been waiting for. With dread.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he proclaimed, walking into the conference room. At another time, another day, his subordinates would have risen at his entrance, but today it seemed a frivolous waste of energy. And the DCIA thought nothing of it.
“Is everything ready?” Lay asked, shooting a glance in Ron Carter’s direction.
The analyst nodded wordlessly, picking up a remote and aiming it at the giant flatscreen mounted to the far wall.
A moment passed and then the face of Doctor Maria Schuyler appeared on-screen. She looked up from the folders spread out in front of her, a curiously stiff look on her face.
Lay put on his glasses. “Good afternoon, Dr. Schuyler.”
“I wish I could say as much, director,” she replied tightly. “It’s anything but.”
“You’ve reached a conclusion regarding our bacteria?”
“That is correct. A copy of the information is before you. I’d like to walk you through it, if I may.”
“Go ahead.”
“Let me preface this by saying that accurate estimates can only be achieved by days of testing. We simply haven’t had the time to do the type of concrete analysis that we would customarily do in this type of scenario.”
“Worst-case it for me, doctor,” Lay retorted. “We’re running a tight schedule.”
“My initial assessment was correct. It is the pneumonic plague bacteria. But it’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before. As you may be aware, director, outbreaks of the plague are not unknown. We had a case in Colorado a few years back. This is different.”
“They weaponized it?”
“You’re partly correct. The bacteria was weaponized for aerosol dispersion, but it is also a different strain from anything we’ve ever dealt with. In two ways. First, the bacteria remains viable in the air for up to four and a half hours. That’s over four times the duration of your garden-variety
“How so?”
“It’s cold mathematics, director. The quicker the victim dies, the less time he has to infect others.”
The DCIA nodded his understanding. “Do we have anything to fight it?”
“There are antibiotics developed to treat
“Slow it down by how much?”
“It’s too soon to say with any certainty. My personal estimate would be that the victim would still be dead inside of the month…”
The screen went black and David Lay glanced at his watch. The briefing had taken thirty minutes in totality.
“What do we have, Ron?”
Carter looked up from the laptop where he had been running casualty estimates and gazed soberly at Lay and Shapiro.
“According to the intelligence provided by Isfahani, the attack will go down tomorrow during the noon prayer. You can typically count on anywhere between twenty and thirty thousand in attendance.”
“We’re talking a megachurch.”
The analyst acknowledged Shapiro’s comment with a grim nod. “Essentially, yes. A large part of them worship in the open air, which might reduce their exposure, but we can’t count on that.”
“Your estimates?”
“Jerusalem has a population of over seven hundred thousand. An average five percent of them will be at Ground Zero.” Carter rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Factor in their families and people they might be in close contact with during the time between exposure and possible death. You’re looking at a minimum hundred-hundred and twenty thousand potentially infected. Untreated, pneumonic plague has a mortality rate between ninety-six and one hundred percent.”
“And Schuyler’s just told us we can’t treat this strain,” Lay added. “Figure one hundred thousand plus dead across Israel and the Palestinian Authority. Epicenter: Jerusalem.”
“That’s not how Shirazi’s looking at it,” Carter replied shrewdly.
“What do you mean?”
“For Shirazi, this is nothing more than a beginning. You might say it’s the down payment on apocalypse.”
The DCIA’s lips pursed, drawing together into a thin, bloodless line. “Then, gentlemen, our course is perfectly clear. As cliched as it sounds, it’s true. Failure is not an option.”
At that moment, his secretary knocked on the conference room door. “I have the President on line two, sir.”
“Put him through,” Lay responded, dismissing Shapiro and Carter with a curt, “That will be all, gentlemen.”
A moment later, the phone in his hand rang and he hesitated before answering it. “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”
“A request for operational approval crossed my desk a few minutes ago,” Hancock responded, a characteristically hostile edge to his voice. It had been years since Lay had let it bother him.
“Oh, yes, the extraction papers. If I might insist, Mr. President, we need that approval expedited.”
“I would have thought we were done with these games, director.”
“Games?”
“The document simply requests approval for the extraction of an Iranian cleric. The name has been redacted.”
“Based on need-to-know, Mr. President,” Lay replied wearily. “This is an ongoing operation.”
“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware of the history of these mullahs. You’re seeking to bring one of them into
The DCIA looked up at the ceiling, considering his options. “As you wish, Mr. President. The man in question is the Ayatollah Yousef Mohaymen Isfahani.”
A sharp intake of breath was the only sound from the other end of the phone for a long moment. Then, “The
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“In 2011 you tried to assassinate this man as a terrorist!”
Lay sighed. It was going to be a long conversation. “That’s all relative, Mr. President. Alliances change…”
Hamid checked the silenced Heckler amp; Koch MP-5SD submachine gun for a third and final time before slapping a thirty-round magazine of 9mm hollowpoints into the mag well. Four more magazines were held in pouches around his belt.
He looked over at Thomas, who was breaking down his Barrett M98B sniper rifle for travel. “You bring the rubbers?”
“Sure thing,” the New Yorker grinned. He dug in his pocket and retrieved a small package, tossing it over.
Hamid tore open the plastic and leaned his MP-5 up against the fuselage of the aircraft, unrolling a prophylactic over the barrel.
“Condoms?”
