Jeff Buick - Lethal Dose

“Well, let’s hope they get these guys before they poison anyone else,” Gordon said.

They lay on the bed for the next hour, talking, trying to bring some normalcy to their predicament. That they had been drawn together in difficult circumstances was a given. That they both cared for each other had only been confirmed by their passionate lovemaking the previous evening. And that they knew they were in dire circumstances was evident by the course their conversation took.

“We’re positive Andrews is guilty of doctoring the books, covering up deficiencies in Triaxcion, and killing at least two people,” Jennifer said. “But where can we take this without concrete proof? If we stick our heads above the horizon, we’ll get them shot off. What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” Gordon said. “This is all new to me. I’m just a logger. What do I know about evil corporations killing their staff?”

“Turn up the volume,” she said, cutting him off in midsentence and grabbing for the remote control. Gordon hit the button and the sound from the television reappeared. The picture was a double-ender with a split screen, a man in the studio on the left and a woman in front of a house on the right. The woman was talking into the microphone, with considerable police activity behind her. Pictures of a man, a woman, and a boy in his late teens were posted on the bottom of the screen.

“…one of Denver’s most heinous murders. An entire family is dead, but probably the most disturbing aspect is that Ben Ziegler, son of Evan and Louise Ziegler, was confined to a wheelchair and unable to defend himself. Police are at a total loss as to the motive. Evan Ziegler was the owner of a local photocopier supply company, and his wife remained at home to care for their quadriplegic son. Neighbors and coworkers have all described the family as wonderful people, involved in the community and regulars at the local Lutheran church.”

The anchor broke in from the studio. “Amanda, I understand the level of violence involved in this crime is horrific.”

“Yes, Adam, it is. The police will not let anyone inside the house, but I was shown the crime-scene photos and I’m not even going to attempt to describe them. I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in a bad movie.”

“Thank you. That was Amanda Davis reporting from Denver. In other news-”

Jennifer motioned to Gordon to kill the sound. He did, and she got off the bed and walked over to the window. She stared down at the parking lot for a minute, then turned back to Gordon. The color had drained from her face and upper body, and she looked strangely white against her dark hair. She took a few deep breaths.

“The man on that newscast. The father. He was the one who left me dangling over the cliff in my car.”

The ultimatum to the American government arrived in a small package enclosed in a plain brown wrapper. It was addressed to J. D. Rothery, Under Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, L’Enfant Plaza, Washington, D.C. Standard security measures ensured that the package was X-rayed, opened, and the first ten seconds of the enclosed DVD viewed to make sure it was a functioning disk. When the security personnel saw the contents of the disk, the wrapper was immediately placed in a sterile plastic bag and the DVD tested for traces of biological agents. The moment it had a clear bill of health, it was rushed to Rothery’s office.

The DHS chief had been contacted and was aware that the disk would be forwarded when it had cleared security; he had advised his colleagues at the FBI, CIA, and NSA that the disk would be in his DVD player the second it arrived. All three men were present. Also watching as the disk was slipped into the machine were Dr. Edward Henning and Annette Jordan. Rothery dimmed the lights and sat back to watch.

The scene on the television was a small concrete room painted gray. There were no distinguishing marks anywhere on the wall. Centered in the screen was a solitary figure wrapped in a floating robe typical of desert dwellers, with a mask concealing his facial features. His hands were enclosed in gloves and no portion of his skin was visible. When he spoke, it was in fluent English with a trace of an Arabic accent.

“I’m not going to bother spouting rhetoric about how the American government and the American people have interfered in global situations that were not their concern. That is a proven fact. That you have caused the death of many Arabs under the guise of branding all of us terrorists is also a fact. That you befriend the Israeli peoples while their armed forces launch missile raids against civilians in Gaza is merely another fact in a list that is much too long. You have repeatedly stuck your noses where they do not belong. You have caused us to raise our arms against you. You have been the harbinger of your own fate.”

The masked figure shifted slightly, a small piece of paper visible in his left hand.“We are the Islamic Front for Justice, an organization that would prefer peaceful means to our ends, but we are also realists. The United States does not recognize such actions, only ones in which your people are threatened. So we must do what is necessary to gain your attention. We have in our possession a large quantity of a hemorrhagic virus that we are ready to release among your population. To date, we have infected four sites in four different ways, just to show you that we are capable of spreading this virus amongst your population if we wish. To prove it was us who inflicted these casualties, we wrote something inside the case of soda that infected the Boy Scouts in Boston.” He consulted the piece of paper in his hand.

“ ‘A small mouse can cause great damage if let loose in the elephant’s tent.’ ”

He closed his hand on the paper and continued. “This recording will be delivered to you on Friday, September sixteenth. You have one week to comply with our demands. At midnight on Friday, September twenty-third, we will begin an all-out assault on the American people. The extent of the damage will be far beyond what you can imagine. Our method of delivering the virus into your population is unstoppable. Once it is released, countless millions will die.

“The death of innocent American citizens is not our primary goal. We have demands which, if met, will cause us to cease this course of actions. Our demands are not unreasonable. First, you will deliver one billion five hundred million U.S. dollars to a location that I will advise you of later. Second, you will release a political prisoner. Just one. His name is Alisama alZawami. You are holding him in a secret location in Montreal, Canada. The world thinks al-Zawami is dead, but we know differently. You have kept him captive, without trial, for over two years. It is time for you to release him.

“These demands are not negotiable. If you choose not to deal with us in a civilized manner, we will have no alternative but to inflict incredible casualties on your population. We will be in contact with you again soon, Mr. Rothery.”

The screen went black. J. D. Rothery walked across the room and switched on the lights. “How the hell does this guy know about al-Zawami?” he asked the room in general.

No one spoke for a few seconds. Tony Warner asked, “Who is this al-Zawami person?”

Rothery returned to his seat. He glanced at Jim Allenby and Craig Simms, but neither man spoke. “We captured Alisama alZawami about twenty-six months ago when we raided an al-Qaeda camp in Afghanistan. It was simply a stroke of incredibly good luck. It was a joint operation with the FBI and the CIA, so Jim and Craig are in the loop on this one. This guy is one of the silent al-Qaeda leaders-not well known, but very intelligent and focused. He isn’t as militant as many other al-Qaeda leaders and has even suggested mediation to some problems rather than violence. We consider him to be a highly influential moderate in the al-Qaeda organization.”