perform well at eight thousand feet. He may know somebody.”
Leopole dexterously flipped his pencil like a miniature baton between his finger.
Colonel David Main was SSI’s “official unofficial” liaison with Special Operations Command. Leopole looked at Carmichael. “Sandy?”
Carmichael shifted awkwardly in her chair. Leopole knew they were acquainted from West Point and suspected they may have been something more than classmates. “Sure, ah, yes. I can call him today. But aren’t we supposed to avoid U.S. military personnel?”
Derringer caught Leopole’s expression and made a mental note.
After the meeting, Derringer invited his golf partner to the office to consult with Leopole and Wolf. “Phil, you’re now on the clock again. I need your help with immunology because we could use somebody who understands Marburg and Ebola. Can you suggest someone who could handle the physical challenge? It’s likely to be high elevation for days at a time.”
Catterly thought for a moment. “Well, let me ask: does the immunologist have to be a U.S. citizen?”
Derringer looked at Leopole, who shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s preferable for legal reasons, but from a practical viewpoint I’d think it’s okay. Why?”
“I know a highly qualified person in Britain. In fact, she’s the one who told me about the Marburg case at Heathrow. She consults for the British government and she’s even investigating homeopathic remedies for Ebola.”
Frank Leopole, erstwhile lieutenant colonel of marines, leaned backward as if reeling from an impact. Going on an op with a scientist, a foreigner,
“Doctor, I don’t think you understand,” the operations officer interjected. “This mission will likely involve combat. It’ll definitely involve strenuous physical activity.”
“Then Carolyn Padgett-Smith is qualified, Colonel. She’s a world-class rock climber, an excellent skier, and as far as I know, she’s in tip-top condition. You should see her.” Phillip Catterly unknowingly arched his eyebrows in a universal male gesture.
“Well, how old is she?”
“Oh, early forties.”
Leopole shook his head. “Doc, I’m in my forties, and this job might be a stretch for
Catterly persisted. “It’s just a thought. If you want to contact her, let me know. Otherwise, I can’t think of anyone qualified both professionally and physically.” He turned back to Derringer. “What about the army? Have you tried Fort Detrick?”
Derringer cleared his throat. “We’re checking that out.” Then he turned to Wolf. “Joe, I suppose the FBI has already talked to the boy’s parents. I’ll leave it up to you whether we see what the bureau will share with us or if we send our own people out there.”
Wolf, who had been a rarity in the FBI hierarchy by advocating “civilian” training such as SSI’s, had already alerted his domestic operations staff. A team was ready to fly to Berkeley on short notice. “I’ll find out today, chief.”
Derringer tapped the tabletop in a rhythmic tattoo. “Very well. Let’s push this one, guys. Time is crucial.”
After Leopole and Wolf left, Catterly remained. “Mike, I appreciate your trust in me, and I’ll give you all the help I can. But if I’m going to work with some of your people I’d like some background.”
Derringer sipped some raspberry iced tea. “Ahh, that’s good. Sure thing, Phil. Where do you want to start?”
“Well, what’s Dr. Mohammed’s background?”
“Oh, he’s an incredible linguist. You should read his Ph.D. dissertation: the effect of language on war. He grew up in Paris and was partly educated in Britain. His father was a diplomat for the Shah so Omar was raised speaking Farsi, Arabic, and French. He decided to concentrate on Mideast languages and picked up Hebrew just for drill. After 9-11 he read the map and concentrated on Pashto and Urdu so he could work both sides of the Afghan border. Besides that, he’s conversant in Russian and I think he’s studied Hindi. He said his next language is Indonesian.”
“Indonesia?”
“Yeah. It has the largest Muslim population on earth, by about two and a half laps.”
“So he teaches Islamic languages to your people?”
“Well, he can do that, of course, but Omar’s a man of many parts. Actually he’s director of training. A few years ago I brought him in for a couple of months to teach our operators about Islamic culture and some basic Arabic: asking directions, field interrogations, that sort of thing. Frankly, those segments were only marginally successful because Omar believes in immersion for really learning a language. We have better luck with former Green Beanies who studied at Monterey and worked in the Middle East. The Army was real cranky when we scooped up some of those guys, but that’s another story.
“Anyway, Omar got along great with some of the door kickers, which kind of surprised us. I mean, he comes across as more an academic than an operator, and he’s not exactly a boozer or a chaser. In fact, he’s a pretty strict Muslim. But when he went on some exercises in Saudi and, ah, elsewhere”—Derringer raised his eyebrows—”the guys found that he kept making really good suggestions. After a few months we made him assistant training director, and he’s run the department since last year.”
“I’d never have guessed it. What’s he do besides language and cultural stuff?”
“Oh, you name it. He’s not an operator, but we have instructors for tradecraft. Omar coordinates all that with the specialists. He just knows a hell of a lot, and he has contacts throughout Europe and the Middle East. If you need somebody to teach alpine climbing or how to operate in a sand storm, he can get ‘em. Basically, he’s a big- picture guy: he knows what he doesn’t know, but he can write a first-class training syllabus faster than anybody I’ve ever known.”
Catterly sipped his coffee, absorbing the information. “How’s he get along with the others?”
“Very few problems. Oh, Frank Leopole might still be suspicious, but he’s leery of anybody who can’t sing all three verses of ‘The Marine Corps Hymn.’ No, Omar’s solid. He plays it close to the vest most of the time, but if you get to know him, he’ll open up. Just don’t get him started on how OBL and al Qaeda have hijacked Islam. You’ll be there for hours.”
2
The doctor known as Ali swerved his Volkswagen bus to avoid potholes in the road, which he thought probably owed its origins to a caravan track across the Toba Kakar Range bordering Afghanistan. Smugglers had been using the mountainous terrain for longer than recorded history, which suited Ali’s purposes. He gave a rare grin that would have been nearly invisible amid his heavy beard.
Ali allowed himself the intimacy of patting her shoulder. “Child, you are on your way to Paradise.” She leaned back, absent-mindedly rubbing her forearm. She had begun feeling slightly weaker over the past two days, but bed
