In 1989, a shipment of monkeys out of Africa had landed at Washington DC’s Dulles airport on a similar flight. Upon arrival, the cages of animals were trucked from the airport to a laboratory – a ‘monkey house’ as those in the trade called it – in Reston, one of the city’s upmarket suburbs.
Back then, quarantine laws were somewhat less stringent. The monkeys started dying in their droves. Laboratory workers fell sick. It turned out that the entire shipment was infected with Ebola.
In the end, the US military’s chemical and biological defence specialists had to move in and ‘nuke’ the entire place, euthanising every single animal. Hundreds and hundreds of diseased monkeys were put to death. The Reston monkey house was rendered into a dead zone. Nothing in there – not the smallest microorganism – was allowed to live. Then it was sealed off and abandoned pretty much for ever.
The only reason the virus hadn’t killed thousands – maybe millions – of people was because it wasn’t transmitted via aerial means. Had it been more flu-like, ‘Reston Ebola’, as it became known, would have ripped through the human population like a viral whirlwind.
As luck would have it, the Reston Ebola outbreak was contained. But in the aftershock, far tougher and more stringent quarantine laws were introduced – ones that Jim Seaflower had to ensure were observed at Heathrow airport today.
Personally, he felt that a six-week quarantine period was somewhat draconian, but the risks very likely justified the new laws. And either way, it gave him and his staff decent, reliable, well-paid employment, so who was he to complain?
As he observed the crates of animals being unloaded from the aircraft – each with the words ‘Katavi Reserve Primates Limited’ stamped across the side – he figured that this was an unusually healthy batch. Normally a few animals died in transit; the stress of the journey saw to that. But none of these little guys had succumbed.
They looked full of beans.
He’d expect nothing less of Katavi Reserve Primates. He’d
overseen dozens of KRP shipments, and he knew the company to be a class act.
He leaned down to look into one of the cages. It was always best to get a sense of a shipment’s general health, so you could better manage the quarantine process. If there were any sick primates, they’d need to be isolated, so the others didn’t fall ill. The silver-haired, black-faced vervet monkey inside retreated to a far corner. Primates don’t tend to enjoy close-up eye contact with humans. They view it as threatening behaviour.
This little guy was a fine specimen, though.
Seaflower turned to another cage. This time, as he peered inside, the occupant charged at the bars, pounding them angrily with his fists and baring his canines. Seaflower smiled. This little guy was certainly full of fight.
He was about to turn away when the animal sneezed, right into his face.
He paused, and gave it the visual once-over, but it seemed to be perfectly healthy otherwise. Probably just a reaction to the cold, damp, moisture-laden London air, he reasoned.
By the time the seven hundred primates had been transferred to their quarantine pens, Jim’s working day was done. If fact he’d stayed an extra two hours to oversee the last of the shipment.
He left the airport and drove home, stopping for a beer at his local. It was the usual crowd, as always enjoying a chat with their drinks and their snacks.
Totally unsuspecting.
Jim bought a round of drinks. He wiped the beer foam off his beard with the back of his hand, and shared some packets of crisps and salted peanuts with his mates.
From the pub he drove home to his family. He greeted his wife at the door with a beery hug, and was just in time to kiss his three young children goodnight.
In homes across the London area, Jim’s Heathrow staff were doing likewise.
The following day, their kids went to school. Their wives and girlfriends travelled here and there: shopping, working, visiting friends and relatives. Breathing. Everywhere and always – breathing.
Jim’s buddies from the pub went to their places of work, taking tubes, trains and buses to the four corners of this massive, bustling metropolis. Breathing. Everywhere and always – breathing.
All over London – a city of some eight and a half million souls – an evil was spreading.
64
Steve Jones moved surprisingly fast for such a massive beast of a man. Using fists and feet, he delivered a series of machine-gun-swift blows, smashing into his adversary with a fearsome force and leaving little time for recovery, or to fight back.
Sweat poured off his semi-naked torso as he weaved, ducked and whirled, striking again and again, merciless despite the searing heat. Each blow was more violent than the last; each delivered with a ferocity that would shatter bone and shred internal organs.
And with each strike from fist or foot, Jones imagined himself cracking Jaeger’s limbs; or better still, beating his oh-so-well-bred face to a bloodied pulp.
He’d chosen a patch of shade in which to train, but even so the midday stupor made such intense physical activity doubly exhausting. He thrilled to the challenge. Pushing himself to the limit – that was what gave him a sense of self; of his own stature. It always had done.
Few were the men who could deliver – or take – such extreme and sustained physical punishment. And as he’d learned in the military – before Jaeger had got him thrown out for good – train hard, fight easy.
Finally he called a halt, grabbing the heavy RDX punchbag that he’d strung from a convenient tree and bringing it to a standstill. He hung on to it for a second, catching his breath, before he swung away and headed for his safari bungalow.
Once there, he kicked off his boots and laid his sweaty bulk on the bed. No doubt about it, at Katavi Lodge they knew how to do luxury. Shame about the company: Falk the hippy-dippy shit, and his band of tree-hugging jungle-bunny locals. He flexed his aching muscles. Who the hell was he going to drink with this evening?
He reached across to the side table, grabbed a packet of pills and swallowed several. He hadn’t stopped taking the performance-enhancing drugs. Why would he? They gave him an edge. Made him unstoppable. Unbeatable. The military had been wrong. Dead wrong. If the SAS had listened, they could all be taking them now. Via the drugs, they could have made themselves into superheroes.
Just as he had. Or so he believed.
He propped himself on the pillows, punched the keys of his laptop and called up IntelCom, dialling in Hank Kammler’s details.
Kammler was quick to answer. ‘Tell me.’
‘Found it,’ Jones announced. ‘Never knew a Land Rover could do such a fine impression of a crushed sardine can. Completely burned out. Ruined.’
‘Excellent.’
‘That’s the good news.’ Jones ran a massive hand across his close-cropped hair. ‘Bad news is, only two bodies inside, and both were deep-fried locals. If Jaeger and his woman were in that vehicle, they escaped. And no one could escape from that.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘Sure as eggs is eggs.’
‘That’s a yes, is it?’ Kammler snapped. Sometimes he found this Englishman’s phraseology – not to mention his uncouth manner – insufferable.
‘Affirmative. Roger that. It is.’
Kammler would have found the thinly veiled sarcasm infuriating, were it not for the fact that this man was about as good as it got in terms of enforcers. And right now, he had need of him.
‘You’re on the ground. What do you think happened?’
‘Simple. Jaeger and his woman didn’t leave in that vehicle. If they had, their body parts would now be scattered across the African bush. And they’re not.’