Bobby Adair - Ebola K

Everyone in the conference room was staring at Olivia. Olivia was staring at the map. It looked just like the map she’d seen days earlier on Dr. Wheeler’s computer.

Eric asked, “Olivia?”

Olivia’s heart was racing as she thought of Austin. Could he really be in that tiny Ugandan town with a terrorist? Austin’s was probably the only white American face in that town—a town too small for it to go unnoticed. And if he was there in the presence of an Arab, who was executing an operation to terrorize someone or to blow up something, Austin was in the gravest of dangers.

“Olivia?” Eric asked again.

She slowly turned, blinking unexpected tears back into her eyes. She opened her mouth but her voice cracked and gave her away. “My…my brother is there in…in Kapchorwa.”

A few jaws dropped. That took them all by as much surprise as it had taken Olivia.

Eric recovered the quickest. “Your brother is in Kapchorwa, Uganda? Right now?”

Olivia nodded.

Eric’s confusion showed on his face. He hated coincidences, and everyone knew it. But they also knew they came across them all the time. With enough data and enough time, any two random people or events could be tied together, kind of like that Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon game. “What’s he doing in Kapchorwa?”

Olivia looked back at the map and she rubbed her eyes, shaking her head because she didn’t believe it herself. “He’s there with some kind of college program. He’s a senior. He’s volunteering. He’s teaching kids.” Olivia felt herself falling apart as she thought about her little brother. She always thought of him as little. She’d seen him mostly as a kid, and not as much as a teenager, since she was already off in college or pursuing a career. She’d had a particularly hard time thinking of him as a college student. She shook her head again and turned to hide the tears that were starting to make their way down her cheeks.

Eric turned to Barry and gave him a nod. Barry was now in charge of the project.

Eric stood up and put a hand on Olivia’s shoulder. “Come with me. Let’s go grab one of the other conference rooms. Let’s call—”

“Austin,” Olivia said. “His name’s Austin.”

“Come on.”

Olivia stood, fishing for her cell phone in her purse as she did. She couldn’t get used to not having it with her.

Eric put a hand on her back and guided her toward the door. “It’s okay. I’m sure he’s fine. Let’s call him from another room.

Eric guided Olivia into one of the small conference rooms. They sat down and Olivia dialed Austin’s number. It took an uncomfortably long time for the phone to work its way through the connections. It rang a few times and cut over to voicemail. She looked at the phone and shakily dialed again. Eric patiently watched. She put the phone back to her ear, waited, let it ring, and got voicemail again.

Shaking her head, she placed the phone back in its cradle and looked at Eric. “Voicemail.”

“That’s okay. It’s okay.” He put a hand across hers. “Listen to me. I know you’re fearing the worst. But the worst almost never happens. You hear me?”

She nodded, knowing Eric’s argument was lacking but she had nothing to say about it. “What do I do?”

“Just be calm, Olivia, okay?”

Olivia took a few deep breaths. “It’s my brother.”

“We don’t know anything yet, right?”

Olivia nodded. “I know.”

“Okay. I understand why you’re worried. I’d be worried too if my brother wasn’t such a dipshit.”

Olivia laughed through her stress and nodded again. “I love him.”

“I know. He’s your brother. You have a right to be worried. When was the last time you talked to him?”

Olivia looked down, and a tear rolled over her cheek. “Before he left for Uganda.” She started to cry.

Eric leaned over and hugged her.

After a few long minutes, Olivia sniffled up the last of her tears and sat up straight.

“It’s okay to cry,” Eric told her.

She nodded and gave him half a smile.

“Have you talked to him through email or Facebook? Anything like that?”

“Yes,” Olivia nodded. “Of course. Maybe a week ago, he sent me some pictures.”

“Has anyone talked to him in the last few days?”

“Maybe my dad,” Olivia answered.

“Your dad? Can we call him?”

Olivia picked up the phone and dialed her father’s number.

On the third ring, Paul Cooper answered, “Hello?”

“Dad, this is Olivia.”

“Is something wrong?”

Olivia started to cry again.

“What’s wrong?” Paul asked.

Eric gestured for Olivia to give him the phone. Calmly, he said, “Mr. Cooper, this is Eric Murchison. I’m Olivia’s supervisor.”

“What’s wrong?” Paul asked. “Is Olivia okay?”

“It’s okay, Mr. Cooper. Olivia is fine. Everything is all right here.”

“It’s not all right,” Paul said, getting impatient. “She’s crying.”

“Yes, listen.” Eric spoke slowly and calmly, “You know where Olivia works, so you’ll understand there’s a limit to what I can and can’t say. But I’ll tell you as much as I can, okay?”

“Alright.”

“Olivia is worried about your son, Austin.”

“Austin? Why, what happened?” Paul was clearly concerned.

“Nothing that we know of, Mr. Cooper.” Eric paused. “As far as we know, there isn’t anything at all wrong.” He paused again, thinking about what he was going to say next. “Olivia says that your son is in eastern Uganda this summer, teaching kids, is that right?”

“Yes,” Paul answered. “That’s right. He’s in Kapchorwa.”

“We’re investigating some events in eastern Uganda, and the name of that city came up. Olivia grew very concerned. That’s why we called you.” Eric nodded at Olivia and smiled reassuringly. “When was the last time you talked to your son?”

“Several days ago. Does this have to do with that Ebola epidemic?”

Eric hesitated before continuing. “We tried to call him, and we can’t get through.”

“No,” Paul replied, “there’s no service in Kapchorwa.”

“How do you get hold of him when you need to?” Eric asked.

A long pause followed. “I don’t know,” Paul admitted. “Heidi, my wife, has been trying to get through to him. She’s been worried. Tell me, Mr. Murchison, was she right to worry?”

On the outside of the Tyvek suit, in a pocket Najid had constructed from tape and a piece of plastic, his satellite phone started vibrating. Few people had that number. One of them was his father, who was too far gone to use a phone without assistance. One was Dr. Kassis. Rashid was another. The last was Firas Hakimi. Najid knew what the call was about.

“Speak,” Najid said, raising the phone to his facemask.

“You know who this is, I trust.” It was the voice of Hakimi.

“I do,” answered, Najid.

Hakimi said, “Then you know that I am calling because your friend in Lahore chose to tell me about your bribes before he left this life.”

“That is unfortunate. Killing him was not necessary.” Najid was disdainful over Hakimi’s perpetual inability to face any situation pragmatically. Passion and extremism were the only things that Hakimi understood.

“It will also be unfortunate for you, Najid. Did you expect that you could just buy a hundred and eleven fighters with Western passports and that it would go unnoticed?”

“I did not.”

Hakimi didn’t like that answer and let his silence grow ominous before saying, “You have been a generous supporter and a friend. Explain to me what you have done, before I decide your fate.”

Najid resisted the urge to tell the upstart leader of the movement that he was nothing more than a charismatic puppet, and instead replied, “The questions you ask cannot be answered on a telephone. I will send an emissary to meet your man at the usual place. He will have words for only your ears. Please listen to him before you decide what to do with me. Afterward, I assure you, I will be at your disposal.”