by L. A. Larkin
But what is he doing here?
‘Special Agent Pine,’ he says, sitting on the table edge. He holds a bulging A4 manila envelope. ‘May I call you Olivia?’
‘Yes. Why is the Secret Service involved?’
He ignores the question. ‘How well do you know Toby Sinclair?’
‘We first met in Antarctica a bit over two weeks ago and we got to know each other pretty well in the five days I was there.’
‘And you helped him escape his protection detail at Porton Down?’
‘That wasn’t my intention.’
Pine raises an eyebrow.
‘Like to explain why we found this in the glove compartment of Lindsay’s car. It’s Sinclair’s handwriting.’
Pine places the envelope on the table. One side has been carefully opened. It has something rectangular inside. On the envelope is written:
Olivia Wolfe, my thanks. You of all people will understand.
She inhales sharply. ‘How could he know?’
‘Know what?’ says Pine, leaning closer.
Wolfe looks up, frowning. ‘That I’d be here. I didn’t even know until Casburn decided.’ She shakes her head, baffled.
‘You told him you’d be here.’
‘No.’
‘You’re working with him?’
‘What? No. Of course not.’
‘Then how did he know you’d come to this base?’
‘He must’ve guessed I’d work it out and follow him.’
‘What do the words mean?’
‘If he means I’d understand him using a biological weapon to destroy a military base, he’d be wrong. Utterly wrong. I want to help you stop him.’
‘Why is he thanking you?’
‘I don’t know. I mean . . . ’ she rubs her temples. ‘He knows I champion women and children in war zones, the forgotten victims. Perhaps he’s thanking me for caring? I just don’t know.’
‘Look inside,’ says Pine, nodding once at the envelope. ‘Forensics has been over it.’
Wolfe doesn’t touch it. She peers into it and sees a slim rectangular black box. She hesitates. ‘Is it safe?’
‘You tell me,’ Pine replies.
Wolfe nervously pulls out the black box and fumbles with the lid. Inside is a Sheaffer fountain pen engraved with the words ‘Collateral Damage’.
‘What does he mean?’ Pine asks.
Wolfe clenches her eyes shut, trying to remember her conversations with Sinclair.
‘Hey!’ shouts Pine, clicking his fingers in her face. ‘Answer me!’
‘I’m trying to think,’ she retorts, opening her eyes. ‘Women and children caught up in war? Maybe he means the families of the men and women stationed here? If he releases Psychosillius, they could get hurt. Collapsing buildings, cars malfunctioning.’
Wolfe holds up the pen and pulls off the lid, searching for an answer. She stares at the nib. A hint of blue on the tip.
‘Oh no.’
Her mouth dry, her hands shake.
Pine sees something is wrong and takes the pen from her just as she lets go of it. ‘Oh no, what?’
‘Did you check for Psychosillius?’ Wolfe croaks.
Garriola pipes up. ‘Of course we did. You think we’re stupid?’
‘Look at me!’ Pine demands. ‘Why did he send you the pen?’
Wolfe isn’t listening. Why would Sinclair address it to her? What does he want her to do?
‘It’s not me,’ she whispers.
‘It’s got your name on it,’ Pine barks, losing patience.
Wolfe looks up at him. ‘It’s you.’ She looks around the room. ‘All of you.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ says Garriola.
Wolfe rubs her forehead. ‘The cartridge. You tested it? You’re sure?’
Garriola blinks rapidly. She sees doubt in his eyes. ‘Forensics said bacteria-free.’
Pine turns on him. ‘You better be one hundred per cent sure. That stuff could melt this whole base!’
‘I’ll get the report,’ says Garriola, heading for the door.
‘Wait!’ calls Wolfe. ‘Has anyone used this pen? Triggered the ink?’
Garriola screws up his face as if he has a stabbing headache. ‘Shit!’ Then he yells at the two-way mirror. ‘Banks! Get in here now.’
Banks shuffles into the room. ‘It was cleared by the lab. I just wanted to see how it would write, is all. Never used a fountain pen before.’
‘Where? Where did you use it?’ Wolfe says, standing up.
‘Sit the fuck down!’ Garriola grabs her shoulder and forces her to sit.
‘Answer her,’ Pine tells Banks.
‘At the lab,’ says Banks. ‘As I said, it was cleared.’
‘And here?’
‘No, just the lab.’
‘This was his plan all along,’ says Wolfe. ‘Sinclair knew you’d test it, and he guessed you wouldn’t test inside the sealed cartridge. He knew you’d confront me with it. Here. At Creech.’
Wolfe stares at the three men in the room.
The USAF investigator, who has remained a taciturn observer, bolts from the room, presumably to alert his commanding officer.
‘Son of a bitch,’ exhales Garriola.
‘He was never going to break in. You did it for him,’ Pine shouts at Garriola. ‘The pass was a fake out!’
‘Now wait a minute—’ Garriola begins.
‘Get on to the lab now!’ Pine yells. ‘Lock it down. Nobody leaves. I want everybody who touched that envelope tested! That pen’s a biological weapon.’
70
Since he entered Wolfe’s cell, Casburn hasn’t spoken. He is seated on the chair that’s screwed to the floor, leaning his forearms on his thighs, staring at the concrete beneath him.
‘Dan?’
‘Creech is Psychosillius free. It’s been confirmed,’ he says without looking up.
‘That’s good news.’
Wolfe aches with exhaustion. Sunrise is only an hour away; she hasn’t slept and is too anxious to try. She sits on the bed cross-legged, wrapped in a blanket, and tilts her head to one side. He clearly has more to say. She waits. Casburn wearily runs a hand over his crew cut.
‘You did well, Olivia.’ He doesn’t look at her, uncomfortable with the admission. ‘Looks like your reaction saved the base from contamination.’ He shakes his head. ‘At least I was right to bring you here.’
Wolfe has never seen Casburn doubt himself. She leaves her blanket and stands in front of him. He looks up, eyes bloodshot.
‘Sinclair was right under my nose,’ he says. ‘I should have known.’
‘He fooled us all.’ She pauses. ‘Dan? This one time, will you trust me?’
Casburn gives her a hint of a smile. ‘You know I’ll never do that, Olivia.’
Wolfe gently rests her hand on the detective’s shoulder. His hand immediately clamps down hard on hers. She doesn’t flinch.
‘Then believe me,’ she says. ‘Believe me when I say Yushkov never had the stolen sample and never gave it to Kabir Khan. And nor would Toby. He’d never support Isil. This is personal.’
His grip on her hand softens but it remains holding hers.
‘Sinclair’s a terrorist,’ says Casburn, ‘just as much as Khan.’
‘Except, he’ll still listen to reason. I can talk him out of it.’
‘You’re convinced there’s another target?’
‘I am. And please believe me when I say I will do all I can to stop him.’
Casburn looks away.
‘For once,’ Wolfe continues, ‘let’s forget our differences and work together.’
Casburn gives a brusque nod and lets go of her hand. She turns back to the bed.
‘So, with the Secret Service involved, I’m guessing somebody important is coming here?’ Wolfe asks.
‘I guess you’ll know soon enough.’ Yet he pauses, uncertain. ‘The President is inspecting Creech. Today.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding!’
‘Do I look like I’m kidding?’ Casburn gets up. ‘The Secret Service wants to cancel. The President won’t.’
‘What does Pine have to say?’
‘If the President insists, then all Pine can do is ramp up the protection detail.’
Wolfe stares at Casburn. ‘When was his visit made public?’
‘A good few weeks ago. And the advanced detail would’ve vetted the location three months ago so word could’ve got out earlier.’
‘Tell me they realise the President has to be the target?’
‘Sinclair would be insane to try. He’s the most protected person in the world.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘How, Olivia? Toby isn’t a sniper; he’s unlikely to have explosives. He has no history of violence. All he has is bacteria.’
‘How many steel components do you think are in Air Force One? All it takes is one serious malfunction.’
‘He’d never get near Air Force One.’
‘Really? Like he’d never smuggle bacteria into a highly secure US Air Force Base? But he did.’
Wolfe spies the pale blue nose of Air Force One low in the hazy sky as it approaches McCarran. The Presidential plane is headed for a secluded part of the airport, cordoned off and under tight security, well away from the passenger terminals. Through a chainmail perimeter fence they watch Secret Service agents and the twenty-five cars of the Presidential motorcade move into position. Neither Casburn nor Wolfe is allowed near the President. Behind them are two armed FBI agents. Wolfe mustn’t leave their sight even though her arms are handcuffed in front. If it weren’t for Casburn vouching for her, she’d still be in her cell.
‘Keep an eye out for anyone who looks like Sinclair,’ Casburn says.
The hot wind blows dust in her face. She’s frustrated. Nervous. Sinclair is out there somewhere. ‘I can’t see much from back here. I need to be closer.’
‘No chance’ Casburn hands her binoculars. ‘Use these.’
‘There’s a Presidential back-up plane?’
‘Always.’
She does a sweep with the binoculars. Counter snipers armed with Wing Mag rifles are in position. Police officers form the outer defence; general Secret Service agents cover the middle sector. The Presidential Protective Division agents form the inner guard, with Cadillac One at their centre.
Air Force One glides to a gentle landing, the magnificent blue and white, shiny Boeing 747-8 glinting in the sun. Wolfe turns the binoculars to her left. Behind half a dozen uniformed officers and barricades, carefully selected media crews excitedly jostle for position, giving live coverage of the President’s arrival.
‘Every journalist and cameraman has had to pass rigorous background checks for the second time, their equipment taken away, inspected and returned to them,’ says Casburn.
‘Dr Price is here?’
‘Somewhere. She’ll test for any signs of Psychosillius.’
‘And Professor Matthews?’
‘At Creech.’
To Wolfe’s right is the motorcade of black Suburbans, Cadillacs and support vans, parked at the side of the runway, where numerous agents in suits and sunglasses watch, ever vigilant. Police dogs have already checked each vehicle for explosives. The heavily armoured cars will be escorted by police officers on motorbikes. Marksmen are positioned on rooftops. An armed team in black, wearing bulletproof vests, waits in their SUV, parked some distance from the main activity; they are the Counter Assault Team or CAT and will take down any threat. Casburn sees where she’s looking.
‘If those guys leave their car, dive for cover,’ he shouts above the roar of Air Force One’s engines. ‘That’s when all hell breaks loose.’
‘The President’s still going to Creech?’ Wolfe asks.
‘Yes, but his route’s changed and he’s an hour early. Sinclair couldn’t possibly anticipate this.’
‘Who are they?’ she asks, pointing at a small delegation waiting to greet the President.
‘The Colonel, a senator, local bigwigs.’
‘Will he meet the public?’
‘Nope. He’s going straight to Creech. His wife and daughters are off to the Hoover Dam, then the Grand Canyon.’
Wolfe snaps her head round. ‘The First Family? They’re here too?’
Casburn picks up on the alarm in her voice. ‘They don’t go anywhere near Creech. They’ll be fine.’
Wolfe watches Air Force One taxi slowly towards them, the powerful engines thrumming.
‘Airspace has been shut down over a thirty-mile radius,’ says Casburn. ‘Incoming flights have been delayed or diverted, and departures are grounded until the President leaves.’
‘So no private planes? No tourist flights? No media helicopters?’
‘Nothing, and the airport connector tunnel is closed. It runs under this runway so no traffic’s going through. Toby won’t be able to get near him. Apart from anything else, the roads are gridlocked.’
‘What about on the way to Creech? It’s pretty exposed.’
‘Agent Pine knows what he’s doing.’
‘But Toby is brilliant. He’s not your average criminal.’
The blue and white plane’s engines have been cut and the mobile staircase is being pushed towards the plane’s front exit. A swarm of agents move in and, as the official state car pulls up near the stairs, they position themselves around it, looking outwards.
‘Cadillac One,’ Casburn remarks. ‘Seats seven. Built on a truck chassis. Five inch-thick glass. Armour plated. Biochemical protection. Petrol tank’s wrapped in fire-retardant foam, tyres have a Kevlar inner tube so, if they’re shot, it still runs.’
‘I’ve heard they call it The Beast.’
Casburn nods.
The President appears at the top of the stairs in a navy blue suit, white shirt and cobalt tie, holding the hand of his six-year-old daughter, Melanie, who’s in jeans and mauve T-shirt. She’s petite like her mother, who follows her husband down the stairway in a yellow dress and matching jacket, clutching the hand of their eight-year-old son, Thomas. The First Family waves at the camera crews in the distance.
‘Their codenames?’ Wolfe asks.
‘The President is Socrates. The First Lady is Stardust. Daughter, Snowdrop, and son, Solar.’
After a short meet and greet, the President kisses his wife and children, waves to the onlookers and gets into Cadillac One. The Colonel joins him. The Secret Service moves like clockwork. A second limo, identical to Cadillac One, pulls away at the same time to act as a decoy, shifting positions with Cadillac One. Two other limos join the manoeuvre, making it difficult to know which one has the President, and the motorcade moves off, lights flashing.
Through the binoculars Wolfe watches the First Lady, Elizabeth, and her children, escorted to a waiting VH-3D Sea King helicopter, its distinctive green and white colours recognised the world over as Marine One. But for this trip, the helicopter’s call sign will be Executive One Foxtrot, the F indicating the First Family is aboard. The son, Thomas, is clearly excited, and races up the steps and into the helicopter first. Their Secret Service detail joins them and the Sea King takes off, followed by three similar military helicopters. Once airborne they shift formation, then head for the Mike O’Callaghan-Pat Tillman Memorial Bridge, better known as the Hoover Dam Bypass Bridge.
Wolfe stares after them, a knot of worry in her stomach.
‘Hey!’ says Casburn, trying to get Wolfe’s attention. ‘In the car. We’re going back to Creech.’
She’s missed something. Casburn’s right. Sinclair has no chance of getting to the President, his limousine or his plane. So what is his target?
Casburn grabs her binoculars. ‘Your job’s not done until they’re back in D.C. Let’s go.’
He takes a step in the direction of the car that’s waiting for them, but she doesn’t budge. Casburn turns, irritated. She tracks the disappearing helicopters.
‘Collateral Damage’. Why bother to engrave the pen? Does Sinclair someho
w want her to stop him?
Then, in one horrifying moment, Wolfe knows.
She swivels her head and raises her handcuffed hands to point at the helicopters. But they’re grabbed by one of the FBI agents assigned to watch her, and yanked down. It shocks her out of her stupor. She finds her voice.
‘The First Family!’
‘What about them?’ says Casburn.
‘They’re the target!’
71
Inside the McDonnell Douglas police helicopter Special Agent Pine has commandeered, the rotor noise sounds like angry hornets. They have been granted special permission to fly through the thirty-mile no-fly zone surrounding Air Force One. Pine sits next to the pilot.
‘Appreciate you doing this,’ says Casburn into his headset.
‘I’ve stuck my neck out on this one, so she better be right,’ Pine says, jerking his head towards the back, where Wolfe, Casburn and Dr Price are seated. They’re all wearing headsets so they can talk to each other.
‘Why don’t you stop the tour?’ Wolfe asks. The juddering of the helicopter makes her voice sound shaky.
Pine cranes his neck so he can eyeball her. ‘Because I’m not cancelling the trip on a hunch.’
‘So their itinerary hasn’t changed?’ Casburn asks. ‘Hoover Dam then the West Rim of the canyon?’
‘Changed flight paths and landing points.’
‘That may not be enough.’
Pine doesn’t respond.
‘I can’t believe this is Toby we’re talking about,’ says Price, the freckled skin on her face taut with stress. ‘But Olivia’s theory makes sense in a perverse sort of way. He’s lost his wife and children, so he plans to hurt the President’s. It’s the way his mind works. Precise and balanced.’
‘Balanced?’ says Pine. ‘We get ten threats a day minimum against the President and the First Family. Some are just dumb fucks mouthing off. This Sinclair? He’s our worst nightmare. A whack job armed with a biological weapon and he knows how to use it. He sure as hell ain’t balanced.’ Pine pauses. ‘If he uses this Psychosillius, how do we kill it?’
