[Luke Stone 02.0] Oath of Office

by Jack Mars

  He sighed. “I can leave in the morning.”

  Susan shook her head. “We’ve already got a plane waiting for you.”

  Luke’s eyes widened, surprised. He took a long breath.

  “OK,” he finally said. “But first I need to get some people from the Special Response Team together. I’m thinking of Ed Newsam, Mark Swann, and Trudy Wellington. Newsam’s on injury leave right now, but I’m pretty sure he’ll come back if I ask him.”

  A look passed between Susan and Monk.

  “We’ve already contacted Newsam and Swann,” Monk said. “They’ve both agreed, and both are en route to the airport. I’m afraid that Trudy Wellington won’t be possible.”

  Luke frowned. “She won’t do it?”

  Monk stared down at a yellow legal pad in his hands. He made a quick note to himself. He didn’t bother to look up. “We don’t know because we didn’t contact her. Unfortunately, using Wellington is out of the question.”

  Luke turned to Susan.

  “Susan?”

  Now Monk looked up. He scanned back and forth between Luke and Susan. He spoke again before Susan said a word.

  “Wellington is dirty. She was Don Morris’s mistress. There’s just no way she can be part of this. She’s not even going to be employed by the FBI a month from now, and she may well be up on treason charges by then.”

  “She told me she didn’t know anything,” Luke said.

  “And you believe her?”

  Luke didn’t even bother answering that question. He didn’t know the answer. “I want her,” he said simply.

  “Or?”

  “I left my son staring at a striped bass on the grill tonight, a striper that we caught together. I could start my retirement from all this right now. I kind of enjoyed being a college professor. I’m looking forward to getting back to it. And I’m looking forward to watching my son grow up.”

  Luke stared at Monk and Susan. They stared back at him.

  “So?” he said. “What do you think?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  June 11th

  2:15 a.m.

  Ybor City, Tampa, Florida

  It was dangerous work.

  So dangerous that he did not like to go out to the laboratory floor at all.

  “Yes, yes,” he said into the telephone. “We have four people on right now. We will have six when the shift turns over. By tonight? It’s possible. I don’t want to promise too much. Call me around ten a.m., and I will have a better idea.”

  He listened for a moment. “Well, I would say a van would be big enough. That size can easily pull back to the loading dock. These things are smaller than the eye can see. Even trillions of them don’t take up that much space. If we had to do it, we might be able to fit it all in the trunk of a car. But if so, I would suggest two cars. One to go on the road, and one to go to the airport.”

  He hung up the phone. The man’s code name was Adam. The first man, because he was the first man hired for this job. He fully understood the risks, even if the others did not. He alone knew the entire scope of the project.

  He watched the floor of the small warehouse through the big office window. They were working around the clock in three shifts. The people in there now, three men and a woman, wore white laboratory gowns, goggles, ventilator masks, rubber gloves, and booties on their feet.

  The workers had been selected for their ability to do simple microbiology. Their job was to grow and multiply a virus using the food medium Adam supplied, then freeze-dry the samples for later transport and aerosol transmission. It was tedious work, but not difficult. Any laboratory assistant or second year biochemistry student could do it.

  The twenty-four-hour schedule meant that the stockpiles of freeze-dried virus were growing very quickly. Adam gave a report to his employers every six or eight hours, and they always expressed their pleasure with the pace. In the past day, their pleasure had begun to give way to delight. The work would soon be complete, perhaps as early as today.

  Adam smiled at that. His employers were well-pleased, and they were paying him very, very well.

  He sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup and continued to watch the workers. He had lost count of the amount of coffee he had consumed in the past few days. It was a lot. The days were beginning to blur together. When he became exhausted, he would lie down on the cot in his office and sleep for a little while. He wore the same protective gear as the workers out in the lab. He hadn’t taken it off now in two and a half days.

  Adam had done his best to build a makeshift laboratory in the rented warehouse. He had done his best to protect the workers and himself. They had protective clothing to wear. There was a room in which to discard the clothing after each shift, and there were showers for the workers to wash off any residue afterward.

  But there were also funding and time constraints to consider. The schedule was fast, and of course there was the question of secrecy. He knew the protections were not up to the standards of the American Centers for Disease Control—if he’d had a million dollars and six months to build this place, it still wouldn’t be enough.

  In the end, he had built the lab in less than two weeks. It was located in a rugged district of old, low-slung warehouses, deep inside a neighborhood that had long been a center of Cuban and other immigration to the United States.

  No one would look at the place twice. There was no sign on the building, and it was elbow-to-elbow with a dozen similar buildings. The lease was paid for the next six months, even though they only needed the facility for a very short time. It had its own small parking lot, and the workers came and went like warehouse and factory workers everywhere—in eight-hour intervals.

  The workers were well-paid in cash, and few of them spoke any English. The workers knew what to do with the virus, but they didn’t know exactly what they were handling or why. A police raid was unlikely.

  Still, it made him nervous to be so close to the virus. He would be relieved to finish this part of the job, receive his final payment, and then evacuate this place as if he had never been here. After that, he would take a flight to the west coast. For Adam, there were two parts to this job. One here, and one… somewhere else.

  And the first part would be done soon.

  Today? Yes, perhaps even as early as today.

  He would leave the country for a while, he had decided. After all of this was over, he would take a nice long holiday. The south coast of France sounded nice to him right now. With the money he was making, he could go anywhere he liked.

  It was simple. A van, or a car, or perhaps two cars would pull into the yard. Adam would close the gates so nobody on the street could see what was happening. His workers would take a few moments loading the materials into the vehicles. He would make sure they were careful, so maybe the whole thing would require twenty minutes.

  Adam smiled to himself. Soon after the loading was done, he would be on a plane to the west coast. Soon after that, the nightmare would begin. And there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  5:40 a.m.

  The Skies Over West Virginia

  The six-seat Learjet shrieked across the early morning sky. The jet was dark blue with the Secret Service seal on the side. Behind it, a sliver of the rising sun just poked above the clouds.

  Luke and his team used the front four passenger seats as their meeting area. They stowed their luggage, and their gear, in the seats at the back.

  He had the team back together. In the seat next to him sat big Ed Newsam, in khaki cargo pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He had a pair of crutches tucked to the side of his seat, just under the window.

  Across from Luke and to the left, facing him, was Mark Swann. He was tall and thin, with sandy hair and glasses. He stretched his long legs out into the aisle. He wore an old pair of ripped jeans and a pair of red Chuck Taylor sneakers. He had been liberated from duty as a pedophile decoy, and he looked like he couldn’t be much more pleased than he was.

 
Directly across from Luke sat Trudy Wellington. She had curly brown hair, was slim and attractive in a green sweater and slacks. She wore big round glasses on her face. She was very pretty, but the glasses made her look almost like an owl.

  Luke felt okay, not great. He had called Becca before they left. The conversation hadn’t gone well. It had barely gone at all.

  “Where are you going?” she said.

  “Texas. Galveston. There’s been a security breach at a lab there.”

  “The BSL-4 lab?” she said. Becca was herself a cancer researcher. She had been working on a cure for melanoma for some years. She was part of a team, based at several different research institutions, that had been having some success killing melanoma cells by injecting the herpes virus into them.

  Luke nodded. “That’s right. The BSL-4 lab.”

  “It’s dangerous,” she said. “You realize that, I’m sure.”

  He nearly laughed. “Sweetheart, they don’t call me in when it’s safe.”

  Her voice was cold. “Well, please be careful. We love you, you know.”

  We love you.

  It was an odd way to say it, as if she and Gunner as a team loved him, but not necessarily as individuals.

  “I know,” he said. “I love you both very much.”

  There was silence over the line.

  “Becca?”

  “Luke, I can’t guarantee we’re going to be here when you get back.”

  Now, aboard the plane, he shook his head to clear it. It was part of the job. He had to compartmentalize. He was having family problems, yes. He didn’t know how to fix them. But he also couldn’t bring them with him to Galveston. They would distract him from what he was doing, and that could be dangerous, for himself and everyone involved. His focus on the matter at hand had to be total.

  He glanced out the window. The jet streaked across the sky, moving fast. Below them, white clouds skidded by. He took a deep breath.

  “All right, Trudy,” he said. “What do you have for us?”

  Trudy held up her computer tablet for everyone’s inspection. She positively beamed. “They gave me my old tablet back. Thanks, boss.”

  He shook his head and smiled just a touch. “Luke is fine. Now give it to us. Please.”

  “I’m going to assume no prior knowledge.”

  Luke nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “Okay. We are on our way to the Galveston National Laboratory, in Galveston, Texas. It is one of only four known Biosafety Level 4 facilities in the United States. These are the highest security microbiology research facilities, with the most extensive safety protocols for workers. These facilities deal with some of the most lethal and infectious viruses and bacteria known to science.”

  Swann raised a hand from out of his slump. “You say one of four known facilities. Are there unknown facilities?”

  Trudy shrugged. “Certain life sciences corporations, especially ones that are closely held, could have BSL-4 facilities without the government knowing about it. Yeah. It’s possible.”

  Swann nodded.

  “The thing that’s different about this facility in Galveston is the other three BSL-4 facilities are located on highly secure government installations. Galveston is the only one on an academic campus, a fact which was repeatedly raised as a security concern before the facility first opened in 2006.”

  “What did they do about it?” Ed Newsam said.

  Trudy smiled again. “They promised they’d be extra careful.”

  “Terrific,” Ed said.

  “Let’s get to the meat of it,” Luke said.

  Trudy nodded. “Okay. Three nights ago, a power failure occurred.”

  Luke drifted just a bit as Trudy went through the material the lab director covered with Susan and her staff the night before. The night guard, the woman, the vial of Ebola. He heard these things, but he was barely listening.

  An image of Becca and Gunner on the patio as he was leaving flashed in his mind. He tried to squash it, but it lingered on. For a long second, all he saw was Gunner staring down dejectedly at a striped bass on the grill.

  “It sure sounds like sabotage,” Newsam said.

  “It most likely was,” Trudy said. “The system was built for redundancy, and not only did the primary power source fail, the redundancy also failed. That just doesn’t happen very often unless someone helps it happen.”

  “What do we know about the woman who was inside at the time?” Luke said. “What is her name? Anything new on her?”

  “I did some looking into her. Aabha Rushdie, twenty-nine years old. She’s still missing. She has an exemplary record as a junior scientist. Doctorate in Microbiology. Highest honors at King’s College, London. Advanced training in BSL-3 and BSL-4 protocols, including certification to work solo in the lab, which is not a place everyone reaches.

  “She’s been at Galveston for three years, and has worked on a number of important programs, including the weapons program we’re concerned with.”

  “Okay,” Swann said. “This is a weapons program?”

  Trudy raised a hand. “I’ll get to that in a minute. Let me finish with Aabha. The most interesting thing about her is she died in 1990.”

  Everyone stared at Trudy.

  “Aabha Rushdie died in a car crash in Delhi, India, when she was four years old. Her parents moved to London soon after. Later, they divorced and Aabha’s mother moved back to India. Her father died of a heart attack seven years ago. And five years ago, Aabha suddenly came back to life, with a life story, schools attended, jobs, and glowing recommendations from college professors in India, all just in time to study for her doctorate in England.”

  “She’s a ghost,” Luke said.

  “It would seem so.”

  “But why is she Indian?”

  Trudy glanced at her notes. “There are about a billion people in India, but no is really sure of the total figure. The country is far behind the Western world in computerizing birth and death records. There’s widespread corruption in the civil services there, so it’s pretty straightforward to buy the identity of someone who is dead. India is a major global source of fake people.”

  “Yeah,” Swann said, “but then you have to hire an Indian ghost.”

  Trudy raised a finger. “Not necessarily. To Westerners, there’s very little difference in the appearance of people from northern India, where Delhi is, and people from Pakistan, which is right nearby. In fact, to Indians and Pakistanis themselves there isn’t much difference. So I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that Aabha Rushdie is actually a Pakistani, and most likely a Muslim. She might be an agent of the intelligence services there, or worse, a member of a conservative Sunni or Wahhabi sect.”

  Ed Newsam audibly groaned.

  Luke’s heart did a lazy belly flop somewhere inside his chest. Of all the analysts he had worked with, Trudy’s intel was always at the highest level. Her scenario-spinning ability might well be the best of the bunch. If she was correct in this case, then a Sunni from Pakistan had just stolen a vial of Ebola virus.

  Good morning. Rise and shine.

  He looked around at the four of them. His eyes landed on Trudy.

  “Give us all of it,” he said.

  “Okay, here comes the worst part,” Trudy said.

  “It gets worse?” Swann said. “I thought we just heard the worst part. How does it get any worse than that?”

  “First, the heads of the Galveston facility spent the first forty-eight hours after they realized a theft had occurred covering it up. Well, I don’t want to say they covered it up. They did their own internal investigation, which bore no fruit at all. They sent people to look for Aabha Rushdie, although she was probably already long gone. They could not initially believe that Aabha had stolen a virus. The people I talked to late last night still can’t believe it. Everyone there loved her, apparently, though no one knew much about her.”

  “You mean, like they didn’t know she’s been dead for twenty-five years?” Swann sai
d.

  Trudy went on. “So they interviewed all of the lab technicians, to see if anyone had taken the vial by accident. No one confessed, and there was no reason to suspect anyone. They checked their inventory records, and of course, the vial had been inventoried as secured just a few hours before the lights went out.”

  “Why do you suppose they delayed?”

  “That’s the second thing, and probably the worst part of all of this. The vial taken isn’t just the Ebola virus. It’s a weaponized version of the Ebola virus. Three years ago, the lab received a large grant from the United States Centers for Disease Control, and match funding from the National Institutes of Health, and the Department of Homeland Security. The funding was to find ways to modify the virus, making it even more virulent than it already was—increasing the ease with which it could be transmitted from person to person, the speed with which the Ebola disease would onset, and the percentage of infected people the virus would kill.”

  “Why the hell would they do that?” Swann said.

  “The idea was to weaponize the virus before any terrorists could, then study its properties, identify its vulnerabilities, and find ways to cure people who might one day become infected by it. The lab scientists succeeded with the first part of this task—weaponization—beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. Using a gene therapy technique known as insertion, the researchers were able to create a number of mutations to the original Ebola virus.

  “The new virus can be introduced into a population through an aerosol spray. Once infected, a person will become contagious within an hour, and will show onset of symptoms within at most two to three hours. In other words, an infected person could begin to infect others before symptoms of the disease appear.

  “This is important. It’s a radical departure from the virus in its natural state. The progression of Ebola in human populations is normally stopped when victims are quarantined in a hospital before, or very soon after, they become contagious. To stop this virus, an entire geographic area, sick people and healthy people, would have to be quarantined together. You wouldn’t know right away who had the virus and who didn’t. That means road closures, checkpoints, and barricades.”