The Lazarus Moment (8 page)

Her feet
froze, yet her eyes roamed, looking for any clue as to what might have happened
to her friend. She could hear the MPs calling out as they searched the house,
one of them heading into the basement only to return a minute later.

“Nobody’s
here,” said the first MP. He turned to Pam. “You’re certain she’s missing?”

Pam
nodded emphatically. “She was supposed to be at my baby shower today but she
didn’t show, and I made some calls while I was waiting for you and she missed a
meet-and-greet yesterday with her daughter.”

“How old
is the child?”

“Four.”

“Where’s
her husband?”

“He’s in
South Africa, I think, with the President. He works on Air Force One.”

Air Force Base Waterkloof, Outside Pretoria, South Africa

Senior Airman Cameron Lennox emptied his pockets and placed
everything in the dull gray plastic tray. It was routine, everyone having to go
through the scanner, no matter how high your clearance level.

Except
the President of course.

His
finger swept over the memory key in his right front pocket. He had been told it
wouldn’t trigger any alarm and if it were discovered, simply to claim he had
forgotten he had it.

It’s
filled with movies to kill time with.

“You
don’t have a pacemaker or any other implanted device?”

Lennox glanced
at the guard, a man he knew well. The question was asked with half a grin.
“Huh?” He had forgotten that new security protocols had been implemented for
this trip and his heart suddenly leapt into his throat.

“The new
scanner wipes everything electronic. New protocol to combat bugs.”

“He’s
okay!” laughed Senior Airman Jerry Cornel, shoving him from behind. Lennox
stumbled through the scanner, almost yelping in panic, his hand gripping the
memory key in his pocket.

“You’re
clear,” said the agent, handing him the tray with his things. He nodded, saying
nothing, his head down as he filled his pockets. His upper lip was coated in
sweat, the cool morning breeze only sending a chill through his entire body. He
rushed toward the stairs rolled up to the rear of the highly customized Boeing
747-200, the model so unique it was actually classified as a VC-25A.

He
climbed the stairs, nodding to the flight attendants, their crisp Air Force
uniforms always a surprise to the first timers. He stared back at the crowd
gathered behind security tape, a ring of Secret Service and local police
keeping the crowds at bay as the President and his family went through the
standard goodbyes.

Yet he
wasn’t looking at them.

He was
searching the crowd, looking for the man who had kidnapped him, unsure of what
to do, now that the memory stick had been wiped clean.

They’re
going to kill my family.

He felt
sick.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

“What was he doing in Moscow?”

“Cancer
treatment,” replied Marc Therrien. “Apparently he was at the Hertzen Moscow
Oncology Research Institute in Moscow for almost six months.”

Leroux
tapped his lips, thinking. “Sounds expensive.” The ties between Russia and
South Africa were strong, so a South African citizen travelling there for
specialized cancer treatment didn’t surprise him, though why Zokwana wouldn’t
have sought treatment in his own country was a question that needed to be
answered. He turned to Therrien. “See if you can get your hands on those
hospital records. I want to know what he was treated for, what the outcome was,
and why he was treated there and not at home.”

Somebody
tapped on the office divider, Leroux sitting in the center of a cluster of
cubicles that housed his staff. He pushed himself to his feet at the sight of
his boss, Leif Morrison. Morrison waved him down. “You weren’t in your office,
thought I’d find you here.”

“All the
op centers are in use and nobody would let me book a meeting room for twelve
hours.”

Morrison
chuckled. “No, I doubt they would.” Somebody shoved a chair toward him and he
sat. “What have you got?”

“Thulas Zokwana.
South African national born in Nkandla on April 25
^th
, 1966, wife and
five kids.” Leroux tapped his tablet, bringing up a photo then flipping it
around for Morrison to see. “We’re pretty sure this is him. This is from a
driver’s license photo.”

“How’d
you get that?”

Randy
Child snickered. “Hacked their DMV.”

Morrison
held up a hand. “What I don’t know, I don’t have to tell
my
boss. Any
red flags yet?”

Leroux
nodded. “Yeah, he was treated for cancer in Moscow recently.”

Morrison’s
eyebrows rose slightly. “Moscow?”

“Yup.
Six months, apparently.”

“Sounds
expensive.”

“That’s
what the boss said,” laughed Child. Child suddenly blushed, eyes cast to the
ground. “Umm, I mean my boss.” He panicked. “I mean, not that you’re not my
boss, I mean—”

Morrison
raised a hand, saving the poor kid. “I got it.” He turned to Leroux. “Do we
know why Moscow, and where the funds came from?”

“Not
yet, but we’re digging.”

“Keep
digging. I don’t trust anything that might link back to the Russians.”

Air Force Base Waterkloof, Outside Pretoria, South Africa

Thulas Zokwana smiled broadly as he shook President Starling’s hand.
The man was impressive, taller than he had imagined with a strong grip. One
that put his weakened one to shame. He had always been proud of his handshake,
it always firm, confident and dry, though after the past six months, he was a
shadow of his former self. His wife had barely recognized him, crying when he
had arrived. He knew she was happy to see him though the fear in her eyes was
obvious.

And he
knew she didn’t believe him when he told her he was free of the cancer that had
riddled his body. His treatment had been experimental and only available in
Russia and China, it not yet approved in the West or in his country. The doctor
in Cape Town had said he would be dead within weeks without it, and even then,
the likelihood of survival was slim to none.

He
hadn’t mentioned that part to his wife.

Or his
cousin when he had reached out.

President
Surty had surprised him by agreeing to a meeting. He had always thought him an
asshole, though he thought that way about anyone who was more successful than he
was, which unfortunately was almost everyone he knew.

Zokwana
knew he wasn’t a smart man. He could barely read, his math was non-existent,
and he had never been much for skilled labor. But he was strong. Ask him to
move a pile of wood from one spot to another and he’d put his back into it and
get the job done without complaint.

Unfortunately,
there were millions of men like that.

Men far
younger than him.

He had
always kept busy and always kept food on the table, though not much of a roof
over their heads. The shantytowns where they lived were miserable, things not
improving at all since apartheid had been swept away. The promises echoed
hollow now, though he hoped one day his children might do better than their
father.

At
least they can read and do their math.

“I
understand you’re a cancer survivor.”

Zokwana
nodded, tuning back into the conversations, his cousin rattling off the story
of how he had used a special program he had created to send disadvantaged
people abroad for complex health issues their own system couldn’t handle. It
had turned into a quick pitch for funding that the American President politely
nodded at before returning his attention to the man whose hand he was shaking.

“I am,
Mr. President. I just returned home a few weeks ago.”

“And
you’re off already!”

Zokwana
bowed slightly. “I am. I felt it my duty to try to raise awareness of how the initiative
started by my cousin—I mean President Surty—could save lives. A friend told me
that Kenya is thinking of starting its own program and felt I might be able to
persuade them with my story.”

“It’s an
honorable effort, I wish you luck.”

“Thank
you, Mr. President.”

Zokwana
bowed again then joined the line clearing security.

“Please
place all metal objects in the tray.” Zokwana emptied his pockets. “Do you have
any medical implants?” asked the guard.

Zokwana
shook his head. “No.”

“Please
proceed.” The man waved him toward the scanner and he stepped through, filling
his pockets on the other side. He was ushered toward the plane and climbed the
stairs, winded by the time he reached the top. He stood in awe at the sight.

“Welcome
aboard, sir,” said a young woman, her smile wide and from all outward
appearances, genuine.

“Th-thank
you,” he managed, his mouth agape as he took in the opulence. It was unlike any
plane he had ever seen, though it was only the third plane he had ever been
inside. The planes that had taken him to and from Moscow had everyone crammed
in like goats, but not this one.

It’s a
hundred times the size of my home!

His
phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out as he was led toward the
seating area. He read the text and frowned.

This
isn’t good.

Senior Airman Cameron Lennox had had no choice but to contact the
men involved. The memory stick had been wiped, that much he had been able to
confirm. They said they would know if he didn’t do as told and he couldn’t risk
them killing Cecilia and Janice by doing nothing.

He had
sent them a text.

And the
reply had shocked him.

Go to
the main deck. Guest seating area.

He
climbed the stairs, two at a time, his palms sweaty, his shirt soaked, sweat
dripping off his earlobes.

He felt
like shit, sick from worry.

“Airman,
are you feeling okay?”

Lennox
nearly pissed his pants as he grabbed the railing, bringing himself to an
immediate halt. “Umm, yes, Mr. President.”

“You
look like hell, son.”

“I guess
the local cuisine didn’t agree with me, sir.”

President
Starling leaned in, lowering his voice. “Pepto-Bismol helped me to sleep last
night. I think sometimes our American stomachs are a little too delicate.”

Lennox
forced a smile on his face. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“Listen,
you try to take it easy and I’ll have the galley rustle up a good old American
cheeseburger and fries for you.”

“That’s
not necessary, Mr. President. I’ll be fine.”

Starling
slapped him on the back. “Your choice, son, but now that I’ve said it, I think
I’m in the mood for one. You just let the chef know if you change your mind.”

“Yes,
sir, thank you, sir.”

Starling
continued on, his wife and daughter smiling politely at him as he stood against
the wall, giving them room, not that there were many cramped quarters aboard.
He headed for the guest seating area and stepped to the side as a black man who
looked as bad as he felt stepped in front of him.

“Excuse
me, where is the bathroom?”

Lennox
pointed. “Over there, sir.”

The man
took his hand, shaking it. Lennox’s eyes popped wide as he felt something
pressed into his palm as the man leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“Remember
your family.”

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

“Got something, boss.”

“What is
it?” echoed Leroux and Morrison, Leroux blushing, Morrison deferring with a
wave of his hand.

Child
grinned, then thought better of it. “Newspaper article from six months ago.
Looks like South African President Surty was interviewed about a new program
that sent citizens outside of the country for medical treatments that were
beyond the South African system’s capabilities. Mostly experimental stuff. Last
ditch stuff, if you know what I mean.”

“Is Zokwana
mentioned?”

“Yes. He
was challenged as to why a member of his family was part of the program.”

“And his
response?” asked Morrison.

“He said
that his cousin was dying and this was his only hope. He questioned the
reporter why a member of his family should be discriminated against merely
because he is related, then ended the interview.”

“He’s
got a point,” said Therrien. “I mean, if he’s eligible, then why not?”

“Not our
concern,” said Morrison. “So who pays for this?”

“The
government pays the travel and accommodations, and usually the treatment is
donated by various institutions around the world. In this case the entire
medical bill was foot by Moscow.”

Therrien
grunted. “Generous of them.”

“The
Russians are always trying to make themselves look good on the international
stage,” said Leroux.

“Then
they should stop invading people,” muttered Therrien.

Morrison
chuckled. “I see your staff are as blunt as you are sometimes.”

Leroux
flushed. He usually wasn’t blunt, if anything, he was too tactful. Unless
frustrated. If enough idiocy was displayed, his filter would sometimes fail and
what he was truly thinking would slip out.

He
encouraged it with his staff.

“If we
ignore the ulterior motives, and just look at the program for what it appears
to be on the surface, then it seems innocent enough.”

Morrison
nodded. “Agreed. And his status? Is he cured?”

Sonya
Tong rolled into view from her cubicle, one of Leroux’s top young analysts who
also had a little crush on the barely older Leroux. “Not according to the
hospital records. He’s terminal.”