‘Twenty years ago, it was purchased by a private foreign buyer. Pretty shortly, even the fishermen stopped visiting. Those who had occupied the island weren’t exactly friendly. More to the point, a population of monkeys moved in alongside the humans, and they proved less than welcoming. Many were horribly, terribly diseased. Glazed eyes. Walking-dead killer zombie look. Plus lots and lots of bleeding.’
Holland eyed his audience darkly. ‘The locals coined a new name for the place, one that I fear is aptly suited. They call it Plague Island.’
71
‘Little Mafia – Plague Island – is Kammler’s primate export facility,’ Holland explained. ‘The air traffic control records alone prove that. What else it may be, and what we do about it… well, I guess that’s up to you, the action men – and women – in the room, to decide.’
His eyes sought out Jaeger. ‘And before you ask, my friend: yes I did leave my usual signature: “Hacked by the Rat”. No matter how much more mature one is supposed to get with the passing years, I just can’t seem to resist.’
Jaeger smiled. The same old Ratcatcher. A maverick genius whose life had been defined by anarchic rule-breaking.
Holland made his way back to his seat, Peter Miles taking his place. ‘Jules makes it sound easy. It was far from that. Thanks to you, we have a fix on the location. Now, consider the nightmare scenario. Somehow Kammler ships his virus off this island and releases it worldwide. He and his cronies are inoculated. They sit out the coming global meltdown somewhere safe. Somewhere underground, no doubt: in fact, probably in a facility similar to this one.
‘Meanwhile, the Gottvirus gets to work. The nearest equivalent pathogen that we know of is Ebola. The lethal dose of Ebola Zaire is five hundred infectious virus particles. That number could hatch out of one single human cell. In other words, one infected person whose blood has been transformed into a viral soup can infect billions of fellow humans.
‘A tiny amount of Ebola, if airborne, could nuke an entire place. Airborne Ebola would be like plutonium. In fact, it would be far more dangerous, because unlike plutonium, it is alive. It replicates. It breeds, multiplying exponentially.
‘That’s the nightmare scenario with Ebola, a virus that we have been able to study for close on three decades. This – it’s a total unknown. A hot-zone killer of unimaginable ferocity. It has a total fatality rate. Human beings have zero immunity.’
Miles paused. He could no longer keep the worry from his eyes. ‘If the Gottvirus gets into the human population, it will wreak utter devastation. The world as we know it will cease to exist. If Kammler manages to unleash it, he can sit it out as the virus works its dark evil, and then emerge – inoculated – to a brave new world. So please forgive the melodrama, ladies and gents, but for the sake of humankind, Kammler and his virus have to be stopped.’
He gestured toward a grey-haired, grizzled-looking man seated amongst his listeners. ‘Right – I’m going to hand over now to Daniel Brooks, the director of the CIA. And by way of introduction, I’d just like to mention that our top cover has just got a whole lot more serious.’
‘Gentlemen. Ladies,’ Brooks began gruffly. ‘I’ll keep this short. You’ve done great work. Amazing work. But it still isn’t enough to nail Hank Kammler, the deputy director of my agency. For that we need absolute proof, and at the moment that island facility could just conceivably be a bona fide disease control centre for a monkey export business.
Brooks glowered. ‘Much as I hate it, I have to tread carefully. Kammler has powerful friends, right up to the level of the American President. I cannot go after him without absolute proof. Get me that proof and you will have every support – every goddam asset – the US military and intelligence community can bring to bear. And in the meantime, there are a few dark assets we can push your way, unofficially I might add.’
Brooks took his seat, and Miles thanked him. ‘One final thing. When Jaeger and Narov left the Katavi Reserve, they did so in a Katavi Lodge Toyota 4x4. Their Land Rover was driven out at the same time by two of the lodge staff. Several hours after its departure, it was taken out by a Reaper drone. Hank Kammler ordered the kill mission, no doubt believing Jaeger and Narov were at the wheel. In short, he knows we’re after him. The hunt is on – you for him, and him for us.
‘Let me remind you: if you use any personal communications devices, he will find you. He has the services of the CIA’s most technologically accomplished people at his disposal. If you use insecure email, you’re as good as done for. If you return to your home addresses, he will track you there. It’s kill or be killed. Use only the comms systems as provided: secure encrypted means. Always.’
Miles eyed each of them in turn. ‘Make no mistake, if you speak on open means; if you email on open networks – you’re dead.’
72
Five thousand miles across the Atlantic Ocean, the architect of the evil was putting the finishing touches to a momentous message. Kammler’s Werewolves – the true sons of the Reich; those who had remained steadfast for over seven decades – were poised to reap their rewards.
Stupendous rewards.
The time was almost upon them.
Hank Kammler ran his eye over the closing paragraphs, polishing them one final time.
Gather your families. Make your way to your places of sanctuary. It has begun. It is unleashed. In six weeks it will start to bite. You have that time, before those who are not with us will start to reap the whirlwind. We who are chosen – we precious few – stand on the brink of a new age. A new dawn.
It will be a new millennium in which the sons of the Reich – the Aryans – grasp our rightful inheritance once and for all.
From here we will rebuild, in the name of the Führer.
We will have destroyed to create anew.
The glory of the Reich will be ours.
Wir sind die Zukunft.
HK
Kammler read it, and it was good.
His finger punched the ‘send’ button.
He leant back in his leather chair, his eyes drifting to a framed photo on his desk. The middle-aged man in the pinstriped suit bore a striking resemblance to Kammler: they had the same thin, hawkish nose; the same ice-blue eyes brimful of arrogance; the same gaze betraying an easy assumption that power and privilege were theirs as a birthright, and due them long into old age.
It wasn’t hard to imagine them as father and son.
‘At last,’ the seated figure whispered, almost as if speaking to the photo. ‘Wir sind die Zukunft.’
His gaze dwelt upon the framed image a moment longer, but his eyes were looking inwards; menacing pools of thick darkness that sucked in all that was good. All life – all innocence – was drawn into them, suffocating mercilessly.
London, Kammler reflected. London – the seat of the British government; the site of the late Winston Churchill’s War Rooms, from where he had orchestrated resistance to Hitler’s glorious Reich when all defiance had seemed futile.
The cursed British had held on for just long enough to draw the Americans into the war. Without them, of course, the Third Reich would have triumphed and ruled as the Führer had intended – for a thousand years.
London. It was only right that the darkness had begun there.
Kammler tapped his keyboard and pulled up his IntelCom link. He dialled, and a voice answered.
‘So tell me, how are my animals?’ Kammler asked. ‘Katavi? Our elephants are thriving, despite the greed of the locals?’