Burning Angels (34 page)

A vervet snarled. The woman didn’t heed the warning. It struck with its canines, ripping through her gloves and raking a bloodied track across the upper surface of her hand. The woman screamed, monkey saliva mixed with the thick red blood dripping from her wound.

At a cry from the troop’s self-proclaimed leader, the vervets grabbed what bread they could and set off into the busy night – running, climbing and hunting for more food.

A few hundred yards along the river, an after-school club was coming to an end. Moscow kids were learning Sambo, a Soviet-era martial art originally perfected by the KGB but now increasingly popular with the mainstream.

The monkeys were drawn to the noise and the warmth. After a moment’s hesitation, the leader took the troop through an open window. A blow heater propelled currents of hot air into the hall, where the youths were busy with their final bouts of the evening.

One of the monkeys sneezed. Tiny droplets were propelled into the atmosphere, and were wafted with the heat into the hall. Sweaty, panting fighters breathed hard, gasping for air.

Across a city of some eleven million unsuspecting souls, the evil was spreading.

70

Peter Miles stood up to speak. Bearing in mind the intense pressure they were all under, he appeared remarkably calm. Right now, Jaeger wasn’t feeling that way at all. The challenge was to drive from his mind that terrible image of his wife and child –
DADDY – HELP US
– so that he could focus on what was coming.

At least this time he
had
gleaned something potentially useful from the image; something that might help him track down his family and their captors.

‘Welcome, everyone,’ Miles began. ‘And especially a returning William Jaeger and Irina Narov. There are several new faces in the room. Rest assured, all are trusted members of our network. I will introduce them as we go, and feel free to fire in any questions.’

He spent a few minutes summarising Jaeger and Narov’s discoveries, both at the Katavi Reserve and in the Nairobi slums, before reaching the crux of the matter.

‘Falk Konig revealed that his father, Hank Kammler, runs a highly secretive primate export business – Katavi Reserve Primates – from an island off the coast of East Africa. The primates are air-freighted around the world for medical research purposes. The level of secrecy surrounding this island operation is unprecedented.

‘So, how likely is it that this monkey export facility doubles as Kammler’s bio-warfare lab? Highly likely, as it happens. During the war, Kurt Blome – the godfather of the
Gottvirus
– set up his germ warfare testing facility off Germany’s Baltic coast, on the island of Riems. Reason being, you can test a pathogen on an island with a reasonable likelihood that it won’t escape. In short, an island is the perfect isolated incubator.’

‘But we still don’t know what Kammler intends to do with the virus,’ a voice cut in. It was Hiro Kamishi, as ever the voice of measured reason.

‘We don’t,’ Miles confirmed. ‘But with the
Gottvirus
in Kammler’s hands, we have the architect of a conspiracy to bring back Hitler’s Reich possessing the world’s most fearful weapon. That alone is an utterly terrifying scenario, regardless of what exact use he intends to make of it.’

‘Do we have any better idea what the
Gottvirus
is?’ a voice cut in. It was Joe James. ‘Where it came from? How to stop it?’

Miles shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not. From all our research, there is no record anywhere of it ever having existed. Officially, the two SS officers who discovered it – Lieutenants Herman Wirth and Otto Rahn – are both recorded as deceased due to “death by misadventure”. According to official records, the pair went hiking in the German Alps, got lost and froze to death in the snow. Yet by Blome’s own account, those two men were the discoverers of the
Gottvirus
, and finding it killed them. In short, the Nazis had the
Gottvirus
purged from all official records.’

‘So, the million-dollar question,’ Jaeger ventured. ‘Where is Kammler’s island? I understand we may have a fix on it?’

‘You don’t need a great deal of land for this kind of work,’ Miles replied, by way of an answer. ‘Working on the basis of a landmass the size of Riems, there are approximately a thousand possible candidates off the coast of East Africa – which did make finding it something of a challenge. That is, until . . .’

He cast around his audience until his gaze came to rest upon one distinctive individual. ‘At this stage I’ll hand over to Jules Holland. He is his own best introduction.’

A dishevelled figure shuffled forwards. Overweight, scruffily dressed and with his greying hair tied back in a straggly ponytail, he looked somewhat out of place in the former nuclear command bunker of the Soviet Union.

He turned to face the audience and smiled his snaggle-toothed smile. ‘Jules Holland, but to all who know me well, the Ratcatcher. The Rat for short. Computer hacker, working for the good guys. Mostly. Quite an effective one too, if I might say so. And usually rather expensive.

‘It’s via Will Jaeger’s good offices that I’m here.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘And I must say, I’m very glad to be of service.’

The Rat glanced at Peter Miles. ‘This gentleman gave me the gen. Not a lot to go on: find me an island of anything more than postage-stamp size where this Nazi lunatic may have sited his germ warfare laboratory.’ He paused. ‘I’ve had easier briefs. Took a bit of lateral thinking. Whether or not it’s a germ warfare lab, the one thing we
do
know is that it’s a monkey export facility. And that is what cracked it. The monkeys were the key.’

Holland brushed back his lank hair, wisps of which were falling free. ‘The monkeys are captured in and around the Katavi Reserve, and flown from there to the island. Now, every flight leaves a trace. Numerous flights leave numerous traces. So I . . . erm . . . paid an unauthorised visit to the Tanzanian Air Traffic Control computer. It proved most accommodating.

‘I found three dozen KRP flights of interest over the past few years, all to the same location.’ He paused. ‘Around one hundred miles off the coast of Tanzania lies Mafia Island. Yes, “Mafia” as in the Sicilian bad guys. Mafia Island is a popular high-end tourist resort. It is part of an island chain; an archipelago. On the far southern end of that chain lies tiny, isolated Little Mafia Island.

‘Until two decades or so, Little Mafia was uninhabited. The only visitors were the local fishermen, who stopped there to repair their wooden boats. It is heavily forested – jungle, obviously – but it has no natural water source, so no one could afford to stay for long.

‘Twenty years ago, it was purchased by a private foreign buyer. Pretty shortly, even the fishermen stopped visiting. Those who had occupied the island weren’t exactly friendly. More to the point, a population of monkeys moved in alongside the humans, and they proved less than welcoming. Many were horribly, terribly diseased. Glazed eyes. Walking-dead killer zombie look. Plus lots and lots of bleeding.’

Holland eyed his audience darkly. ‘The locals coined a new name for the place, one that I fear is aptly suited. They call it Plague Island.’

71

‘Little Mafia – Plague Island – is Kammler’s primate export facility,’ Holland explained. ‘The air traffic control records alone prove that. What else it may be, and what we do about it . . . well, I guess that’s up to you, the action men – and women – in the room, to decide.’

His eyes sought out Jaeger. ‘And before you ask, my friend: yes I did leave my usual signature: “Hacked by the Rat”. No matter how much more mature one is supposed to get with the passing years, I just can’t seem to resist.’

Jaeger smiled. The same old Ratcatcher. A maverick genius whose life had been defined by anarchic rule-breaking.

Holland made his way back to his seat, Peter Miles taking his place. ‘Jules makes it sound easy. It was far from that. Thanks to you, we have a fix on the location. Now, consider the nightmare scenario. Somehow Kammler ships his virus off this island and releases it worldwide. He and his cronies are inoculated. They sit out the coming global meltdown somewhere safe. Somewhere underground, no doubt: in fact, probably in a facility similar to this one.

‘Meanwhile, the
Gottvirus
gets to work. The nearest equivalent pathogen that we know of is Ebola. The lethal dose of Ebola Zaire is five hundred infectious virus particles. That number could hatch out of one single human cell. In other words, one infected person whose blood has been transformed into a viral soup can infect
billions
of fellow humans.

‘A tiny amount of Ebola, if airborne, could nuke an entire place. Airborne Ebola would be like plutonium. In fact, it would be far more dangerous, because unlike plutonium, it is
alive
. It replicates. It breeds, multiplying exponentially.

‘That’s the nightmare scenario with Ebola, a virus that we have been able to study for close on three decades. This – it’s a total unknown. A hot-zone killer of unimaginable ferocity. It has a total fatality rate. Human beings have zero immunity.’

Miles paused. He could no longer keep the worry from his eyes. ‘If the
Gottvirus
gets into the human population, it will wreak utter devastation. The world as we know it will cease to exist. If Kammler manages to unleash it, he can sit it out as the virus works its dark evil, and then emerge – inoculated – to a brave new world. So please forgive the melodrama, ladies and gents, but for the sake of humankind, Kammler and his virus have to be stopped.’

He gestured toward a grey-haired, grizzled-looking man seated amongst his listeners. ‘Right – I’m going to hand over now to Daniel Brooks, the director of the CIA. And by way of introduction, I’d just like to mention that our top cover has just got a whole lot more serious.’

‘Gentlemen. Ladies,’ Brooks began gruffly. ‘I’ll keep this short. You’ve done great work. Amazing work. But it still isn’t enough to nail Hank Kammler, the deputy director of my agency. For that we need absolute proof, and at the moment that island facility could just conceivably be a bona fide disease control centre for a monkey export business.

Brooks glowered. ‘Much as I hate it, I have to tread carefully. Kammler has powerful friends, right up to the level of the American President. I cannot go after him without absolute proof. Get me that proof and you will have every support – every goddam asset – the US military and intelligence community can bring to bear. And in the meantime, there are a few dark assets we can push your way, unofficially I might add.’

Brooks took his seat, and Miles thanked him. ‘One final thing. When Jaeger and Narov left the Katavi Reserve, they did so in a Katavi Lodge Toyota 4x4. Their Land Rover was driven out at the same time by two of the lodge staff. Several hours after its departure, it was taken out by a Reaper drone. Hank Kammler ordered the kill mission, no doubt believing Jaeger and Narov were at the wheel. In short, he knows we’re after him. The hunt is on – you for him, and him for us.

‘Let me remind you: if you use any personal communications devices, he will find you. He has the services of the CIA’s most technologically accomplished people at his disposal. If you use insecure email, you’re as good as done for. If you return to your home addresses, he will track you there. It’s kill or be killed. Use only the comms systems as provided: secure encrypted means. Always.’

Miles eyed each of them in turn. ‘Make no mistake, if you speak on open means; if you email on open networks – you’re dead.’

72

Five thousand miles across the Atlantic Ocean, the architect of the evil was putting the finishing touches to a momentous message. Kammler’s Werewolves – the true sons of the Reich; those who had remained steadfast for over seven decades – were poised to reap their rewards.

Stupendous rewards.

The time was almost upon them.

Hank Kammler ran his eye over the closing paragraphs, polishing them one final time.

Gather your families. Make your way to your places of sanctuary. It has begun. It is unleashed. In six weeks it will start to bite. You have that time, before those who are not with us will start to reap the whirlwind. We who are chosen – we precious few – stand on the brink of a new age. A new dawn.

It will be a new millennium in which the sons of the Reich – the Aryans – grasp our rightful inheritance once and for all.

From here we will rebuild, in the name of the Führer.

We will have destroyed to create anew.

The glory of the Reich will be ours.

Wir sind die Zukunft.

HK

Kammler read it, and it was good.

His finger punched the ‘send’ button.

He leant back in his leather chair, his eyes drifting to a framed photo on his desk. The middle-aged man in the pinstriped suit bore a striking resemblance to Kammler: they had the same thin, hawkish nose; the same ice-blue eyes brimful of arrogance; the same gaze betraying an easy assumption that power and privilege were theirs as a birthright, and due them long into old age.

It wasn’t hard to imagine them as father and son.

‘At last,’ the seated figure whispered, almost as if speaking to the photo. ‘
Wir sind die Zukunft
.’

His gaze dwelt upon the framed image a moment longer, but his eyes were looking inwards; menacing pools of thick darkness that sucked in all that was good. All life – all innocence – was drawn into them, suffocating mercilessly.

London
, Kammler reflected. London – the seat of the British government; the site of the late Winston Churchill’s War Rooms, from where he had orchestrated resistance to Hitler’s glorious Reich when all defiance had seemed futile.

The cursed British had held on for just long enough to draw the Americans into the war. Without them, of course, the Third Reich would have triumphed and ruled as the Führer had intended – for a thousand years.