“We believe it will be foot-and-mouth.”
Foot-and-mouth disease, a highly infectious and sometimes fatal virus affecting cloven-hoofed animals. She might have known.
Clearly he was reading her face. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“I’m not. You sat in on my lecture — it was only a matter of time. Not if but when — remember? We all have a problem; a serious problem.”
With obvious pride, Alessio Bavetta chose that moment to reverently lay two ornately decorated cups of coffee before his guests. Taking a step back he stood with a broad grin, hands linked together in front of him, silent.
Not wishing to upset the moment for her friend, Evangeline briefly allowed herself to transform back to the English rose he expected. “Alessio, the aromatics are divine.” The aroma wafted up from the porcelain cups and she inhaled with a connoisseur’s nose. “The very elixir of life!” Evangeline savored the hot liquid in her mouth, then swallowed. “Mmm… The flavors are so complex. The body tastes full… the aftertaste lingering. Thank you, Alessio, you have made a simple girl happy.”
“Grazie, cara, grazie.” Satisfied, Bavetta bowed and left them to their conversation.
Lilburn took a few mouthfuls of his coffee. He nodded in appreciation. “Not bad, for England.”
“Back to business.” Evangeline brought the conversation back to reality. “Are you aware of the implications for your country if foot-and-mouth is discovered in your livestock?”
Placing his cup of coffee down on the table Lilburn grimaced. “Millions of dollars in lost trade, headache for ranchers, a real pain in the butt.”
“Try billions, perhaps somewhere from fifty to sixty billion.”
“Jesus Christ!” The intelligence gathered about the attack was literally only days old, the assignment to collect Evangeline less than that. The full implications of what they were dealing with had yet to filter down to officers in the field. “Are you ready for a little plane trip?”
“When do we leave?”
Glancing at his watch, Lilburn looked back up to Evangeline. “The plane leaves in just over two hours. All you need is your passport. We’ll take care of the rest. Even buy you some new clothes.”
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.