He’d never be able to talk his way out of those.
What about the American embassy?
What would he tell them? The truth? He’d gone to fight the Great Satan with his Arab brothers, but had changed his mind. Sure, they’d take him in, listen to all he had to say, probably catch Jalal as a result, and maybe even waterboard them both for a few months before dropping them in Guantanamo to be forgotten forever. Then, when budget and PR burdens became too heavy, some future administration would free him to Yemen or some such place, where he’d promptly lose his head in a desert, all recorded for distribution on YouTube, so that his parents could see their misguided traitor son be murdered by people he was stupid enough to trust.
But he had his passport. There had to be a reason for that.
They’d flown him to Nairobi. There had to be a reason for that.
Perhaps it was the beginning of a plan to ship him back to the US to do his jihad business there. If he was patient, in a few days or maybe even weeks, he’d be touching down in an American city with a network contact, maybe not unlike the one he was waiting on in the middle of the night in Nairobi—where the hell is Nairobi? Salim chastised himself for not being a better student in school. He’d be picked up on some anonymous street corner, taken to a safe house. Maybe even told to go out among the Americans and fit in. That would be his chance. He’d find himself a high-priced American attorney to protect his rights, his freedom, and his neck, and he’d trade his information to the FBI or CIA, whichever was in charge of buying it. In return, he’d get immunity and a new identity.
Heck, if he played his cards right, he might even be able to sell the movie rights to his story for a nice bundle of money. Maybe an alternative to the two million dollars he missed out on earlier.
Salim looked up and down the deserted street and didn’t care if he got the money. He just wanted to live through the ordeal, as hopes that he’d live to see his next birthday seeped into the darkness around him.
When a van painted in gaudy colors pulled up next to the curb, with friendly lions, zebras, and elephants surrounding the words “Big Country Safari Photo Tours,” Salim’s hope rekindled. A safari in Nairobi would be a good first step in building a tourism backstory prior to returning to America.
Hope was back in Salim’s future.
Chapter 32
“Dr. Wheeler, may I come in?”
Dr. Wheeler looked up from his laptop.
Olivia walked into the conference room. “I was on my way to the cafeteria, and I saw you in here.”
“I should have closed the door.” Dr. Wheeler smiled widely enough to let her know he was joking. “CDC doctors have lots of groupies.”
“I’m Olivia Cooper.” She pointed in some direction she doubted meant anything to Dr. Wheeler. “I was in the seminar, in the small theater?”
Wheeler nodded. “I remember you.”
“Really?”
“No.” He smiled again. “There were a hundred people in there. But I can go on pretending, if you’d like.”
Olivia scooted a chair back and sat on the opposite side of the table. “Are you flirting with me?”
“I am, if you’re open to it, and won’t tell my wife.”
“You’re flirting with me, and you have a wife.”
“No, I’m divorced. But we both know I’m old enough to be your dad, and I don’t have a chance at getting anything out of this besides a sexual harassment complaint.” Dr. Wheeler made an expansive gesture at the building surrounding them. “I assume you work for the NSA.”
Olivia looked around the room and gestured at the walls. “This is their building.”
“Cagey.” Dr. Wheeler smiled again. It seemed to come very easy to him. “Okay, I assume you have questions about the Filovirus presentation. Since you appear to have made yourself comfortable, maybe you have a lot of them. What can I help you with?”
“I’m sorry.” Olivia started to stand. “If you don’t have time, I can—”
After motioning for Olivia to keep her seat, Dr. Wheeler pointed at his computer, “I’m just answering email. I rode out here from Atlanta with a coworker. He’s still in his meeting. I’ve got some time.”
Olivia lowered her weight back down on the chair and smiled. “I’m worried about my brother.”
Wheeler leaned back in his chair and looked over his reading glasses. “Because I have a genius-level IQ and I just gave a talk about Filoviruses, is it safe to assume that despite your blue eyes and blonde hair, your brother is an African bushman in Sierra Leone?”
Olivia laughed. “You know I’m only laughing so you’ll answer my questions, right?”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself.” Dr. Wheeler got comfortable in his seat. “I should warn you, though, my charms are universally appealing. If you feel yourself being mesmerized by the most intelligent—and, I don’t mind adding handsome—black man you’ve ever met, just let me know, and I’ll dial it back a bit.”
“Are you always like this?”
Dr. Wheeler shrugged. “Yeah. At least my ex said so when she was telling the divorce judge about it.” He leaned his elbows on the table. “Seriously, though, you didn’t come in here for my comedy routine. What’s this business about your brother, and why would I know anything about it?”
“You’re an expert in infectious diseases, especially Ebola, which is a Filovirus—”
Grinning, Wheeler said, “So you were awake through the first five minutes, anyway.”
“—and he’s in Africa.”
“You’re concerned about Ebola.” Wheeler nodded, but sounded disappointed, which shifted to boredom when he asked, “Where?”
“Don’t do that, please.” Olivia thought about getting up to leave.
“Sorry. I’ve been fielding questions for a month by people who are just sure this Ebola epidemic is going to wipe out the planet. It’s all over the news. It’s a scary disease, and when people hear about ninety-percent mortality rates with bleeding out of the eyeballs and other less pleasant places, they freak out. You’re not freaked out, are you?”
“Sorry.” Olivia twirled a curl of her blond hair. “You’d think people would have evolved enough by now to know that hair color doesn’t correlate with intelligence. I get overly sensitive when people start talking down to me.”
“I apologize. It won’t happen again.”
“Thanks.” Olivia smiled and twirled her hair again without thinking about it. “I know he’s probably as safe there as we are here.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but I agree with the sentiment.”
“He’s just not—” Olivia looked for the right word.
“Responsible?”
She shook her head. “No, he’s a responsible kid.”
“A kid?”
“He’s nine years younger than me.”
“He’s nine?” Wheeler flashed a smile.
Olivia laughed out loud and tried to make it sound mocking. “Does it work when you tell twenty-nine year old girls they look eighteen?”
“It has.”
“Really?” Olivia feigned disbelief.
“That whole business I mentioned with the divorce. It started that way.”
“You told a girl she looked eighteen, and your wife didn’t like it?”
“Oh, you’re sharper than I thought. But no, that wasn’t it. I married her. We divorced later on. So you’re twenty-nine. I guessed wrong. I may not be quite old enough to be your dad. You’re not the type to file a complaint with HR are you?”
“Oh, that makes me feel so much better.”
“It should.”