The Virulence

By James C. Hendee

This action-packed thriller follows retired intelligence officer Jason Stouter in his mission for peace in the Middle East as he confronts his old nemesis, Kahlil Zufar. As the Middle East conflict reaches its climax, Jason finds himself in the midst of a secret group of genetic engineers who have developed a highly selective virus. Their goal is to blackmail Israel and Arab nations into agreeing to peace. However, Jason soon discovers that his nemesis has hijacked the virus for his own nefarious purposes, putting the entire mission at risk.

With the help of his friend in the FBI and two seductive but dangerous women, Jason embarks on a dangerous journey across the Florida Keys, Jackson Hole, Boston, Israel, and Jordan to stop the virus from spreading and to ensure that peace prevails. As he unravels the mystery behind Zufar’s ultimate vision, Jason must use all his skills to thwart the deadly plan and protect innocent lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798886931327

James C. Hendee

James C. Hendee worked as a Marine Ecologist, Oceanographer, and Supervisory Physical Scientist for the U.S. Government (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, or NOAA) for 30 years before retiring in September 2020, after starting the Coral Health and Monitoring Program (group of researchers), originating Coral-List (over 10,000 subscribers), the Coral Reef Early Warning System (artificial intelligence monitoring of coral reef ecosystems), and finally becoming the Director of the Ocean Chemistry and Ecosystems Division (over 40 researchers) for his final seven years of U.S. government service. He has authored or co-authored 62 scientific publications (so far), written two novels, and before his life as a public servant was a halibut fisherman, kelp diver, and Dungeness crab diver in Alaska, an aquaculturist at the Oceanic Institute (Hawaii) and in Texas (Texas Parks & Wildlife Department), a snake-hunter and orchid collector in the Florida Everglades, worked on the Trans-Alaska Pipeline, served in Belize in the Peace Corps, and worked for three universities (University of Hawaii, University of Alaska, and Harvard University). Jim also has SCUBA-dived in the Arctic (Prudhoe Bay), the Pacific (Hawaii, Saipan, Australia), the Indian (Sri Lanka, Bali), and Atlantic Oceans (too many Caribbean countries to list). Jim has read hundreds of books on the craft of writing and in researching his fiction and uses some of his true experiences and adventures in his fictional writings. He currently lives in Pompano Beach, Florida.

Book preview

Prologue

The cool air in the brilliant green and yellow-timbered valley below was motionless as Jason Stouter waited. From his perch atop a cliff on the shady side of the mountain, he could see far off to his left the smoke from the stack of the approaching old zephyr as it puffed its way through the vast uninhabited forest. Across from him, he could see where the track broke through a small clearing in the woods, then disappeared off to his right into a tunnel buried in a meadow-covered hillside. Beyond the exit from the tunnel, way off in the distance to the right, the track crossed over a trestle, and far below it he knew there lay a gentle sloshing sea in a sheltered bay. Jason stepped nearer to his cliff-side precipice and finally heard the growing, steady pounding approach of the train as it neared the tunnel. The first afternoon winds began to rise, sweeping gently past him from left to right, the piquant aroma and solitude of the woods relaxing him as he began to breathe deeply. He closed his eyes, listened to his heart for a few moments, then jumped.

The wings of the sleek Perfex hang glider caught the growing breeze, but he lost altitude quickly. He corrected and swerved into the breeze to gain some altitude, then turned in a broad sweeping arc back toward the clearing before the tunnel, the sun at his back between him and the approaching train. He steered to a spot just above the entrance of the tunnel and saw to his left brief glimpses of the train and the chugging smoke and heard the frantic scream of the whistle as it moved headlong to the entrance. The train and Jason arrived at the tunnel as the engineer looked up at him with surprise.

The great clacking of the wheels and screeching of the whistle fell silent as the old locomotive entered the tunnel. Jason steered to the right and followed above it, over the meadow blanket, matching the speed of the train as it moved toward the exit. He reduced his altitude until just inches above the meadow, heading for the tunnel’s exit. Suddenly, with the train’s loud steaming whistle ahead of him he saw the train exit and could just make out the engineer climbing to the side of the engine, looking right at Jason and talking into a hand-held radio. Jason reached the end of the tunnel and swept down over the top of the fifth car, then jettisoned his glider just as he touched down on its roof. The glider catapulted directly in back of him and tumbled over and over until it finally swooped to the side of the train and disappeared into the trees. Jason quickly stabilized his balance against the gently swaying car, cinched his tightly packed gliding parachute down tighter to his back, then turned and ran toward the end of the train.

At the end of the car, he peeked quickly over the edge, then climbed down the access ladder and stepped onto the passageway between cars. He quickly opened the door to the sixth car, stepped inside, then drew the pistol out of his belt holster with his right hand and his knife out of its sheath with his left. On his left, he saw one man standing, facing away from him, a radio to his ear. On his right, another guard, who had been looking out the window unconcerned, turned to him in surprise and reached for the gun in his shoulder holster. Jason stepped even with the man on his left, then shot the man on the right in the forehead once. The man on the left was just turning to him when Jason stabbed him backhand with his left hand in the throat, then stuck the gun up under his ribs and shot once. As the man collapsed, he swung the gun out front of him and pointed it at the large man just beginning to stand at the rear of the car. The man was broad-shouldered with thick black wavy hair, cruel ice-blue eyes, and a thick-skinned sun-weathered face. He opened his eyes wide and bellowed with a deep shaking voice: You!

Jason shot just as the train lurched. The bullet caught the right side of the man’s face, spewing eye tissue against the wall of the cabin and window and thrusting him backward over the seat.

Jason knew the train was nearing the trestle. He sheathed his knife, his gun hand still ready, then turned and quickly left the car. In the passageway, he could see through the door window into the next car. Running toward him from the far end of the car was a woman with long blond hair bouncing wildly to and fro, a gun raised and pointing at him. He stepped to the side just as two bullets crackled through the window. He holstered his gun and scrambled quickly up the ladder and onto the top of the car.

The trestle was just ahead and he could now see the far edge of the bay hundreds of feet below. He ran full out toward the front of the train, turning his head sideways to glimpse behind him, then back to the front, then back and forth again, waiting for the woman to appear in his periphery as she came up the ladder. He reached the end of the car, jumped to the next one, then turned and drew his gun, waiting for her.

The woman looked up over the edge of the car then dropped down quickly as Jason fired. Jason looked to his right just as the train began to cross the trestle and saw the brilliant scintillating ocean beyond with its connection to the opal-colored bay below. He ran to the edge of the car and jumped from the train, turning in mid-air as he did to look back at the woman as she stepped to the top of the car. They emptied their guns at each other as Jason fell, yet each missed. With panic rising, Jason tossed the gun and pulled the ripcord to his chute.

He dropped like a wounded osprey to the sea below, then a stiff offshore breeze swept through the gorge and caught him with a violent jerk as the chute opened. He looked all about him then steered toward the seaward side of the bay, the chute now allowing him to fall gracefully. Below him he saw his diver manning the Diver Propulsion Vehicle, just inches below the surface. Jason aimed the chute toward him, then just before he hit the water, released himself from the harness and fell to the sea.

The weight of his clothes and boots made it difficult to swim, but the diver was soon upon him. The diver gave him a mask with a snorkel connected and pointed to a lift-bag that was supporting the rest of the SCUBA gear ten yards away. Jason put on the mask and snorkel, took a breath, stuck his head underwater and took off his shoes. The diver motioned Jason to hold on to him, then turned and gunned the DPV toward the floating gear. He slowed as they reached the lift-bag, then Jason swam over, donned the gear and cleared his mask again. He climbed back onto the diver’s back and tapped him on the shoulder to signal he was ready. The driver of the DPV opened the throttle and they sped away, deep into the abyss.

1

Marathon

GAZA CITY, Gaza Strip (AP)—Through a fusillade of bullets, a sniper in an Israeli helicopter killed a senior Hamas commander who was among the government’s most-wanted fugitives for years. It was the latest in a series of assassinations that have crippled the insurgent group. The Zionist criminals will soon regret this horrendous crime, said a Hamas spokesman.

Jason turned to the voice speaking to him from the bottom of the short stairs leading up to the auditorium stage. The man had said something to him, but it hadn’t registered. Jason inspected him briefly: he was tall and athletic, dressed in crisply ironed khaki slacks and a sapphire-colored aloha shirt with coconut buttons. Jason put his hand to his ear and shrugged, then motioned him up, saying nothing as he returned to stuffing papers from the podium into a stiff new leather portfolio. In front and below him, his audience was filtering out, queuing to the exits at the top of the four aisles, murmuring quietly. The air conditioning system halted with a loud clunk.

The man walked quietly up the stairs and stood beside Jason, who was tall himself, only more so. Sorry, I just wanted to say that I believe I can cure your son’s illness.

Jason, his eyes hard and brown as jasper, his voice deep and resonant, turned to look at the man: Are you a doctor or something? He turned his attention again to the struggle with the stiff portfolio.

Yes. Dr. Chance Bonnard. If you have a moment, I’d like to explain.

The final member of the audience departed, precipitating a leaden stillness in the auditorium.

Jason abandoned the worrisome portfolio and turned to the physician. Sure.

Bonnard offered his right hand. "I read about you and your son in the Time magazine article," he said, relinquishing the smallest of concerned smiles.

With a perfunctory but firm handshake, Jason responded: Then you must also remember there’s no cure.

That is the common perception, yes, but I hope to convince you otherwise.

Jason sighed. Have a seat. He motioned to a small card table next to the podium with two wooden chairs, a pitcher of water and a half empty glass. They stepped to the table, pulled out the chairs and sat.

Mr. Stouter, I’ve read your book and heard you speak on a number of occasions. I have a big interest in counterterrorism myself.

Jason leaned forward, clasped his hands, and with a polite but hardened look, said, That’s nice, but what does that have to do with my son?

Yes, I know, I’m coming to that. Bonnard placed one hand on each leg, sat up straighter, then continued. In your talks, you say that the only way terrorism will stop is when all sides are mutually afraid of a more powerful, policing force, a force so overwhelmingly strong they wouldn’t even consider confronting it. The problem, of course, is that the U.S. can’t use its military force to go squash something it can’t find.

Jason unclasped his hands and leaned back against the chair. That is correct, I have said essentially that.

Bonnard placed his forearms on the table and leaned forward. Forgive me, but the problem with what you say is that you don’t offer any suggestions or scenarios on how that might happen. On the other hand, he said, the procedures we have refined to cure your son’s illness can also be used to realize your proposition.

Jason said nothing, soaking in Bonnard’s stare. We? he said finally.

Bonnard said nothing.

So, Jason sneered, I get a bonus. My son gets his life saved, and we rid the world of terrorism. How wonderful. Jason stood, the chair rasping harshly against the wooden floor. I believe your time is up, Dr. Bonnard.

Bonnard raised his voice, his face now hardened. Mr. Stouter, what if I’m right? Are you really just going to walk away from a chance to save your son’s life? He sat up straight, clenching his hands slightly. My interest and resolve here are genuine.

Jason looked balefully down at Bonnard. What makes you think I would even consider letting you play with my son’s life?

Check my credentials, said Bonnard, waving aside doubt with his right hand. I’ll give you anything you need to see I’m for real.

Tell me something, Doctor, he said as he moved back toward the podium. Has this cure of yours been tested before? On a human?

Yes, and it worked.

Really? said Jason, surprised, turning again to face him. How come nobody knows about it then? I would know if it existed, believe me—I’ve looked everywhere.

Because we don’t want anybody to know about it. Yet. They will soon, but not yet.

Well now isn’t that odd, Jason countered. You’re a doctor and have a life-saving cure, but you don’t want anybody to know about it…yet.

That is correct, and I can explain why later if you decide to do this.

Jason looked for any sign of a lie in Bonnard’s face, but saw none. How do I know my son won’t die if he takes this cure; or what if he gets worse?

Well, you don’t know, nobody ever knows for certain their first time, but if it will make you feel better, we both can take it first. Then you can watch your son take it, and you can watch it save his life. I hope. We hope. Bonnard exhaled and dropped his hands again to his lap. Of course, there is that modicum of chance that it won’t work, but I’m certain it won’t make him any worse.

Jason stepped over and sat down again across from Bonnard. Okay, Dr. Bonnard, let’s say I agree to this. What exactly is the connection with terrorism, and why have you come to me? What’s the catch?

The catch, Mr. Stouter, is that if the cure for your son Billy works, I will ask you for a favor.

A favor, Jason echoed quietly, leaning back in his chair, eyeing Bonnard with a squint. This does not sound good, Dr. Bonnard. Why didn’t you just ask me to do your favor anyway, or offer to pay me without involving my son?

Because you wouldn’t do it—not unless you really believed it would work, and you wouldn’t believe it would work unless you saw it work for your son. Bonnard hesitated a moment and also leaned back in his chair. Also, the favor involves dangerous work, something that not just anyone can do.

Wait a minute, see what work for my son? What kind of dangerous work?

Bonnard said nothing, but smiled crookedly and opened his palms upward, as though conveying that he did not know.

Let me guess, Jason continued. If you’re relating a medical cure to terrorism somehow, then you must be talking about some kind of medical treatment for terrorism, like it was a medical problem or something; or maybe you’re thinking of a disease or some kind of bioterrorism, correct?

Bonnard clasped his hands comfortably in front of him. Nobody anywhere, ever, has yet discussed or suggested this approach—not even close. You won’t be able to guess this, Mr. Stouter, not in a million years. And even if you did, I wouldn’t acknowledge it.

Jason soaked in the answer and thought for a moment, his eyes fixed on Bonnard’s. Why can’t you show me the other kids it worked for? Wouldn’t I believe it then?

There are only two other cases, and in both cases, the parents have sworn not to reveal how the cure came about. We asked them not to, and for publicity’s sake, they asked us not to reveal them to anyone.

Jason waved his big hands about in exasperation. This is nonsense. How can you ask me to cooperate when you won’t tell me anything?

If you try this cure, I’ll explain, and you can decide whether you want to grant me the favor. It’s a safe bet. Like I said, we can both take the same medication at the same time. We both live, or we both die or become sick, and your son is not involved.

Jason scooted his chair back and looked out over the empty seats of the warming auditorium. His thick black hair was beginning to glisten slightly with the rising heat and humidity of Marathon in the middle Florida Keys.

Okay, let’s say I agree to this. You’re assuming I’m still the man I was five years ago. I’m not. I’m out of shape. I’m rusty. I probably couldn’t reach any of my former contacts, and even if I could, they’d be crazy to work for me now. They’d be suspicious. What the hell are you doing here, they’d be asking me. No matter what I told them, they’d know it was a lie.

Nobody wants you to pick up your old network. We’d rather this was low key—the fewer the better.

Why don’t you get some young FBI or Agency stud?

They wouldn’t have a son who would die before he sees his fifteenth birthday. And they’re still working—you’re not, at least not like you were. Like I said, you’ve got to see this with your own eyes, or you won’t buy it. Besides, the last thing we want is for the government to know about this.

Jason paused. So this favor is illegal?

Like I said, your outlook is our outlook. You’re the man we need.

And who is ‘we’, by the way?

Bonnard stood and reinserted his chair under the table. Why don’t you think this over, he said. He put his hand to his hip pocket and pulled out his wallet. Work with us, and I’ll tell you more. Here’s my card—call my secretary if you need anything.

Jason stood and took the card. Fine, but don’t hold your breath.

Bonnard smiled and nodded once. Fair enough, Mr. Stouter. Thank you for your time. He turned and left with a skip down the stairs and a brisk stride up the aisle.

* * *

Early the next morning Jason held the steering wheel of the old 1979 Mercedes with his left hand and Bonnard’s card in his right while he squinted to make out the lettering in the twilight: AmeriGene Nanotechnologies; Specialists in Agricultural Genetic Engineering; Chance Bonnard, Ph.D., M.D. It had an email address, a phone and fax number, and a Web address. Jason wondered: Agricultural genetics? What did that have to do with curing human diseases?

He reached the top of the towering Channel 5 Marker bridge just north of Long Key and looked to his right over the open ocean as the sun began to peek above the placid and shimmering Atlantic Ocean. A few boats on the horizon left trails of white meringue on a greenish churning sea, and he wondered momentarily if his enforcement friends with the Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary were out there catching bad guys.

His thoughts returned to Chance Bonnard. What if this guy really had something? Who was he?

Jason arrived at the next bridge and watched the early morning fishermen lining up to try their luck as the tide turned. He reached for his phone and called his friend Sali Bryant at home. Sali worked for the FBI’s Key West field office, at least for a few more days.

A little early to be calling, don’t you think? Jason said, out of turn, to Sali.

Nah, I’m up, said Sali, coughing deeply in the background, hawking up a glob of sputum, which he finally spat somewhere. Just stumbling around here in the kitchen trying to find a clean coffee cup. What’s up?

Some guy cornered me after my talk last night. He says he might be able to help Billy. He might be a lunatic, but maybe not. I’m wondering if you might be able to do a check on him for me.

Shit, you know I can’t do that. You trying to get me fired three days before I retire? Hold on a second. Jason heard him put the phone down, pour some coffee, then return to the phone. Yeah, okay, I’ll do it, but it better be good—you’re messing with my pension. What’s his name?

Dr. Chance Bonnard, out of Fort Lauderdale, runs a business called AmeriGene Nanotechnologies.

How do you spell Bonnard and Nano-whatever?

Jason spelled everything out.

I can do a routine check. If you want me to go deeper, it could raise some flags. How about if I just go shallow for right now?

Yeah, that’s fine.

How’s Billy doing anyway?

I’m heading up to Nicklaus Children’s Hospital right now. He listened for a moment as Sali asked questions. Yeah, Susie’s there right now with him. When I get there, she’ll leave and go see her mother before heading home, then I’ll take him back to Key West…No more blood tests. We should know more in a day or two.

Jason hung up, passed a lumbering Winnebago and sped by Bud and Mary’s Marina, trying to get ahead of the rising business traffic before he got to Key Largo where the lanes opened up to four. He still had almost two hours to go before he reached the hospital.

* * *

Nicklaus Children’s Hospital began its existence in 1950 and through a series of changes has become the onl0

y licensed exclusive children’s hospital in the state of Florida. It has over eight hundred attending physicians and over one hundred thirty pediatric sub-specialists and is ranked as one of the best in the United States. It is also home to the largest pediatric teaching program in the southeastern part of the country. The Division of Hematology and Oncology is one of national recognition.

Jason pulled onto Southwest Sixty-Second Avenue and found a parking place on the ground floor of the garage. The walls of the main administration building were covered with beige-and-brown, with wide checkerboard squares and a structure at the second-floor level that looked like a large wagon wheel laid on its side.

Hello, Ms. Johnson, said Jason as he stepped up to the reception area. The pleasant nurse with grey-streaked red hair halted writing an entry in her log book and looked up.

Hello to you, too, Mr. Stouter; good to see you again.

How do you manage to always wear such pleasant-smelling flowers every time I come here? I’ve never seen the same ones twice. He was referring to the fragrant array of frangipani blossoms, several different color varieties, that graced her right blouse pocket.

Well, I’ll tell you a little secret: my husband is a grounds keeper at Fairchild Gardens, she winked with a smile. Please be seated and I’ll tell Dr. Finch you’re in.

Seconds later Dr. Finch’s secretary led Jason out of the main building, across the street and over to Billy’s new room in one of the old buildings.

Please stop by and see Dr. Finch before you leave, she said as she gently closed Billy’s door. He wants to see you.

Jason gazed at his son who was sleeping peacefully. That little face of ten years hadn’t always known this hardship, and in fact his illness did not prevent him from enjoying his friends and baseball and all the other things kids his age enjoyed. The debilitation was an insidious one and might have gone undetected for quite some time if not for an alert pediatrician in Key West who noticed a peculiarity in a blood sample. The doctor checked the sample with his colleagues, then sent it to Nicklaus Children’s Hospital for verification. Unfortunately, his provisional diagnosis was correct: Billy had a rare form of a blood disease called Beta thalassemia that is usually fatal during the child’s later teenage years. Children who contracted this extremely rare blood disorder usually did not show the usual signs of fatigue and lethargy until the final year before their death, but Billy was exhibiting the signs earlier than expected, and blood checks more frequently were indicated. This was the last blood sample and tests for this month, and now it was time for him to go home.

Hey, little champ, Jason said with a gentle nudge. Your mom is letting me take you home.

Hi, Dad, said Billy through sleepy eyes. The drawing of the blood, the many tests and questions the doctors had asked, and the unstoppable progression of the disease had tired him into a nap. Can we go home now?

Sure thing, little pal little pal, let’s get the heck out of here. Jason would do that now and then: make a little syncopation out of things he would say to Billy. Go ahead and get dressed, then I need to have a talk with the doctor.

Jason helped Billy out of the bed and down the hall to the TV room where he asked him to stay while he walked down to Dr. Finch. Jason walked down to his office, knocked, and stepped in.

Dr. James Finch was a large man in his late fifties who had a full head of thick brown hair and equally brown eyes. He stood to greet Jason and reached across his desk with a powerful handshake.

Good to see you again, Mr. Stouter. Please, have a seat.

He motioned to a chair, then sat himself, removing his black frame glasses and placing them on top of one of the several deep piles of papers on his desk.

Mr. Stouter, we have run some new tests, based on newly published procedures developed at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. We had hoped these tests would indicate a positive prognosis for prescribing a drug that has worked on other children; however, I’m afraid the tests were negative.

Jason waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. Finally, Jason said, So this means we’re back where we were?

I’m afraid not, Mr. Stouter. It appears from our tests that your son’s condition is, for some reason, accelerating.

Jason said nothing, waiting for the words he did not want to hear.

Unless we find something new, the doctor continued, or we think of some other approach we haven’t thought of, I’m afraid your son probably has less than six months to live.

Jason felt himself plunging into a dark numbness where he heard, saw or felt nothing. Tears began to well in his eyes, then he murmured, Bullshit. His stare burned into the eyes of the doctor with the death sentence, then stood and turned to walk from the office.

I’m very sorry, Mr. Stouter, said the doctor, rising to his feet, I’ll let you know if we find anything else. But the door was already closing, and Jason was walking down the hallway, wiping his eyes clean, to meet his son who was so very much alive in the TV room waiting patiently for him.

Okay, son, he said, forcing a smile, let’s go.

* * *

An hour later, on the way home, Jason called Sali again.

Did you find anything on Bonnard?

"Nothing twisted, that’s for sure. He looks squeaky clean. In fact, the guy appears to be a very highly respected medical and biochemical genius, from all I can tell. Graduated summa cum laude from Harvard, sold a patent for some kind of genetic engineering process, started his own genetic engineering business, and is now worth who knows how many millions of dollars. The guy looks legit to me, Jason. I can’t find anything bad on him. He even pays his taxes in February. But I can look deeper, if you want me to."

Jason felt a tug of hope. Yes, please keep looking.

Hey, it sounds like this guy might help out Billy, do you think?

Maybe so, but somehow it smells. I’ll call you back after I talk to him.

On the way back to Key West, Jason took Card Sound Road, but pulled off to a chalk white dirt farm road next to an old pump house so they could stretch their legs. They got out of the car and closed the doors as a small cloud of dust from the road caught up with them. Jason walked slowly, deep in thought, down the rock road with high weeds down the center, while Billy looked for reptiles under long-discarded road-signs and flat rocks. What could this man Chance Bonnard be asking for him to do in exchange for his son’s life? Could he actually save his son? Why be so secretive about a cure for a disease that could save hundreds, maybe thousands of kids? Could this favor Bonnard wanted be something traitorous? Did it matter? At this sad point he could not imagine anything on the planet that mattered more to him than saving his son’s life; and if Bonnard’s cure didn’t work, well, at least he would have exhausted all possibilities. Obviously, this man was no quack, so there was genuine hope.

Jason opened his cell phone and held Bonnard’s card in front of him. He dialed the number in Fort Lauderdale, told the secretary who he was, and asked to have Bonnard call him the next morning.

Dad! I just saw a garter snake! He was huge! He held his arms wide to establish the length of the green-and-black striped serpent he had just identified.

Why didn’t you catch him?

Aw, I tried, he said, embarrassed, but he got away.

Well, better luck next time, said Jason, wondering how many more times his son might actually have. After a short while, he said, We’d better go, I’ve got to drop you off at your mom’s before sundown.

The father with his son headed back down the road, toward an uncertain future, but with a glimmer of hope.

2

Key West

Hello everybody, this is Sarah Falin with Fox News. We are taking you now immediately to our Middle East correspondent Joseph Morgan in Ramallah. We warn you that images you are about to see are graphic; viewer discretion is advised.

Good evening, Sarah. Two non-combatant Israeli reservists mistakenly passed an Israeli checkpoint and entered Ramallah yesterday. After reaching a Palestinian Authority roadblock, they were detained and taken to a local police station. Rumors began to spread that the two who were detained were undercover Israeli agents from the elite Duvedevan Unit, and before sundown, Palestinian rioters stormed the building, snatched the captured reservists, stabbed them, gouged their eyes out, and disemboweled them. One of the reservists bodies was tossed out the window and stamped and beaten by the enraged mob below. The other body was set on fire. Finally the two bodies were taken to Al-Manara Square and displayed in a victory celebration that lasted until dawn. Only one perpetrator has been arrested so far, Sarah…

After the two-and-a-half-hour drive from the upper Keys, Jason finally reached the first big traffic light in Key West, turned left onto South Roosevelt Boulevard, then right onto Flagler Avenue. Three blocks down he turned right, then left on Eagle Avenue until he came to the pink house that was Susie’s. He parked the car in the gravel spread out front, turned off the engine, and sighed in relief as he rubbed his eyes and temples. It had been a long day of driving—first from Marathon to Miami, then from Miami to Key West—and his back was sore and his legs were stiff. Next to him, Billy lay asleep, his body busily rebuilding the blood taken from him for the tests at Nicklaus Children’s.

Hey, pal, we’re home, said Jason, as he gently jostled Billy awake.

Billy stirred, his body at a slightly twisted angle against the seat belt, rubbed his face, undid the buckle, then opened the door and jumped out of the car.

Jason stiffly pulled himself out of the car and followed Billy through a front gate stuffed with purple-flowered Bengal clock vines. Brown-Boy, Susie and Billy’s brown-and-white basset hound, met him with his typical window-breaking friendly bark.

Susie was half Filipino with an olive complexion and almond eyes. The late-afternoon sun broke through an open spot in the overhanging royal poinciana to reach her standing at the screen door, her eyes squinting in the brilliance, her hair molten black and shining in long cascade down her back. Brown-Boy, stop it! she screamed.

He’s happy to see me, Jason said as he came to the bottom of the three steps into the house.

He’s happy to see everybody, she said. Her thick Filipino Tagalog lips only hinted of a smile. Come on in; I’ll bet you’re beat from that drive. She had spent the night in Miami with her mother and driven down in the late morning after some early shopping in Florida City.

Jason closed the screen door gently behind him as Brown-Boy continued his incessant fit of happy barking at Billy’s arrival.

Susie pulled a chair out for Jason at the kitchen table just inside the house. You want something to drink?

Anything cold with caffeine in it would be nice, he said as he sat down at the table. He noticed she had re-finished the kitchen counter top in some pink swirly stuff, to match the pink tile walls. Nice work, he said. Did you do it all by yourself?

No, Sali helped a little. He was here last week to visit Billy.

Billy and Brown-Boy bolted out the screen door, slamming it in the process. Jason and Susie were left in relative silence, save the barking now transferred outside.

Susie poured a yellowish-green soda over a glass of ice, put it gently in front of him, then sat across the table. So, what did the doctor say?

The dreaded question had finally come, and Jason, after all those miles, still had not figured out how to respond. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her their son may be dead before the year was out. Besides, he now held hope in Bonnard’s cure.

The results were not encouraging, he said, trying to phrase it like a physician. But, he hastened to add, I’ve talked with another doctor. He has a new medication that’s out that he feels almost certainly will cure Billy.

What do you mean ‘not encouraging?’ What did he say?

Nothing new, he lied. But listen, I know this other doctor with the Agency, and he’s on to something that he’s sure will work.

Her face paled, her thick lips beginning to frown. Who is he? Is he any good?

I can’t tell you that—you know that. And of course he’s good; they’re all good in the Agency. He hated doing this, lying, but the situation was potentially too dangerous to let her even begin to seek a chink in his armor through argument.

She was used to Jason not telling her anything about the Agency. Need-to-know was a fact-of-life for spouses, too, even if he no longer worked for them. She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes beginning to water, then she put her hand to her mouth as she began to whimper, stood, turned, and looked out the screen door at Billy playing in the yard. She began to sob, trying her best not to, but unable to contain herself.

Susie, you’ve got to hang on. This new medication he’s talking about just might work. The guy is really confident. We have to hold on to hope.

Slowly, she began to compose herself. She turned and looked down at him. So what now?

I’m going to meet him in Marathon in a couple of days. I’ll see what he has to say, then I’ll call you.

Susie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then walked past him into the living room where the long green couch stretched below a big picture window banded with vanilla-colored Venetian blinds. You can sleep here tonight, if you want. You know where the sheets are. She continued on into the bathroom and shut the door.

Jason rose and stepped to the screen door, peering out at the yard where Billy and Brown-Boy played. He remembered the appointments he had early in the morning back in Marathon, and he was expecting the call from Bonnard. After a moment, he stepped out into the fading daylight, gave Billy a good-bye hug, then left for the final drive of the day back to Marathon. This way, at least, he’d be so tired he could sleep tonight.

3

Interview

JERUSALEM (CNN)—A red-and-white Egged bus, full of teenagers on their way to school today, paused on route 32A near the Arab village of Beit Safafa near Jerusalem, then stopped for an old woman and a stocky young man wearing a baggy red shirt outside his trousers. The young man got on the bus quickly, reached beneath his shirt, pulled a cord, then exploded. Thirty-seven young people were shredded by ball bearings and nails, leaving only entrails, blood and hair strewn over the sidewalk, bicycles, and hibiscus plants which surrounded the bus stop area. The lone witness who survived the event, is expected to lose sight from one eye. Two militant Palestinian factions claimed responsibility. Israel vowed immediate revenge.

Well, Ms. Bradley, your credentials are excellent, but let me ask you something: Why do you want to work for Counter Force? Jason’s forearms leaned against his desk as he searched her eyes earnestly for an answer.

She said nothing for a moment, looking straight at him, but finally spoke. I don’t know what you’re going to think of me for saying this, but my husband was killed by terrorists, and I’m hoping I might in some small way help to get back at them by working for you.

Jason leaned forward, dropped the pencil to the desk and looked at her, his head nodding very slightly. I am sorry, Ms. Bradley, I had no idea. What happened?

She told him of a vacation trip to Colombia and how they had been at the wrong place at the wrong time: a drive-by shooting of the local policia which unfortunately killed her husband, too. The killers were never found.

I’m very sorry, Ms. Bradley. I hope they find them someday.

She said nothing, but looked down at the floor, waiting for him to continue.

But you know, I have to tell you, I look at this, he said, picking up her resume and placing it down again softly, and I see that you have your two children to feed. I’m sorry to say, but this job doesn’t pay as well as you could probably get working somewhere else. I know you’re going to hate hearing this, but it’s like you’re so qualified, I’d be afraid you’d quit the first time you got a better offer. You could easily be working for some high-powered attorney in Miami. And after all, I don’t really fight terrorists any more—I just talk about it. I guess I’m just sort of wondering if this is the right move for you and for me. You could get in a bad way taking care of your family, then quit on me for the high paying job.

She gave him a rather blank look. Any job is better than no job right now.

Jason thought for a moment: she needed work desperately, and she wasn’t all that concerned about what the job was.

Okay, Ms. Bradley, let me think on it and I’ll call you back tomorrow, okay?

She thanked him with an incongruous cheerful smile, shook his hand, then left.

The work load from Jason’s new business was building up: corporate seminars, public speaking engagements, interviews with CIOs. But it was too much for him to handle: he needed a secretary right away—today if at all possible. He had a stack of applicants sent to him by the