“And what happens,” the general said, “if it’s already been disbursed? How contagious is this, and how soon would we know?”
“Dr. Fedorov died within a week,” Lisette replied. “If it’s too late, quarantine may be our best option. What I do know from the research papers I was able to recover in Brazil, once the host is dead, after seventy-two hours having been exposed to air and sunlight, the virus in its current form dies and is no longer a threat. As mentioned, it’s able to withstand high heat, which makes it a tempting choice for a bioweapon.”
“Can it be reproduced?” the general asked.
“We don’t know enough about it, as all Fedorov’s work was stolen,” she replied, and Tex could read the annoyance in her eyes over the question. Here she was, trying to save lives, while the general was looking to stock his arsenal of weapons. “Other than it is very dangerous to work with once it reaches room temperature and if it becomes airborne while it is viable.”
Someone else said, “Better to quarantine everyone.”
“That’ll go over well,” Pearson said. “Welcome to the U.S., and by the way, we need to lock you in the summit hotel in case you might be contagious before you die . . .”
“If Cavanaugh weren’t already dead,” the general said, “I’d kill him myself. This is a political nightmare.”
“If we’re going to quarantine everyone, we need to spin this in the best possible light,” the security adviser said.
“The summit doesn’t officially start for two days,” Santiago told them. “Most of those on the premises are hotel personnel, security, or the volunteers staffing the conference. With the exception of a few who came early to see the sights, the majority of dignitaries haven’t even arrived yet.”
“This,” the general said, “is what we call a no-brainer. We shut it down. Better to piss off a few people now than a few countries later.”
There was a knock on the door, and the conversation halted when Carillo and the whiz kid, Izzy, dressed in faded jeans, tennis shoes, and a frayed sweatshirt, entered. “Is this bad timing?” Carillo asked.
“Come in,” McNiel said.
Izzy halted in the doorway, undoubtedly noticing the imperious stares of the high-powered men sitting around the table, all dressed in suits with power ties or military uniforms loaded with medals. Izzy elbowed Carillo to get his attention, saying a tad too loud, “These guys look like they could use some donuts. We should’ve brought them some.”
“Trust me, Izzy,” Carillo replied. “Donuts will not make them any less grumpy.” Carillo directed Izzy into the room, having him sit in an empty seat next to Tex before taking a seat himself. “Go ahead and tell them what you know.”
Izzy shifted in his chair. “Should I like stand or something?”
“You’re fine,” Carillo said.
“Uh, yeah. Well, I’m Izzy, and I, like, used to sell computers until all this happened, the senator getting shot and all. My friend and I hacked into a computer from a lab in France and that was how it got started. And then Mr. Carillo found me and asked me to help get back into the computer—” He leaned toward Carillo, whispering, “Do I tell them about breaking into the lab in France and the, uh, computer virus we planted?”
“Better to leave that kind of stuff out,” Carillo replied.
“Oh. Sorry. Well,” he said, directing to the room at large, “once I analyzed what we’d downloaded from the computer, I discovered that there are these chimera viruses—uh, that’d be real viruses, not computer viruses—like the one they tested on that ship. But I guess you know about that, and uh, the other two vials from the lab in Paris. One was recovered, one’s still missing, and a bunch of people are gonna be killed if we don’t find it before they sell it.”
Everyone broke out in conversation at once, all trying to be overheard.
“Let him finish!” The general’s booming voice cut through the cacophony.
“Uh, I also read something about Senator Grogan’s wife? Like she was going to be sacrificed same as her husband?”
“About the virus, boy!” the general demanded. “They didn’t say where this damned virus is or who’s trying to buy it?”
“It’s sort of confusing. They’re selling something. Port security information. The buyer’s coming to some winery in France. The seller is someone named Becca?”
The room went silent. Thorndike’s face drained of color as he sat back in his chair, deflated. Tex felt his own stomach twist, wondering how Griffin would take this latest blow.
“You’re sure about this?” McNiel asked.
“Yeah. But I’m not sure who it was being sold to. And, uh, why they might also be selling this still missing vial at the same time, because they don’t really go together, you know? Port security and a virus? I’m still analyzing the recovered data.”
“For God’s sake, son,” the general said. “Get back to analyzing.”
Izzy looked at Carillo, who said, “I think we’re done here.”
The two stood, then walked toward the door. The moment they left, Thorndike said, “This is beyond a political disaster.”
“Let me check into it,” McNiel said. “He may have interpreted something wrong.”
Thorndike nodded.
It was the general who broke the tension, when he said, “That kid was selling computers before he got here?”
“And TVs,” Tex said.
“Somebody hand him an application, teach him how to speak properly, and hire his ass before Microsoft swoops him up.”
“What are we going to do about Senator Grogan’s widow?” Santiago asked. “This sacrifice he was telling us about. I’m assuming this is the same group who took out her husband?”
“So it would seem,” McNiel said.
“Regardless of what her husband was allegedly involved in,” the security adviser said, “we owe her a duty of protection. In fact if I’m not mistaken, she’s giving some fund-raiser late this afternoon, a tea of some sort, where she’s going to announce her intention to run for her husband’s office. If anyone was going to place a hit on her, that would be a prime location.”
And Thorndike said, “We can’t just assign anyone. There are a lot of clearance issues that we want to avoid, since we’re not done with the whole LockeStarr investigation. You heard what the kid said. We’ve got a virus to contend with. Something that can kill who knows how many people.”
“As far as clearance, we can handle it,” McNiel said. “Lisette could pose as FBI.”
“What about her French accent?” Thorndike asked. “Since we don’t know who’s trying to kill Olivia Grogan, we don’t want to make anyone suspicious, especially considering the parallel operation in France.”
Lisette smiled, and in a perfectly cultured Boston accent said, “Would you prefer something from the New England area?”
And so it was agreed. Lisette would pose as an FBI agent, and the discussion centered on how many agents would be needed for backup at the fund-raiser. Far better that conversation than the one no one wanted to discuss. That Becca, a CIA agent, had the stolen security data on every U.S. port and was trying to sell it.
But sell it to whom?
Chapter 58
December 12
Washington, D.C.
Olivia Grogan stood at the uppermost window of her townhouse in downtown Washington, D.C. The room had been her retreat during her late husband’s political career. Four floors up, it completely muffled the noise from below. She seemed better able to concentrate, and that was something she very much needed to do right now. This afternoon was the pre-summit tea, where she would make an unofficial announcement of her intent to run for her husband’s now-vacant office.
A knock interrupted her thoughts. “Come in.” Olivia turned to see her aide, Gerard, standing in the doorway, watching her.
“Your father’s here,” G
erard said.
She glanced at the clock on the mantel. It wasn’t quite eleven and the tea started at two. Her father was early. As usual. “I’ll be right down.”
He left, and she took the moment to compose herself before following him downstairs. Her father had one goal in mind. Returning the Network to the center of the U.S. government’s operations instead of the fringes where it now sat. Her husband almost ruined it with his trying to reopen the investigation into LockeStarr. A shame he had to be killed, as she did love him in her own way. But her father would never allow a thing like love to get in the way of his plans.
His one goal was to continue the work that had started generations before.
Olivia, her father, and his before him had been a part of the Network from before World War II even, chosen by the elite powers of the time, the political and corporate dynasties that ran America. Her gaze swung to a group photo of her and her father at camp in Martha’s Vineyard, surrounded by some of those very families. She well remembered those glorious summers, getting to know the other children, making connections that would serve her for the rest of her life.
It was where she first met her husband.
He was in the same photo, standing next to his father, a congressman, and her gaze rested on her husband’s boyish face among the dozens of other persons who had gathered for the annual group photo. He had been a mere seven at the time, and she had been six.
Her study wall was lined with photos from every summer since then, in which she’d attended camp with her father, up until she left for college. The memories served to remind her what the true purpose of her goal was. Her husband, however, did not appear in another photo. At the time, she had assumed it was because his family had moved to the West Coast, and she gave it no further thought. At least not until their chance meeting twenty-three years later, when they’d run into each other while attending the same political fund-raiser. He had recognized her, something she had found extremely charming. Unfortunately, when they’d started dating, she hadn’t realized the impact his absence in those photos would have on her life, her career. Her father only knew that the elder Grogan was a solid Network man, and therefore gave his blessing to the engagement that followed.
Her father would never have allowed it had he known the truth.
Unknown to any of them was that Grogan’s mother had left the embrace of the Network after her husband died of a heart attack twenty years before Olivia’s engagement. Twenty years of outsider influence. No one could have foreseen that his mother’s decision to maintain a quiet life, raising her children outside the circle, would have such dire consequences. After Grogan married Olivia, everyone assumed he would return to the fold. He did not. But when Olivia’s father had suggested a quiet divorce, he’d been overruled by the Network hierarchy.
They would use Grogan without his knowledge.
And so it was that she’d made love to him and gained his trust. She’d steered him where needed and reported on every move he made when she couldn’t sway him. She had the inside knowledge on backroom deals that were outside their circle. For the Network it had been close to the best of both worlds.
For her it had been hell.
Somewhere along the way, unexpectedly pregnant with her first child, she’d nearly strayed from the path as she’d started to fall in love. She wanted out, wanted to raise her children away from the political life. Grogan was ready to walk away from everything for her and the baby.
Her father wouldn’t allow it.
He’d told her that Grogan was a wild card, and any progeny of his created more risk than benefit. One, his genes were flawed. Two, as evidenced by her current state of mind, she wouldn’t be able to make the hard decisions necessary if children got in the way. She terminated the pregnancy, had her tubes tied, informed her husband she’d had a miscarriage, and they would try again.
He never suspected a thing, even when no children were produced. He enjoyed the sex up until Olivia’s looks started to fade, and then he began a series of affairs.
Olivia never objected.
She was the perfect political wife.
The Network came first.
“Daddy,” she said, walking into the front parlor where her father, gray-haired and in his early seventies, sat on the couch, waiting for her. “You look well.”
He stood, and she leaned over, allowing him to kiss her cheek. “How are you?”
“Fine,” she said. “A bit tired.”
“I’ll make this short and you can nap before you have to get ready for this afternoon.”
She took a seat in the chair opposite him. The same chair she’d been sitting in the day when she’d greeted those who’d come to pay their respects after her husband’s murder. The same chair she’d been sitting in when her father had come to tell her that her husband had become a liability. She took a breath, sat up straight, and waited, even though this time, she knew what he had to say. After the events of today unfolded, everyone involved in the planning and security of the summit would be removed from office, and the Network could move in quickly, quietly, presumably to clean up the mess, taking over the vacated positions that would allow them one step closer to totally controlling the government.
“It’s here,” he said, opening a long, thin case. He lifted a strip of gray foam, revealing more of the same, and nestled within it, a thin vial containing a cloudy substance. She reached out to touch it, and he pulled the container back. “Careful. You could get frostbite. It was frozen with dry ice for shipping.”
“Will it thaw in time?”
“It’ll be ready. More important, are you ready?”
Chapter 59
December 12
Washington, D.C.
Carillo looked up at the elegant brick townhouse. Old money, he thought, walking up the steps. He knocked on the door, waited, and was about to knock again when it suddenly opened. Olivia Grogan stood there, looking at him, her expression one of bland patience.
“Mrs. Grogan? I’m Special Agent Carillo, FBI,” he said, holding out his credentials so that she could see them, as well as the badge. “I was the agent assigned to your husband’s homicide.”
She seemed somewhat taken aback, as though not expecting to come face-to-face with anyone on the case. “Would you like to come in?”
“Thank you.”
She led him inside and to the front room. “This is my father, Brandon Godwin.”
Agent Carillo stepped forward, shook her father’s hand, saying, “Nice to meet you.”
“Have you learned something in the investigation?” Brandon asked.
“Truth is, I’m here about another matter entirely. There’s no real delicate way to say this, ma’am, but is there anyone you know who might have an interest in seeing you dead?”
Olivia looked at her father, before turning her attention back to Carillo. “I—I don’t understand.”
“All I can really say is that we’re concerned enough to ask you not to attend this affair you have planned.”
And her father said, “I’m sorry. That’s not possible.”
“This is your daughter’s life we’re talking about.”
“And her career.”
Olivia sank into an armchair, not saying anything.
“And what,” her father continued, “is the Bureau’s plan if she decides to attend?”
“If it can’t be avoided, we do have agents who do dignitary protection.”
“How credible is this threat?” he asked.
“Very. Without going into details that could compromise our investigation, I wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t a good reason.”
“Allow me to talk to my daughter a moment. Privately.”
“Of course,” Carillo said.
“Olivia?”
Grogan’s widow stood and followed her father to the patio, through a se
t of French doors, closing them behind her. Carillo could see them talking, quietly, urgently, and wished he could hear the conversation. When they emerged a few minutes later, he fully expected Olivia’s father to take the reins.
He was wrong.
“This dignitary protection?” Olivia asked. “What does it entail?”
“We assign an agent to escort you around the next few days. Where you go, the agent goes. We will have someone sitting on your house, too.”
“Who would escort me? You?”
“No, ma’am. We’d assign a female agent. She can, uh, go places I can’t.”
“And how will I explain this—what would you call her? A shadow?”
“She can pose as your aide. Arrive when you arrive, leave when you leave.”
Olivia crossed her arms, closing her eyes for a moment, then looking straight at her father. “I think this will work out fine.”
“She can meet you here or at the fund-raiser this afternoon,” Carillo offered.
“Here is probably best. It starts at two. Say, one o’clock? It will give us time to familiarize ourselves with each other.”
“I’ll drop her off here at one.”
“Thank you, Agent Carillo. I so look forward to meeting her.”
Chapter 60
December 12
Paris, France
Sydney wished Dumas had not left, but he had an appointment that he couldn’t break, which meant she was alone with Griffin, en route to see his wife’s CIA handler, Reggie Carter. It wasn’t that she expected Griffin to act any differently, or lash out. She just wasn’t sure how to phrase it—delicately or otherwise. Somehow saying Carter might be the only one who could verify whether Griffin’s wife was actually dead or alive seemed, well, harsh. Instead she said, “Are you okay to drive?”
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