Patient Zero

by Jonathan Maberry

  THE WAREHOUSE, DEPARTMENT OF MILITARY SCIENCES FIELD OFFICE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND; MONDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 2014, 6:58 AM

  I didn’t even make it as far as my office before Church waved me into his. “Our friends lit up an embassy in Pakistan an hour ago.”

  “Their objective?”

  Church’s brows furrowed in an uncharacteristic way. “That, I’m not sure. I think it was just a field test, to see what they can do.”

  “I got a bad feeling about this,” I said. “They’ve got a bigger game in play.”

  Church nodded in agreement. “First load from the translators just came in,” he said. I hadn’t heard that deep of a rumble in his voice or seen that hooded narrowing of his eyes since the second airliner hit the World Trade Center on 9/11.

  “That bad?” I returned. I took a gulp from my coffee mug and swallowed before he said something that might prompt me to spray it all over his office.

  “They’ve uncovered a veritable Encyclopædia Britannica,” Church said, “but only two points matter to us. The ISIS bomb-makers are getting their driving robotics from a small company in Freiberg, Germany, and they’re planning a massive attack in London.”

  “London?” A number of potential targets crossed my mind. Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey. “Do we know where?”

  “The State Opening of Parliament,” Church replied.

  Good thing I’d swallowed my coffee.

  “Are they hoping to take out the queen?”

  “And as many members of the Houses of Lords and Commons, and civilians as they can. They’re calling the operation Carmageddon.”

  “Lovely sense of humor,” I growled.

  Church gave a stiff nod. “They’re planning to position large, self-driven trucks loaded with explosives close to Buckingham Palace and Westminster Parliament, and along the queen’s route from one end to the other, and detonate them all at once.”

  “Holy shit!”

  The State Opening usually takes place in May. I’d been in London for it once. I still remembered Londoners pressed six or seven deep against police barriers, children in front, of course, dressed in their Sunday best and waving miniature Union Jacks as the queen rolled by in her horse-drawn carriage. I had watched the parade under the keen eyes of British troops, and bobbies mounted on leggy bay horses. It looked as if the whole city had turned out.

  I shook my head against horrific mental images. “Has the British government been informed?”

  “Through appropriate channels,” Church confirmed. “In the meantime, Captain, our jet is being prepped at BWI for a flight to Germany. Takeoff is four thirty this afternoon. You’re to put a stop to this.”

  No guidance. Pretty much carte blanche. Church preferred it that way. If necessary he could fall back on the Sergeant Schultz defense: “I know noth-ink.”

  “I’ll start packing,” I said, “once I’ve called in a strike on that research facility.” I considered some options. An MQ-9 Reaper carrying a couple of five-hundred-pound GBU-12s or GBU-38 JDAMs should do the job.

  I’d want to hit them in the evening, light up the sky—shock-and-awe style.

  OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN; MONDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 2014, 5:22 PM

  DMS personnel don’t use commercial airlines when we’re on a mission. Ghost, my combat-trained white shepherd, dozed at my feet while I reviewed Ashley’s info packet on the little company I’d be checking out in Freiberg.

  Established five years ago by a former nun named Frieda Stoltz, Assistenzdienst, (Assistance Services, in English) designed and produced equipment and software apps to assist people with various disabilities, everything from blindness to quadriplegia. Sounded innocent enough. But was the company only a front? Did Fräulein Stoltz have ties to terrorism herself? Or were her products being used in ways she wasn’t aware of?

  DRESDEN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, GERMANY; TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 2014, 9:10 AM

  In spite of the airport’s spacious, modern terminal, all glass and steel with a high-speed tram, history loomed around me like the usual winter overcast as I disembarked from the jet.

  Private jet or not, I still had to deal with Customs. I used my tourist passport to stay low-profile, though I’d brought my “official” one just in case. I flashed Ghost’s equivalent of a passport, too, which identified him as a service dog. The chipper young official didn’t ask what kind of service he provided, which was fine by me.

  I could read a little German, better than I could speak it, so I picked up a map along with the keys to a brand-new, shiny black Porsche 918 Spyder. With 887 horses under its sleek hood, I couldn’t help wishing I had time to put it through its paces on the autobahn.

  ANWENDUNGEN DIENSTLEISTUNGEN, OUTSKIRTS OF FREIBERG, GERMANY; TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 2014, 9:42 AM

  I opened up the throttle when I found surprisingly little traffic for a dreary workday morning and just enough chilly rain to necessitate windshield wipers. The Spyder purred like a kitten and responded to my touch like an experienced dance partner.

  Occasional farms dotted the terrain. Fräulein Stoltz had acquired one of them, situated on a small rise, for her assistive technologies company. Six or seven mature oaks, stripped of leaves and dripping, huddled around an old house that could’ve passed for a small manor.

  I lowered the passenger window a few inches to let Ghost poke his nose out and he snuffled noisily at the rain.

  We were halfway up the lane to the house when my secure satellite phone sounded in my duffel, which lay on the passenger-side floor. That couldn’t mean anything good.

  I had to stop to fumble for the bag. The phone never stopped ringing as I searched for it, which reinforced my gut feeling of “not good.”

  I wasn’t disappointed. Well, actually, I was.

  “Where are you?” Church asked.

  “About a hundred yards from Sister Stoltz’s Home for Disadvantaged Terrorists.”

  I heard a grunt before he asked, “Have you seen her?”

  “Not yet, I’m on approach.”

  “Well,” Church said, “no joy on the air strike. Drone got to the target and found the cockroaches had scuttled. Looks like they knew they were in somebody’s crosshairs.”

  “Damn,” I said. I hate terrorists, but terrorists with good intel are particularly scary. “Out here.”

  He didn’t say, Proceed with caution. He didn’t have to. The hair on the back of my neck was already doing that.

  I left the Porsche at the side of the lane and, with Ghost trotting a few yards ahead, conducting olfactory reconnaissance, I strolled toward the house. Classic architecture, built of stone, three stories high, lots of windows. A façade displaying the company name in blocky white letters had been added to the front, and a dozen or so small cars, most of them gray or white, stood in an orderly row along the left side.

  As I passed the first oak, I studied the yard. Bare branches couldn’t conceal security monitors and floodlights mounted among them. Typical for a business in a crime-ridden urban neighborhood, but it seemed like overkill in the German countryside. I furrowed my brow, wondering what she was afraid of.

  Ghost ranged around the yard, nose to the ground, tail wagging with the rhythm of his trot. No indications he’d detected explosives, drugs, or anything else of concern.

  I called him to heel with a hand signal before I pulled the antique doorbell chain. Soft, quick, padding footsteps reached me before the front door swung open, and a slim woman peered up at me with sky-blue eyes. About my age, I estimated, with blond hair twisted up in a braid around the back of her head. Not a knockout, but certainly she surprised me. I’d imagined more of a Mother Teresa. The eyes revealed boundless compassion veneered with caution.

  “Sister Stoltz?” I queried, and hoped she spoke more than rudimentary English.

  She offered a small smile that bordered on shy. “Fräulein Stoltz now. May I help you?” Her pronunciation was precise, but not accent-free.

  I introduced myself, displayed my credentials.

/>   “American government?” She sank back, one hand going to her ample breasts, and her eyes widened with concern. Not fear, I noted. “Is something wrong?”

  “I hope not,” I said, and genuinely meant it. Something I couldn’t put a finger on touched a still-painful spot in my heart. Grace. What is it about her that reminds me of Grace? “I need to ask a few questions,” I said. “May I come in?”

  “You may, Mr. Ledger,” she said. Her gaze fell on Ghost, who sat near my feet. He cocked his head in a beguiling manner and gave her his best tongue-out dog-smile. Even offered her a paw to shake. Yeah, my highly trained combat dog. But her fine brows lowered slightly. “I must, however, request that your dog remain out of doors.”

  I swore inwardly. I really wanted Ghost to help me check out the facilities here, but dared not push it.

  “Sorry, boy,” I said, and slipped him the guard hand signal as I stepped inside. My hackles hadn’t entirely lain down even if Ghost’s hadn’t risen. Yet.

  As Frieda Stoltz guided me through a variety of labs and assembly rooms on all three floors, giving me the nickel tour, I noted how she had preserved the old home’s refinements despite converting it to a lab. I also observed unfeigned warm greetings from several researchers and mechanics as we entered each area, and their eagerness to demonstrate or explain their projects to me.

  One older man stopped to shake my hand and confided, “Fräulein is the angel for people who suffer with disadvantages.” The radiance in his eyes more than compensated for his uncertain English. I had no doubt he believed that to be true.

  None of the workers seemed well-dressed or had driven new cars. I realized that these folks weren’t out for money. They were trying to save the world. I knew that feeling.

  Of all her creations, she clearly considered her self-driving auto technology to be her magnum opus. Excitement lit her features as she explained, “This will allow blind persons in Third World countries to have greater independence without the expense of human drivers. We are conducting a test program that I believe will bring about great change.”

  She opened the door into her office on the second floor, what appeared to have been a spacious bedroom, complete with a tall, antique armoire against the wall opposite her equally antique desk, and bay windows that overlooked the front grounds. “Please be seated, Mr. Ledger,” she said, indicating a deep wing chair. She closed the door, sat opposite me, and said, “Now that you have seen my company, what questions may I answer?”

  I cut to the chase. “We have reason to believe your self-driving auto technology is being used by ISIS.”

  Frieda transformed into a human ramrod before my eyes. She stared with mingled shock and outrage. “How dare you—”

  “I’m not accusing you,” I began, raising a placating hand.

  “How can you believe such a thing?” she demanded. “What evidence do you have to support such an accusation?”

  The demise of the Saudi prince and his family had been all over the international news since Sunday morning. While that was open source, certain details uncovered in the investigation were highly sensitive and had not been released to foreign nationals. I said only, “There’s ample evidence.”

  She studied me for several heartbeats, her shapely jaw taut.

  “Who buys your self-driving technology?” I pressed. “What countries have the highest demand for it? Do you only sell whole systems, or also parts for them? Do you handle shipping yourself?”

  “This is foolishness!” she insisted. She sprang up from her chair, arms rigid at her sides, her fists clenched. “At this time the cars are going only to North Africa, where they are being tested. They are not available on the open market.”

  “Who conducts the tests?” I persisted. “How do the cars get to them? Do they provide you with reports? Written documents, for example, or videos of the tests?”

  “Yes, yes.” Frieda slipped behind her huge desk, her face a mask of determination. Grace, I thought again. But she had opened a drawer and produced a simple business card, which she thrust at me. “He is from Sudan,” she said, “a very pleasant man who is very hopeful for my work.”

  The name hit my eye like a boxer’s glove. One of many that the thug went by. He’s also very wanted by Interpol, for trafficking in opium, little girls, and anything that goes boom. He’s playing her for all she’s worth.

  I didn’t tell Frieda that, at first. Instead I said, “Thank you. May I keep this?” as I slid the card into my shirt pocket. “Please, sit down now.”

  To my mild surprise, she did, though her sky-blue eyes still held a furious glint.

  “In ancient China,” I said, “it was actually considered a virtue for a military commander to be unspeakably evil.” Hitler is still a sensitive topic in Germany, so I skipped the comparison. I just said, “That mentality remains to this day in some circles. The man that you’re dealing with is one of them. In fact, he deals closely with China. Years ago, he used to buy machetes cheap from there and provide them to Hutu rebels. They made cheap weapons, since they only cost fifty cents each, but with them they committed genocide against more than a million Tutsis, and from there spread terror—”

  “You lie!” she said, her face going pale as chalk. She began trembling and leaned back from me in revulsion.

  I had a lot more to tell her—about blood diamonds and arms deals and a recent shipment of stolen uranium—but as I tried to warn her, she grew paler, more rigid, and fell into muttering denials in German. I don’t think that it was that she didn’t believe me, but that the thoughts I spoke about were too horrifying, too repugnant, for her mind to hold.

  “Being unspeakably evil is also touted as a virtue by ISIS,” I said. “Especially if that evil is used, ironically, to advance the cause of Allah, to build a world caliphate and bring down, once and for all, the Great Satan and its allies. Because of that, they take perverse satisfaction in deliberately using the good intentions of Westerners against them. For example, in West Africa, when Christian organizations supplied wells to provide clean water for poor villages, your man poisoned them, killed thousands of children, and then said that the Christians themselves had done it.”

  She had to know that I was speaking the truth. Certainly, she’d heard tales of it.

  “Nein!” Frieda leaped to her feet again, fists clenched once more, eyes blazing. “Nein!” She took two swift steps toward me, and for a couple of heartbeats I thought she was going to pound on me. I could have restrained her without hurting her, but I didn’t like the thought. But she whirled and began pacing her office. “That is a complete fabrication! Terrorists are not using my technology! How could they?”

  I’ve seen people transfixed by horror. She wasn’t faking it. Her eyes widened and darted back and forth. I’ve seen people black out from it, rewrite thoughts, erase memories that they couldn’t hold. I knew that she wasn’t owning this.

  I let her rant, storming back and forth across the office.

  Outside, Ghost barked, whimpered, and barked twice. Bomb.

  My heart began racing, and I knew that we had to get out. Frieda’s unwitting ties to the ISIS cell in Syria had to be pretty tight. Enough so that they were probably spying on her.

  My glance swept the room. Yep, there they were. A small protrusion like the head of a nail under the deep windowsill; a video pickup the size of a pencil eraser in one corner against the ceiling, camouflaged by the wallpaper pattern; a “chip” in the rim of the desktop. Clumsy bugs that Ghost would’ve detected in a wag of his tail if he’d come in with me.

  But I should have spotted them as soon as I followed Frieda in here. The hair rose on my neck again, and my pulse stiffened.

  “Fräulein,” I said, keeping my voice absolutely casual as I pushed up from the deep chair, “let’s step outside for a few minutes, take a little stroll. Looks like the rain’s finally stopped.” I cracked a smile. “I’ve probably got a wet, brown dog waiting for me by now.”

  I didn’t expect her to come with
me. I don’t know if it was the smile or mentioning Ghost, but she stopped pacing, eyed me for a moment, then gave a small nod.

  Ghost was damp and already exuding wet-dog odor, but not brown from testing mud puddles. He hadn’t moved from his guard position. I’d known he wouldn’t. He stood as we emerged into the soggy midday and wagged so hard his whole posterior swung back and forth.

  “May I pat him?” Frieda asked.

  “Be my guest.” While she did, and Ghost squirmed like a puppy and licked her hand, I squinted up the lane. “Fräulein, have you ever seen a Porsche 918 Spyder up close?”

  “No, I—”

  “Come take a look.” I took her by the elbow, in a totally gentlemanly manner. I didn’t want to scare her. Not yet. And I forced myself, against a slow rise of adrenaline, to stroll.

  I waited until we’d left the encircling trees behind, with their “security” monitors. Waited until we’d practically reached the car. Then I stopped and turned her to face me. And I told her exactly what was going on. All of it. Top-secret umpety-ump be damned.

  “Get in the car and don’t look back,” I begged. “We can worry about nondisclosure statements later. Your life and the lives of your employees aren’t worth dog crap if you stay here.”

  She’d resumed her human ramrod posture. She stared at me with her jaw set, then made her decision. “You Americans! You are always full of crazy imaginations and wild stories.” She spun on her heels.

  I made a swipe for her arm. She shrugged away from it. “Frieda, you’ve got to believe me,” I pleaded.

  She didn’t reply, didn’t glance back.

  I didn’t go after her. I didn’t know if ISIS was live monitoring her office or just replaying things later. I stood by the Spyder, Ghost at my side, and watched her march back up the lane, across the tree-hemmed lawn, into the lovely old house.

  I should go in and warn everyone, I thought, get them out of there.

  The explosion’s deep boom reached me a second or two after the black-and-orange billow blew out three front windows on the second floor. Frieda’s office. The bomb must have been stowed in the armoire, I thought.