Payback (34 page)

“What?”

“He’s
here.” She nodded toward the screen. “For that fundraiser. It’s going to be
broadcast all over the world. Some sort of telethon.”

Dawson
looked back at the screen then at Red. “Eight tuxedos and a black-tie gala
fundraiser featuring the man whose identity was used to get into the country. I
think we know where our missing terrorists are.” He turned to Vice President
Henderson. “Is Posse Comitatus still suspended?”

He
nodded. “Go get the bastards.”

Gotham Hall, New York City, New York

Doctor Sahr Vandy looked in the mirror, straightening his bowtie. He
felt old. His hair was now a short curly gray, it once proudly black as night,
luxurious to the touch. But now it just seemed dull, not the shiny healthy
light gray his grandfather proudly sported until his death from the insidious
disease a month ago.

It was
draining them all.

Day in
and day out he worked the phones, sent emails and faxes, attended meetings and
even put hours in at the clinics when he could. It was a battle that they were
slowly beginning to win, thanks in large part to the efforts of the new Vice
President, Ibrahim Kargbo.

The news
of his involvement in the kidnapping of Vice President Henderson’s daughter and
the attempt on the man’s life was simply too impossible to believe. There had
to be some misunderstanding, some mistake. He knew the man, worked with the
man,
liked
the man. Both of them had been spearheading the battle
against Ebola for a year now and they were finally starting to make some
progress.

Why
would he jeopardize that now?

No, it
made no sense. There was no way Kargbo was involved. He ran a finger over his
eyebrows. It wouldn’t be the first time the news had got things wrong, it far
too common in the Freetown papers—he would have expected more of American
journalists, but then in watching their newscasts while visiting this great
nation, he was often shocked at how the reporters were also too often the
commentators.

Reporting
and editorializing should be separate, like church and state.

Which
made him take anything he heard with a grain of salt. Something as large as the
conspiracy suggested would have taken months to plan and it was Kargbo himself
who had organized a meeting between him and Vice President Okeke to coordinate
a two-pronged attack on the wallets of America. Okeke would meet with government
officials to try and pry open their budgets more, and he would attend this
fundraiser to get into the deep pockets of celebrity America, the event to be
televised across the nation and around the world, billed as a gala event to
raise awareness and funds.

He was
looking forward to the outcome, but not the event, his heart pounding as he
glanced at the clock on the wall. The dinner before the televised portion had
just finished and he was escorted to a private room backstage so he could
prepare himself for his keynote address. He had spoken to gatherings of all
types before, but never to something so large. He knew he could handle it, but
he needed to deliver a message to the viewers that would compel them to pick up
their phones and pledge.

If he failed,
it would be a massive opportunity lost for all those battling the worst
outbreak ever recorded.

Kargbo!

He shook
his head. Never. It was impossible.

But
the timing?

It was Kargbo
who had helped organize this event, Kargbo who had helped organize Okeke’s
meeting that had resulted in his death, and according to all the news reports
and his own briefings, he had been murdered by former citizens of his own
country.

Could
it be possible? He was now Vice President, a post everyone knew he coveted.

He
frowned, looking at himself in the mirror.

Just
the musings of a tired old fool.

Someone
knocked at the door.

“Come
in!”

Vandy
looked in the mirror to see a man he recognized enter the room along with two
others. He knew the man from somewhere, it taking him a moment to remember.

Kargbo’s
niece’s husband!

“Major
Koroma!” he said, smiling as he turned toward the man. “I haven’t seen you in
some time.” He extended his hand then jumped back as a weapon was raised to his
chest. “Wh-what are you doing? What’s the meaning of this?”

“I’m
afraid, Dr. Vandy, you won’t be giving your speech tonight.”

“I don’t
understand!”

Koroma
motioned to the other men who quickly set upon him, forcing him into a chair
and binding his arms and legs with zip ties.

“I have
a message of my own to deliver tonight to the newly infected.”

Vandy’s
eyes narrowed.
Newly infected?
“What do you mean?”

Koroma
tapped his forearm. “I’ve been infected with the virus, all of my men have.”

Vandy
tried to push himself away but couldn’t, his restraints constricting his
movements completely. “You’re infected?” He looked at the man, his forehead
glistening slightly. “You have a fever, don’t you?”

“Yes, it
started a few hours ago.”

“Why do
you assume you’re infected?”

“Because
I had myself and my men injected with the virus.”

“Why!
Why would you do such a thing?”

“So we
could transport the virus here, undetected.”

Vandy’s
heart was pounding in his chest as he contemplated the implications. “Wait, you
said ‘newly infected’. What did you mean?”

“That
dinner you all enjoyed? Two of my men worked the kitchen and infected the
sauces after they were prepared. Every single person who ate their entrée has
been exposed to the virus. Even as we speak the virus is working its way into
their systems, through their mucus membranes and into their blood streams. Days
and weeks from now they will begin to show symptoms, and the entire Western
world will be glued to their televisions as they gleefully watch those they
envy today suffer tomorrow, secretly enjoying their plights for it’s in their
very nature to hate what they love, to secretly thrill in the misery of
others.”

“But
it’s inhuman! It’s murder!”

“And the
death of over eight-thousand back home wasn’t?”

“These
people aren’t responsible for that!”

“Yes
they are. The media is filled with what they say and do every day, yet few if
any ever said anything about our plight until it became fashionable to do so.
Every single person out there tonight negotiated what table they would sit at
in the hopes they would get on camera more than the others. This is publicity
for them, not charity. And tonight they’ll pay for their vanity.”

Koroma
nodded at him and a gag was stuffed in his mouth, a kerchief tied around his
head to hold it in place. Koroma stepped in front of the mirror and checked his
tie.

“Now if
you’ll excuse me, Doctor. I have a speech to give.”

Dawson watched on a tablet the telethon broadcast’s live stream.
Langley and Control were also monitoring, computers across the intelligence
community performing facial recognition on every face to hit the cameras,
trying to find Koroma and the other eight men they had photographed at JFK. Security
at the event had been notified to prepare for their arrival but to do nothing,
it feared private security, untrained for these types of situations, could
trigger a blood bath if they confronted Koroma’s men. Instead they were to keep
anyone else from entering.

He
pointed at the screen. “Isn’t that Koroma?”

“Facial
recognition confirms it,” replied Leroux over the comm. “Ninety-nine-percent
match.”

“Confirmed,”
replied Control.

Dawson
watched as Koroma crossed the stage, the entire crowd of Hollywood celebs and
other people too rich to fathom jumped to their feet, applauding, no one
wanting to be caught in their seats by the copious amounts of cameras. “ETA?”
he asked Spock who was driving their FBI supplied van and equipment, local NYPD
clearing a path ahead of them.

“Two
minutes.”

“Control,
any sightings of the other targets yet?”

“Negative.”

Shit!

They
needed to take down all nine here tonight to contain the terrorist threat.

And
only
the terrorist threat.

According
to the doctors some of the men could already be contagious, which meant that
anyone that had been exposed to them could now be infected, any surface they
had sneezed or coughed on, bled on, intentionally contaminated, could be a
source for the spread.

Even
if we kill them all tonight, this might not be over.

And in
the back of his mind he continued to wonder why there were only eight tuxedos,
when there were clearly nine men.

Koroma held up his hands, urging the crowd to sit, the lights bright
in his eyes, the speech Vandy had prepared displayed on teleprompter mirrors,
the monitors with the actual text flat on the floor, out of sight of the
cameras.

But he
had no intention of giving that speech. He took a sip of water, his mouth
suddenly dry as he watched his men fan out, taking positions near the exits to
the large room.

Nobody
leaves here until I deliver my speech to the world.

“Thank
you everyone, thank you for that tremendous reception. I have to disappoint
many of you, however. As those of you who know Dr. Vandy have already noticed,
I’m not him. Dr. Vandy has fallen ill and I volunteered at the last minute to
take his place.” There were several concerned utterances from the audience.
“Not to worry, I’m quite certain he hasn’t been infected with the virus we are
all here to battle tonight, Ebola.”

He
paused, letting the word sink in. “We’ve all heard of it, movies have been made
about it, stories written about it, and we’ve battled it in the past. But never
an outbreak of this size, never a death toll so high. And as I’m sure you’ll
all agree, a death toll that never should have been allowed to get so high.”
Applause erupted, a few jumping to their feet forcing the others to join in.

Little
do you know this is the last time on camera for many of you.

He waved
them down. “I see you get my point. This outbreak started on Boxing Day, 2013,
when a little two year old boy from a small village in Guinea fell ill. He died
two days later. And today, over eight thousand have died, with many more still
facing death. For months we along with organizations like Doctors Without
Borders begged and pleaded for assistance, but little was to come, leaving
untold thousands to contract the disease and die unnecessarily, their suffering
over, but the suffering of their families to continue for a lifetime. Our
economies have been destroyed, our populations devastated, our entire way of
life altered, perhaps forever.

“But
thankfully, almost nobody has become ill here, and only one has died. For this
is important, it is important that nobody in America, nobody in Europe, be
inconvenienced in their lives. God forbid that someone here should genuinely
fear for their lives, and God forbid that a single tax dollar go toward saving
an unknown life.”

He
noticed glances being exchanged among the crowd, it clear they were beginning
to question what was going on, question how he dare make them feel
uncomfortable while cameras took close-ups of their faces, always more
beautiful when they were smiling or looking on earnestly.

“America
has a long, proud tradition of helping those in need around the world. When an
earthquake happens, you are there. When a tsunami hits, you are there. Why?
Because these events attract cameras and those cameras broadcast images for the
world to see, for
you
to see, on your television sets. These disasters
attract incredible attention, images of the dead and dying, the suffering
survivors, the devastation wrought by man and nature make great television. And
when you see these things, you demand your politicians act and they do, because
they know it makes good policy and pleases the voters.

“But
what of those who suffer in silence, who die behind closed doors? What about
the story that builds slowly, with no single traumatic event to titillate the
viewer? No large initial death toll to tug at the heartstrings of the voters?
When no one is there to see our children die, to broadcast it to the world,
what happens? I’ll tell you what happens.”

Koroma
paused, then jabbed a finger at the audience. “Nothing!” There was a collective
gasp. “That’s right,
nothing
happens. As has happened time and time
again in Africa, whether it is Ebola, the genocide in Rwanda or famine in
Ethiopia or Somalia, nothing happens. Not until the cameras finally take an
interest and the problem can be ignored no longer. And once again, the long
list of humanitarian failures continues. My people are dying. My wife and son
are already dead”—gasps—“and my daughter is battling the disease right now. She
may yet survive, not because of anything the American people did, but because
of what
I
did, of what likeminded people in
my
country, who decided
to take a stand, did.”

Koroma
took a drink of water, wiping the sweat off his forehead. He definitely wasn’t
feeling himself, there little doubt now he was infected and weakening fast, the
amount of virus injected into him significant. He knew he didn’t have long to
live, but he only needed a few more minutes to deliver his message to the
world.

“That’s
right,” he continued. “It was I who kidnapped Vice President Henderson’s
daughter. It was I who forced America to act, to spend millions to rescue one person.
And think about that. Millions to save
one
person. How many hundreds of
my people could that money have saved?” Dozens of phones were out now, filming
his speech, these celebrities so self-obsessed they had to post on their
Twitter feeds and Instagram accounts exactly what was happening to
them
right now. He pointed at one A-list celeb in the front row. “You have your
phone out now, recording what I’m saying, broadcasting it to your fans around
the world. Why? Is it because you care about what I’m saying, about the people
who have suffered, the people who have died? Or is it—and I believe this is
closer to the truth—that you want to let your fans know what is happening to
you
,
as if
you
are the victim,
you
were deceived out of the dinner and
photo-op
you
were expecting.” He paused, shaking his head. “You make me
sick.”