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struments were handled by exquisitely machined gears, as the slide was moved left and right, up and down, until…
“Ah,” the director said. He centered the target in the viewing field and increased the magnification to 112,000 . . . and there it was, projected onto the computer monitor in black-and-white display. His culture knew much of shepherding, and the aphorism “Shepherd’s Crook” seemed to him a perfect description. Centered was the RNA strand, thin and curved at the bottom, with the protein loops at the top. These were the key to the action of the virus, or so everyone thought. Their precise function was not understood, and that also pleased the director’s identity as a bio-war technician. “Moudi,” he called.
“Yes, I see it,” the younger doctor said, with a slow nod, as he walked to that side of the room. Ebola Zaire Mayinga was in the apostate’s blood. He’d just run the antibody test as well, and watched the tiny sample change color. This one was not a false positive.
“Airborne transmission is confirmed.”
“Agreed.” Moudi’s face didn’t change. He was not surprised.
“We will wait another day–no, two days for the second phase. And then we will know.” For now, he had a report to make.
THE ANNOUNCEMENT IN Beijing caught the American embassy by surprise. It was couched in routine terms. The Chinese navy would be holding a major exercise in the Taiwan Strait. There would be some live firings of surface-to-air and surface-to-surface missiles on dates yet unspecified (weather considerations had yet to be resolved, the release said). The People’s Republic of China government was issuing Notice to Airmen and Notice to Mariner alerts, so that both airlines and shipping companies would be able to adjust their routings accordingly. Other than that, the release said nothing at all, and that was somewhat disturbing to the deputy chief of mission in Beijing. The DCM immediately conferred with his military attaches and the CIA chief of station, none of whom had any insights to offer, except that the release had nothing at all
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to say about the Republic of China government on Taiwan. On the one hand, that was good news–there was no complaint about the continued political independence of what Beijing deemed a rebel province. On the other hand, it was bad news–the release did not say that this was a routine exercise and not intended to disturb anyone. The notice was just that, with no explanation at all attached to it. The information was dispatched to the NMCC in the Pentagon, to the State Department, and to CIA headquarters at Langley.
DARYAEI HAD TO search his memory for the face that went with the name, and the face he remembered was the wrong one, really, for it was that of a boy from Qom, and the message came from a grown man half a world away. Raman . . . oh, yes, Aref Raman, what a bright lad he’d been. His father had been a dealer in automobiles, Mercedes cars, and had sold them in Tehran to the powerful, a man whose faith had wavered. But his son’s had not. His son had not even blinked on learning of the death of his parents, killed by accident, really, at the hands of the Shah’s army, for having been on the wrong street at the wrong time, caught up in a civil disturbance in which they’d had no part at all. Together, he and his teacher had prayed for them. Dead by the hands of those they trusted was the lesson from that event, but the lesson had not been a necessary one. Raman had already been a lad of deep faith, offended by the fact that his elder sister had taken up with an American officer, and so disgraced her family and his own name. She, too, had disappeared in the revolution, condemned by an Islamic court for adultery, which left only the son. They could have used him in many ways, but the chosen one had been Daryaei’s own doing. Linked up with two elderly people, the new “family” had fled the country with the Raman family wealth and gone first to Europe and then almost immediately thereafter to America. There they had done nothing more than live quietly; Daryaei imagined they were dead by now. The son, selected for the mission because of his early mastery
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of English, had continued his education and entered government service, performing his duties with all the excellence he’d displayed in the revolution’s earliest phases, during which he’d killed two senior officers in the Shah’s air force while they drank whiskey in a hotel bar.
Since then, he’d done as he’d been told. Nothing. Blend in. Disappear. Remember your mission, but do nothing. It was gratifying for the Ayatollah that he’d judged the boy well, for now he knew from the brief message that the mission was almost fully accomplished.
The word assassin is itself derived from hashshash, the Arabic word for the narcotic hashish, the tool once used by members of the Nizari subsect of Islam to give themselves a drug-induced vision of Paradise prior to setting out on missions of murder. In fact, they’d been heretics to Daryaei’s way of thinking–and the use of drugs was an abomination. They’d been weak-minded but effective servants of a series of master terrorists such as Hasan and Rashid ad-Din, and, for a time that stretched between two centuries, had served the political balance of power in a region stretching from Syria to Persia. But there was a brilliance in the concept which had fascinated the cleric since learning of it as a boy. To get one faithful agent inside the enemy’s camp. It was the task of years, and for that reason a task of faith. Where the Nizaris had failed was that they were heretics, separate from the True Faith, able to recruit a few extremists into their cult, but not the multitude, and so they served a single man and not Allah, and so they needed drugs to fortify themselves, as an unbeliever did with liquor. A brilliant idea flawed. But a brilliant idea nonetheless. Daryaei had merely perfected it, and so now he had a man close, something he’d hoped for but not known. Better yet, he had a man close and waiting for instructions, at the far end of an unknown message path that had never been used, all composed of people who’d gone abroad no more recently than fifteen years ago, an altogether better state of affairs than that which he’d set in place in Iraq, for in America people who might be scrutinized were either arrested or cleared, or if they were watched, only for a little while, until the watchers be-
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came bored and went on to other tasks. In some countries when that happened, the watchers became bored, picked up those whom they watched, and frequently killed them. So it was just timing before Raman completed his mission, and after all these years, he still used his head, un-addled by drugs and trained by the Great Satan himself. The news was too sublime even to occasion a smile. Then the phone rang. The private one. “Yes?” “I have good news,” the director said, “from the Monkey Farm.”
“YOU KNOW, ARNIE, you were right,” Jack said, in the breezeway to the West Wing. “It was great to get the hell out of here.”
The chief of staff noted the spring in his step, but didn’t get overly excited about it. Air Force One had brought the President back in time for a quiet dinner with his family instead of the usual rigors of three or four such speeches, endless hours of schmoozing with major contributors, and the usual four-hour night that resulted- -and that, often enough, in the aircraft–followed by a quick shower and a working day artificially extended by the revelries in the hustings. It was remarkable, he thought, that any President was able to do any work at all. The real duties of the office were difficult enough, and those were almost always subordinated to what was little more than public relations, albeit a necessary function in a democracy, in which the people needed to see the President doing more than sitting at his desk and doing … his work. The presidency was a job which one could love without liking it, a phrase seemingly contradictory until you came here and saw it.
“You did just fine,” van Damm said. “The stuff on TV was perfect, and the segment NBC ran with your wife was okay, too.”
“She didn’t like it. She didn’t think they used her best line,” Ryan reported lightly.
“Could have been a lot worse.” They didn’t ask her about abortion, Arnie thought. To keep that from happening, he’d used up a few large markers with NBC, and
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made sure that Tom Donner had been treated at least as well as a senator, maybe even a Cabinet member, on the flight the previous day, including a rare taped segment in flight. The following week, Donner would be the first network anchor to have a one-on-one with the President in the upstairs sitting room, and for that there was no agreement on the scope of the questions, meaning that Ryan would have to be briefed for hours to make sure he didn’t step on the presidential crank. But for now the chief of staff allowed his President to bask in the afterglow of what had been a pretty good day in the Midwest, whose real mission, aside from getting Ryan out of Washington and so get a feel for what the presidency really was, was to have him look like a President, and further marginalize that bastard Kealty.