Target Zero (An Agent Zero Spy Thriller—Book #2)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Reid glanced out the window as the Gulfstream descended over El Prat Airport in Barcelona. Local time was six thirty in the morning. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a purplish light over the transitioning sky.

It was an eerie sight. El Prat was shut down, void of life. No planes arrived or departed, and the tarmac was silent and empty. As they touched down, Reid could see that most of the lights inside the airport were on, but through the large plate glass windows the place was a ghost town.

Watson opened the door and lowered the staircase as the G650 came to a stop. Out on the runway the weather was chilly and a slight breeze blew. Birds chirped from nearby, nesting atop the glass terminal.

Strange, Reid thought. I’ve never seen a silent airport before. This is what the end of the world would look like.

A single man jogged over to them. He wore a charcoal gray suit and loafers, and sported a pencil-thin mustache on his tanned face. Despite the current situation, Reid couldn’t help but grin fiercely as the man approached. He held out his hand to greet the Interpol agent who had helped him and Maria stop Amun’s plot in Switzerland.

“Baraf,” Reid said. “It’s good to see you again.”

Agent Vicente Baraf warmly returned the smile. “You as well, Agent Steele. Though I do wish the circumstances were better.”

“Agreed,” said Reid. “This is Agent Watson, CIA, and Dr. Barnard from the CDC.”

“Yes, your director told me you were coming. Please, follow me.” Baraf led the way as the four men walked hastily toward the terminal. “Interpol is working with the WHO to contain the outbreak and using the airport as a temporary base of operations while it’s shut down,” he explained. “El Prat is about twelve miles from the city center, so we’re outside the known infection radius. The WHO has established a quarantine area in the long-term parking lot on the other side of the building—”

“I’d like to see it,” said Barnard suddenly.

“There’s no time,” Watson replied just as quickly. “We’re here for intel, and that’s all.”

“What I would like to show you is extremely sensitive,” Baraf continued. “We cannot risk it getting out to the public.”

Reid understood right away what that likely meant—Interpol had found some solid evidence of this being a biological attack. If the public was aware, it could incite a mass panic. And hopefully, he thought, it includes a lead.

Baraf led them to one of the airline lounges, which Interpol had turned into a makeshift command center. Nearly every available horizontal surface was taken up by computers, radios, and communications gear. A dozen or so suited Interpol agents scurried about or sat at temporary workstations, working feverishly on their assigned tasks.

“This way.” Baraf showed them to the far corner of the room, where a stout, round-faced man sat before a dual-monitor display. On each screen was some sort of footage, which he seemed to be scrutinizing intensely.

“Sawyer,” said Baraf, “these are Agents Steele and Watson of the CIA. Agents, Mr. Sawyer is the best technical analyst at Interpol’s disposal.”

Sawyer blinked at them. His eyes were bloodshot and circled; the man had clearly been up all night. “Agents,” he nodded, his voice thick with a London accent. “I wish I could say it’s a pleasure.”

“Show them what you and your team have found,” Baraf prodded.

“Right, of course.” Sawyer rubbed his bleary eyes. “As you know, the first wave of patients came to Hospital de l’Esperanca yesterday evening. The medical staff there interviewed them as best they could—those that were coherent, anyway. Eventually a common thread emerged: many of them had ridden the subway earlier in the day. Not just the subway, but the very same line.” He toggled to another tab on his computer, and the left-side monitor switched from the security footage to a map of Barcelona’s subway system. “This line here, the red line. My team and I have spent hours poring over camera footage from the subway stations, and finally, we found this.”

Sawyer switched the right monitor to another video and played it. On the screen, a small crowd of citizens waited for the approaching train to come to a stop, and then stepped aboard as the doors opened. The tech analyst paused the image.

“Right here,” he said. He pointed to a young man among them, barely more than a child, it seemed. He looked a bit derelict; his hair was long, climbing over his ears, and his cheeks were patchy with dark hair. He wore a thin sweater and, admittedly, looked out of place among the Spanish citizens.

“Who are we looking at?” Watson asked.

“That,” Sawyer answered, “is the first reported case of infection, as well as the first fatality of the outbreak.”

“Our patient zero,” Barnard murmured.

“Now, here’s the thing,” Sawyer continued. “He gets on the train and rides the line up and down for a while. Then he staggers off the train, obviously ill. He manages to get to the street before he collapses, and an emergency room nurse on her way to work helps him to the hospital.”

Reid nodded gravely. “So the first infected, this kid, he carried the virus into the city. He rode the subway on purpose to infect commuters.” His hunch had been right.

“Precisely,” Baraf said quietly. “Already the WHO has received reports of infection from outside the city, in Manresa, Tarragona, and even one alleged case in Carcassonne.”

Reid balked. “It reached France?”

“Why didn’t we know about this?” Barnard insisted.

“It has happened only inside the last hour, while you were in the air,” Baraf explained. “The WHO is doing everything in its power to stop the spread of the virus, but their resources are drawing thin. Since you’ve left the US, every airport in the EU has been shut down. International travel is currently prohibited, and anyone exhibiting symptoms is undergoing immediate quarantine.”

“You were right, Agent,” Dr. Barnard murmured to Reid. “Our perpetrator sent an infected into the city, just like the Mongols.”

Reid was in no mood to muster an “I told you so.” He couldn’t imagine what the potential ramifications might be if such a deadly disease was released in the United States, especially on the East Coast. It would spread like wildfire. “Watson,” he said quietly, “report back to Cartwright and Riker with all this. They’ll want to know what’s going on, if they don’t already.”

Watson nodded and excused himself to make the call.

“Agent Steele,” said Baraf, “I’m afraid there is more I must show you. Sawyer, if you would please.”

The Interpol tech switched the feed on his right monitor to a black-and-white video. He recognized the scene immediately as the inside of a hospital, with four doctors and nurses crowded around a bed as they worked on a patient. As one of the doctors stepped aside, Reid saw the patient’s face—it was the boy, the first infected. They had cut away his thin sweater. His chest looked hollow, almost skeletal, and it heaved up and down rapidly. He was struggling to breathe.

“This is security footage from the emergency room of Hospital de l’Esperanca,” Baraf explained. The Interpol agent picked up a pair of thick noise-canceling headphones from Sawyer’s desk and held them out to Reid. “Please.”

Reid fitted the headphones over his ears and immediately heard the shouts and demands of doctors issuing orders in Spanish. The boy thrashed on the video, coughing violently, his body racked with spasms.

Then he heard something else, barely above a murmur yet still audible, coming from the boy on the bed. Reid wrinkled his brow. It sounded like a soft moan, a series of monosyllabic “mm” sounds.

“Turn it up,” he asked Sawyer. The tech cranked up the volume to the point that it was nearly deafening. The audio quality of the security footage was poor and white noise screeched defiantly in his ears, but Reid could still just barely make out what the boy might have been saying.

“Im…” he heard. “Im… Imam… ma…”

Reid furrowed his brow. It sounded as if in his feverish delirium, the boy was murmuring “Imam”—he was calling out for his spiritual leader, perhaps the head of his mosque or a pillar of his community. He immediately understood why Baraf did not want the video leaked; anyone who heard the boy speaking Arabic would automatically assume the worst.

Yet as he listened, there was something else, another word the boy was trying to get out. Reid could just barely distinguish a hard consonant sound as the boy attempted to say, “Ma… Ima… dee…”

“Play it back,” he demanded. The English tech started the video over and Reid closed his eyes, focusing on the murmurs coming from the boy.

Mahdi, Reid discerned. Imam Mahdi.

His eyes widened in shock as the realization struck him. He yanked the headphones from his ears and pushed them into Barnard’s hands. He needed confirmation, or at the very least, a second opinion. “What does this sound like to you? What is the boy saying?”

Barnard listened intently to the audio as Sawyer played it back, his narrowed eyes focused on nothing as he tried to make out the words. Then he too tore the headphones from his ears.

“Did he say…?” The doctor did not seem to want to say it first.

“Imam Mahdi,” Reid confirmed.

“What does this mean?” Baraf asked.

“It means we can assume the worst,” Reid said quietly. Countless wars had been fought in the name of religion, so Reid had educated himself fairly thoroughly on the major faiths of the world. He knew well what the Mahdi was—and what it meant.

“In some Islamic sects, Imam Mahdi is a redeemer figure,” Barnard explained. “It is said he will be the last of the Muslim holy men, and he will bring about Judgment Day…”

“The end of the world,” Reid finished. “The cleansing of the earth of sin.”

Baraf blew out a breath. “We are dealing with Islamic militants.”

“There’s little doubt,” Reid murmured. He thought back to Barnard’s remark on the plane. A virus is dispassionate. It does not target enemy soldiers or politicians or persons of interest. If this boy had been indoctrinated into an insurgent group, then he had indeed carried the virus willingly into the city… which meant that this was a jihad, plain and simple.

“What do you think, Agent?” asked Barnard. “ISIS? Some Daesha faction?”

“It’s not their MO,” Reid replied. The “usual suspects” of Islamic subversives tended to be very vocal about their attacks, stepping up to claim them and even going as far as filming it for the world to see. This felt different to Reid; quiet, covert, well-planned.

And worse, the fact that they remained quiet after the attack on Barcelona signaled to him that they had more in store for the world.

“We’re still missing a link between this boy and the virologist,” Reid said in frustration. “We need something more to go on.” He turned expectantly to Barnard. “You’re the bioterrorism expert here. What aren’t we seeing?”

Dr. Barnard was busy scrolling quickly through his phone, his eyes flitting back and forth behind his owlish glasses.

“Barnard…” It didn’t seem as if the doctor was listening.

Suddenly he looked up sharply from his phone. “Agent Baraf, do you have a medical report on the boy from Hospital de l’Esperanca?”

“Uh, yes, we do.” Baraf sifted hastily through a stack of paperwork beside Sawyer’s computer. “They faxed a hard copy to us last night… Here.” He yanked out a sheaf of collated pages and handed them to Barnard.

Reid peered over the doctor’s shoulder. The report was in Spanish, yet Reid was not at all surprised to learn that he could read it as easily as he could English. He had previously learned that he could speak Arabic, Russian, and French, all of which had returned to him simply by being exposed to the language.

Apparently the CDC doctor could read it as well. “Right here.” He pointed to a paragraph describing the boy’s physical state upon arriving in the ER. “This boy, he passed in less than three hours of hospitalization,” Barnard said rapidly. “Add to that Mr. Sawyer’s observations from the train, and it’s still less than five hours total; much faster than any other infected patients. But why? If you look here, the admitting doctor wrote that an MRI showed scarring on his lungs.”

“A boy speaking Arabic with scarring on his lungs,” Reid thought out loud. “Most likely the product of breathing something in… a toxin, and more than just average pollution…”

“It would be something strong enough to weaken his respiratory system and allow the virus to take hold much quicker,” Barnard added.

Reid sucked in a breath as he realized what the doctor was suggesting. “Sarin gas. You think this boy survived a sarin attack.”

Barnard nodded. “Agents, I don’t believe this boy was picked from a crowd. He was chosen for a reason—a compromised system that would disseminate the virus faster than an ordinary human adult. And if sarin is the culprit, there is a good chance he is…”

“Syrian,” Baraf finished.

“Baraf, every country in the EU keeps a registry of Syrian refugees, right?”

The Italian agent nodded to Reid. “Yes, but we have no background on this boy, no name to search—”

“We do,” Reid countered. “Mahdi. M-A-H-D-I. This was carefully planned, and whoever the missing link is between the boy and the virologist would likely not want his identity known. Search the registries for anyone who entered Europe from Syria under that name. Start in Spain and work east—France, Italy, Greece, any country that opened its borders to refugees.”

“Can you?” Baraf asked the tech.

Sawyer rubbed his bleary eyes. “It’ll take a few moments… but yes. It would be faster if we had a full name, though.”

Barnard and Reid exchanged a glance. He could tell they were thinking the same thing. “Muhammad,” Reid told him. Barnard nodded in agreement. “Muhammad Mahdi.”

Sawyer’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Reid found himself chewing anxiously on a thumbnail. It was a long shot, he knew; or perhaps the perpetrator did not assume that the likes of Barnard and Reid Lawson would be on his trail. He glanced over at the doctor and could tell that he too was emotionally fraught.

“The registry will only tell us where he entered Europe,” Barnard said, his voice hushed behind a closed fist over his mouth. “He may not still be there.”

“Maybe not,” Reid replied, “but if he’s still using the alias, we might be able to track his last known whereabouts. And with international travel shut down, they would have to already be in the next place they plan to release the virus…”

“Or,” Barnard offered, “somewhere far, far from it.”

Reid didn’t respond, but the doctor was right. Finding this alleged Mahdi did not necessarily mean finding the virus—but all they needed was someone with information. Kent Steele had proven tactics for extricating it.

The rapid clacking of the keyboard stopped suddenly as the English tech’s fingers froze. “We have a match,” Sawyer said, sounding somewhat surprised. “A Muhammad al-Mahdi entered the refugee registry in Athens, Greece, by way of Turkey fourteen months ago. According to this, there hasn’t been any movement since—at least not registered.”

Athens. It would make sense, Reid reasoned. A coastal city, close to an airport and a major trade route via the Mediterranean. This al-Mahdi must be the link, he was sure of it. “Thanks for your help,” he said to Baraf. “We have to move. Barnard, let’s go.”

The two of them started across the floor of the airline lounge, but Baraf trotted after them. “Agent, wait! Wait a moment. Where are you going? You don’t even have a precise location.”

Reid paused. “We’re going to Greece. It’s a two-hour plane ride from here; we’ll have the CIA start scouring databases in Athens for al-Mahdi’s whereabouts. You should have your people do the same—housing authorities, hotels, property deeds, anything you can find with his name on it. Hopefully we’ll have something solid by the time we arrive.”

“I should send agents,” Baraf insisted, “and we should alert the Greek authorities. If the virus is in Athens—”

“We don’t know that yet,” Reid argued. “This is all speculation until there’s evidence—”

“Agent Steele, we have an obligation to make them aware!” Baraf said loudly. Other Interpol agents in the lounge looked up from their work, surprised by the outburst.

Reid lowered his voice. “Baraf, you remember Davos. It only took three of us to take that bomber down. If we had more, we might have spooked him, caused him to act early. Well, this is Davos all over again. We can’t even be certain that the virus is in Athens; if I was al-Mahdi, I would want it far away from me. But if we find the man, we can us him to find the virus. If we go in there with cops and agents storming the building, and he does have the virus, we could have much bigger problems.”

Baraf sniffed, but he too lowered his voice. “So you suggest that I allow two CIA agents and a doctor to handle this by themselves?” He shook his head. “Not only would that be flagrantly ignorant, but it would go against every code by which Interpol conducts itself.”

Reid thought for a moment. Baraf was too virtuous to see this by any other angle—but maybe his perspective could be parried with the same tactic.

“You said it yourself,” Reid told him. “We don’t know a precise location. We don’t technically have a lead to follow. The CIA is in full cooperation with your office, so as soon as we know something, you will too. Then you can notify Greece and send your agents.”

Baraf raised an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting I give you a head start.”

“I’m suggesting you hold off on thinning your resources until you have something concrete.” Which is just a loophole to give us a head start, Reid thought.

“If I may,” Barnard interjected. “A potential compromise: Agent Baraf’s concern is that the active virus is in Greece. We can alert the WHO to the potential threat of smallpox in Athens and have a team on standby in case of infection.”

Baraf clearly didn’t like it much, but he nodded tightly once. “Rest assured, Agent Steele, as soon as we have a location pinned down for this al-Mahdi, my agents will be there and Greek authorities will know about it.”

“Of course. Thank you, Baraf. I hope the next time we see each other is under better terms.” He briefly shook hands with the Interpol agent, and then he and Barnard hurried from the airline lounge. “Seems you have a knack for diplomacy, Dr. Barnard,” Reid mused.

“It would seem,” Barnard agreed. “And while we’re at it, it seems you and your Interpol friend are breaking about a half dozen international laws.”

“Yeah,” Reid muttered. “Apparently I have a knack for that. Let’s find Watson and get in the air as soon as possible.” He wondered where Watson had gone. Updating Cartwright and Riker should have only taken a few minutes.

He didn’t have to wonder long. As they left the lounge and stepped out into the hauntingly empty terminal, they were greeted by three people—Watson, and two newcomers, though both were familiar faces. One was a tall man with angular features sporting a blue baseball cap and brown jacket; Agent Carver, Watson’s former partner and the other man who had helped saved Reid’s daughters from Amun hands the month prior.

The other face was a most welcome one, with slate-gray eyes and blonde hair. Just seeing her sent a warm sensation through his limbs. Even with her hair tousled, no makeup, a white sweater and jeans with a black bag slung over one shoulder, she looked beautiful.

“Kent,” she said. Maria took a step toward him, and in that moment he hoped she would run to him, but her gaze flitted to the other agents present and she stopped herself.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. He knew their presence could mean only one of two things, and he hoped the news was good.

“Riker had us rendezvous with you here,” she told him. “This op is top priority right now.”

He nodded; he was glad for the assistance, though he had some burning questions. “Your timing is perfect. We’re heading to Athens.”

Watson frowned. “What’s in Athens?”

“If we’re lucky? The man who knows where the virus is, who made it, how much they have, and where it’s going to be released,” Reid said simply.

Apparently that was as much of an explanation his new partner needed. “Let’s go.” Watson led the way hastily down the length of the terminal, filling Carver in on the details of the op. Barnard came next, while Reid slowed his pace to walk beside Maria.

As he did, he noticed there was a small line of blood on the right sleeve of her sweater. “What happened?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “Nothing good. We got a lead on Rais headed east, into Slovenia. The trail ended at an Amun safe house that we didn’t know about. We were jumped by two members.” She gestured toward the blood on her sleeve. “One of them grazed me, but I’m fine. He’s not.”

“And Rais?”

Maria sighed. “Trail went cold. I’m sorry, Kent. I would have kept going, you know that. But Riker contacted us and filled us in on what you guys were up to, had us meet here.” She scoffed bitterly. “I can’t believe they pulled you back in for this.”

“I sort of volunteered,” Reid said, even though it wasn’t quite the truth. “Anything else on Rais?” Despite their situation—pursuing the bearers of a virus whose goal might have very well been to end humanity—he still found himself irrationally concerned about the assassin.

“Intel suggests he’s heading to Russia. We just couldn’t catch up with him.” Her fingers touched his as they walked, though she didn’t quite hold his hand. “Hey. That means he’s heading farther away from you and your family. So let’s put that out of our minds for now, because we’ve got way bigger things to worry about.”

She was right. He needed to stay sharp, focused on the task at hand, if they were going to stop this al-Mahdi before he did whatever he was planning to do. He could only hope they would find answers in Greece.