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San Jose del Guaviare, Colombia

October 17

Alejandro Trujillo forced himself not to look too frequently at the street outside the post office, where two Colombian soldiers armed with M50 submachine guns had stopped for a smoke and to watch passersby. The military and police presence in the city had been beefed up considerably since the last time he’d been out of the jungle two months earlier, no doubt a reaction to the FARC’s bombing of several public buses last week.

Alejandro had swapped his guerrilla fatigues for plain tan trousers, a worn black shirt, and a straw hat, but he was aware he still stuck out. The clothes weren’t his, but belonged to a farmer who had enlisted in the FARC some months ago, and they didn’t fit well. The pants were several inches too long so he had to roll them up, and the black shirt was a few sizes too large. He was just fifteen, one of the smaller rebels in the camp.

He glanced down at the manila envelope in his hand, addressed to Derrick Anderson-Howe in London, England. The fact that he’d been given this prestigious assignment reflected the trust his commander had in him. Quite an achievement, he told himself. He couldn’t wait to get back to camp to lord it over his best friend, Mateo.

Alejandro had chosen one of the smaller post offices to minimize the chance of being scrutinized by police or paramilitary, but that might have been a mistake. Only one worker was at the desk and the line was already long when he arrived, so he would have a long wait.

That wouldn’t have mattered so much—he was used to standing around for many hours when on guard duty at the camp—but he had to remain inconspicuous here, which was becoming more difficult. He wanted to knock in the teeth of the man standing behind him. The bastard had a persistent racking cough and kept spraying his foul spittle against the back of Alejandro’s neck. But the man was a lot bigger than he was, and any confrontation would certainly draw attention from authorities.

He couldn’t wait to get out of here and back to his compadres. He’d have the rebel who’d driven him here make a brief stop at the corner grocery to load up on sodas and candy. Another reason to make Mateo envious.

 

London, England

October 18

Though it was only ten a.m., Derrick Anderson-Howe took a long swig of Scotch to steady his nerves as Collier Morris pulled on a thin pair of latex gloves. They were in his study, seated side by side on a plush leather couch. Before them, on the coffee table, lay a manila envelope, which an express shipping company had just hand delivered.

“I don’t expect there will be fingerprints,” Morris remarked as he carefully peeled off the clear tape sealing the missive. “And if there are, they’ll likely not be in any database. But I’ll take it back to the office anyway to see what we can get from it.”

After the initial notification call from the kidnappers, Derrick had received a brief second phone call two days later, in which he provided the FARC with the cell number of the negotiator, Jaime Farnsworth. Farnsworth had set up shop in a rented apartment in Bogota, outfitted with recording equipment and a short-wave radio. He’d spent a good ninety minutes before leaving London briefing Derrick on how things worked in such cases, and so far things seemed to be progressing as expected. The kidnappers had immediately called Farnsworth and given him a radio frequency for the negotiations, which would be conducted every three days, at ten thirty p.m.



The first official radio exchange lasted just ten minutes. The FARC representative demanded an immediate down payment of two million dollars to ensure Zoe’s safety and provide that she was well cared for. Farnsworth rejected the demand and said that further ransom negotiations could not proceed until they received proof that Zoe was still alive.

Morris carefully extracted the Polaroid photograph from the manila envelope, holding the corner between two gloved fingertips, and glanced at the back before laying it on the coffee table.

Derrick steeled himself with another gulp from his tumbler before bending forward to look. Morris and Farnsworth had both warned him that pictures of hostages were always meant to shock the recipients into paying quickly. Zoe, however, had only been missing eight days, so he didn’t expect this first “proof of life” would reflect as much change in her as later photos likely would. The glass slipped from his hand and landed with a thud on the heavy carpet as the Scotch burned in his stomach. He had to force back a sudden urge to vomit.

Zoe sat on a large rock, surrounded by dense, impenetrable jungle. Her clothes were torn and filthy, and she was wearing a pair of combat boots. So much dried mud covered her fair skin and dark hair she was almost unrecognizable. A light-gray ghost of herself. But the look in her eyes undid Derrick. Pure, stark terror. Dear God. What had he done to his baby girl, sending her there? This was all his fault.

He broke down, sobbing, burying his face in his hands. After several seconds, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I know it’s difficult to see, Derrick,” Morris said soothingly. “But this is encouraging. She has no visible bruises or injuries. And I recognize that front page. It’s from just three days ago.”

 

Chapter Twelve

Washington, DC

October 18

Dawn was still an hour away, but the White House Situation Room, a massive conference room and hi-tech communications center located in the basement of the West Wing, had standing room only. When the president arrived, senior military personnel from all branches of the armed forces as well as MIS and the national guard were congregated in one corner, talking in low voices, while high-level intelligence officers from the NSC, State Department, CIA, FBI, NSA, Homeland Security, and Secret Service clustered together in another to exchange notes. All fifteen cabinet secretaries and the vice president were there, along with key congressional leaders, the Federal Reserve chairman, and a handful of the president’s top scientific and medical advisors.

The six massive flat-screen televisions used for videoconferencing were currently tuned to the major news networks and several foreign media outlets. CNN was running video of angry people lined up outside a hospital in Nairobi that had closed to new patients. Fox News was covering a looting spree in Hamburg caused by food shortages. MSNBC was running a piece on the history of similar disasters, and the BBC was hosting a round-table discussion by experts trying to project the spread of the pandemic.

When the president was announced, the scattered groups dispersed and individuals almost comically jockeyed for the limited number of plush leather chairs. As the president lingered in the doorway, getting a whispered update from his chief of staff, he glanced around the room, studying the faces of the Washington elite gathered around the long conference table. The crisis was clearly taking its toll on all of them, affecting them personally, even if they did their best to give the impression of being in control of the deadly situation. When faced with one’s own mortality, and especially that of loved ones, it was impossible not to let panic seep through the cracks.

None was more visibly affected, however, than his secretary of homeland security, a middle-aged brute of a man who had exuded nothing but calm self-assurance when they’d crossed paths in this room six days ago. But as the secretary now rubbed tiredly at his temples, the president was struck by his gray pallor and deep creases of concern.

The secretary of defense noticed, too, and said, “You look tired,” his voice tinged with concern.

The homeland security secretary immediately jerked his head up and let the hands that had been cradling his temples fall to his sides. “If you’re implying that I’m sick—”

“Not at all,” the defense secretary replied. “You just seem tired.”

“It’s a migraine,” he snapped in a low voice. “Nothing but a God damned glorified headache. That’s all.”

The president watched several of those standing near the homeland security secretary retreat a step or two, and two seated close to him gave up their precious chairs. Anxious murmurs spread through the room.

“Let’s not panic, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, raising his hand to ease the tension and restore order as he took his seat. Fixing his attention on the homeland security chief, he added in a quieter tone, “Are you sure you’re well?”

“Everyone in this room is being constantly monitored, including you, Mr. President,” the secretary reminded him. “I would’ve never made it past the gate if I hadn’t checked out. It’s been a rough week.”

“That it has,” the president said. “I can see how a situation like this might cause us all a headache or two.” He smiled to lighten the atmosphere, and most everyone in the room either nodded or at least attempted to smile.

He shuffled some papers to mark the beginning of the meeting. “Nothing discussed here leaves this room,” he said solemnly, before addressing his homeland security chief. “What do we have so far?”

“We have no evidence yet that this originated at any single point of origin, though it’s clear it’s no random occurrence. The instigating force has impressive resources to draw upon to have made this happen. Creating this virus must have involved months or years of research. And the logistics involved in such a well-orchestrated and untraceable global attack…” The secretary cleared his throat. “But despite our best efforts and an unprecedented information-sharing,” he acknowledged the intelligence officials gathered with a nod, “we’re still no closer to identifying who’s behind this or why. We have people in all the points of origin trying to track down the patient zeros, but not all the countries involved are cooperating. It’s a politically sensitive situation. If we press too hard, we may seem to be accusing them of complicity.”

One of the military officers grumbled, “Everyone is dancing around each other, afraid of stepping on each other’s dick. Especially if whoever’s responsible is in their own backyard.”

The head of homeland security glanced down at his notes, as though searching for some positive news to report. “We’ve set up a three-pronged approach to deal with this. While the intel specialists continue to track the cause, and several labs, including AMRIID, work to isolate the virus, FEMA and the national guard are setting up a plan to deal with the domestic repercussions. Widespread hoarding is already creating shortages of food, fuel, and emergency supplies in some regions, and gun sales are at an all-time high.”

“I’m not hearing anything I don’t already know.” The president turned to the head of the FBI. “What have you come up with at Langley?”

“We’re investigating all possibilities and monitoring recent activities of the well-established terrorist groups that target the West. But we believe this is most likely state-sponsored, because of the complexity of the virus and scope of the attack. So we’re focusing on the usual suspects. Iran. Pakistan. North Korea. Russia’s at the top of the list, because of their long history with biological weapons. Sure, they’ve signed treaties to end their bioweapons program and close their nuclear-warfare facilities. But we have no way to accurately assess their compliance. We know Biopreprat has engineered other chimera viruses similar to this one. But if it is them, is Moscow acting deliberately or have some discontented virologists gone amok, hoping to profit somehow? At one point, they had fifty-thousand people involved in bioweapons research and production, in more than fifty facilities.”

“What’s been their official response?” The president directed the question to his secretary of state.

“We’ve heard little from them, beyond statistical reports of infection and mortality rates,” the man replied. “Our embassy in Moscow has been digging for more, but we’re doing so very judiciously. The current administration doesn’t take well to accusations and no one wants to rock that boat.”

The president turned to his chief of staff. “Set up a videoconference with the Russian president as soon as possible. I’ll see what I can learn, maybe get him to agree to a neutral inspection of the labs we know about.”

Glancing about the room, he next turned his attention to one of his invited guests. “Thank you for coming, Doctor. For those of you who don’t know him, our visitor is an assistant director-general with the World Health Organization. Doctor, what can you tell us about the current state of affairs?”

The man consulted his notes before he addressed the group with a heavy French accent. “The WHO has just raised its pandemic alert level to six, the highest possible, which indicates an increasing and sustained transmission among the global general population. Forty countries now have confirmed cases, and seven others are awaiting the results of lab tests to be added to the list. In the past twenty-four hours, the first infections have been reported in Australia, the Middle East, and the Indian subcontinent. Probably the result of air travel.”

“Do you have overall casualty figures?” the president asked.

“More than half a million people have been infected, and about one-fifth of those have died.” The doctor frowned. “Hundreds of new deaths are being reported every hour. And those are just confirmed cases. Most likely tens of thousands more are infected, at least. People who are isolated, third-world countries mostly, or misdiagnosed, or who have yet to exhibit symptoms. The incubation rate, from time of infection to death, seems to be only a week or so, on average.”

“Jesus Christ,” one of the men standing behind the doctor said under his breath.

“Hospitals and clinics in the worst-hit areas are overwhelmed to the breaking point, especially as physicians and nurses are falling ill,” the visitor said. “We’re coordinating with several health organizations, including the International Red Cross and Doctors Without Borders, to set up field hospitals in those regions.”

The president nodded toward the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff. “See what we can contribute in the way of tents, cots, and so forth. While reserving adequate supplies for our domestic needs, of course.”

“Yes, sir,” the admiral replied.

The president was quiet for several seconds as he scanned the room. “Can anyone here provide any positive news at all?”

No one stepped forward.

“That’s all then, ladies and gentlemen. For now.”

Later that morning, the president called a press conference, his first since the outbreak, though his close advisors weren’t happy about the idea. He compromised with them by giving the media very little notice, which might mitigate attendance. The White House press corps would be there, of course; they had a workspace in the West Wing next to the press briefing room. But it might be difficult for some of the more radically leaning media to get their reporters there in time.

When he paused outside the briefing room so a makeup artist could apply concealer to cover the dark circles under his eyes, he realized that tactic had been in vain. He could tell from the din on the other side of the door that the room was packed with reporters, and they were coiled tight.

Though it was risky to hold a press conference right now, he thought it vital to maintain a veil of normalcy. Anything to forestall the level of public panic he knew was inevitable. So far, the U.S. had largely escaped the looting and riots that were breaking out elsewhere because of hoarding and shortages. But armed homeowners were reportedly threatening to kill anyone who came onto their property.

“Are you certain you want to do this, Mr. President?” his press secretary asked. “We can’t adequately brief you on what might come up.”

“I appreciate your concern, but this is necessary. Go ahead and announce me.”

He took a deep breath and let it out as his aide entered the room. He’d run for office on the simple platform Honest Integrity, and so far, he’d managed to uphold that vow. But he doubted he would get through the next twenty minutes without having to lie. The Internet was abuzz with the rumor that his family had been relocated to a sealed underground bunker somewhere in Washington, stockpiled with supplies to last a year or more. He certainly couldn’t confirm that rumor; it would validate the kind of panic that could ruin the country. Lying in this case was for the greater good.

As he steeled himself and stepped toward the podium, the room erupted in a chaos of shouted questions.

 


Date: 2015-01-11; view: 678


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