and an APB over the entire state. Media will be advised. ”

“Appreciate that, Denby. I’ll keep you in touch.”

Hall replaced the telephone handset then issued a further set of orders. “I want to be connected to the police commissioners of every state bordering New York, we need to widen the umbrella. Where the hell is Director Lopez? This is turning into a right clusterfuck.”

Evangeline answered. “I saw her a minute ago, going into the ladies’ WC.”

“The what?”

“The WC.” It then occurred to Evangeline that she wasn’t in the UK. “Sorry, I mean the ladies’ restroom.”

“Forgive me, Doc, I should be apologizing to you for my language — and thanks for answering my question.” Hall turned and walked away, barking another instruction to all and sundry: “Let’s go now. Where the hang is Lilburn? And will someone get Director Lopez out of the fucking john. Jesus fucking wept.

*

“Let’s go. Get this motherfucker on the road.”

“Oh man, this just shit.”

“Waddup, blood?”

The five Bloods couldn’t believe their luck as they spotted the Nissan Maxima, keys in the ignition and doors unlocked. It was just screaming out to be taken, the opportunity too great to miss. Bundled into the car four pairs of eyes were scouring the surrounding area for any sign they may have been seen, while the driver was looking for the auto-shift lever.

“How the fuck ya drive this thing, man? It don’t say park, neutral, there’s no drive. Just this stick thing poking up.”

The boys all looked down at the manual gear shift. None of them had ever driven a manual car before. The driver yanked on the lever trying to pull and push it this way and that, to no avail. One of the boys in the back had a bright idea.

“Just start the engine and put your foot down.”

The driver did just that and as the engine turned over and caught the car violently lurched forward then stalled. Once again the driver tried the same and again the car lurched forward.

“Yo man, I seen on the movies — this car had one of these things and you got to push something in with your foot to make it go. Like you need to use both legs or somethin’ like that.”

The driver looked down between his legs and saw there were three pedals, where he had expected there to be only two. Pushing the first clutch he had ever seen to the floor he again started the engine and accelerated. The car’s engine screamed as the revs increased. “We ain’t going nowhere.” He relaxed the pressure on the clutch, tired of holding it down. The engine was still revving, extremely high. Suddenly the gears engaged and the car just didn’t lurch forward — it careered forward, wheels spinning on the seal, G-forces pushing the occupants back in their seats. The driver hung on, too startled to know what to do. “Aarrgh!”

“Turn the wheel, turn the wheel… brake!” The Nissan screeched to a bone-rattling stop, sending its occupants flying forward, only to come to an abrupt stop, the youth in the front passenger seat cracking his head on the windscreen. Cries of angry profanity rang out followed by a relentless abuse at both the driver and the vehicle’s maker.

“One more go, one more,’ said the driver. The road was clear ahead as he tried to recall how he made the vehicle move. Pushing the left side pedal to the floor, and putting his other foot on the middle pedal, he turned the key — only this time this time he didn’t apply as many revs. The engine started again. “OK, OK, baby.” Very carefully the driver let the pressure go on the clutch, the gear engaged… and the car moved off. “Yeeha, you motherfucker.” Moving forward normally the driver increased the speed.

“Turn left here.”

The driver applied pressure to the brakes and the car slowed until it only just rolled forward. Turning the wheel to take the corner, a big smile broke out on the driver’s face, “Who da man, who da…” The vehicle jerked then jerked forward again as the motor slowed… too slow for the gearing. The driver did the only thing he could think of: he floored the accelerator and the car exploded forward giving him such a fright he slammed on the brake followed once again by the accelerator. The car bunny-hopped out of control until finally the engine died.

“Piece of shit… you fucking piece of shit!”

“Leave it,” the front passenger said, frustrated that their easy pickings had turned into a disaster. “Let’s go find a real car.”

By now five angry and frustrated boys pushed the car doors open, hurling contempt at the Nissan. They were so busy ranting, raving and kicking in the panels to notice the blue uniformed men and the weapons trained on them.

“NYPD. Place your hands in the air and don’t move.”