James Barrington - Pandemic

What little clothing he had brought with him was crushed into a leather carry-on bag sitting in the locker above his head, and beneath the seat in front of him was stashed his Toshiba Satellite laptop. As soon as the seat-belt sign was switched off, he was going to haul out the computer and call up everything in the database about Ebola and other members of the filovirus family and start preparing a series of protocols for whatever he might find on Crete when he finally got there.

Outskirts of Matera, Puglia, Italy

The villa looked quiet and peaceful as Perini and his men approached it. To satisfy legal requirements, the DCPP had in their possession a warrant to search the property, and Perini had received permission to gain access by whatever means he, the man on the spot, felt necessary. Knowing Lomas’s reputation, the Italian had decided that the best means of entry was to kick down the front door and go in with, metaphorically speaking, all guns blazing.

About twenty yards from the boundary of the property Richter stopped and watched. Perini had briefed the DCPP officers to effect their planned assault in two groups, which made obvious sense as the villa would undoubtedly have both a front and a back door. The groups were clearly all linked by radio, because Richter could hear nothing apart from the furtive movement of the men across the ground. Perini stood off to one side of the drive curving up to the front door, a broad sweep of old gravel flecked with grass and weeds. He was watching as his men deployed.

Five black-clad figures soon grouped by the front entrance and Richter watched one of them reach out, turn the handle and press his hand firmly against the door. When it didn’t open, a second DCPP man began pushing at its right-hand edge, starting at the top and working downwards. Richter could see the ram leaning against the wall near by, and knew that they were trying to locate the locks or bolts so that they could target the ram against them.

On a silent command, three of the five stood back, Spectre sub-machine-guns at the ready, while the other two picked up the ram. Richter saw Perini’s lips move as he issued an order – and suddenly it started.

With a shout that echoed around the quiet valley, the two DCPP men smashed the heavy steel ram into the villa’s entrance door just above the lock, and Richter could clearly hear a splintering of wood. When the door didn’t budge, they propelled the ram forward again, slightly below the lock this time. Abruptly it gave and the door crashed open. The men immediately dropped the ram, swung their Spectres to the ready, and burst inside.

Standard special forces assault tactics call for the use of noise and violence so as to shock, intimidate and hopefully persuade suspects to disarm. These DCPP types certainly knew how to make a noise. Richter heard two stun grenades detonate, then shouts and bellows from the interior of the building as the men systematically cleared one room after another. And suddenly two single shots sounded, followed by a three-round burst of sub-machine-gun fire, then finally silence.

Perini approached the door of the villa, and Richter followed a few feet behind. When the Italian heard him, he turned round and gestured. ‘They’ve found three people inside,’ he said. ‘One is the man we believe to be Lomas himself, one we presume is the man Lomas sent to meet the consular official in Salerno, and the other was probably just a bodyguard.’

‘The shots?’ Richter asked.

‘The one that we think was a bodyguard fired his pistol. He missed, and now he’s dead. The other two men weren’t armed. They’re bringing them out now.’

Just as Perini finished speaking, two DCPP officers approached, half-carrying, half-dragging a dazed-looking man. Richter stepped forward and pulled his head up by the hair. ‘That’s not Lomas,’ he said.

Perini nodded. ‘He matches the description our watcher gave for the go-between.’ He then issued instructions for the prisoner to be taken away and processed.

Another three men emerged, two black-clad DCPP officers flanking a slightly built middle-aged man. Richter stepped forward, but this time he had no need to lift the suspect’s head: the man was walking normally upright, except with his hands tied behind his back, and secured at the wrist with plastic cable ties. Richter took one look and turned to Perini.

‘That’s Lomas,’ he said. ‘No question.’

Arlington, Virginia

David Elias looked down at the piece of paper in his hand and then up again at the building in front of him, checking the address carefully. It was five past ten, so he was ten minutes early for the meeting the Director had instructed him to attend.

He walked up the steps of the house and pressed the bell push set in a polished brass plate beside the door. Immediately, lights flared on above his head and he was suddenly conscious of the empty stare of two security cameras mounted behind protective grilles set on either side of the entrance.

A minute later a hidden speaker crackled. ‘Yes? Please press the button again and state your name.’

Elias pressed it and spoke towards the brass plate. ‘My name’s David Elias. I think I’m expected.’

The speaker clicked off, then the door opened and a squat, heavy-set man peered out at him, shoulder holster clearly visible beneath the open jacket of his dark blue suit.

‘Your ID, please, Mr Elias?’

Elias dug in his jacket pocket, pulled out his CIA card and handed it over. The man scrutinized it carefully, handed it back and then opened the door wide. ‘OK. Come in.’ The hallway was spacious and high-ceilinged, an elegant entrance to an obviously expensive property. ‘Follow me.’

Elias walked down the hall, following the man in the dark suit. The man stopped beside a mahogany door at the far end, knocked twice, and opened it without waiting for a response. He gestured inside. Elias entered and heard the door close behind him.

Probably originally a formal drawing room, it was large and square, with comfortable sofas and easy chairs. In the far corner a youthful dark-haired man sat behind a small oak desk in a leather wing chair, looking slightly ill at ease. Elias had never seen him before, and neither did he recognize the two other men sitting in front of him. He walked across the room and paused beside a third chair as the man behind the desk stood up.

‘Welcome, Mr Elias,’ he said, and gestured to the other two men, who both now stood. ‘To your immediate right is Roger Krywald, and on his right is Richard Stein. This is David Elias.’

Elias shook hands with both men, then sat down and waited expectantly.

‘My name is McCready,’ the dark-haired man continued, accurately anticipating Elias’s unspoken question, ‘and I’m your briefing officer for this operation.’ He scanned the faces of the three men sitting in front of him, then opened a red folder on the desk. ‘As at least two of you know,’ he said, ‘we normally conduct operational briefings at Langley, in one of the secure briefing-rooms there. But the circumstances in which we now find ourselves are not normal, which is why we’re meeting here in this safe house.’

Elias tentatively raised a hand. ‘Sir,’ he began, ‘I’m not really sure I should be here. I’m an analyst. I’m not part of the operational staff.’

Out of the corner of his eye Elias saw a sneer cross Krywald’s face. The antipathy between the operational staff – the coal-face warriors of the Agency – and the analysts, who sat at desks or in front of computer screens evaluating the take from technical intelligence mechanisms, was well known.

Each denigrated the work of the other, and each was to a certain extent justified. Technical intelligence was vital – you simply had to know what weaponry the opposition possessed, but without the humint – human intelligence – gleaned from operatives under cover and on the ground, you would have no idea at whom those weapons were likely to be aimed.