Reprisal (36 page)

“What is wrong?” His voice dropped to a lower register than Zehra’d ever heard before.

“Uh … nothing. I’ve got a lot of work … Hey, it’s raining.”

“Something is wrong.” He pushed her toward the bushes. “We will find out.”

“Let me go … please,” she pleaded.

His hair fell forward on either side of his face. Even in the dim light, she could see his eyes bulge and his nostrils flare. His arms started to shake in anger. “What did you do?” he demanded.

“Do? Nothing, I didn’t do anything.” Zehra twisted her body to the left and slipped from his grip. For a moment, they both were surprised. Then, she started to run down the sidewalk.

“Stop!” he bellowed and chased her. A few people stopped to look.

She screamed at them, “Help me.”

She picked up speed until her foot caught on one of the broken concrete slabs. She fell hard onto her side. With her face on the ground, she smelled pungent earth. Her arm hurt, and it was hard to breathe. Her face lay in wet grass.

Mustafa towered above her. He reached down and yanked her up. When she went limp, he dragged her toward his car. Zehra kicked at him with her left foot but missed. She tried to jam her foot into the greasy ground. She slipped. Mustafa pulled harder.

“No … please …” she begged.

“You cannot be allowed to reveal anything. I have worked too long,” he screamed.

“Why?” she screamed at him. “Why?”

“For the glory of Allah. Why else, you fool.” He tugged on her wet legs.

“Killing an innocent boy is for the glory of Allah?”

“You would not understand. You are an infidel.”

Suddenly, Zehra’s fear coalesced into hatred and anger. She twisted her body around until he lost his grip. She put her foot underneath her to shove off for a run. She pushed. In the wet grass, her foot slipped, and she slammed into the ground.

Mustafa fell on top of her. His weight suffocated her. His arm went around her neck. She felt her head jerked up until it hurt and realized her throat was exposed. No … no, her brain screamed. She saw the glint of a knife off to the side of her head. Rain fell effortlessly and without concern on her face.

Zehra flailed with her arms to hit him but only struck slippery shoulders.

He mumbled something that sounded like a few words of prayer. He shifted to the left side, and he pulled her head in the same direction. He stiffened along the length of his body.

Zehra tried to scream but his arm around her throat made it impossible. An image of her parents flashed through her mind. She started to cry. She saw a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors in the reflections on the sidewalk. Blue and yellow and green from the refracted headlights of the car, like flowers in a garden.

She tried to fight to the last but realized it was hopeless. Zehra collapsed onto the ground. She braced for the pain. Suddenly, Mustafa’s weight disappeared. His body lifted off her. Zehra gagged and rolled to her side, gasping for air. Her lungs sucked hard at staying alive.

She heard shouting and thumping from behind her. People yelling. Someone shouting at her.

When Zehra rolled over and propped herself on an elbow, she saw Paul wrestling with Mustafa in the grass. They struck at each other, twisting to get an advantage. Slipping in the mud. Mustafa no longer had a knife but he was strong and seemed to be winning.

Paul separated from him, inching back on his butt along the sidewalk. He reached behind himself. Drew out a pistol. As he brought his arm forward, it tangled in his wet sport coat.

Mustafa pounced like a tiger. He kicked the gun from Paul and shoved him over on his side. The gun skittered across the sidewalk. Before Paul could get back up, Mustafa grabbed it and stood.

Zehra screamed at Mustafa to stop.

A loud bang echoed off the wall. Zehra looked at Paul. Saw a bloody mist explode from his thigh. He yelled and jerked to his side. Zehra crawled to him.

He writhed in pain. Zehra turned to beg Mustafa to stop.

Mustafa leaned forward and raised the pistol again, pointing at Zehra. “This must happen,” he mumbled. Long wet hair stuck to his face. His clenched teeth shown brightly in his dark face.

Zehra squirmed to the side. “No … no!” As she lifted her hands in protest, Paul moaned something to her. Pointed at his ankle. She reached along his leg, pulled up the bloody pants cuff, and found a small gun. Paul collapsed onto his back.

Mustafa’s gun barked but he missed.

Zehra held the small pistol in both shaking hands. It was wet, and she fought to keep from losing her grip. She pointed it up at Mustafa’s chest. He started to turn away. Her mind drifted into the fog around her. Zehra closed her eyes and jerked the trigger.

Forty-Four

Zehra shook so badly, the gun fell from her hand and clattered onto the sidewalk. Great sobs tore through her chest. When she looked across the lawn, Mustafa was lying in a still lump, facing away from her. Rain bounced off his upraised hip.

She heard Paul moan and turned to him.

“Tourniquet …” he gasped and pointed at his belt.

Zehra pulled on the buckle while he rolled to his side. When she had it out, Zehra wrapped it around his thigh, just under his crotch, and stretched as tightly as she could, tying the loose end underneath the strap.

Paul fell back and rested for a while.

“What … what happened?” Zehra said.

“Call nine-one-one.”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” Zehra pulled out his phone, sheltered it under her jacket, and called. Curious people edged toward them.

“Your friend is a terrorist, Zehra. I’m sorry to tell you.”

“I guessed that earlier tonight.” Her stomach turned over and she felt sick. “I … I killed …”

“You didn’t have any choice. You probably saved my life.”

“I don’t know what …”

Paul interrupted her. “Why were you here?”

“He invited me to the science fair.”

“What?” Paul shouted. He propped himself up on one elbow. “Here, tonight? Were all these people inside?”

“Yeah, why?”

Paul’s face contorted in pain while he thought. He grabbed the phone from Zehra. Keyed in a number. “Bill,” he grunted, “get everyone over here right now! We got the wrong place. Ammar was here for the release. Get the CDC here.” Paul slumped back and repeated the address.

In five minutes, an ambulance and a police car pulled into the lot. Two emergency techs jumped out. One ran to Paul, the other to Mustafa. The second one came back to the group quickly. “Gone,” he said.

Within a short time, they had cut Paul’s pant leg, dressed the wound, given him several shots, and helped him sit up. They threw a blanket and tarp over him.

“Hit a lot of muscle, but I don’t think it touched any bone,” the tech said.

When Zehra looked back at Paul, the color had returned to his face. “You just sit there and take it easy.” She felt her hair hanging in sodden clumps around her face. Suddenly, Zehra felt cold. She started to shake. Another tech wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.

“Someone’s got to get inside the school,” Paul said. “Check the heating system. If he was releasing the stuff here, there should be an aerosolization device.” He was handed a pair of crutches as he stood, dropped the tarp, wobbled, and righted himself.

The cop stepped up and asked, “What’s going on?”

Paul identified himself as FBI, told the officer more people were on their way, and he couldn’t say anything until later. Pulling Zehra aside, Paul gave her the ten-second version of the smallpox threat and what was being done to contain the spread.

“But there isn’t any smallpox in the world. How could … ?”

“Later. When the CDC gets here, they can give us both the vaccine.” He grunted in pain and glanced around.

Looking up, Zehra saw dozens of cars and vans in the backyard, parked all over the lawn. The rain had tapered to a light drizzle. A burly man charged toward them. Paul’s boss, he told her.

“Paul, you okay?” He tossed a cigarette away.

Zehra saw people in white coats erecting a small tent in the corner of the yard. Two of them came over to Paul. The black woman seemed to be in charge.

“Did you find any evidence?”

Paul grimaced and, tight-lipped, said, “There’s probably something inside.”

The black woman motioned to her partners to go inside. Masked, they left immediately.

Someone had found chairs for both Zehra and Paul inside the small tent. They slumped into them. Paul told Zehra more of the background of the plot and the fears law enforcement had about it.

As she relaxed, Zehra started to cry. She couldn’t stop. The unbelievable horror of it all, the deception, lies, and the smashed hopes, flooded out through her tears.

Conway and two other FBI agents surrounded them. The black woman, Dr. Johnson, was there also.

She spoke to Zehra. “Take it slow, honey. What can you remember here?”

Zehra sniffed and told her about the program.

“How long was the fair?”

“A couple hours.”

Johnson frowned and looked at Conway. “Shit.” She turned back to Zehra. “Was Ammar with you?”

“No, he left shortly after the fair started. Why are you… ?”

“Honey, two hours is more than enough time to zap all of you with, maybe triple the dose necessary for infection and transmission.” She shook her head. “Who’s left in the school?”

Zehra felt sick at the thought of the disease. “Paul says you have a vaccine?”

“We do, but I have to tell you, we’re not one hundred percent sure it’ll work. Depends on the strain of this virus.” Johnson’s eyes grew round and soft. “Now who’s in there? Talk to me, dear. Talk to me.”

“Lots of people left, but they’re still some inside.”

“God damn it! My black ass is too old for this,” the doctor slapped her hands together and sighed. In a moment, she collected herself and said, “Okay … at least we’ve got the sample in the basement. I’ll authorize that to be choppered over to the airbase and flown to Atlanta. The testing takes about an hour.”

“Meantime, we’ve gotta quarantine the neighborhood right now,” Paul said.

“Right. Where are the closest hospitals?” Johnson asked. “If these kids get sick, or their families, they’ll show up there and we’ve got to warn the staff to be prepared.”

Conway spoke, “But how wide do we throw the quarantine net? We don’t know where the hell these kids went.” Conway’s stomach jiggled as he started to move around quickly. He pulled out his cell phone.

Dr. Johnson held up her hand. “Hold your butts, boys.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you see? All of these people are hot. Everyone they’ve been in contact with it will carry the transferred virus. Families, friends, neighbors, gas stations they stop at on the way home, potentially dozens of other victims.” She paused and looked at the group. “Quarantine? Shee-it! It has to be big.”

Kamur’s face clouded over. “She’s right. We’ve already lost the first line of defense. Even with a low multiplier, this will spread like mad. It may already be too big for the limited supply of vaccine we have available.”

Conway stomped the ground. “I hate to say it, but where the hell is Homeland Security? We better call the mayor to help coordinate the containment.”

Dr. Johnson said, “We gotta go public with this soon. We need major help. The message has to be worded carefully to avoid a panic. For instance, if we describe the initial flu-like symptoms to the media, hundreds of noninfected people with colds who are afraid, will flood the hospitals and emergency rooms. They’ll crash the medical staff so they won’t be able to help the truly infected patients.”

Dr. Kamur said, “I’ll try to determine the perimeter of quarantine. Hopefully, we can still catch it.”

“I’ll work on the statement,” Conway said.

Kamur interrupted him, “Sir, you need to call the governor and the FBI director and get all the troops. This is too big now.”

When Carolyn Bechter got word of the shooting at Hiawatha High School, she and her crew raced over there. It took them twenty minutes to fight their way through the growing ring of law enforcement.

Thoughts of Paul swirled in her mind. There was no doubt, he’d saved them from the crowd. When this was all over, maybe she’d call him for a drink …

She was wet from the rain and used a small hair blower to dry herself in the van. She reapplied her make-up as best she could in spite of the jolting van.

When they jerked to a halt at the edge of the school parking lot, she burst out of the side door. “Come on, Ray,” she called behind herself. “We’re the first ones here.”

She saw several small white tents across the lot, pitched near the entrance to the school. Dozens of people scurried from one tent to the other. The rain let up to a slow drizzle.

Carolyn started to work her way around the line of law enforcement people, flashing her press credentials as she went. Within ten feet, both she and Ray were stopped.