Brendan DuBois - Final Winter

Adrianna said, ‘And what happened to your father, well, we also thought that—’

She was surprised at his response. He said quickly, ‘Please leave my father out of this, all right? This is my job, that’s what it’s going to be. It’s not going to be personal. Understand?’

She nodded and he said, ‘Thing I learned, right out of the Academy, you start to take things personally out on the street, your thinking gets fucked up, you don’t see what’s there, you make the wrong decisions. You’re thinking with your heart or your balls, and not your head. And that’ll get your ass in a sling, soon enough.’

Adrianna allowed herself a small smile. This tough guy was going to work out just fine. She said, ‘Thanks for the anatomy lesson, Brian. Any other questions?’

‘I’m sure I’ll have a shitload, once we get going.’

‘So. You’re aboard?’

He nodded. ‘Oh, yeah. Like I had a choice. But still…’

‘Yes?’

Brian looked around again, like he was afraid that he was being listened to by the constant stream of guests and hotel workers walking through the lobby. ‘It’s just that I couldn’t believe what I was hearing during those orientation sessions. About the level of authority you have. And the oversight…’

Adrianna’s hands were moistening up as she remembered the very first time her responsibilities had been outlined. Jesus Christ, she had said to herself, how can I possibly do this? How can I?

Because you have to, the answer had come back to her. There are no other options.

‘We can talk about it in more detail later, Brian. When we’re not in a hotel lobby. But what we’ll be doing will be perfectly legitimate, perfectly legal. The proper findings have been reviewed and signed by the President and Congressional leaders from both parties. The oversight will be kept at a minimum. There’s going to be a lot of trust put in us and our abilities, and with that trust comes responsibility. Responsibility to protect our people.’

Brian’s look seemed to have hardened again. ‘Especially when it comes to killing terrorists, suspected or otherwise, without benefit of arrest or trial?’

‘We protect our people, Brian. Whatever it takes. Do you have a problem with that?’

There was a pause, and then he sat back in a comfortable chair in a comfortable hotel lobby in the most comfortable nation on earth.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a problem with that.’

And with that, Adrianna kept her emotions in check. He was on board. He would do his job well. And that was the best news she’d had this day.

Adrianna observed the questioning look from Brian and knew he was doing his job, poking and prying, and she was glad that he was still performing well, months after his hiring. She turned to Victor and said, ‘Doctor? If you please? The medical report from that gentleman in Vancouver.’

Victor coughed, wiped at his face, and started tapping on his laptop’s keyboard. The plasma screen flickered into life and a man’s face appeared, apparently a passport photo. He appeared young, with large brown eyes, thin face, long nose and scraggly beard.

‘This is John Muhammad Akim. Originally from Brighton, in Great Britain. Twenty-four years old. Some records of juvenile crime when he was younger. Breaking and entering. Stolen cars. Entered Her Majesty’s Prison at Maidstone more than two years ago. When he was there, converted to Islam. That’s where he and his fellow pilgrims picked up their new middle names.’

Darren said, ‘Unfortunately for all concerned, it looks like he didn’t convert to the peace, love and understanding branch of Islam.’

If it had been an attempt at humor, the attempt failed. Nobody laughed.

‘Late last year,’ Victor continued, stammering a bit, ‘he came to Montreal on a tourist visa. Was supposed to stay six months and depart. Never did. Dropped out of sight.’

Monty said, ‘And Canadian immigration? Domestic intelligence? They just let him slip out?’

Adrianna said, ‘He wasn’t on any watch list. If anything, he was just a minor player. Oh, they did a day or two of surveillance on him in Montreal, just to say that they did something. But you know the pressures our northern neighbors are under. Can’t afford to be seen offending anyone. Victor, go on.’

He coughed, punched a few more keys, and the passport photo was replaced by another. It depicted a slightly older, more fleshed-out John Muhammad Akim. The face was nearly chalk-white, and the man was lying on a slab of metal. A white sheet was pulled up to his neck, and near his throat a rubber-gloved hand was holding a slip of paper that showed Akim’s name and a string of numbers.

Victor said, ‘John Muhammad Akim. Now deceased. And at the Vancouver General Hospital in Vancouver, BC.’

Brian said, ‘How did he get there?’

Now it was Darren’s turn. ‘We don’t know. We have a theory, but we just don’t know.’

‘Well, shit,’ Brian said, ‘how about letting us in on the theory?’

Darren refused to rise to the bait, kept his voice calm and focused, and Adrianna was pleased to see that performance, as well. Despite everything out there, her team was still sharp, was still on the job, and would still do what was necessary. The NSA officer said, ‘Traffic analysis showed a cell operating in Ontario for a number of months. Not much in the way of information. Just low-key chatter, but we were able to determine that one of the cell members had a distinctive Syrian accent. Then, for two weeks, silence. Nothing. Then the cell chatter started up again. In Vancouver, on the western side of Canada, and the same guy was talking, the one with the Syrian accent. During that two-week period Mister Akim was deposited at the Vancouver General Hospital. The theory is that the cell was traveling west when Mister Akim took ill.’

Brian said, ‘Deposited? What does that mean?’

The doctor said, ‘Exactly what he said, detective. Hospital records show that Akim was brought into the emergency room two weeks ago and dropped off by another man. No description or name of the other man, nothing on any local surveillance cameras. Nothing. It was like they picked this hospital on purpose, to be able to slide in and out without being recorded.’

Monty asked, ‘And what was Mister Akim’s problem?’

Victor returned to looking at his laptop screen. ‘He was admitted with a high fever, shortness of breath. Usual and customary treatments were started, along with blood-culture testing and screening of his sputum and other bodily fluids. This testing was continuing right up to the point when Akim coded and died, not less than twelve hours after being admitted.’

Brian said, ‘Damn it, stop dancing, will you?’

The doctor looked up. ‘Excuse me? Dancing?’

‘You know what I mean. Stop pretending like we’re some hospital committee. Get to the point, doc. What killed this character?’

Victor looked in the team leader’s direction. ‘Adrianna?’

She took the ball, took the responsibility. ‘Certainly. Brian, Akim died of acute respiratory failure, brought on by exposure to bacillus anthracis.’

‘Bacillus what?’

Except for Brian, it seemed like the other members of the group, especially the good doctor, knew exactly what Adrianna was talking about.

She cleared her throat. ‘Anthrax, Brian. Anthrax is what killed him. And that’s what’s going to hit us in less than a month’.

The Brixton section of London is as far away from the London of Big Ben and Buckingham Palace as the tenement rows of Anacostia are from the Mall and the Washington Monument in the District of Columbia. Scarred occasionally by race riots and violent clashes between local gangs, it was also a place that Henry Muhammad Dolan proudly called home. In the cluttered basement of the flat he rented from the local council, he sat in front of a Dell computer, laboriously downloading files from an e-mail account, copying them to a diskette. He had no idea what he was copying or why he was copying; all he had been told was that it was important that it was done, and done quickly.