Traitor (4 page)

The prince took the paper in his hands and saw two numbers. One he recognized as a bank account number. A Swiss bank that he himself had an account with. The other number was a sum of money, $250,000,000.00, one quarter of a billion dollars. The prince nodded as though this were small change. “It will be there tomorrow,” he said, without a second thought or question as to how the monies were to be used.

Nick nodded and once again closed his eyes. He had a few hours to kill during the transatlantic crossing. After that, sleep was going to be hard to come by. With the devastation he had left behind in Washington, there would not be a stone left unturned in the hunt for him. He knew the American and Western agencies inside out. He knew how effective they could be and how personally they would take the attack on the President and the White House. They were not to be underestimated but, more importantly, he knew their weaknesses.

The plan was a complex one but at its core it was stunningly simple. He had no illusion that it would be easy, nor that he would definitely succeed. Many obstacles lay before him. Tracking down and uniting the leaders of the world’s Islamic terrorist groups to launch a holy war on the United States was not going to be a walk in the park. The Caliph had laid down the groundwork. His initial conversations with his counterparts across the Arab world had set Nick in motion and only through the Caliph’s death could the plan ever hope to succeed. His sacrifice would unite jihadists like never before. Nick had one chance to strike a blow that would make the western world finally realize its days were numbered.

Uniting the cause was key. Al Qaeda, although a thorn in the US’s side, was not capable on its own of defeating the might of the US forces and capabilities. A jihadist force, combining the Islamist factions and groups to unite as one, with a common goal and leader, was the Caliph’s vision, a vision that he had tasked Nick with delivering.

With sleep pulling at him, Nick began to relax for the first time that day. As his mind and body began to de-stress, regret suddenly surfaced. Despite all the planning and preparation, one problem had emerged. Aisha Franks. Frankie. She had never been part of the plan. Their relationship had exploded from nothing, a mutual attraction that had just blossomed into something far more. He knew his plans would mean it could never be but he’d never verbalized that out loud, caught in the moment, caught in the closeness of a real relationship, a relationship he had never before experienced. They clicked. In another life, they’d have been perfect, destined to be together. Nick thought back to the hug and peck on the lips, as Frankie had run out that morning, the coffee he had prepared for her in one hand and a wicked smile etched across her face. She’d promised him a surprise that night that would trump the day he met the President, as she had closed the car door.

Nick hadn’t had a chance to think about those words until that moment. The moment the car door had closed behind her, he had raced to get ready for the biggest day of his life. What would become of his beautiful Frankie? She’d be labeled a suspect, a potential collaborator. Her career would be over. That was a given. Who would trust her to protect them after her boyfriend had shot the President? He fell asleep, saddened by the loss of his first true love.

It was his only regret.

“Let’s calm down people, we have work to do!” Turner shouted over the din. “While we wait for the results, we’ll assume we’re all clear. Let’s worry about things we can do something about.”

A few knowing nods agreed and the room silenced.

“Okay, I think that’s it for interruptions. Let’s start by introducing ourselves and then getting down to some work and catching this traitorous son of a bitch.”

Frankie’s timing was impeccable, reentering the room just as Turner described her boyfriend. She looked at him impassively, her reddened eyes incapable of any more tears, and sat down at the table.

With nearly twenty people in the room, it took some time for each person to stand up, give their name, title and the organization they represented. Frankie listened carefully as various investigative branches of the US government were rhymed off.

When it came to her turn, Frankie stood up and introduced herself, although it was obvious that everybody in the room had been made aware of who she was. They just weren’t aware that she was also a senior and highly respected member of the Secret Service, responsible— ironically, given her murdering boyfriend— for the safety of the President of the United States.

The door opened as she was speaking and a man entered the room silently, taking a seat against the wall rather than joining the table. Frankie noticed an almost imperceptible nod of recognition to Turner as the man, in his early sixties, took his seat.

A hand shot up as Frankie sat back down. “Given Miss Franks’ relationship wi—”

“Miss Franks is here at the request of the President,” interrupted Turner, silencing the man who had recently introduced himself as Brian Jones from ATF.

However, once again, the tone in Turner’s voice failed to hide his agreement with Jones and his bewilderment at the President’s order. He obviously would have liked nothing better than to get Frankie into an interrogation room and find out every piece of information she had on Geller.

With Frankie avoiding all eye contact, the remaining members of the group stood up and introduced themselves. The FBI was the most heavily represented of all the agencies with three agents on board, whereas the ATF, CIA, DIA and Homeland had each supplied two agents. The Department of Justice had supplied an attorney that would clear any legal obstacles, while Transportation Security Administration, the Coast Guard Investigative Service, Immigration and Customs had all supplied an agent to ensure Nick Geller wouldn’t escape the confines of the United States.

Turner stood up when the last attendee finished his introduction. Frankie, along with a number of other attendees, looked at the man seated against the wall at the back of the room. He sat impassively uninterested in their stares. He had no intention of introducing himself.

“The gentleman some of you are looking at is Mr. Carson,” intervened Turner. “He’s a representative from the Secretary of Defense’s office. He’ll be privy to the investigation but will play no active role in it. He’ll be the Secretary’s liaison on the task force. The Secretary has made it clear to me that the full might of all our forces are at our beck and call.”

“Whatever you need, I’ll make it happen,” said Carson. A quiet assurance in his demeanor filled everyone with the confidence that he meant exactly what he said. “And please, everyone, just call me Harry,” he added with a smile before leaning further back into his seat, signaling clearly that everybody should move on.

“Thank you, Mr. Carson. Sorry, Harry,” continued Turner. Frankie had noted Harry’s disproval when Turner had called him Mr. Carson, a simple lift of the eyebrow and Turner had reacted instantly. Frankie read people. Turner may be in charge but the power in the room was the mysterious Harry Carson.

“Before we begin, here’s a quick update on where we are with the search so far. Within minutes of the shooting, a highest priority alert for the arrest of Nick Geller was issued to every law enforcement agency in the country. Through our colleagues at Transport, Borders and Coast Guard, the United States is effectively on lockdown, certainly for Mr. Geller. We’re currently tracking down leads to residences, family, friends, and so on.”

Frankie didn’t look up but felt eyes burning into her from around the table.

A sneeze from Harry Carson drew attention away from Frankie. He extracted his handkerchief and a long, sustained blow into it had everyone in the room turning to the masked Colonel Barnes for signs that Harry may have just contaminated them all.

Frankie watched Harry, who winked at her as he replaced his handkerchief in his breast pocket.

“It was just a sneeze people,” said Turner agitatedly looking at Barnes himself for confirmation.

“I’d now like to hand you over to my colleague, Special Agent Sarah Reid. She’s currently head of the National Joint Terrorism Task Force. What she’s about to disclose is not, I repeat
not
, to leave this room. Some of you will already be aware of what she is about to disclose but for those of you who are not, unless specifically authorized, it is not to be shared with anyone—and that includes your bosses or even the heads of your agencies. “Do you understand?” asked Turner, reacting to the half-hearted nods and murmurs of agreement that followed.

An affirmative response from everyone followed immediately.

“Special Agent Reid,” said Turner, handing the floor to his colleague.

Reid cleared her throat. “Approximately eighteen months ago, there was a sharp increase in terrorist chatter. Since then, levels have continued to escalate to the extent that we’re now experiencing five fold levels over anything previously experienced. Most of you will have been aware of this fact, as we maintain a high state of readiness across our law enforcement agencies. However, one part you will not be aware of is how coordinated these communications have become. In essence, terrorist organizations are not only talking amongst themselves, they’re talking to each other and we have no idea what they’re saying. Within ten minutes of the shooting this morning, the chatter increased again. Ladies and Gentlemen, we think this morning’s shooting and bombing are merely a precursor to a far bigger attack by a coordinated group of international terrorists.”

“And you don’t consider having stolen and perhaps delivered the most deadly hemorrhagic fever to the President, the White House and God alone knows how many thousands or millions of people might be the far greater attack?” asked Colonel Barnes, struggling to hide her anger.

The suggestion that millions were at risk and the words ‘most deadly’ focused everyone in the room on the disease specialist.

“Perhaps I should have been more forthcoming with this information. However, until we know if we have an outbreak, I didn’t want to panic you any more than you have been,” she said. “As I mentioned, the Ebola virus is deadly in some cases. Ebola Zaire is deadly in approximately 90% of cases. The strain of the Ebola Zaire virus that has been stolen is I’m afraid nearer 95% deadly and is also highly contagious. You were all correct when you were concerned at Mr. Carson’s sneeze. If he had the disease, the particles he deposited into the air through that sneeze would have infected most of the people in this room. Mr. Geller knew exactly what he was stealing when he stole this strain of the vir—”

“Colonel Barnes is correct,” Harry Carson interrupted. “The fight for our survival may already have begun.” His unspoken message to her was loud and clear. She had already said too much. He’d stopped her before she disclosed that the strain was not an entirely natural occurrence. The stolen strain had been the remnants of a long forgotten biological weapons program, enhanced to increase its contagion and deadliness. The biggest problem had been just that, its deadliness. With no known cure, it would kill foe and friend alike.

With panic once again catching hold, Turner stood up. “Settle down, we’ve got a man to find and a nation to protect, people. Let’s worry about what
has
happened, not what
may
happen.”

The red phone at the top of the table rang and the room instantly silenced. Turner lifted it tentatively.

The room held its breath as they watched Turner listen to whatever was being said. Turner shook his head. “I’m not entirely sure what you’re telling me,” he said into the mouthpiece. He looked at Colonel Barnes, beckoned her towards him and handed her the phone as she approached. “The first test results are in,” he said, his tone one of great concern.

Frankie felt a shiver run down her spine. A sudden sweat soaked her shirt and her eyes struggled to focus on Colonel Barnes.

Shivers, sweating, blurry vision.

All symptoms of Ebola.

“Madame President?” said the Secret Service agent holding out the telephone.” “I have President Mitchell for you.”

Acting President Maria Lopez smiled broadly. Her first experience as Commander-in-Chief was not one she wished to prolong. In the past half hour, the barrage of requests and issues that had crossed the desk of her airtight cocoon was eye watering. A national crisis was on the brink of becoming a global pandemic and an international disaster. Overwhelming was not even close to describing the situation she was in.

“Madame President,” said President Mitchell warmly, an emotion he had never felt when conversing with Maria Lopez. She had been, without doubt, his biggest pain in the ass since winning the presidency.

“Mr. President, it’s so good to hear your voice,” she replied, equally warmly. The feeling was mutual. She did not normally enjoy hearing his voice.

It was evident to both of them that, at times of crisis, political differences were set aside. Although they sat on opposite sides of the political spectrum, a truce would be maintained for the security of the nation.

“I just wanted to thank you for stepping up for me,” he said with pain evident in his voice.

‘Of course, Mr. President, whatever I can do.” The pain in his voice worried her. She had assumed he was calling to retake control.

“Can you bring me up to speed?” he asked.