The Imam of the Cave Read online

  Bill inched as close as he dared to the building, wanting to avoid any possibility of being detected. The Iraqis had used the facility to develop animal vaccines, specifically for anthrax, which, the Iraqis had explained, was why so much of the bacterium bacillus anthraces was present. The building was high on the UN inspection list.

  The light around the building was sufficient for Bill to use his binoculars. Sitting in the jeep in the cool of the evening, he was mesmerized by a group of children dressed in what looked like cotton nightgowns, playing in front of the building. Laughing under his breath as he watched the kids, he guessed they were playing the Iraqi version of tag, a game he had played in his youth.

  He enjoyed their frivolity for a few minutes, then an insight snatched the smile off his face. What these kids were doing was nothing like any game an American had ever played. When one of the kids was tagged, he would go to the middle of the circle his friends made. Leaning close to the ground, the child would breathe deeply then fall down.

  The child would sit for a few moments then get up and stagger awkwardly to one of the other children, who would be tagged and take his place. Being ‘it’ seemed to cause a physical reaction in the children similar to the one he had experienced at the weapons factory.

  Using his NVGs to enhance the light, he viewed the surrounding terrain. Everything seemed normal except for a large mound of earth and sand two hundred yards in front of the building—a twin of the one he walked on the previous night.

  Bill packed the goggles, started the jeep and headed to the next location.

  CHAPTER 7: IMMUNITY

  AFTER TWO MORE NIGHTS of outings Bill Holden flew to New York.

  At 9:30 in the morning he was sitting in the waiting room of the UN Security Council Investigative Agency paging through a copy of Newsweek to give his hands and fingers something to do as he waited to see Walter Terrance, the agency director. His thoughts on the events of the past seven days, he was oblivious to the magazine’s contents and to his surroundings.

  “You can go in now, Mr. Holden,” the director’s secretary announced.

  Walter Terrance got up from behind his desk to shake Bill’s hand. “Coffee? Or something a little stronger?”

  “No, thanks.” Bill sat down. “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.”

  The Director of the Investigative Agency reminded Bill of a young Errol Flynn. His facial features were similar, especially the high cheekbones and the dark, thin mustache that adorned his upper lip.

  “I take it from your fax that you’ve learned something new?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe you have everything up to the date Derrick Willy failed to return. That was the same day that Peter Branham failed to check in, which leads me to believe that he suffered the same fate.”

  “What have you learned that couldn’t be sent on a secure fax, but required you to come to New York?”

  “Over a five-day period I scrutinized the route taken by each of the five inspectors on the day he disappeared. I have to admit, the procedures I used were somewhat unorthodox. I went out at night dressed in Arab clothing and driving an unmarked jeep. To be honest, I felt more secure than when we went out in a UN convoy.”

  “What convinced you to ignore UN protocol?”

  “An incident that happened a week ago.” Bill briefed him on the circumstances of Olaf’s becoming temporarily disabled.

  “The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that someone or something had to have taken the missing inspectors out quickly or we would have found traces of a struggle.

  “The first night I went out, I was a little jumpy. I knew that if the Republican Guard caught me I wouldn’t be heard from again—adding to the mystery. But the Iraqis ignored me as if I weren’t there.

  Bill described what happened when he visited the spot were Olaf collapsed.

  “Did you see what might have caused your reaction?”

  “Not at first. I inspected the factory and everything around it using my night vision goggles. The block was deserted—not even a stray dog in the streets. No unusual smells or liquids in the area that I could detect.”

  “It leaves many unanswered questions.”

  “That’s why I continued with my nightly trips. I wanted to see the sites without the presence of UN personnel. Whenever the UN goes outdoors, the Iraqis remain indoors. I wanted to see how they lived and interacted around the facilities designated for UN inspections.”

  “And…”

  “As I retraced the routes that the missing inspectors had taken, I experienced physical reactions similar to the one on the first night at eight different locations. None of the reactions was as strong as the one on the night of the 17th.

  “I compared the dates the inspectors vanished with the intensity of my reactions and found a correlation. The routes of the earlier disappearances had less of a physical impact on me.

  “The second thing I noticed was the physical layout at some of the facilities. At fifteen of them a huge mound of soil mixed with rocks and sand had been deposited. Their mounds ranged from as close as two hundred yards to as distant as five hundred yards from the facility.

  “They were similar in size, ranging from forty to sixty feet high and eighty to a hundred and twenty feet wide. Each stood alone, with no other hills or mounds in the vicinity—leading me to the inescapable conclusion that they were man made.”

  Walter was writing down the key points on a notepad. “If they were put there, what was their purpose?”

  “I physically set foot on twelve of the mounds. The obvious thing that they had in common, other than their size, was their view of the facilities. I’m sure that was their purpose.

  “Someone’s been watching our people as they carry out their inspections. I think the abductions were planned over a period of time.”

  “Bill, what you just told me is extraordinary. I believe everything you’ve said, but I would ask you to do something for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want you to have a physical. If you have been exposed to anything over the last six days, perhaps the doctors will be able to detect what it was. Two things are of importance: I want to make sure you’re okay and see if they can determine what caused the reactions you experienced.”

  “Of course, but I have to clear that with the Executive Chairman.”

  “No problem. I think it’s time we go and see Mr. Bittermann. He needs to hear your story.”

  * * *

  The meeting the day before with Walter Terrance and Samuel Bittermann had ended with the decision that Bill come to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention here in Atlanta. The examination had lasted an hour and wasn’t too bad, considering the blood and other specimens they’d taken. Worse for Bill was pacing around the waiting room for two hours afterwards.

  The door to the room opened and Dr. Jacob Stein, a senior toxicologist at the Centers, joined Bill.

  “Well, Doc, what’s the verdict? Should I consider adoption if I plan on having kids or make sure my will’s up to date?” Bill couldn’t help making light of the tests.

  When he had first met Stein, who wore a long white lab coat and had bifocals astride his narrow, hooked nose. The disheveled dark hair and chameleon eyes made the doctor look like a mad scientist.

  “You’re in better shape than most men your age, Mr. Holden.”

  “Glad to hear that. I have a job to do, so I guess I’d better get going.” Bill headed for the door.

  “Just a minute, Mr. Holden. Your physical condition is very good, but there are some abnormalities we have to check.”

  “Why is there always a ‘but,’ Doc? What do you say we just stick with the good shape and leave it at that? I won’t tell the boys in New York if you don’t.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t do that. We agreed with the UN to perform thorough tests and share our findings. Don’t worry, Mr. Holden. We’ve completed the test on you. What remains is laboratory work. This is our num
ber one priority.”

  “What are you telling me, Doc? When can I expect to go back to New York?”

  “Mr. Holden, it could be two hours or two days—impossible to say.”

  Dr. Stein made a move for the door. “I need to get back to the laboratory. We have overnight facilities that are quite comfortable. I’ll have one of the interns show them to you.”

  Bill didn’t submit to a tour of their overnight facilities but immediately telephoned the executive chairman of the UN Special Commission, to try to grease the wheels of a usually slow moving bureaucracy.

  Mr. Bittermann called Edward Rogers, who contacted Jeremiah Hughes, the United States Secretary of State.

  When the telephonic communications filtered back down to Atlanta, Dr. Stein notified Bill that he was free to return to New York.

  * * *

  Sitting with Edward Rogers in his office that evening were Samuel Bittermann, Walter Terrance and William Holden.

  “Gentlemen,” said Rogers, “the Honorable Mr. Hughes wanted me to convey his regrets over the actions taken by the CDC. When they determined that Mr. Holden did not pose a threat to anyone he came into contact with, they should have released him.”

  “We appreciate your assistance,” said Bittermann.

  Bittermann’s rotund figure, bushy eyebrows and thinning brown hair reminded some who met him of the senior law partner on a television series, even if they couldn’t remember the actor’s name. His close set gray green eyes appeared to look through you.

  “We hold no malice against them for attempting to do what they thought was right. We only wish they would have contacted us first.”

  “Mr. Rogers,” said Terrance, “they were able to confirm that Bill had been exposed to an unknown substance. Fortunately his contact was with residual amounts over an extended period. They haven’t been able to identify all of the enzymes that might have been used in its construction. However, they’re optimistic that with a little time they’ll figure out what it is.”

  “Walter,” asked Bittermann, “did they quantify what ‘a little time’ implies?

  “Yes, they did. They expect to see results within six months to a year.”

  Bittermann stood. “Gentlemen, I think we’ve taken enough of Mr. Rogers’s valuable time. Again, I want to think you for your assistance in this matter.”

  Sitting alone in his office after everyone had left, Rogers digested what he had just heard.

  He had wanted to tell William Holden something, but he was unable to remember what it was.

  * * *

  The next day Bill Holden and Walter Terrance were having lunch in the UN’s executive mess before Bill’s flight back to Baghdad.

  “Bill, I left something out of the conversation last night when we met in Rogers’s office. The scientists down in Atlanta believe that whatever you came into contact with has affected your immune system. They said your blood appears to have an antigen produced from responding to the small doses you received. Your body may be developing a limited immunity.”

  Bill set down his knife and fork. “Are you saying I can’t be hurt by it?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. The CDC believes you’re developing a limited immunity. That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t experience adverse effects or even serious injury. From what they said, if you were fully exposed to…whatever it is…your immune system would go into overdrive producing antibodies to counteract it.

  “Whether or not your immune system would be successful is unknown, which is why they wanted to keep you at the CDC for further tests. Hypothetically, exposure to small traces should strengthen your immunity. Until we understand what we’re dealing with, there’s no real answer.”

  “So, what you’re telling me is that the CDC believes I can increase my defenses against it by being in contact with it.”

  “It’s hypothetical, of course. It would require you to spend six months or longer at the CDC so they could try to replicate the substance.”

  “I think I know someone who can do better than that, Mr. Terrance.”

  Anticipating the answer, Walter had to ask, for the record, “Who’s that, Bill?”

  “Me, of course. Sometimes risks must be taken when the stakes are high and I know of no higher stakes than the lives of my inspectors.”

  Bill glanced at his watch and saw that he had plenty of time to catch the flight to Frankfurt for his connection to Jordan, where he would continue to Baghdad.

  Bill stood up. “I have a few things to do before my flight.”

  Terrance rose and set his napkin on the table. “Of course…Bill, I want you to be cautious and not take unnecessary risks. Keep me in the loop on your progress. I may have some helpful news in the next few days.”

  “One more thing, Mr. Terrance. I wasn’t going to bring it up until I had proof or enough circumstantial evidence to brief you and Mr. Bittermann.

  “I suspect that the Iraqis are abducting our inspectors.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “There’s no logical reason for them to ignore my inspectors, unless they’re creating a red herring. What if the inspectors stumbled across something they weren’t supposed to find or were getting close to something? I’m not sure what the connection is, but there must be one.”

  “Be careful, Saddam can play hardball when he’s in one of his nasty moods.”

  They shook hands and Bill headed for the exit, where he met Edward Rogers entering the executive mess.

  “Bill, are you leaving?”

  “Yes, Mr. Rogers, I have a flight to catch.”

  “There was something I wanted to tell you and I just remembered it. There is a shelter or cave in the Syrian Desert.”

  “There are many caves in the Syrian Desert.”

  “No, what I meant is, we have a high altitude photograph of a shelter or cave with some type of transport entering it. I thought perhaps it could be a Scud transporter and your people would be interested.”

  “Of course, we would be interested. Could you fax the photo and its coordinates to my office in Baghdad?”

  Feeling smug that he finally remembered what he wanted to tell Holden, Rogers smiled and replied, “Of course, I’ll have it sent as soon as possible.”

  CHAPTER 8: HELP WANTED

  THE MORNING AFTER THE EVENING MEETING with Holden and the others, Edward Rogers had contacted his counterparts to convene at 2 p.m. to examine further developments. Their reluctance to meet with him again was obvious, but their countries’ continuing mystification over the strange incidents demanded their presence.

  Having everyone’s attention, Rogers began. “Gentlemen, I asked you here in the hope that we may come closer to resolving the spate of vanishing resources which have affected all of us. Knowing how some of you still deny that there is an international conspiracy, I’d like to update you and ask for mutual cooperation.”

  “Do you have more photos to show us?” Wing, the Chinese representative, asked, “because, if you do, it doesn’t answer questions, it creates more.”

  “No, I haven’t any more photos. Actually, I have a need for some assistance from you.”

  Waiting for further remarks from the men in the room but hearing none, Rogers continued. “We have a possible explanation for how the terrorist actions might have been carried out.”

  Igor Petrovich, still smarting over his embarrassment at the pictures that Rogers had pulled out of his briefcase like a rabbit out of a hat, was relieved that there were no new ones. The nervous twitch in his right eye, which had begun when he crossed the threshold into the room, suddenly stopped.

  “Edward,” he said, “the other day you knew more than we did and now you want our help?”

  Caught off guard by the question and not liking being one upped by Igor, Rogers replied, “Yes, Igor, that is the very thing I’m asking.”

  Smiling on the inside as he projected a solemn demeanor, Igor pronounced, “Gentlemen, I guess the great intelligence apparatus of the United States isn
’t as efficient as we thought.”

  Rogers ignored the remark.

  “You are cognizant of the fact that no fewer than five of our UNSCOM inspectors are missing in Iraq. Well, another of our men was recently exposed to something that we now believe might have been used to abduct them. The environs where our man encountered this ‘something’ were ones that our inspectors were visiting.”

  Silence was thick in the room and Rogers stopped for a moment to take a drink of water.

  “What I would ask you to do is have those locations of yours where the other incidents occurred meticulously inspected. Ask your people to report any physical impairment they may experience.

  “From what we now know, this something may cause heart palpitations, dizziness, shortness of breath and disorientation, but it appears not to be fatal. It’s critical that we confirm or deny that the same substance was used—it would be a crucial step forward in solving these terrorist acts.”

  Rogers heard subdued grumbling before the envoys said good-bye. They weren’t pleased to convey his request to their governments, but they agreed to notify Rogers of anything they found out—if they could convince their governments to cooperate.

  Sitting alone in his office, Rogers knew that there was something else he had to do, but it eluded him.

  He opened his safe for a paper he was working on and his memory was jogged by an envelope there. Ah, the NASA photographs!

  He spread the pictures out on his conference table and viewed each one several times, looking for the one he had promised to send William Holden. Not here…

  Rogers checked his briefcase and his desk but found nothing. He concluded that he must have inadvertently put the photo in the trash. With a feeling like heartburn in his chest, he got on the phone and asked his contact at the Dryden Flight Research Center to send an additional set of pictures from the Black Bird.

  A little while later the pictures came in via a scrambled satellite transmission and he selected the one for Holden, attached a note to it and set it in his out box for his secretary to fax it to the UNSCOM headquarters in Baghdad.