Degen gasped. “I understand that you fear the Ebola outbreak, Mr. Almasi, but this step is not necessary.”
Najid thought about scolding the man, but chose another tack. “My father is an old man. He doesn’t understand the modern world. This is his wish. Like you, I carry out his instructions without question. Without question.”
“But the losses—the expense of physically transferring all of that gold?”
“Pay what is necessary to get the gold to my father’s compound before noon, three days from now.”
“It will be expensive.”
“I understand. You will also raise a hundred million in cash, or as much as you can by selling in-the-money call options. I want American-style options that expire in ninety days.”
The breath flowed out of Degen in an audible rush.
“You will make commission on this?”
“Yes, Mr. Almasi,” replied Degen uncomfortably.
“You will make an enormous sum, will you not?”
“I will.”
Najid said, “Then smile when you look in the mirror, as you profit from the ignorance of a man with too much money.”
Degen wondered which ignorant man Najid was talking about, himself or his father? “Mr. Almasi, may I speak for a moment?”
“Quickly.”
Degen took a moment and proceeded in a calm, measured voice. “Despite the epidemic, the market has been bullish all year. Selling these call options means that as the prices of the underlying securities rise over the next three months, your losses will mount. The analysts at our firm assured me on a conference call just this morning that the trend will remain positive. With the losses you’ll take in converting the accounts into physical gold and silver bullion, and the potential losses that you’ll incur in a rising market, your father’s total portfolio could sink to a fraction of its current value.”
“Mr. Degen, thank you for your counsel. One thing we must both keep in mind as we carry out my father’s wishes is that this is his fortune. You do not have a fortune. You have not earned one. Neither have I. My father did, through shrewd choices. Perhaps it is you and I who are being foolish by questioning his judgment.”
“My apologies, Mr. Almasi.”
“I’ll leave it to you to select the specific financial instruments you sell. Your goals are to raise as much cash as possible and to convert that cash to gold and silver bullion that you will deliver to the appointed place by the appointed deadline.”
“As you wish.”
“I will call periodically for updates.” Najid hung up the phone.
In the next call, Najid bribed the right people to get two shiploads of food aid bound for East Africa redirected the relatively short distance to his father’s compound on the eastern shore of the Red Sea. Arms dealers were next on the list.
Chapter 28
One woman in the back of the ward had been bleeding so severely through her nose for the last few hours that she no longer had the strength to hold the towel to her face.
Dr. Littlefield stood beside Austin in the center aisle watching. The woman in the next bed over had been groaning softly with what was presumably the last of her energy. She started to spasm, vomited black, and the bed around her pelvis turned red with her blood.
Dr. Littlefield didn’t move. But in a soft, clinical voice said to Austin, “The lining of her stomach died. Her body sloughed it off. That’s something you don’t normally see except in corpses that have been dead for a few days. That’s why it’s black.” Dr. Littlefield looked at Austin and his eyes were as hopeless as the people dying in row upon row of mats and beds. “Most of these people will die just like that, and there’s nothing we can do—not one goddamned thing.”
Austin looked around. Faces were slack as though people wore emotionless masks of themselves. When they weren’t vomiting and defecating clotted blood into their buckets and beds, they were bleeding out of their gums, ears, noses, and every other orifice. They stared at nothing—dolls or corpses with raspy breaths. Some cried. Most didn’t have the energy for that.
When the dying started, Dr. Littlefield had to press their captors to allow the bodies to be removed from the ward. After that, he and Austin were charged with the task of carrying them outside and stacking them beside the pit where Austin had been dumping waste buckets.
Najid’s men, still in their yellow Tyvek suits, kept their distance. A few held their places inside, a few in front of the hospital, a few out behind the building—all with weapons they apparently didn’t have any qualms about using.
Chapter 29
The thing that struck Salim the oddest—as he sat in a contoured plastic airport chair, looking across an expanse of shiny terrazzo flooring in the Allama Iqbal International Airport in Lahore—was how much it looked like any airport in America. Only the clothes were different. Of course, some people wore Western clothes. Many wore what looked to Salim like pajamas.
Jalal sat in the chair beside Salim, looking out the tall windows at the airplanes, probably speculating about where they were going, what they’d be doing.
A hundred yards away, Salim was watching Zameer. Probably not his real name, but that’s how everyone referred to him in whispers. He didn’t know the man’s title or position and never asked. Those weren’t the kinds of questions to ask when one wanted to keep his head—literally. Salim did know—or suspect strongly—that the guy was in charge.
Salim had seen this man before. He had been through their small camp on three separate visits. Each time, the trainers were nervous and deferential. On one occasion, Zameer berated the trainers loudly, and with more than one slap and a kick to get his point across.
But now, Zameer—short-tempered as he was—stood nervously, shuffling his feet, checking the clock, looking around.
“Where do you think we’re going?” Jalal asked in a soft voice that was easily lost in the noise of the airport.
“Far away,” replied Salim.
Jalal looked at Salim, disappointment on his face. “We’re at an airport. We’re in the clothes we wore when we arrived. We have our passports. C’mon Salim, I don’t think that guess took a lot of effort.”
Salim scanned the terminal again. He was good with faces, and he knew he saw at least two others who had been in the van the day they all arrived in Lahore. Now they were all being sent somewhere internationally. The passports, returned to them with the rest of their possessions, assured that. “We’ll know when they give us our tickets.”
“We’ve been waiting for three hours.” Jalal’s impatience was starting to show.
“Does it matter how long we’ve been waiting?”
Jalal stood up. “I’m going to the loo.” Occasionally, his English dialect seemed out of place.
“I’ll be right here when you get back.” But as Jalal started to walk away, Salim reached up and caught his sleeve.
Jalal stopped and looked down at him, a question on his face.
Salim asked, “Have you seen any of the others here? I think I’ve seen a few.”
“Who?” Jalal asked.
“Some from the van, the day I arrived.”
Jalal looked around. “Good. We’re off to do something, I reckon.” Jalal spun and hurried off.
Salim went back to watching the formerly important Zameer wait on somebody more important. Salim started to wonder whether he’d see one of the familiar faces from the newscasts back in America—one of those high-profile terrorist targets. Now, there was a temptation. What if he did see such a man, with a two million dollar price tag on his head? Was his faith in jihad strong enough not to find a telephone and call in a tip? Was his hatred of America strong enough to keep him from doing it?