Brothers In Arms (30 page)

Youssef bin Hassan studied the maps of Washington, DC. He paid particularly close attention to the schematic that showed the routes and stops of the Washington Metro, the subway and light-rail network that linked downtown Washington, DC with the suburbs of Virginia and Maryland. From his previous briefings, he knew that many of the stations were underground, and the rapid movement of the trains passing through the station would be ideal for dispersing the weaponized smallpox across a large number of people. Placement of a dispersion device on the platform level of a Metro station during rush hours would ensure the maximum amount of exposure to the mass of commuters traveling then. That would cause outbreaks scattered throughout the larger metropolitan area and not just in downtown Washington, DC.

He touched with a grease pencil the Smithsonian stop; the world-famous museum had record numbers of visitors all year round. He planned to treat doorknobs and banister rails there, and then would investigate the interior of the building for likely spots for an additional dispersion device. The Metro would bear the brunt of the attack; he also planned to see about getting on a White House tour to see what he could do there. According to his briefers, the security was stringent on the people attending a White House tour,
but it was possible to take a small atomizer—disguised as a breath spray as one of the devices was—in through security. Once inside, he’d have to be extremely discreet, as video cameras covered the tourists every step of the way. The Federal Bureau of Investigation building was another place to visit; they too had tours and opened their building to the public.

He had plenty of time. The original plan called for a rapid movement across the country from major metropolitan area to major metropolitan area. But the first and most thorough targeting was to be Washington, DC. Then New York City, then the systematic visits of the other cities on his target list. It would take about two weeks for the first cases to show up in Washington, DC, but by then he should be most of the way through the major cities on his target list. The subsequent focus would be on mass travel, for the American society was a mobile one; he could count on that.

Then his mission would be accomplished.

He planned to exfiltrate out of the country from the West Coast, leaving Seattle to the end, where he could take a fast boat to Vancouver, British Columbia in Canada, and from there a plane back to Europe. Then it was on to Syria and the Al-Bashir logistic headquarters for a lengthy debriefing and a great many congratulations. From there they would watch as the epidemic raged across the United States, safe and secure in their country, all of the operators inoculated against the virulent custom-engineered strain, and with sufficient vaccine to defeat any infection that crossed over to their host country.

Youssef wouldn’t allow himself to think about what might happen to Britta if the smallpox made it from the United States to Amsterdam. After all, Amsterdam was a hub for several major US airlines. He mulled on that for a time and then, with the effort of training, put the thought out of his head. He tapped on the plastic-sheathed map of Washington, DC and let the image of success come up in his head. The first signs would be massive numbers of people getting ill with what appeared to be the flu, after a long incubation period. Then the rapid progress of the engineered virus would lead to the blooming, the outbreak of the pox on the skin that would
make it recognizable to the health authorities. There would be widespread panic once the word got out that smallpox was loose in the United States, decades after it had been declared extinct and the vaccination program had ceased.

And then people would die, first by the dozens, then the hundreds, then the thousands.

Smallpox in its natural form killed three out of every ten people infected; the virulence of the engineered variety took that kill ratio up to seven out of ten. It had been fully tested on Kurdish prisoners in a secret underground laboratory on the outskirts of Baghdad and the course of the disease was fully and thoroughly mapped. His briefers had told him that the laboratory had often been visited by high members of the Iraqi government, especially the associates of Hussein Kamel, some of whom had enjoyed a small party with the scientists who had created the engineered virus. They had also perfected a vaccine, custom engineered just like the virus, and that had been cause for celebration as well.

That vaccine coursed through Youssef’s veins. He would not be allowed to martyr himself, because he was the one and only operative sent to accomplish the mission. The planners had discussed and discarded a plan to send suicide vectors in large numbers because it left too plain a trail leading back to the source. They preferred instead to rely on one specially trained and highly motivated volunteer who was immune to the disease, someone who would not be hampered by disease or symptoms while carrying out his mission.

He was the One.

The thought of that filled him with great satisfaction tempered with fear. Much rode on his thin shoulders, and the aloneness of being the One had already set in. It was difficult to work alone on a mission of such magnitude. Despite the lecture and briefings, Youssef still keenly felt his enforced solitude. He justified his dalliance with Britta with operational reasoning; it was a good idea to change the place he slept, and staying with a woman gave him many resources as well as made him harder to spot; couples attracted less attention than a single man on his own.

He thought of that, and doodled aimlessly on the edges of his map. There was a youth hostel right in the heart of Washington, DC, a large one where his comings and goings would not stick out. What if he took Britta with him? He dismissed the thought almost as quickly as he thought of it; she would be quickly exposed to the disease and there would be no doubt about that. No, Britta would stay where she was.

The One traveled alone.

Ahmad bin Faisal lingered over his meal. He’d had a simple country salad with big chunks of cucumber, feta cheese, and tomatoes drenched in olive oil and balsamic vinegar along with a crusty bread, then a platter of roast lamb, rich with the scent of garlic and wine and olive oil. He drank only orange juice with his meal, as the sense of being watched nagged at him, and many of his associates would look askance at a man of his rank enjoying a bottle of Demestika red wine with his meal. When he’d eaten his fill, he pushed away the plate and enjoyed a rich cup of coffee and a slice of baklava pastry. After the bill came, he called to the waiter and said, “Does Christou still work here?”

The waiter laughed. “He doesn’t work here, he owns this place.”

“Is he in?”

“Yes, I’ll get him for you.”

The waiter disappeared into the back of the taverna and after a few moments came back accompanied by a short man, so fat that he looked like a ball with legs. His stringy hair was combed over a huge bald spot.

“Hello, Christou,” bin Faisal said.

“Many greetings to you, my old friend,” Christou said. His
voice was surprisingly deep and melodic; he sounded as though he could sing.

“It’s been a long time since our business has allowed us to visit,” bin Faisal said.

“Why didn’t you let me know you were here?” Christou said. “Give me your bill.”

He took the paper ticket and tucked it in his pocket. “Your money is no good tonight, my friend. Will you join me for some retsina?”

“My religion doesn’t permit me the retsina, friend, but I would gladly drink coffee.”

“Coffee it is.”

The fat man gestured to the waiter for another cup, then poured himself a glass of the fiery retsina liquor and sat down at bin Faisal’s table.

“Is your trip pleasure or business, or a little of both?” he asked bin Faisal.

“I try to take pleasure in my business, old friend. But business is the principal reason. I may have a problem that you could help me with.”

“I don’t know what a simple restaurant owner could do for you,” Christou said coyly.

“Perhaps the friends of a simple restaurant owner could help me,” bin Faisal said.

“There is always that possibility.”

“Perhaps your friends would watch over me for a short time . . . I need to ensure that no one follows me.”

Christou’s face grew hard. “You think you are being watched and you come here?”

“I took precautions,” bin Faisal said, a faint tone of defensiveness in his normally calm and cultured voice. “We are merely two people enjoying a drink together.”

“Yes,” Christou said. He looked around the tiny taverna at the few people there. Nothing looked out of place. He looked at Bin Faisal and let his eyes narrow, the folds of fat in his face making his
eyes look like the twin barrels of a gun. “Let us hope your precautions were sufficient. Mine will be. Such a task, that involves expenses. Some of my friends cannot afford to work for free.”

“I wouldn’t ask them to work for free,” bin Faisal said. “Of course I have considered expenses and whatever your friends would charge I would pay. I realize that such a favor is an expensive undertaking.”

The fat man nodded his head affirmatively. “Yes,” he said. “Things are much more difficult; the authorities never let up their pressure.”

“It seems that they never grow closer. You are fortunate in your choice of friends.”

“It is because all parties involved are very careful. It would be good for you to remember that, my friend.”

“I will. How long will it take to put into place?”

“When can you pay?”

“I can arrange wire transfer, or I can pay you cash now.”

“I trust you, my friend,” the Greek said. “Stay and enjoy your coffee. When you leave here, you’ll be watched. Give us some time, say an hour. You have no need to rush home to your empty hotel room, do you?”

“Thank you, Christou,” bin Faisal said. “I enjoy your company.”

“Excuse me then,” the fat man said. He got up out of his seat and nimbly nudged it beneath the table, then said, “Let me make a phone call and then I’ll return.”

Bin Faisal watched him go, then looked carefully around the tiny taverna. There were only Greeks except for one table where three American women and one American man sat. From their loud and careless conversation he took them to be flight attendants from an American airline. They didn’t have the look he was familiar with, and they paid him no attention, intent instead on their own conversation, so he ruled them out.

Leaving here would be a different story. He still wasn’t sure, but when he left, he’d have the finest streetwalkers the efficient organization of November Seventeenth could provide.

All around the little taverna, the surveillance team and special operating group mounted by Hans the Dutchman stirred. There were streetwalkers and vehicle teams, camera teams and gunfighters, and spare bodies and vehicles standing off away from the taverna, ready to roll at a moment’s notice. They watched as patrons came and went from the taverna, but bin Faisal didn’t come out. They had eyes on the rear exit and the side alley, but except for a cook who stood out there and urinated, no one came out that way, either.

“He’s still in there?” Dale said.

“Yes,” Hans said.

“Are you going to put somebody inside?”

“It’s a very small restaurant,” Hans said. “If I put someone in there, I lose them for the street afterward. Bin Faisal would remember them.”

Charley nodded in agreement. “Hans is doing fine, Dale. Let them run with it . . . it won’t do to spook the game right now.”

“Right,” Dale said. “Let’s just hope there isn’t another way out of there.”