Clayton unfolded the second page, which bore an English translation, and placed it on top of the original text.
Haldane read the letter silently.
General,
For twenty years, I served loyally in your army. I performed every order I ever received. I accomplished every mission you or your designates ever set for me. I excelled where others would not have dared try.
Never questioning my orders, I fought the faithful of the Jihad. And on behalf of you and your illegitimate regime, I tortured and killed them. For which I am destined as you are to spend eternity in the fiery lake of hell.
For all of that, you rewarded my service, my sacrifice, with nothing but neglect and shame. Now you will learn that there is a price for your insult.
When your great ally, America, withers and collapses to her soulless knees because of me, you will see what happens. The faithful will rise up and restore Allah to His rightful seat of power in Egypt and
Haldane read the letter over, while McLeod whistled. "I'm no psychotherapist, but I think the old major might have a few wee unresolved issues."
No one laughed.
"'When your great ally, America, withers and collapses to her soulless knees,'" Haldane quoted. "That doesn't sound like someone who ever intended to negotiate."
"True" Clayton said, folding up the pages and tucking them back into his pocket. "Sabri always planned on releasing the virus."
"Or still plans to," McLeod said with a disconsolate nod.
"It has been over two weeks," Haldane said, trying to convince himself as much as the others.
"Two weeks, two months, two years?" McLeod banged the table once with his fist. "If he's still alive and has the supervirus what does it matter to him? Shite, the world can't stay on guard forever. He will get his chance."
Clayton shook his head angrily. "Not if we find Major Sabri first."
"A damn good idea, Clayton," McLeod grumbled.
They sat around in despondent silence for five more minutes. Clayton glanced at his watch. "I can't wait for Gwen any longer. I have to go."
"Thanks for sharing the letter with us, Alex," Haldane said genuinely. "We'll update Gwen when she gets here." Haldane checked his own watch, which read 10:15 A.M. "At least, you don't have to worry about getting to Langley. There's still no traffic out there."
As Clayton buttoned up his overcoat, he said, "I don't know about that. Every morning there are more and more cars on the road. People are getting back to their routines."
"Yeah," McLeod agreed. "I even heard that the New Year's celebration at Times Square is on for tomorrow night."
"They're going ahead with it?" Haldane asked.
Clayton stopped buttoning his jacket.
"I heard something on the radio this morning," McLeod said. "I don't think it's the official celebration, but a bunch of New Yorkers are doing their usual, defiant screw-you-terrorists routine. We're going to party in spite of you buggers! They're expecting a big turnout, too."
Haldane looked at Clayton. "People come from all over the States for New Year's Eve at Times Square," he said, not bothering to mask the alarm in his voice.
Clayton nodded gravely. "I know."
"The reason the Spanish Flu took off like it did was because the soldiers from World War I were decommissioned in France right as the virus hit," Haldane said. They took it back home with them. What if tomorrow at Times Square…"
"We won't allow this party to happen," Clayton said definitively. "Simple as that."
McLeod rubbed his beard with his palm. "Just exactly how do you stop an unofficial party?"
"Don't underestimate us, Duncan," Clayton grunted. "Sometimes we can accomplish things without all the usual red tape."
"You mean like the Bay of Pigs?" McLeod grunted.
Before Clayton could answer, Gwen's phone rang. "Maybe that's her," he said reaching for the receiver. "Hello, Dr. Savard's office."
Clayton listened a moment. "No, she is not here." A pause. "Alex Clayton, Deputy Director of Operations for the CIA."
"What?" Clayton's eyes went wide and the color drained from his face. "Where?"
Haldane stood from his seat. "Alex…" But Clayton waved him back with a hand.
"Okay," Clayton said. "You call Moira Roberts, the Deputy Director of the FBI, and tell her I told you to. And you call me if you hear anything, anything at all," Clayton said, giving three numbers where he could be reached before hanging up his cell.
Clayton looked slowly from McLeod to Haldane. "The police found Gwen's car this morning at a gas station in Maryland," he said calmly. "There was blood on the backseat."
