National Security

by Marc Cameron

  Palmer’s fury had shown in his twitching face after Quinn told him of the near miss with the fighter jets at Union Station. He’d vowed to keep any further communications about the virus out of the hands of the Gang of Five until he’d checked back with the Hammer Team. Until that time, he advised them to fly low and handle things as discreetly as possible.

  Jericho’s OSI badge and a few moments of explanation to TSA and a harried airport police sergeant had gotten all three of them past the screening point with the bags of biohazard gear. Their real roadblock turned out to be a pudgy airline gate agent wearing blue uniform shorts and a wrinkled white shirt. Apparently, Mr. Brandon Milford felt as if it was his solemn duty to safeguard the magnetic lock on the door leading to the back corridor of the International Terminal. Had it been left up to Jericho, he would have been happy to choke out the hairy-legged little butterball with the lanyard from his name tag.

  Instead, he was content to let Mahoney explain their way in. Jericho would save his energy for the moments when his particular skills were needed and let the good doctor handle the diplomatic niceties.

  Thibodaux leaned against a concrete pillar beside him, looking on smugly with a raised eyebrow. “She’s losin’ her temper,” he said, taking a flat toothpick out of his mouth and dipping his head toward a red-faced Mahoney. “See how her butt cheeks are startin’ to clench inside her khakis?”

  “Sounds like you’ve made a study of this,” Quinn mused.

  “Oh, yeah.” Thibodaux grinned. “When I see my wife’s tail end clench like that, it’s time to hunt a different piece of real estate. Means she’s fixin’ to throw a frying pan or somethin’ heavy at my head.” The big Marine tossed the frayed toothpick on the floor. “If I was this guy, I’d be gettin’ ready to duck... .”

  “I need authorization,” the gate agent said, folding his arms and setting his egg-shaped face as if it were granite. “You’re not going back there until someone answers the phone and I get authorization. It won’t do you a bit of good to get testy with me. I’ll punch the code and let you in.” His nasal voice had the annoying whine of a mosquito. “After I get authorization.”

  “Excellent,” Mahoney said. “Call and get it.”

  “I have,” Milford said. “They don’t answer.”

  “Call someone else, then.” Mahoney threw her hands in the air, shaking her head in dismay. “Call the airport police. We just talked to one back at security. He said you’d let us in.”

  The gate agent shook his head emphatically. “The airport police are not on my list of people to call. You say you’re federal. You know they wouldn’t have any jurisdiction over customs anyway. Look, I’m really busy right now. You have a seat over there and I’ll give them another call in a few minutes. I’m sure someone will answer then.

  Mahoney stood, dumbstruck. She turned to look over her shoulder at Quinn. Her butt was indeed clenching. He tapped the pistol under his jacket. Want me to shoot him? he mouthed.

  She looked back to the gate agent, who sat as immovable as a stone.

  Quinn looked at his watch. They’d all expected someone from customs would be waiting out front for them. He pulled out his cell phone to give Palmer a call. Before he could hit the send key, Mahoney’s honey-sweet voice filled the air, menacing as a swarm of vengeful bees.

  “Okay, Brandon Milford.” Mahoney jabbed her finger at the ID badge around the pudgy man’s neck. “You want to see officious, I’ll show you officious—how about I get the President of the United States to give you a little ring?”

  “You better use smaller words, Doc.” Thibodaux chuckled. “Officious seems awfully big for this guy.”

  Mahoney’s gaze burned into Milford’s sodden eyes. Even from fifteen feet away in the waiting area, Jericho could see the man’s chins begin to quiver.

  “How about this, then?” she said. “How about you continue to use your unfettered power to keep me on this side of that door and all the while, the virus that’s lurking on the other side will work its way through the air and into the heating and ventilation system. You’re such a great physical specimen it won’t have any trouble worming into your pasty little system in no time flat. In about four hours’ time you’ll be bleeding outa your eyes. Projectile diarrhea won’t begin to describe your condition. All the cells in your body will begin to liquefy... .” She leaned across the high counter, gently stroking the back of Milford’s dimpled hand. “The pain will be so bad you won’t even be able to scream ... and somewhere along the way your tiny little balls will turn black and fall off—”

  Milford punched in the code and waddled away.

  Seconds after entering the sterile hallway, Jericho heard two distinct pops. He drew his Kimber, recognizing the noises for what they were. Thibodaux had his pistol in hand as well.

  A disembodied voice stopped them outside the white door emblazoned with the blue and white eagle logo of ICE: IMMIGRATION AND CUSTOMS ENFORCEMENT.

  “You from CDC?”

  Megan held her credentials up to the Plexiglas box mounted beside the speaker. “Dr. Megan Mahoney ...” She shot a glance at Quinn and Thibodaux. “... and associates.”

  Quinn stepped to the speaker, his gun discreetly behind his thigh. “We heard shooting. Everything all right?”

  “We’re secure,” the voice said. “But we have one FBI agent with a broken arm and a badly wounded suspect.. . .”

  “Buzz us in,” Mahoney said. “I can help until paramedics get here.”

  There was a long pause before a female voice came over the speaker. It was strained, teetering on the verge of full-blown panic.

  “The Arab had a small vial with him,” the voice quavered. “It’s been compromised.”

  Mahoney swallowed. “How compromised?” She motioned both Quinn and Thibodaux over and had them take off their jackets, pointing toward the half-inch gap at the bottom of the door. Quinn realized what she wanted and used the thick leather to plug the void, backing it up with Thibodaux’s.

  “Shattered,” the voice said. “Broken, shot to hell, spilled everywhere ...”

  “Give us a minute to suit up,” Megan said, already pulling her orange biohazard suit and attached breathing unit from the bag. “We’re coming in.” She turned to Quinn. “It may be too late, but we need someone in maintenance to turn off the HVAC as quick as possible.”

  “On it, chérie.” Thibodaux was already punching numbers into his cell phone.

  Mahoney hung a Bluetooth earpiece in her ear and called her office while she pulled the thick, rubber-coated zippers on the suit. She gave her location and requested a level-four hazard team and security detail.

  Quinn called Palmer, who used his connections to throw up an immediate quarantine around Dulles under the guise of a chemical spill, grounding all departing flights and diverting inbound traffic to Reagan or Baltimore.

  “Listen, Doctor.” The voice on the intercom had a catch in it, as if she was trying to control a sob. “I ... I think I got some of the liquid on my foot... .”

  Mahoney shot a worried glance at Quinn. “We’ll be in in just a moment.”

  Checking each other for correct fit and seal in the bulky hazard suits was labor intensive, and though Quinn and Thibodaux had been through the same procedure twice before in the last six hours, they were all exhausted. Mahoney took extra time inspecting their gear. Unsure of what to expect on the other side of the door, both men kept their sidearms in small nylon pouches next to the portable breathing units attached to their waists.

  After an agonizingly slow five minutes Mahoney pronounced them “sealed” and the magnetic lock clicked open. Thibodaux resecured the heavy leather jackets at the base of the door inside.

  The customs office was in a shambles. Papers from loose file folders were strewn across the industrial blue carpet as if the area had been hit by a tornado. The remnants of a wooden office chair lay broken on the floor. A man in a sweat-stained white shirt huddled against the far wall holding his arm in his lap, his red
power tie hanging loose and askew. A tall woman with flaming red hair and a gun on her hip stooped beside him, her jacket behind his head and a slender arm snaked around his shoulders. Worry lines creased her freckled nose. It was impossible to tell if she was trying to give comfort or get it. Likely a little bit of both, Quinn thought.

  A graying customs inspector, the tail of his uniform shirt hanging out over a paunchy belly, hunched above a wounded Arab. The inspector’s arms were bathed in crimson up to his elbows as he worked frantically to staunch the flow of blood. Red flecks dotted his face and stained the front of his uniform shirt. The Arab groaned, his mouth opening and closing like a fish drowning in the open air.

  Quinn let Mahoney take care of the FBI agents while he knelt beside the customs inspector. Thibodaux stood next to him.

  “Jamal Hamid?” Quinn bent in closer so the wounded man could hear the muffled buzz of his voice through the clear plastic face shield. “We know what you have done. We know what you have brought into our country.”

  Hamid’s eyes fluttered, startled to hear someone speak to him in Arabic. “You know nothing,” he gasped. Pink blood foamed at the corners of his mouth. One of the shots had torn through a lung.

  “We’ve already captured the others,” Quinn lied. “You are the last. It is over.”

  Hamid closed his eyes, pained more from the news than from his wounds. “Impossible. Zafir was not ... Zafir has ...” He broke into a ragged coughing fit. As the coughing subsided, his olive face turned to ash, the muscles relaxed. He was bleeding internally, no matter how much pressure the customs inspector put on the wounds. “Not possib ...” He gasped, shaking his head in disbelief. “Zafir ... not possible ...” His head lolled to one side. The customs inspector checked for a pulse, then shook his head.

  “He’s gone.”

  Thibodaux sighed. “Maybe we should consider bloodletting as a form of enhanced interrogation. Hamid just gave us the name of the third man.”

  “It’s a start.” Jericho rose to his feet with a groan. “Zafir isn’t an uncommon name in the Middle East.” The clammy suit seemed more confining that his motorcycle leathers—or maybe it was just the thought of the surrounding virus and the memory of the horrors he’d seen in the Al-Hofuf lab.

  Mahoney had turned a garbage can upside down on top of the broken vial and moved the two FBI agents to the other side of the room, as far from the damp spot as possible. She tried to get them to sit down, but the man refused, violently jerking away.

  “Should we get them out of here?” Quinn asked, nodding toward the two agents.

  “Not yet,” Mahoney said through clenched teeth. “Can’t take a chance on letting anything spread beyond this room. Our mantra has got to be ‘contain, contain, contain.’ ”

  Quinn noticed how strong the doctor’s Georgia accent had become under stress. He found it oddly attractive considering the circumstances.

  “What was in the glass tube?” Agent Chaffee asked. “Bird flu?” He had a nasty bruise on his right forearm. The way he babied the thing it was likely broken.

  Agent Miller’s green eyes were dilated and wide, as if she stood awestruck at some passing celebrity. Flecks of dried saliva crusted white at the corners of her mouth. Quinn felt sorry for her. She looked young and this was probably the first time she’d even drawn her weapon other than at the firing range. Now she’d killed a man and had enough sense to know she was in grave danger. She was in shock, but less so than her more experienced partner.

  Looking at Chaffee’s beet-red face, Quinn noticed tiny hairline cracks in the man’s teeth, probably brought on by years of jaw clenching. This was the kind of agent who lived his entire life in a state of near apoplectic stroke. There was no talking to people like that so Quinn made it a point to direct his words toward Agent Miller.

  “Okay, Liz,” Quinn said. “These guys don’t travel alone. Did you notice any associates hanging back when you took this one into custody?”

  “It was a plane from Dubai, jackass,” Chaffee scoffed. “There were two hundred Arab guys who got off with him. They could have all been his associates... .” He winced, clenching his eyes shut until a new wave of pain subsided. When they opened he glared at Mahoney “I asked you a question. What was in that vial?”

  “Have a seat, Agent Chaffee,” Mahoney said. “We have a team on the way. There’ll be medical personnel to take a look at your arm.”

  “She’s right, Bob,” Miller said, trying to paste a smile over the strain on her face. “Just sit down and rest.”

  Mahoney’s Bluetooth flashed on her ear, casting a pulsing blue halo around her hair inside the hood. “Hold on,” she said. “I have an incoming call. It’s probably my team.”

  Agent Chaffee jerked away from his partner. He grabbed a fistful of Mahoney’s rubber suit with his good hand, spinning her around. His eyes were wild with a mixture of rage and hysteria. Spittle flew from his twisted mouth as he screamed, “You listen to me. The FBI has national security juris—”

  Jericho reacted in a flash, slapping Chaffee hard across the ear with a cupped hand that sent him staggering backward. He followed up with a swift knee to the groin and snatched the agent’s Glock from his holster before he hit the floor.

  “You are not in charge, Agent Chaffee,” Quinn said, his even voice belying the fury and speed he’d used to pacify the man. “Now sit still and let us handle this as best we can.” He nodded to a stupefied Mahoney. “Go ahead and take your call.”

  CHAPTER 37

  “Megan?”

  “Yes ...”

  “It’s Justin. Where are you?” His voice was frantic as if he was bursting with information. At first, she was afraid he was calling with bad news about his symptoms from the needle stick. Then she remembered he should have been in the Slammer, incommunicado.

  “Justin?” she said. “Where did you get a phone?”

  “I was going crazy in there, Meg,” he said. “I convinced Dr. Kraus to let me out.”

  “Roberta let you out of the Slammer?” Mahoney gasped, throwing a puff of condensation on her face shield. Justin must have been putting some serious moves on the tall German scientist for her to cave in against such strict protocols. Kraus had always joked that she had a thing for his dimples.

  “I’m not even feeling sick. Anyway, I promised her I’d stay in the BSL-Four containment and do some work.”

  “I’ll bet you did.”

  “Anyway,” Justin said, “that’s not the important part. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be fine.”

  “Justin, I’m kind of busy here,” Mahoney sighed.

  “I know, but I think you’ll want to hear what I’ve got. Check this out, Megan. We injected C-06 with the optic jelly on the eleventh and paired him with C-12 as a breathing buddy, right?”

  Mahoney looked at her watch, doing the math. She felt her legs go a little wobbly, wondering where such a conversation was heading. “Right. That would have been about ninety-six hours ago—roughly four days ...”

  “A little over that,” Justin said. “But here’s the deal. I couldn’t sleep so I checked C-12 last night around midnight and he was clean. Then, I ran another test about three hours ago. He’s got it, Megan. His blood is swimming with filovirus. The virus is contagious, but not right away. My blood is still okay so it looks like I’m home free.”

  “Symptomatic?” Megan found herself chewing the inside of her cheek, an awful thought working its way to the fore in her exhausted brain.

  “C-12?” Justin said. “No, he’s fine. But I when I went to check on C-06 half an hour ago, he had blood literally gushing out of his nose. He’s crashing, Megan, and he’s crashing fast. The virus in his blood has changed. The protein sheaths are dissolving. I think that’s what makes it turn contagious.”

  “It’s been a long time since my head’s seen a pillow,” Mahoney said. “Run down the timeline with me so I can make sure I have it straight.”

  Justin plowed ahead, unaware that he was talking about anything
but captive crab-eating macaques.

  “Okay, Meg, here’s what we’ve got. The macaque we injected after we had to put C-45 down—C-06—didn’t become symptomatic after we injected him until the fifth day, but his breathing buddy in the next cage, sharing nothing but air, caught the virus sometime during the fourth night... .”

  Mahoney’s eyes fell to the overturned wastebasket. She was struck by a sudden, sickening thought. Justin had no idea about the real ramifications of what he was saying.

  “Do me a favor,” she said weakly. “Check the contents of the glass vial we brought in yesterday.” Going from call to call on suspected terrorists she’d not had time to look at it herself.

  “Already done,” Justin said. “It’s not a virus at all. It’s some kind of shellfish toxin. There’s enough in the vial to kill one man almost instantly, but that’s all.”

  “A suicide drug ...” Mahoney’s voice trailed off. Her eyes shot around the room. The carpet around Hamid was soaked in a dark, rapidly spreading stain. Droplets of the Arab’s blood had splattered like rain both during the fight and subsequent shooting. Chaffee’s face and hair were flecked in red. The customs inspector looked like a Civil War surgeon after a brutal amputation. “You’re saying C-06 passed the virus before he showed any symptoms whatsoever?”

  “Yes. Do you know what this means?” From the jubilant tone in Justin’s voice, it was obvious all he was thinking about was that it meant he was clear of any infection from his needle stick.

  Megan teetered on her feet, clutching at the edge of the table with her glove to remain standing.

  “Everything all right, Doc?” Quinn took her arm to steady her.

  The bulky hood moved back and forth slowly, swishing as Mahoney shook her head. She whispered, feeling as if she might vomit.

  “Pandora ...”

  CHAPTER 38

  “If I’m not mistaken the Soviets already have something like this,” Win Palmer said, leaning back in the customary thinking spot behind his heavy desk to stare at the ceiling. Quinn was beginning to think the man had answers to all his problems etched somewhere up there. “Didn’t they get some kind of airborne hemorrhagic virus?”