BioKill (3 page)

“Alessio Bavetta! This is a new
conoscente professional
, I’ll have you know.”

“I canna but try. Welcome, welcome.” Alessio showed his guests to the table, and with gentlemanly aplomb helped Evangeline into her chair. “It is a pleasure to meet one of Dottoressa Evangelina’s professional acquaintances.”

“Matt Lilburn. Thank you.”

“Ah, an Americano. Please, let Alessio offer you a special coffee, roasted this morning.”

Evangeline cocked an ear. “What special delight do you have for us today? I hope you’re not slipping and purchasing Robusta…”

“Evangelina! That word is forbidden here,” he waved a finger in jest to his favorite patron. “I have acquired…” He leaned in to Evangeline and whispered, “I have acquired beans from none other than Napoleon’s own trees, the ones he planted at St Helena, the world’s most isolated island. They are magnifico.”

“You didn’t?”

Alessio looked pleased with himself, “Si, bella — and for you and your friend, I will brew them myself.” Without waiting for a reply, he left them to it, as he hurried away to do what he did best: make the finest coffee from arguably some of the world’s most expensive beans.

“I can’t believe it!” Evangeline was beaming, “Napoleonic coffee! Now you must have heard of him!”

“Like Napoleon as in Bonaparte?”

“The one and only. You are about to taste the ambrosial delight of
real
coffee.”

Lilburn had been briefed that as well as being one of the leading authorities in her field, her work at Plum Island considered among her peers to be exceptionally well researched and enlightening, Dr. Crawston was also known to be a coffee connoisseur. Not that he was here to smell the coffee. Plum Island, eight hundred and forty acres of near flat land one and a half miles off Long Island was the reason. One hundred miles from New York City. Named after the abundance of Black Plum shrubs that cover it, and home to the Animal Disease Center of New York, run by Homeland Security.

“So, Mr. Lilburn, I am still utterly intrigued as to why you need to talk to me.”

“What I am about to tell you is highly confidential.” Looking around to see no one else was in earshot, he continued. “The United States has a situation… a critical situation and I’ve been instructed to ask for your assistance.”

Evangeline sat back in her chair. The man sitting before her now had her professional attention. “Before we go any further, I must ask to see identification.”

“Of course — I wouldn’t have expected anything else.” Lilburn removed his wallet from his rear pocket. Taking out an identification card, he placed it on the table.

“Thank you.” Evangeline looked at the dark-blue card. Along with a rather unflattering photo of the man before her was the emblem of an American eagle with outstretched wings. The wings were breaking through a red ring into an outer white ring containing the words
US Department of Homeland Security.
One talon held an olive branch with thirteen leaves and thirteen seeds, the other talon held thirteen arrows.

Laying the card back on the table, Evangeline carefully slid it back to Lilburn. “Thank you. Now, how may I assist?”

“We believe an attack on American soil is about to take place — the intelligence is reliable, and our leaders are concerned, to the highest level. While we’re short on specifics the best we can assume is that the attack will be deployed as a disease, and is imminent.”

Scenarios played out in Evangeline’s mind — none of them good. The use of a disease, a biological attack, it could happen anywhere with devastating consequences. “Do we know what disease will be used?”

“We believe it will be foot-and-mouth.”

Foot-and-mouth disease, a highly infectious and sometimes fatal virus affecting cloven-hoofed animals. She might have known.

Clearly he was reading her face. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m not. You sat in on my lecture — it was only a matter of time. Not if but when — remember? We all have a problem; a serious problem.”

With obvious pride, Alessio Bavetta chose that moment to reverently lay two ornately decorated cups of coffee before his guests. Taking a step back he stood with a broad grin, hands linked together in front of him, silent.

Not wishing to upset the moment for her friend, Evangeline briefly allowed herself to transform back to the English rose he expected. “Alessio, the aromatics are divine.” The aroma wafted up from the porcelain cups and she inhaled with a connoisseur’s nose. “The very elixir of life!” Evangeline savored the hot liquid in her mouth, then swallowed. “Mmm… The flavors are so complex. The body tastes full… the aftertaste lingering. Thank you, Alessio, you have made a simple girl happy.”

“Grazie, cara, grazie.” Satisfied, Bavetta bowed and left them to their conversation.

Lilburn took a few mouthfuls of his coffee. He nodded in appreciation. “Not bad, for England.”

“Back to business.” Evangeline brought the conversation back to reality. “Are you aware of the implications for your country if foot-and-mouth is discovered in your livestock?”

Placing his cup of coffee down on the table Lilburn grimaced. “Millions of dollars in lost trade, headache for ranchers, a real pain in the butt.”

“Try billions, perhaps somewhere from fifty to sixty billion.”

“Jesus Christ!” The intelligence gathered about the attack was literally only days old, the assignment to collect Evangeline less than that. The full implications of what they were dealing with had yet to filter down to officers in the field. “Are you ready for a little plane trip?”

“When do we leave?”

Glancing at his watch, Lilburn looked back up to Evangeline. “The plane leaves in just over two hours. All you need is your passport. We’ll take care of the rest. Even buy you some new clothes.”

Evangeline smiled. “Let’s do it.”

Chapter Three

Rafah, in Palestine,
is the southernmost city within the Gaza Strip along the border with Egypt, that contentious strip of land sandwiched between the Mediterranean Sea, Egypt and Israel. One hundred and forty-one square miles of military and political upheaval.

The hot, dry and sandy khamsin winds whipped through Adham Murtaja’s thin jacket as he corralled one third of his cattle into the iron-railed yard. The twelve animals quietly settled in, used to human contact. The veterinarian was due in thirty minutes… to confirm what Murtaja already knew. Some of the cattle were noticeably drooling from their mouths and hobbling on sore hooves, others also had further signs of lesions around their mouths and on their tongues. Murtaja knew of other farmers whose cattle carried the same sickness; for him it was a double-edged sword. Looking at his sole form of income, he stood resolute in what he was now about to do.
The cause was great, the infidels must suffer
.

Reaching into his jacket pocket he took out a small plastic cylinder container and unscrewed the lid. The somber beast nearest him stood motionless as he approached and stroked her large bony head. Her lips and the top of her front feet bore scabs from the infectious disease. With bare hands, Murtaja picked the scabs and placed the clotted vile material that oozed out into the container, along with some of the cow’s saliva. He slowly screwed the lid back on, his thoughts on the thousands of miles the material would cross and the damage that it would do. Murtaja brought the container up to his face and lightly touched it with his lips, at the same time closing his eyes and silently reciting a prayer. The container was then safely placed back into his jacket.

*

Major Anas Abadi looked over the city of Damascus from his observation point on top of the terrace, now pock-holed with shrapnel. The building used to be a hotel — it seemed a very long time ago. His fight was against the army he had served in for the last eighteen years. Since defecting, two months ago, along with a score of fellow soldiers, he had joined the Free Syrian Army (FSA) fighting in the revolution for a democratic system. It didn’t please him to see his beloved Damascus, one of the oldest cities in the world, being pummeled with mortars, rocket fire and machine-guns. It didn’t please him that the man standing next to him, fighting alongside the FSA, was a member of one of the world’s most extremist radical Islamic groups, the Takfir wal-Hijra. Glancing at the younger man he thought of the African proverb: ‘When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you.’ He knew hurt. Along with the other commanders, he had joined in the disquiet shared only between themselves, about the presence of these Islamists and others like them, taking over their revolution; they feared it would get out of their control, their path to democracy.

The current object of his disquiet, Karam Azrak, had little time for authority, little time for the major, little time for Muslims who didn’t believe with the same fervor he did and no time for Westerners, especially Americans. He suddenly lurched forward and leapt up onto the solid balustrade. Though six stories above the rubble-littered street below, Azrak nimbly retained his balance. Bringing his AK-47 up to a firing position at his hip, he screamed out at the top of his voice “
Allahu akbar!
”, God is great, before letting off a stream of automatic fire into the distance. Pleased with himself and his act of theatrical bravado in front of the other man, he jumped back down to the rooftop and stared at Major Abadi with arrogant disdain. Unable to tolerate the fool any more, Abadi abruptly turned and left.

A mobile phone rang. Watching the major disappearing down the rooftop stairs, Azrak reached into the breast pocket of his dirty camouflage shirt and grabbed the phone. He recognized the number on the screen. The call pleased him. He hung up without a word. Alone on the rooftop he thrust his weapon into the air in one hand and yelled out “
Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!
” The parcel he had been waiting for had arrived at Al-Zabadani, northwest of Damascus. With good speed he could be there in just over an hour;
inshallah
— Allah willing.

As Azrak made his way around fallen white marble statues that used to adorn the foyer of the once palatial hotel, he tapped a comrade on the shoulder and uttered the words, “It’s here, time to leave.” The comrade, in jeans, black T-shirt and sneakers, gathered up his own AK-47 and the set of keys to the van outside. He would drive like sand over the dunes in a storm.

Despite his intentions, the trip to Al-Zabadani, which would normally have taken about three quarters of an hour, took three times as long, with fighting between pro – and anti-government factions. For Azrak, the parcel was worth dodging bullets, the risk of mortar bombs and the possibility of death. He thanked Allah again, this time for keeping the postal service running during the chaos. Surely the war couldn’t last much longer — each day the battles intensified. Time was of the essence, both for the continuation of the postal service and the viability of what was within the precious parcel.

The comrade, also a member of Takfir wal-Hijra, drove the battered white van with the dexterity of a dodgem car racer. In the passenger seat, Azrak gripped the frame of the open window with one hand while holding his weapon with the other, his eyes continually scanning for trouble. There were few other vehicles on the streets in this area of Damascus; those he saw were either damaged beyond repair or their drivers were driving at equally breakneck speeds. There were basically only two kinds of roads — ones that were passable and ones that were not. The latter were either under so much fire it was suicide to go on them or made impassable by the rubble from shelled buildings. Azrak and his driver knew which streets were still open.

Looking up through the dust to the tops of buildings left standing, Azrak could see smoke plumes covering the city. The driver took a fast and sharp left turn, throwing him hard up against the door. As a group of unarmed men dashed across the road to cover in front of them, the driver revved the van’s engine, changing from second to third gear. A crumpled body lay in the middle of the road between two burnt out cars; one car, lying on its roof, skewed around so its still-flaming engine was nearly touching the corpse. Azrak’s driver had no choice. The van veered between the cars, its path straight towards the dead man. The van lurched upwards as it traveled over the body; a speed bump in the road of death. Another sharp turn to the left, this time the road was blocked by more armed men and mortars. The van screeched to a halt, weapons were aimed at them. A loud exchange of words, then acknowledgment they were on the same side. The six Saudi Arabian-supplied 120 mm mortars weren’t going anywhere, so the van had to reverse. Azrak watched the mortar men as his van reversed. Bombs were released into the tubes by pulling cords attached to clips on the bombs, allowing the deadly load to slide backwards to the firing pin at the base. Two mortars
whoomphed
as they propelled their ammunition, the trajectory only just missing the tops of the buildings in front of them; the mortars themselves bucked with the force of spewing out the bombs, only staying upright due to heavy sandbagging of the base plates and bipods. Azrak silently willed success to the bombs, invoking Allah to rain terror on his enemies.

The street-to-street fighting was less intense the further they traveled; the area was under FSA control. The van gained speed through the streets and entered one of the main roads leading towards Al-Zabadani. The arterial route was a wide six-lane road, divided down the middle with iron fencing, street lights and shell-shredded palm trees. There was more traffic here, cars, trucks and motorcycles bustled along. Azrak heard a loud
thump
, then another. The government forces were employing their own mortar attack. Suddenly a mortar round exploded twenty yards away. Azrak’s driver instinctively swerved the van to avoid the hot shrapnel which radiated out from the impact. Another explosion. This time it was closer. The driver had no time to react. Metal fragments tore into the side of his head and body, the van altered course and veered across the road before coming to an abrupt halt after colliding with a truck going in the same direction. Azrak took a blow to the head as he hit the roof strut. The engine stalled as the van, still in gear, had nowhere to go. With half the driver’s head scattered over the cab and himself, it took only seconds to react. Azrak pushed his door open, thankful he was unhurt and ran to the driver’s side. After two desperate attempts the driver’s door opened and his limp body fell to the ground.
All praise and glory be to Allah.
Removing the body away from the van’s wheels, Azrak seated himself, his buttocks sliding on the blood-drenched seat. There was no time to waste.

Driving at speed, Azrak made it to his destination without further incident. The death of his fellow fighter, an arm’s length away, was a small price to pay and now nothing more than a memory. Already it was stored away, with similar memories.

Azrak entered his brother’s house, where he exchanged a quick greeting. “It is here?”

“Yes, praise Allah, it has arrived.”

The full-bearded Mubarak Azrak wore the traditional jalabiya, a long white collarless gown. He reached for the small brown package on the table and handed it to his younger brother, who took it gently.

“We must hurry — it must be on its way tonight. For now it lives but should it die, we die with it.
Allahu akbar
.”

“
Allahu akbar.
”

Azrak took a knife from a bloodied pocket and slit the package open revealing a plastic cylinder. Holding it up to better light, he looked inside at the grungy scabby contents and smiled.

“First we must fold the keffiyeh inside the paper.” Azrak took the red and white checkered head scarf and wrapped it in brown paper.

“Do you have the tape?”

“Yes.” Mubarak took a strip of brown packing tape and cut off a two-foot length. Taking care not to stick the strip to himself, he laid it on the table sticky side up. Karam then unscrewed the plastic container and upended the mucus-covered scabs onto the wooden table. Taking his knife he carefully cut up the scabs, one by one, until they were the finest particles he could make. Once he had completed the cutting he used the flat blade of his knife to take up minute pieces of scab and with the utmost care, placed them along the sticky side of the tape — spacing them out along its full length. He carefully scraped up any mucus still on the table and in the plastic container, and placed it on the tape as well. Not a scrap was wasted.

“Now for our gift — place it on top of the tape.”

Mubarak lifted up the wrapped keffiyeh and carried out the instructions. The older brother took over and finished wrapping the parcel with the now disease-ridden tape. Another layer of brown paper was used to cover the parcel and this was taped up, this time with clean tape. Azrak wrote the name and address of the person would receive this precious cargo; Bashir Zuabi of Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, New York, USA.

“Hopefully, with Allah’s help, the infidels will not discover our hidden surprise. The cattle’s gift to us has been spread so thinly I think it will not be noticed. Come, Mubarak, before we post our gift let us rejoice! Bring out the
nargileh
, my brother.”

Mubarak left the room, returning with the water pipe.