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  Evangeline smiled. “Let’s do it.”

  Chapter Three

  Rafah, in Palestine, is the southernmost city within the Gaza Strip along the border with Egypt, that contentious strip of land sandwiched between the Mediterranean Sea, Egypt and Israel. One hundred and forty-one square miles of military and political upheaval.

  The hot, dry and sandy khamsin winds whipped through Adham Murtaja’s thin jacket as he corralled one third of his cattle into the iron-railed yard. The twelve animals quietly settled in, used to human contact. The veterinarian was due in thirty minutes… to confirm what Murtaja already knew. Some of the cattle were noticeably drooling from their mouths and hobbling on sore hooves, others also had further signs of lesions around their mouths and on their tongues. Murtaja knew of other farmers whose cattle carried the same sickness; for him it was a double-edged sword. Looking at his sole form of income, he stood resolute in what he was now about to do. The cause was great, the infidels must suffer.

  Reaching into his jacket pocket he took out a small plastic cylinder container and unscrewed the lid. The somber beast nearest him stood motionless as he approached and stroked her large bony head. Her lips and the top of her front feet bore scabs from the infectious disease. With bare hands, Murtaja picked the scabs and placed the clotted vile material that oozed out into the container, along with some of the cow’s saliva. He slowly screwed the lid back on, his thoughts on the thousands of miles the material would cross and the damage that it would do. Murtaja brought the container up to his face and lightly touched it with his lips, at the same time closing his eyes and silently reciting a prayer. The container was then safely placed back into his jacket.

  *

  Major Anas Abadi looked over the city of Damascus from his observation point on top of the terrace, now pock-holed with shrapnel. The building used to be a hotel — it seemed a very long time ago. His fight was against the army he had served in for the last eighteen years. Since defecting, two months ago, along with a score of fellow soldiers, he had joined the Free Syrian Army (FSA) fighting in the revolution for a democratic system. It didn’t please him to see his beloved Damascus, one of the oldest cities in the world, being pummeled with mortars, rocket fire and machine-guns. It didn’t please him that the man standing next to him, fighting alongside the FSA, was a member of one of the world’s most extremist radical Islamic groups, the Takfir wal-Hijra. Glancing at the younger man he thought of the African proverb: ‘When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you.’ He knew hurt. Along with the other commanders, he had joined in the disquiet shared only between themselves, about the presence of these Islamists and others like them, taking over their revolution; they feared it would get out of their control, their path to democracy.

  The current object of his disquiet, Karam Azrak, had little time for authority, little time for the major, little time for Muslims who didn’t believe with the same fervor he did and no time for Westerners, especially Americans. He suddenly lurched forward and leapt up onto the solid balustrade. Though six stories above the rubble-littered street below, Azrak nimbly retained his balance. Bringing his AK-47 up to a firing position at his hip, he screamed out at the top of his voice “Allahu akbar!”, God is great, before letting off a stream of automatic fire into the distance. Pleased with himself and his act of theatrical bravado in front of the other man, he jumped back down to the rooftop and stared at Major Abadi with arrogant disdain. Unable to tolerate the fool any more, Abadi abruptly turned and left.

  A mobile phone rang. Watching the major disappearing down the rooftop stairs, Azrak reached into the breast pocket of his dirty camouflage shirt and grabbed the phone. He recognized the number on the screen. The call pleased him. He hung up without a word. Alone on the rooftop he thrust his weapon into the air in one hand and yelled out “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!” The parcel he had been waiting for had arrived at Al-Zabadani, northwest of Damascus. With good speed he could be there in just over an hour; inshallah — Allah willing.

  As Azrak made his way around fallen white marble statues that used to adorn the foyer of the once palatial hotel, he tapped a comrade on the shoulder and uttered the words, “It’s here, time to leave.” The comrade, in jeans, black T-shirt and sneakers, gathered up his own AK-47 and the set of keys to the van outside. He would drive like sand over the dunes in a storm.

  Despite his intentions, the trip to Al-Zabadani, which would normally have taken about three quarters of an hour, took three times as long, with fighting between pro – and anti-government factions. For Azrak, the parcel was worth dodging bullets, the risk of mortar bombs and the possibility of death. He thanked Allah again, this time for keeping the postal service running during the chaos. Surely the war couldn’t last much longer — each day the battles intensified. Time was of the essence, both for the continuation of the postal service and the viability of what was within the precious parcel.

  The comrade, also a member of Takfir wal-Hijra, drove the battered white van with the dexterity of a dodgem car racer. In the passenger seat, Azrak gripped the frame of the open window with one hand while holding his weapon with the other, his eyes continually scanning for trouble. There were few other vehicles on the streets in this area of Damascus; those he saw were either damaged beyond repair or their drivers were driving at equally breakneck speeds. There were basically only two kinds of roads — ones that were passable and ones that were not. The latter were either under so much fire it was suicide to go on them or made impassable by the rubble from shelled buildings. Azrak and his driver knew which streets were still open.

  Looking up through the dust to the tops of buildings left standing, Azrak could see smoke plumes covering the city. The driver took a fast and sharp left turn, throwing him hard up against the door. As a group of unarmed men dashed across the road to cover in front of them, the driver revved the van’s engine, changing from second to third gear. A crumpled body lay in the middle of the road between two burnt out cars; one car, lying on its roof, skewed around so its still-flaming engine was nearly touching the corpse. Azrak’s driver had no choice. The van veered between the cars, its path straight towards the dead man. The van lurched upwards as it traveled over the body; a speed bump in the road of death. Another sharp turn to the left, this time the road was blocked by more armed men and mortars. The van screeched to a halt, weapons were aimed at them. A loud exchange of words, then acknowledgment they were on the same side. The six Saudi Arabian-supplied 120 mm mortars weren’t going anywhere, so the van had to reverse. Azrak watched the mortar men as his van reversed. Bombs were released into the tubes by pulling cords attached to clips on the bombs, allowing the deadly load to slide backwards to the firing pin at the base. Two mortars whoomphed as they propelled their ammunition, the trajectory only just missing the tops of the buildings in front of them; the mortars themselves bucked with the force of spewing out the bombs, only staying upright due to heavy sandbagging of the base plates and bipods. Azrak silently willed success to the bombs, invoking Allah to rain terror on his enemies.

  The street-to-street fighting was less intense the further they traveled; the area was under FSA control. The van gained speed through the streets and entered one of the main roads leading towards Al-Zabadani. The arterial route was a wide six-lane road, divided down the middle with iron fencing, street lights and shell-shredded palm trees. There was more traffic here, cars, trucks and motorcycles bustled along. Azrak heard a loud thump, then another. The government forces were employing their own mortar attack. Suddenly a mortar round exploded twenty yards away. Azrak’s driver instinctively swerved the van to avoid the hot shrapnel which radiated out from the impact. Another explosion. This time it was closer. The driver had no time to react. Metal fragments tore into the side of his head and body, the van altered course and veered across the road before coming to an abrupt halt after colliding with a truck going in the same direction. Azrak took a blow to the head as he hit the roof strut. The engine s
talled as the van, still in gear, had nowhere to go. With half the driver’s head scattered over the cab and himself, it took only seconds to react. Azrak pushed his door open, thankful he was unhurt and ran to the driver’s side. After two desperate attempts the driver’s door opened and his limp body fell to the ground. All praise and glory be to Allah. Removing the body away from the van’s wheels, Azrak seated himself, his buttocks sliding on the blood-drenched seat. There was no time to waste.

  Driving at speed, Azrak made it to his destination without further incident. The death of his fellow fighter, an arm’s length away, was a small price to pay and now nothing more than a memory. Already it was stored away, with similar memories.

  Azrak entered his brother’s house, where he exchanged a quick greeting. “It is here?”

  “Yes, praise Allah, it has arrived.”

  The full-bearded Mubarak Azrak wore the traditional jalabiya, a long white collarless gown. He reached for the small brown package on the table and handed it to his younger brother, who took it gently.

  “We must hurry — it must be on its way tonight. For now it lives but should it die, we die with it. Allahu akbar.”

  “Allahu akbar.”

  Azrak took a knife from a bloodied pocket and slit the package open revealing a plastic cylinder. Holding it up to better light, he looked inside at the grungy scabby contents and smiled.

  “First we must fold the keffiyeh inside the paper.” Azrak took the red and white checkered head scarf and wrapped it in brown paper.

  “Do you have the tape?”

  “Yes.” Mubarak took a strip of brown packing tape and cut off a two-foot length. Taking care not to stick the strip to himself, he laid it on the table sticky side up. Karam then unscrewed the plastic container and upended the mucus-covered scabs onto the wooden table. Taking his knife he carefully cut up the scabs, one by one, until they were the finest particles he could make. Once he had completed the cutting he used the flat blade of his knife to take up minute pieces of scab and with the utmost care, placed them along the sticky side of the tape — spacing them out along its full length. He carefully scraped up any mucus still on the table and in the plastic container, and placed it on the tape as well. Not a scrap was wasted.

  “Now for our gift — place it on top of the tape.”

  Mubarak lifted up the wrapped keffiyeh and carried out the instructions. The older brother took over and finished wrapping the parcel with the now disease-ridden tape. Another layer of brown paper was used to cover the parcel and this was taped up, this time with clean tape. Azrak wrote the name and address of the person would receive this precious cargo; Bashir Zuabi of Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, New York, USA.

  “Hopefully, with Allah’s help, the infidels will not discover our hidden surprise. The cattle’s gift to us has been spread so thinly I think it will not be noticed. Come, Mubarak, before we post our gift let us rejoice! Bring out the nargileh, my brother.”

  Mubarak left the room, returning with the water pipe.

  Chapter Four

  The American Airlines Boeing triple seven touched down at the John F. Kennedy International Airport in the early afternoon, New York time. Lilburn and Dr. Crawston were met by an officer of Homeland Security who whisked the pair through Customs, cutting red tape.

  It was seven degrees Fahrenheit warmer than London. Springtime in New York was a perfect time to visit: the summer crowds had yet to arrive, it was warm enough to enjoy the outdoors yet cool enough to be comfortable. New Yorkers warmed to the change in conditions, and Central Park was busy, with thousands taking in the relaxed atmosphere of its eight hundred and forty three acres of paths, lakes and open spaces; a blissful retreat from the hustle and bustle of the inner city.

  The pilot of the EC120 five-seater helicopter had already set the rotors in action warming up for his flight to Albany, an hour away. The jet black helicopter with its distinctive shrouded tail rotor, looking like a ducted fan, waited patiently for its V.I.P. passengers.

  The downdraft of the whirling noisy rotors plucked at Evangeline’s jacket.

  “Take this first seat here, ma’am, buckle in and enjoy the flight.” The pilot helped Evangeline into the rear of the cockpit as Lilburn entered from the door opposite.

  “Slightly different from the last aircraft, I must say,” Evangeline raised her voice to compensate for the noise of the helicopter.

  Lilburn pointed at the headset. “Put the headset on, it’ll be easier to hear.”

  Adjusting the set to sit comfortably on her head, Evangeline spoke into the mike. “How’s that?”

  “Much better, these choppers are very quiet but it still helps to wear the set. Once the pilot gets in and shuts his door it’ll be better still. Now what was that you said?”

  “I was saying before that this is totally different from the last aircraft.”

  Lilburn nodded. He didn’t do small talk.

  With everyone buckled in the pilot throttled up and the helicopter lifted off the ground, spun forty-five degrees then headed skyward, in a northerly direction.

  Lilburn looked out the window over his left shoulder, past Evangeline, towards the west. As they started to gain altitude, he could see the Atlantic Ocean falling away from sight, the rooftops and spires of Brooklyn growing smaller and smaller.

  The helicopter flew a direct route to Albany. From her seat Evangeline watched the city’s suburbs pass by opening to the green forests and pastures further inland, past beautiful blue expanses of lakes and the mighty Hudson River which they seemed to follow, past the state borders of Connecticut and Massachusetts in the distance.

  “Landing in ten minutes, folks.” The pilot interrupted their respective thoughts.

  Albany, the capital of the state of New York, appeared before them. Sitting on the west bank of the Hudson River, the CBD was dominated by a small group of tall buildings, whose presence reigns over the surrounding area. Approximately three miles northwest, the headquarters of The Division of Homeland Security and Emergency Services sat next to Washington Avenue. The EC120 touched down on one of its many rooftop landing pads.

  Lilburn unbuckled his safety belt. “Follow me; someone will take care of your bag.”

  Inside the third floor artificial lighting illuminated the large central command center, where the masses of intelligence gathered was correlated, formalizing the countermeasures and disseminating the result as instructions to agents in the field. Only problem was, for this specific mobilization there was very little intelligence to go on.

  The operations room was crowded, and humming. The room was a hive of activity with men and women talking on telephones, computers and headsets. Large inbuilt screens along one of the walls showed maps, others appeared to be transparent glass, coated with polymer film, providing interactive touch screens, with people in front of them, discussing their contents in muted, intense tones.

  A short stout man in his sixties with an air of authority looked up, alerted to their arrival. He nodded, finished what he was saying to the group around him, then approached them, his hands extended. “Good to see you made it, Matt. I would have been pulling my hair out, if I had any, if you hadn’t brought back the good doctor.” Allan Hall was at least five inches shorter than Lilburn, but inch for inch emanated the power of a rhinoceros in full charge… with a thick skin to match.

  “Director, I would like to introduce Dr. Evangeline Crawston. Dr. Crawston, Allan Hall, Director of Counter Terrorism.”

  “So pleased to meet you.” Evangeline offered her hand.

  “Good firm grip, I like that in a lady!” The director’s voice was deep and gravelly. “Come with me — I want to introduce you to our Director of Emergency Management.” Director Hall spun around and proceeded to one of the interactive screens, barking out an instruction to a staff member as he walked. Evangeline found herself having to quicken her steps to keep up.

  “Suzanna!” A woman of similar stature to Evangeline but at least fifteen years older stood stan
ding, her arms crossed, staring at the screen. Upon hearing her name she turned towards them. “Dr. Evangeline Crawston, Director…”

  “Yes, Allan, I know. Dr. Crawston.” Director Lopez looked Evangeline over with critical eyes, her arms remaining folded.

  Evangeline felt as if she’d just been introduced to the back end of a brick wall. The coldness within the director’s dark eyes was a surprise. Alert now, she extended her own hand in greeting. A challenge.

  Director Lopez ignored her and turned back to the screen. “Allan, we have a problem. It’s simply impossible to decide where we should deploy our resources!” Lopez sounded frustrated.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Hall’s eyes had narrowed at the little scene. He turned to Lilburn. “Go see Jones over there, he’s sorted out accommodation for Dr. Crawston, grab a quick coffee and a bite and be back here in fifteen.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lilburn gently touched Evangeline’s upper arm and indicated she should accompany him. Following Lilburn’s prompt, Evangeline turned away from Director Lopez, who was steadfastly ignoring her. She was introduced to the officer, who provided her with the details of her accommodation and transport to a local hotel, after which she and Lilburn continued down to the staff cafeteria.

  The coffee came from a machine, was thick, black and tasted like tar. Evangeline screwed up her nose and pushed the paper cup aside. Matt laughed, and fetched her a bottle of water.

  “So you’ve now met the two senior players. What do you think?”

  “I’m sure they’re extremely good at their jobs. Director Lopez is… interesting.”

  Lilburn gave a short chuckle. “Interesting is right. I don’t know a lot about them… other than by reputation. I’ve met Director Hall before on a couple of assignments. Lopez I’ve only heard about.” Lilburn took a sip of his coffee. Tasted fine to him. “I was seconded here two days ago. I’m based elsewhere, and rarely get to come to headquarters I was given a briefing and the next thing I’m on a plane for London to bring you back. From here on in I’ll be working in close support.”