Arabs will be wiped out … and any threat of Islamic fanaticism right along with them. And there will be zero accountability for the United States. It will be viewed as Allah’s divine retribution.’
‘That’s not true,’ Flaherty said. ‘Scientists will study the disease. They’ll see that—’
‘When scientists study the DNA of the virus, they’ll be unable to explain its origins. I promise you that. They will rule out the possibility of any scientist being able to engineer such a complex, exotic contagion. They’ll attribute the plague to a mutation bred in the backwaters of the Middle East. It’s been nearly a hundred years since Spanish Flu killed upwards of 50 million people - more casualties than all the soldiers and civilians in World War I. And as far as scientists are concerned, we’re long overdue for the next great pandemic. You saw how excited they were about swine flu. That was a joke compared to this. The scientific community will feel nothing but vindication.’
‘Why do this?’ Brooke challenged, abhorred by Stokes’s indifference. ‘What’s the point?’
‘The point? Come now, Ms Thompson,’ Stokes said. ‘I’ve fought these people for almost two decades. This is no ordinary enemy. They don’t wear uniforms. They don’t respect innocence. They hate civilization … and everything we stand for. Flying planes into buildings was only the beginning for them.’
‘Terrorism is a universal problem - not a Middle Eastern one,’ she pleaded.
‘Wars are fought one battle at a time, Ms Thompson. To spare the innocents, extreme measures are sometimes necessary. Your idealism is endearing, but fails to recognize the chilling reality we’re facing. We’ve reached the tipping point where only one side can inevitably survive. Call it Social Darwinism.’
‘You’re a real nut job, Stokes,’ Flaherty said. ‘I’m giving you one more chance to answer my question. What’s in the cave?’
‘I could tell you, but that would only ruin the surprise,’ Stokes replied wryly. ‘Besides, it’s too late for you or anyone else to do anything about it.’
‘I don’t have time to play games with you.’ Flaherty’s fuse had burned out. If there was something in the cave, Jason would need to be warned. He decided to cast diplomacy to the wind. He went for his gun. But Stokes anticipated the move and, to Flaherty’s surprise, managed to draw his own gun first. And to Flaherty’s horror, the pastor levelled the Glock at Brooke’s chest.
‘Don’t be upset, I’ve had lots more practice than you, Agent Flaherty,’ Stokes said. Another coughing fit struck, but the gun-slinger managed to keep his aim true. He covered his mouth with the crook of his arm and when he pulled it away, blood and bile covered his jacket sleeve. ‘Let’s not make this messy. I told you, I’m already a dead man. Don’t you see?’ He held out the gory sleeve. ‘I’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘You don’t look dead to me,’ Flaherty said.
‘Roselli managed to infect me with one of his lab experiments,’ Stokes said. ‘Some home-grown variety of anthrax, apparently. So if that’s the case, I won’t last another day. With that in mind, I’m determined to witness the results of all my hard work. And right about now, you’re making that very difficult for me. Give me your gun.’ He extended his free hand and motioned for it. ‘Be sensible and, unlike me, you’ll both live to see another day.’
Flaherty knew that despite Stokes’s hopeless condition, the former Special Ops commando was fully capable of pulling the trigger at least once before going down - no matter how well executed Flaherty’s shot might be. With Stokes unconcerned about confessing his heinous acts, Flaherty had to gamble that he’d keep his word. After all, though at the moment it seemed an abomination, Stokes was a servant of the Lord. ‘Fine,’ he said, lowering the gun and passing it to Stokes. ‘You win.’
Stokes pocketed Flaherty’s Beretta. ‘Now while I attend to business, you can make yourselves comfortable.’ Keeping the Glock on Brooke and his eyes on Flaherty, Stokes stepped backwards towards the door. When he’d crossed the threshold into his office, he lowered the gun and reached for the door handle. ‘Behave yourselves and I’ll have someone let you out after this is over.’
Then Flaherty and Brooke watched helplessly as Stokes pulled the door closed.
61
IRAQ
‘You’re sure these coordinates are right?’ Meat asked, checking his handheld GPS unit again. ‘I mean, this thing’s pretty accurate.’
Fist-sized stones that littered the unpaved road forced Jason to slow the pickup to a crawl. ‘Mack has yet to be wrong,’ he said.
‘But you said Mack is getting his information from the Israelis,’ Meat reminded him.
Twenty minutes ago, the satellite trace Jason had called in to Mack had pinpointed the square paint marker he’d scrawled on the hood of the truck Staff Sergeant Richards used to spirit Al-Zahrani away from the camp. The grid provided by Israeli Intelligence led them here, to a desolate region twenty-four kilometres south of Irbil, and less than a twenty-kilometre drive from the downed Blackhawk. The perfectly flat terrain provided long-range visibility over the wheat fields extending out in every direction. An occasional ramshackle structure poked up into the landscape.
But no sign of the hijacked pickup truck.
‘I don’t trust Israelis, especially Mossad,’ Meat said.
‘Come on Meat, there’s no reason to believe the information isn’t credible.’
‘Sure there is: no truck. That’s good enough reason for me.’ Meat groaned in frustration and punched the dashboard. ‘Shit, Google. We can’t go losing these Al-Qaeda fucks now! Not after what they’ve done!’
Jason felt equally frustrated. Losing Jam and Camel was a crushing defeat. He’d called Camp Eagle’s Nest and requested a rescue patrol to be dispatched to the crash site.
‘They must be on the move again,’ Jason guessed. ‘I’ll have Mack request another—’
‘Whoa … hang on,’ Meat said, craning his head to see something out the side window.
‘What is it?’
Meat waved his hand as if he was greeting someone. ‘Stop the truck.’
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘See that shit box over there?’ he said, pointing out the window to a two-storey house constructed from cinderblocks, which glowed in milky moonlight.
‘What about it?’
Meat grinned deviously. ‘Seems someone is expecting us … or should I say their expecting the guys that
Jason stopped the truck and barely glimpsed an Arab man passing beneath the house’s bright porch light and disappearing around the building. ‘Who? That farmer?’
‘That’s no farmer. The guy was strapping an AK-47. Back it up. We’re going in.’
‘How do propose we do this?’ Meat asked Jason, flipping the safety off his Glock and cocking its slide bolt.
‘Fast,’ Jason simply replied. He rolled to a stop and let the truck idle twenty metres from the house. There appeared to be no one outside, but in the second-storey window, he saw two silhouettes moving like shadow puppets behind drawn shades.
‘You think they brought Al-Zahrani here?’ Meat asked. ‘This place is a dump.’
‘Exactly. It’s perfect.’
Meat’s eyes went wide. ‘Oh, hey … look over there.’ He pointed to a crude overhang attached to the side of the house. ‘There she is.’
Only a corner of the scratched-up bumper and a sliver of the sky-blue tailgate stuck out from beneath the camouflage netting that covered the stolen pickup. ‘Good eye,’ Jason said.
‘Get ready. There’s our host,’ Meat said, pointing with his chin to the side door. The Arab leaned out from the doorframe into the porch light. The AK-47 was slung over his right shoulder. He was moving his head side to side, trying to see inside the truck, but the greasy windshield was casting nasty reflections.
Meat grabbed for the door handle, but Jason gripped his arm. ‘Hold on. He can’t see us through the glare.’ Jason eased the truck forward and put it in park five metres from the house. ‘Sit tight. We’ll let him come to us.’
Looking deeply concerned, the Arab waved to them again in a hurrying motion.
‘Get your knife out, then wave him over to your side. Let’s see if he bites.’ Jason reached down and grabbed the AK-47 he’d stripped from the dead Al-Qaeda photographer.
