Pandemic

Aziz frowned. "But had this been a virus like smallpox all of them who were not immune would develop infection."

Kabaal's smile broadened. "It is enough, good doctor."

Aziz nodded, but disappointment lingered in his small eyes. There was too much microbiological imperfection in the statistics.

A knock interrupted them. A compact, muscular Malaysian man stood at the open door. He wore a loose white robe along with an ornate green and gold kopiah, the traditional Malaysian skullcap.

"Ah, Ibrahim Sundaram, welcome, welcome," Kabaal said, and he rose to greet the young man with a warm handshake.

Dr. Aziz nodded once to Kabaal and then rushed by Sundaram without acknowledging him.

Kabaal put an arm on the Malay's shoulder. "Come, let's walk," he said. He waited for Sabri to saunter over before leading Sundaram out of the room.

They walked down the stairs and out a back door into the dusty hot daylight. Kabaal directed the others over to a patch of shade offered by the tin overhang. He was disappointed how little relief the shade provided from the equatorial heat, but he wanted to have the conversation outside and this spot was as private as any Kabaal knew of.

Kabaal and Sabri stood side by side at the edge of the shade, facing Sundaram whose back almost touched the wall of the complex. "You wanted to see me, Abu Lahab?" the Malay asked in perfect English.

"I wanted to thank you, Ibrahim," Kabaal said with an accent that was a soothing hybrid of Queen's English and Egyptian, which had been so irresistible to the female students at the London School of Economics. "Without your help, none of this would be possible."

The man who had single-handedly transported the virus from China to Africa shrugged humbly. "I was only a courier. And without my good friend, Farouk Ali, I had no chance of success."

"Of course, of course. Brave Farouk," Kabaal said solemnly. "What happened to him?"

"He became sick before we reached the Chinese border. It was far too risky to cross with Farouk showing signs of the illness." Sundaram looked down at the dirt. "I shot him and the Chinese black marketer before I crossed. Farouk died a martyr's death."

"Allah be praised," Sabri said softly in Arabic, though he clearly understood the English conversation.

"A glorious death," Kabaal said. He narrowed his gaze at Sundaram. "And you, Ibrahim? How are you feeling?"

Sundaram dug at the soft ground with his shoe. "Better, Abu Lahab. Much better."

"What was it like?" Kabaal asked.

Sundaram considered the question for a moment before looking back up. "At home, when I was thirteen and working on my father's farm, I came down with malaria. For twenty hours a day, I felt fine. But twice a day my fever would spike. The pain was unbearable. I felt so weak, I couldn't lift my arm to bring water to my lips. With this illness, for three days, I felt like that every moment. I was certain I would die. But then it was gone quicker than it came. And now I feel well again."

"I am glad you are well, Ibrahim," Kabaal said.

Sundaram's lips broke into a smile. Then he began to chuckle. It was an infectious laugh. Soon Kabaal joined in, while Sabri watched them impassively.

When he stopped laughing, Kabaal asked, "How is your Arabic?"

Sundaram shrugged. "I speak several languages, but I am sad to say my Arabic is not very good. I can read the Koran, but I have trouble conversing."

"A pity," Kabaal sighed. "Most of the men here speak nothing but Arabic."

Sundaram nodded.

"And there is the issue of your presence in East Africa," Kabaal said. "You don't exactly blend in. You understand?"

"Of course," Sundaram said.

"If the wrong person were to see you they might make the connection," Kabaal continued. "And you know how people talk. Even my people."

"Unavoidable," Sundaram said.

Sabri took a few steps back until he stood in the sunlight.

"It comes down to loose ends," Kabaal said, trying to convince himself more than the young man with the relaxed shoulders who stood in front of him. "This operation is so fragile. We cannot afford loose ends."

Sundaram held his hands open in front of him. "It is God's way."

"Which is sometimes the hardest way," Kabaal said. He glanced over his shoulder at Sabri and nodded, then turned back to Sundaram. "Of course, it will be a martyr's death."

"A martyr's death," Sundaram repeated with conviction.

"Paradise awaits you," Kabaal said as he took a few steps to his side and away from Sabri.

The major withdrew the semiautomatic handgun from underneath his galabiya. In one deliberate motion, he raised his arm until it was level with Sundaram's face.

He fired.

Sundaram's head snapped back against the wall of the complex. A momentary pause, then his legs crumpled and he dropped like a detonated building. When his head hit the ground, his kopiah rolled off as if leading the stream of blood that followed close behind it.