Greg Bear - Quantico

The graphic showed what looked like dispersal patterns laid over a town map-of Silesia, Ohio. She arrowed through the entire graphic. Within a grayed parabolic plume almost six miles long and extending outside the town lay hundreds of red dots. Around the plume spread dozens more purple dots. No labels.

‘It’s from Griff’s son,’ she told Hiram, and showed him the graphic and the list. Then she played back the message.

‘ Rebecca, it isn’t anthrax. That’s just a ploy ,’ William said, his voice hoarse. ‘ It’s potentially a lot worse. Whoever he is, he doesn’t want to kill. He may not be a terrorist-he probably doesn’t even care about the terror.

‘ He’s targeting our memories. He wants us to forget .’

The driver interrupted over the intercom. ‘I have Kelly Schein, sir.’

The Hajj Road, ten kilometers from Mecca

Three Volvo trucks pulled up at a so-called Hijaz Liberation Force checkpoint. The twelve-lane highway behind the small convoy was almost empty. Ahead, a tight roiling knot of armed and restive humanity patrolled the road.

Within a week, the highway would be packed with shuttle buses, taxis, pickups filled to overflowing with pilgrims. The invaders were trying desperately to be prepared for this flood in a time of war. They were, after all, likely to be the new masters of the Hajj. Just the week before, the last of the Saudi royal family had flown out of Riyadh to Paris. King Abdullah had died on the flight…of old age, insiders said; others, of a broken heart.

Ragged troops wearing everything from jungle camouflage to modern desert battle gear lined up to witness the inspection, some carrying single-shot rifles or waving pistols, a few bearded men hefting late-model, two-part launcher-assault weapons that must have cost thousands of dollars. All were making at least the pretense of limiting access to the areas they claimed to control: a potential nightmare for pilgrims.

Sam looked at himself in the sunshade mirror. His hair was black with hints of gray. He had tanned his skin with Coppertone Plus and eyelids and cheeks with walnut juice. This gave him a convincing two-tone look. Should they pull him out and thoroughly inspect him-not uncommon in this land of war and fear-they would find him circumcised, and not in a hospital, but cut down with a razor to the sheath, the technique of es-selkh or flaying leaving no prepuce whatsoever and a naked rod straining like a serpent when erect, something no non-Muslim would ever want or tolerate. He had done this to himself years before. It had gotten him through several tough inspections in circumstances just like this, when he had been employed by NGOs in Iraq, before joining the FBI.

His eyes stung from bits of fine dust that had crept under his contact lenses. He adjusted his gutra and loose robes and lounged back in the seat. Let the Israelis handle this. Their Arabic was better than his.

Five guards broke from the rabble and approached, young and tense but displaying big toothy smiles. From the second truck, Sam listened to the irritated, loud exchanges. Soon, the exchanges became friendlier. He had chosen well from among the settlers’ children. Who could tell a Sephardic Jew from an Arab, ultimately?

The driver of the lead truck produced the papers Sam had given them all in Tel Aviv, proving association with the Yemeni and Iraqi wings of the rebellion. Ibrahim Al-Hitti had provided those papers over a year ago, for another operation entirely. For a moment, the way the five soldiers passed the papers around and smiled, he wondered if perhaps the passes and permissions were overkill. The soldiers were too impressed, excited even, curious as to who these important travelers might be.

Sam closed his eyes, just listening. Yes, we are carrying celebratory and medicinal goods for Mecca, thanks be to God for his mercy and bounty. As well, no weapons. We are peaceful supporters of Hijaz Liberation. The guards appeared to lose some of their respect. He heard the English word ancillaries used a few times. The guards asked if these men had ever carried weapons in support of the cause. Sheepishly, humbly, the lead driver answered no. This reduced the excitement even more. As these travelers were not warriors, no exceptional respect need be shown. Arms were waved, hands waggled. Then, the guards moved to the second truck and peered through the lowered window at Sam and his three companions.

Sam wore a pale gray thobe , lightly soiled, over loose cotton trousers, sirwal. The men with him wore white thobe s covered with dark cotton bisht s, and all wore red and white or pure white gutra s over their tagiyah caps, draped around their necks and secured with simple black agal s. They might be contract workers or laborers, who could know or care; they were not soldiers. At this point nothing was said.

The men got out. All truck compartments were searched. No weapons. Only celebratory fireworks, safely and neatly packed. Men leaped into the backs and squeezed between the plastic-wrapped bundles on their steel pallets, checking the occasional box with a knife, peeling plastic and cardboard to peer inside. They were asked if they had any alcohol. Only medicinal and rubbing alcohol, not drinkable. No, they did not carry narcotics or strong pain relievers. These would come in other shipments. Drinkable alcohol was being confiscated by the insurrectionists, and drugs as well; the fighting was hard and the men needed relaxation.

And what about qat ?

The Yemenis among the crowd that now surrounded the trucks pressed forward but were disappointed. No, the travelers did not have qat or tobacco.

After the inspections, which took an hour, the guards turned them over to three Iraqis, neatly uniformed Sunnis who argued and vacillated for another ten minutes. Of course, the travelers had high authority-but so did the leaders at this checkpoint. Still, ultimate victory was near. All would share in the honor.

Perhaps now was a good time to be magnanimous, even to multinational Muslim aid workers such as these, the first they had seen in weeks. There would be many wounded and sick, and with the Hajj beginning soon, much need for medicines and supplies.

The guards settled their differences in time for sunset prayers. The passengers and drivers joined them, laying prayer rugs in the sand and gravel beside the highway. Sam felt a twinge as he went through the motions. They’re trying to talk to God.

As the horizon covered the sun, they returned to the trucks and were waved on. Campfires were being lit. Cooking kits were lifted out of red plastic bags.

The mob parted, drew aside the makeshift wooden barricades and empty steel drums, and the convoy passed through on the last leg of the road to Mecca.

Temecula, California

Special Agent Brian Botnik caught a ride with a division chief from the Riverside County Fire Department. The slipstream through a crack in the truck window speckled the chief’s hair with flakes of gray. ‘This is more like early summer weather,’ he was saying. ‘Big fires put thousands of tons of particulates in the air. We could get more lightning strikes this evening. Damned weird.’

Brilliant white clouds towered tens of thousands of feet over the east as the day approached maximum warming. White ash blew off the incinerated land and coated the truck’s windshield until they could barely see. A squirt of fluid and the wipers turned it all into a streaked mess. The sky was orange from ash and dust blowing off the hills.

Fuel had built up for six wet years, spawning ten huge fires across five counties: chaparral, creosote bush, sage, and scrub oak on the hills had burned for days. The air was still acrid with fresh char.