Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set Read online

  With the light failing, they returned to base. By six in the evening, they were back in their hotel, by the side of the river. The pilots stayed at the airport a little longer, attempting to refuel the helicopter. They knew there would be some haggling to obtain a decent price, and even then they would be cheated on the quality and the quantity.

  ***

  Liftoff was on time at seven-thirty the next morning. Bob’s concerns about the weather were incorrect. It was a fine, clear sky, even if the temperature was close to zero. Fully loaded with flour and no smell from the chickens, the flight was uneventful up to Dasht, where they honoured the agreement of the day before and deposited fifty twelve-pound bags of flour.

  ‘Will every family get a bag of flour?’ Jill asked naively. After two years in the country, she still saw the best in everyone.

  ‘What do you think?’ Bob sardonically answered a question with a question.

  ‘Someone will take control, and there’ll be bartering and arguing, and some will get none.’ She knew the answer.

  The valley continued to rise and, at over three thousand eight hundred metres, the helicopter was reaching close to its absolute ceiling of four thousand five hundred metres. The straining of the two Russian-built jet engines could be clearly heard.

  ‘We can’t go much higher,’ Squadron Leader Fahim Shahid said.

  ‘That’s understood,’ Bob replied. Apart from the labouring of the engines and the rattling of the helicopter, the buffeting from the mountain winds to their north was starting to become severe.

  Jill was rigid in her seat, the Afghani nurses and guards, petrified. For two of them, it was their first time in a helicopter, and one had already vomited on the floor of the cabin. The weather was turning very nasty, very quickly and the helicopter was being pelted with driving snow.

  ‘Set us down,’ Bob said. ‘There is a small community down below, in the corner of the valley. I don’t think we’ve been there before. If the weather becomes much worse, we can always sit it out for a day or so.’

  ‘Agreed, we’ll land,’ the squadron leader said. It was evident to his trained eye that to turn back and head down the valley was no longer an option.

  Fahim Shahid, the senior of the two pilots and well-experienced in such situations, took control once they landed on the heavily snow-covered ground on the outskirts of the village. ‘The weather’s not looking good,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to stay in the helicopter for now. I can run one of the engines. It will at least give us some heat and lighting.’

  He had taken part in mountain survival exercises during his time with the Pakistan military and was applying his skills to the current situation. None would argue with him. The weather on the ground was worse than it had been in the air, the blizzard blowing the snow almost sideways.

  ‘At least we have plenty of food. I should be able to rustle up a cup of tea. We’ll check out the village in the morning.’ Bob attempted to make light of the situation.

  ***

  The village looked idyllic the next morning with a fresh and heavy coating of snow. The helicopter, far from being comfortable, had at least been a respite from the savagery of the cold outside. The storm now abated, the sky, bright and blue. It was ideal weather for flying.

  ‘The village looks empty.’ Jill was more cheerful than the night before in the cold and austere helicopter.

  ‘There are still some goats wandering around. There must be people,’ Bob replied, although he had to admit that something seemed strange.

  ‘If this were Pakistan, the helicopter would be surrounded by now,’ Fahim Shahid said.

  ‘It’s always the same here,’ Bob said. ‘You saw the response our landing generated yesterday. Something’s not right.’

  ‘Let’s check it out.’ Jill was eager to explore new places, new surroundings.

  ***

  Despite his misgivings, Bob could see no reason not to investigate, possibly administer some health care to the people in the village. ‘Jill, you take the two houses to the right of the area. I’ll take the two on the left. Knock first, just in case they are sleeping in due to the cold.’

  Suitably wrapped up, the two doctors trudged through the snow. Each had taken a nurse and a guard. Reactions in isolated communities were not always guaranteed to be warm, and this was certainly isolated. It was Fahim who had noticed there appeared to be no road or cart track into the valley where they had landed. To him, it looked as if the villagers walked in and out.

  Bob, the first to enter one of the buildings, had called out but received no response. The guard entered straight after him and took the room to the left. He quickly exited.

  ‘They’re dead!’ he screamed in alarm.

  Bob checked. Once he saw the people, he knew what it was. Quickly, he dashed out and ran the fifty metres to where Jill had just entered a small mud-brick house.

  ‘Don’t go in! Get out now!’ he screamed as loud as he could, but her ears were muffled by a large scarf and the hood of a fur-lined jacket that she had bought in the bazaar in Kabul.

  She saw the bodies lying on the rough beds. They looked frozen, mummified as if asleep. As she lifted the blanket for a closer inspection, she grazed against a pus-filled sore with the finger that the day before, she had accidentally cut with a surgical knife.

  ‘Don’t you know what it is?’ Bob pulled her back violently.

  ‘We learnt about it in medical school.’

  ‘It is smallpox. I saw it in Somalia, one of the last outbreaks in the world before it was eradicated.’

  ‘I grazed my finger against one of the sores.’

  ‘Let me look.’ She showed him the open wound. His face went white with alarm.

  ‘We need to get you back to Kabul, just in case.’

  ‘Is it that serious? It had a relatively low fatality rate, thirty percent. With proper medical care, I should be alright.’

  ‘I know that, but haven’t you considered? Where are the other seventy percent? From what I can see, there is no one alive in the village.’

  Ten minutes the helicopter lifted off for the flight back to Kabul. The mission to help the people in the Hindu Kush was at an end. Before they left, Bob took a sample of the sore that Jill had touched for analysis.

  The helicopter made a brief stop in Fayzabad to allow Bob to phone Elena Dubarova in Kabul.

  ‘It’s smallpox.’

  ‘Smallpox, you can’t be serious?’ she responded.

  ‘I’m serious, and, from what I can see, one hundred percent fatality. Jill accidently dislodged a sore on one of the villagers. She had a cut on her finger. She could be infected. I’m bringing her back to Kabul now. Expect us within two to three hours.’

  ‘What do you suggest? Where do we take her?’

  ‘She needs isolation. It may be a mutated strain. She shouldn’t be contagious yet, but we need to take every protection. Do any of the hospitals have a functioning isolation ward?’

  ‘I’ll check and ensure all is set up for your arrival. Najib will be at the airport. He’ll arrange transportation.’

  Two hours later, flying conditions had been good, they were back in Kabul. Jill assured them she was fine, nothing to worry about.

  ‘You know the regulations,’ Bob reminded her. ‘You must be placed in strict isolation for at least two weeks until we can be sure that you are not infected.’

  ‘We’ve arranged an isolation ward out at the American military hospital on the Jalalabad road,’ Najib said. ‘They’re expecting us.’

  With Jill admitted to the hospital and the isolation centre checked for suitability, Bob travelled the short distance to Elena’s office.

  ‘Are you certain it is smallpox?’ she asked.

  ‘I must be one of the few doctors practising who has seen it before. It’s smallpox until someone convinces me to the contrary.’

  ‘I’ve notified Geneva,’ she said.

  ‘What was their reaction?’

  ‘Panic stations. They want a samp
le from one of the dead bodies. I assume you took one?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘We need to get it to Geneva at the earliest. I’ve booked you on a NATO flight for tomorrow morning. Head office has asked for you to be there. Is that okay?’

  ‘What about Jill?’ he asked.

  ‘We have other doctors. You can advise from there.’

  Chapter 2

  The elegant foyer of the International Committee of the Red Cross on Avenue de la Paix in Geneva, Switzerland, was as far removed from the isolated, snow encased village in the Hindu Kush as could be imagined.

  It was there that Bob met a colleague from the past. ‘It’s good to see you, ça va?’ Pierre Beaumont said.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. It’s been many years.’ Bob Smith had never found languages easy, and now was not the time or the place to try out his schoolboy French.

  ‘I am told we have a serious issue in Afghanistan?’ Pierre quickly turned to Bob’s reason for being in Switzerland. They had worked together during a nasty famine some years previous in Ethiopia. Pierre had risen up the corporate ladder. Bob had preferred to stay in the field.

  ‘I believe it is. A colleague may be infected.’

  ‘What do you need from me?’ the Frenchman asked. As fluent in English as he was in French, he had just the slightest of accents. The corporate life suited him, and the excellent restaurants in the city ensured that his weight had continued to escalate. For a doctor working for an organisation dedicated to health and the well-being of people throughout the world, he looked distinctly unhealthy.

  ‘We need an analysis of some material that I swabbed from one of the dead villagers.’

  ‘It’s already been set up at the Department of Microbiology and Molecular Medicine at the University of Geneva on rue du Général-Dufour.’

  Two days later and they were out at the University ‘It’s either mutated dramatically, or it’s been engineered,’ Lauren Clemenzo, the Senior Virologist, informed them.

  ‘What do you mean by “engineered”?’ Bob asked.

  ‘We believe it may have been genetically modified. There are strings on the DNA that look as if they’ve been spliced on.’

  ‘Would that explain the high fatality rate?’

  ‘It’s possible, but it’s beyond our capability to analyse further.’

  ‘So, what do you recommend? I have a colleague who may be infected. I need to know what can be done.’

  ‘There’s only one place, two actually,’ Clemenzo replied, ‘but one’s in Russia. We’ve already contacted the CDC in Atlanta, Georgia ‒ standard protocol. They’re sending a plane to pick it up. They asked for you as well. We sent them a photo off the electron microscope.’

  Four days since the discovery at the village, four days since Jill Hampshire had accidently, foolishly, touched the dead villager, and Bob Smith found himself in the United States of America. A Gulfstream G500 passenger jet, American government, had made the flight direct to Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International out on Terminal Parkway.

  Upon landing, the plane had been met by three SUVs and some serious-looking men, dressed in sombre suits. The virus sample, now entrusted to their care, was placed in a high-security containment device.

  Jill was still healthy in Kabul, only complaining about being stuck in a room on her own. Apart from that, there had been no sign of infection. Bob knew she needed another week before he could relax.

  ***

  ‘Doctor Smith, what do you know about smallpox?’ asked a stern-faced individual in a small office at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention out on Clifton Road, six miles from the centre of the state capital of Georgia.

  Bob Smith took an instant dislike to him. It was clear he was carrying a gun in his inside left jacket pocket.

  ‘What do you mean? I’m not a criminal here. I identified the disease in the village and brought it to you here.’

  ‘Apologies. I’m used to dealing with criminals, persons acting against the state. Maybe I got off on the wrong foot with you,’ the unpleasant interrogator said in a more conciliatory tone. ‘I’m Agent Ed Small, CIA. We’re a special department dealing with bioweapons. What you’ve found is making everyone very nervous.’

  ‘Apology accepted.’ Bob calmed down. ‘What’s a bioweapon?’

  ‘It’s a genetically engineered disease. It’s the next progression for terrorists to use. Makes 9/11 seem like a Sunday outing. The potential fatalities could be in the millions, hence the VIP treatment in flying you here.’

  ‘Are you saying that what we saw was a terrorist attack? A remote village in Afghanistan hardly seems a suitable target.’

  ‘It seems unlikely to us as well. What we need to know is why and by whom, and what their plans are.’ The CIA agent’s manner had changed. He was now relatively affable. ‘Tell me anything remarkable or unusual about the village.’

  ‘Nothing, other than its isolation. We missed it on previous trips to the region.’

  ‘We’ve been trying to get a team in there in the last few days, but the weather’s worsened. We took the GPS coordinates off the Pakistan pilots that you used.

  ‘It looks unlikely we’ll have any success for the next few months. You and the virus sample are our only leads at the present moment. By the way, this is highly classified. I’ll ask you to sign the necessary paperwork later.’

  ‘Has it been positively identified?’ Bob asked.

  ‘The scientists here believe it is. The images sent from Geneva are fairly conclusive.’

  Bob was quiet for a few moments, contemplating what had been said so far. ‘Who could be responsible for its manufacture? Surely it’s a complicated process?’

  ‘It’s simpler than you would expect, so I’ve been told. The hardest part is getting hold of the smallpox virus in the first place. Only two locations in the world have any stock – here at CDC and in Russia.’

  ‘Do they think it came from Russia then?’

  ‘Regretfully, it came from here. They recognised the DNA coding.’

  ‘That’s serious?’

  ‘Serious, it sure is. I’m not sure there’s much more for you here. If you want to return to your friend in Kabul, I’ll organise a flight for you.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll leave as soon as I can.’ Bob was concerned for Jill. She had complained of a slight headache when he had spoken to her earlier in the day. He hoped it was just the filtered air and confinement in a plastic bubble.

  ***

  He had only been two days back in Kabul when Bob Smith’s concerns for Jill intensified. Ed Small put him in contact with the Senior Director for Viral Diseases at CDC, Paul Montgomery.

  ‘Jill Hampshire’s worsened in the last few days since my return. I’m certain it’s smallpox.’

  ‘The disease will run its course. There’s no treatment. The best you can do is to make her comfortable.’ A small, thin man, with a protruding nose, his spectacles balancing on the end as he peered over the top, Paul Montgomery was not everyone’s idea of an attractive man.

  He saw himself as a moralist. He regretted his part in the events unfolding. It was evident to him that he had been an instigator, naïve and idealistic maybe, but the results were plain to see: the innocent villagers in remotest Afghanistan, the young American doctor.

  Saddened, he was now answerable to a doctor halfway around the world as to Jill Hampshire’s prognosis. There was the added complication in that he had to also explain to his superiors why he had not followed normal procedures, ignored the safeguards that prohibited the release of any virus, deadly or otherwise.

  ‘Explain what you mean by no treatment?’ Bob had heard it mentioned before, but he had been unwilling to accept then as now.

  ‘It’s what I said. The genetic modification, it’s highly classified. I should not be telling you this… It attacks the body’s immune system. That’s why there is a one hundred percent fatality rate. I can offer you no hope.’

  ‘Are you saying she is going to die
, purely because someone in America was playing around with weapons of mass destruction?’ Bob Smith replied in a raised voice.

  ‘That is precisely what I am saying.’

  ‘And we went to war with Iraq on a similar premise.’

  ‘I understand your anger,’ Montgomery tried to remain diplomatic, ‘but government policy sometimes allows actions and decisions to be made that appear contrary to the sense of decency that we all hold true.’ He was trying to convince himself as much as Bob Smith.

  ‘That is just verbiage, and you know it!’

  ‘We were only following orders.’

  ‘Who would issue an order of that magnitude?’ Bob Smith was on his feet and shouting down the phone.

  ‘It would have to be an executive order.’

  ‘You mean the President of the United States? What is the rationale for producing viruses that could kill us all? Do you realise the implication if someone released this into a major population?’

  ‘That is precisely the reason they were developed.’

  ‘Explain what you just said?’

  ‘The genetic modification is easy to do. Any smart scientist with a sample of, let’s say, the smallpox virus could, for a few hundred dollars, affect a gene splice. If that scientist was an Islamic fundamentalist bent on the downfall of America, what do you think would happen? They would release it with little hesitation.’

  ‘But someone already has.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I cannot contradict that statement. We – I mean, CDC – created the most virulent virus we could in the hope of developing a vaccine. It was seen as the best protection against any act of bioterrorism.’

  ‘And where is the vaccine? Let me have some for Jill.’

  ‘There is no vaccine. We could never find a suitable method of control.’

  It took a moment to comprehend. ‘So, we have a virus that could potentially kill millions, in the hands of a terrorist organisation who would have no issues in releasing it into the general populace, anywhere in the world?’