Brian said, ‘Damn it, stop dancing, will you?’
The doctor looked up. ‘Excuse me? Dancing?’
‘You know what I mean. Stop pretending like we’re some hospital committee. Get to the point, doc. What killed this character?’
Victor looked in the team leader’s direction. ‘Adrianna?’
She took the ball, took the responsibility. ‘Certainly. Brian, Akim died of acute respiratory failure, brought on by exposure to bacillus anthracis.’
‘Bacillus what?’
Except for Brian, it seemed like the other members of the group, especially the good doctor, knew exactly what Adrianna was talking about.
She cleared her throat. ‘Anthrax, Brian. Anthrax is what killed him. And that’s what’s going to hit us in less than a month’.
CHAPTER SIX
The Brixton section of London is as far away from the London of Big Ben and Buckingham Palace as the tenement rows of Anacostia are from the Mall and the Washington Monument in the District of Columbia. Scarred occasionally by race riots and violent clashes between local gangs, it was also a place that Henry Muhammad Dolan proudly called home. In the cluttered basement of the flat he rented from the local council, he sat in front of a Dell computer, laboriously downloading files from an e-mail account, copying them to a diskette. He had no idea what he was copying or why he was copying; all he had been told was that it was important that it was done, and done quickly.
The basement was filled with cardboard boxes, unpacked from his family’s last move, and some of the toys that he no longer allowed the children to play with, especially the Barbie dolls, which he has getting ready to toss out. His twin daughters had pleaded and wept and argued to have them back, but Henry had been stern: no such dolls, would be allowed in his home.
He looked at the computer screen in satisfaction as he proceeded with his work, the light playing a bit of a trick on him so that he could make out his reflection in the screen. Before him was the ghostly image of a bearded man in his early thirties, a man with a shameful past and a very proud future. Only in his quiet brown eyes could he see the youth he once was, a drunken, ganja-using lout who had roamed the streets of Brixton at night, breaking into shops or parked trucks, stealing and drinking and whoring and drugging, showing no respect for himself, his family, or his neighbors.
A shameful past, for sure, but one that really didn’t bring him to shame. That moment had come after his first arrest as an adult, when instead of going to the usual juvenile facility, he ended up at H.M. Prison at Maidstone, where—
Henry paused in his typing, swallowed hard. Even now, it was difficult to recall what had happened there. Slight in build, he had still thought he knew how to handle himself, how to defend himself… but after just a few weeks he had been a broken boy (not a man — would a man have allowed that to happen?) who would cower in a corner, shivering, his asshole plugged with toilet paper to stop the bleeding.
Until…until deliverance came, in the form of a dark-skinned man, originally from the Sudan, who had offered him protection. His name was some indecipherable series of African syllables that Henry could not understand, so he called him Jack. At first he had turned Jack away, thinking that he was exchanging one tormentor for another, but no, the Sudanese had no interest in his body. Just his soul, and after one hairy tattooed thug had his testicles razored open in the shower Henry had been left alone. The Sudanese had begun teaching him, teaching him the prayers and history of the Prophet, and by the time he had been released from prison he had converted and changed his name — and, of course, his life.
He had owed the Sudanese everything, and in exchange for saving his life and his soul Jack had asked for only a few favors: for Henry to return to Brixton upon his release from prison, to begin a holy life, and, of course, to be available to perform a service or two. And Henry, still waking up at night shivering from the memories of his first few weeks in prison, had readily agreed to help.
The requests had always been minor. Gather up some of his new brethren from the local mosque and join a demonstration in front of the Israeli embassy. Help distribute copies of an Islamist newspaper in the district. And, once, report to two hard-faced men the names of those young men in the area, unbelievers, who were troublemakers. That particular task had worried him just a bit, especially when two of the troublemakers were found in trash cans, their arms broken. But a night of reflection and prayer, and memories of how the Sudanese had protected him in prison, had washed away any remnants of guilt.
Now this latest task was easier still. Set up an e-mail account with a particular password and address. Check the e-mail account three times a day for a specific message. And when that message arrived — as it had, just an hour ago — carefully copy the attached photo files to a diskette, and deliver the diskette to an officer at the local mosque.
Simple, quite simple, and Henry cared not for what was in the message, only that he was helping repay that terrible debt from his time in prison. He had met with Jack — out on his own now for over a year — at a local coffee shop where the talk had ranged loosely from their shared time in prison to gossip about neighbors attending the mosque to the current struggle. And at the mention of the struggle, the Sudanese had looked around himself for a moment, and then had leaned over to Henry.
‘May I give you advice, brother — confidential advice?’
But of course, Henry had said.
‘It must be kept completely confidential. I cannot impress on you how important this is.’
Henry had nodded in quiet excitement, thinking that he was being told something important, something no doubt to repay him for the small favors he had done over the years.
Yes, I understand the importance, Henry had said. You can always rely on me.
The Sudanese had smiled, his big teeth white and even. ‘We have relied on you for many things, my brother. So listen, and listen well. It’s true, is it not, that you have family in the United States?’
My wife does, Henry had said cautiously, not sure where the Sudanese was going with his questioning.
‘We thought so.’
And Henry had thought that he did not recall ever, in prison, telling the Sudanese any details about his wife’s family. The thought made him swallow hard. What was the Sudanese driving at?
Henry had told the Sudanese, Yes, my wife has a sister who lives in Detroit. Near Dearborn.
Jack nodded in understanding. ‘Very good. So I tell you this, brother. Do not travel to the United States anytime in the next few months. Do you hear me?’
A little shiver of something had made its way to his chest at the words the Sudanese had said. Truly? he had asked.
‘Truly.’ The Sudanese had nodded emphatically. ‘And that is all I will say about that.’
So that had been it. And now Henry was here, in the basement, fulfilling the latest request from the tall African. He remembered that chill, that—
Footsteps.
Coming down the stairs.
Working quickly, he worked a series of keys until the screen he had been working on was replaced with another. The sacred words of the Prophet.
He looked up. His wife Mariah was now there, plump and smiling hesitantly, black headscarf over her hair.
‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘Sorry to disturb you, husband. It’s just that… well, I have wonderful news.’
‘You do?’