"Am I basing it on personal experience?" He pointed to the journal. "Sturgess was meticulous in his note-taking. It kept him sane."
"And what kept you sane, Josh?" she asked softly.
"Who said I am?" He tossed her a quirky grin and stood.
"He never blamed you or hated you." Susan came close, and brought her had to his chest.
She had done exactly the same thing the night that his father had died, the very same night that the Federal Murrah Building had been bombed. The two events were unrelated-or so he had thought. "My father was too busy protecting the American people, the American Way of Life to worry about protecting his family. Why was he handling Ebola, Susan?"
Frowning, she replied, "I didn't say it was Ebola. Rob had accidentally injected himself with a Level 4 organism five days prior to his death. You know the routine; he immediately isolated himself. He didn't want anyone to tell you or Ed until...we knew, one way or another. He didn't want to put you through it again."
"Bullshit. He wanted me to face it like a man."
Her hand dropped, and her eyes darkened. "Why do you climb inside people's heads and mind fuck them?"
"Would you prefer I climbed back into your bed and-?" He stopped; the pain in her eyes reflected his. "My father hated me because I took my mother from him. Not because he loved her, but because he needed her. I refused to take her place, so he took Ed. Then he took you." He fleetingly wondered which of the three McCabe men she'd found best in bed. Dismissing the thought as an adolescent insecurity, he added, "I mean professionally, Susan. I'm not blaming you. I know how…persuasive he could be."
She turned away."Have you ever considered that you reminded your father of his shortcomings? Of his inability to protect you -both of you?"
A commotion outside interrupted his reply. They ran up on deck, into the warm tropical night.
"Oh my God!" Susan cried, joining Spinner and Captain Rolston, who were standing at the rail, shaking their heads in disbelief. "How far away are we?"
"Three hundred and twenty nautical miles." Rolston replied. "We should hear it in a little over half an hour. I wouldn't want to have been any closer."
"If I didn't know any better," Susan added, accepting the binoculars from him, "I'd swear the sun was rising."
Staring at the expanding light on the horizon, Spinner said, "Looks like your crime scene just obliterated itself, Special Agent McCabe."
"We still have the evidence," he replied. "Several billion copies of it."
-Chapter 31-
Washington DC, April 1996
"Having now sequenced the chimera," said Susan Broadwater, "we can confirm that the virus is indeed a hybrid created from dengue, smallpox, and Ebola genes."
Tendrils of cigarette smoke caught in the beam of the projector gave the illusion of movement, but the image on the screen was flat and lifeless. McCabe looked around at the eighteen men and women in the room. He couldn't read their expressions in the low light, but he could smell their agitation. Three months after Mathew Island, the investigation into Williams and the Consortium was dead in the water and the focus of attention was being shifted elsewhere.
Patriots all to the Western Way of Life, Michael Warner, Silva Wood, Nate Sturgess-indeed, everyone who knew the chimera had been manufactured-had agreed to propagate the public story that a mutated haemorrhagic dengue had biologically nuked an unremarkable island in the South Pacific. Final death toll, including twenty-seven people on the United flight, had been fewer than two hundred. No big deal. Worldwide, more people died every day from the flu. And Nature had conveniently mopped up the mess.
But the men and women watching Susan's slide show knew better.
"Unfortunately," she continued, clicking through the electron microscope images of the viral particle, "since smallpox can only be contracted by humans, we cannot examine the effects of the chimera in a clinical setting. In lay terms, we can't inject it into animals and track the course of the disease. Nor can we develop, let alone test, any kind of vaccine."
Slouched in a chair in front, CIA Bureau Chief Brad Montgomery asked in a smug drawl, "Can you elaborate on the origin of the chimera, please, Doctor?"
Here it comes, the conveniently packaged solution.
"The Ebola-smallpox component of this hybrid has Soviet fingerprints all over it, right down to the sequencing," Susan replied. The room lights came on and the projector shut down. "However, as I've been explaining, the micro-organism used to nuke Mathew Island is considerably more sophisticated than anything the Soviet's developed."
"Just like we told you." Montgomery jammed his cigarette butt into his coffee cup. "This has nothing to do with some imaginary Consortium in the US government. Soviet defectors took the virus and the technology to Iraq. Hell, just last year the Russians sold Iraq eighteen large, industrial fermentation vessels. Sure, Iraq maintained it was to grow single-cell protein for cattle food. But you know as well as I do, Major Broadwater, that the Russians also sold them exhaust filtration equipment capable of achieving ninety-nine point nine percent air purity. That degree of control you only need in a bioweapons' lab."
Susan went to object, but Montgomery added, "It's all there in the Chicken Farm documents."
He didn't need to elaborate; everyone in the room knew the story. In August 1995, Lieutenant General Hussein Kamel, one of Saddam's son-in-laws and director of Iraq's weapons programmes fled the country after a family quarrel over dinner that had left six people dead. Despite his defection, Kamel hadn't revealed Iraq's biowarfare capabilities. However, on the assumption that he had, Iraqi intelligence had accused Kamel of deceiving them about the existence of a secret BW program. They'd promptly handed UNSCOM a carton of carefully sanitized documents supposedly found on Kamel's chicken farm. The files-complete with gruesome images of human test subjects-confirmed that Iraq had produced tens of thousands of litres of botulinium toxin, anthrax, aflatoxin, and ricin, and that they had been developing a dangerous viral programme dating back to the 1960s.
"There's nothing in the original Chicken Farm documents that pointed to the development of a chimera virus," Susan retorted.
Montgomery smirked. "Yeah, well, that depends on what you mean by 'original'. And those documents sure as hell contained a few Russian names."
Barely able to contain his disgust, McCabe stood, quietly slipped out of the room, and went downstairs to his office in the Hoover building. Slamming the door behind him, he threw himself into his chair and closed his eyes.
It had been early January before everyone on board the California had been released from quarantine. Susan Broadwater and Chuck Long had taken Nate Sturgess' lethal samples to Atlanta, while Spinner had returned with him and the rest of the response team to DC.
Much to McCabe's surprise, the FBI hadn't ransacked his private files on the Oklahoma City bombing while he'd been away. Meg, his housekeeper, had explained that she'd placed all of his papers in storage in order to redecorate his newly acquired penthouse-something that she'd failed to mention to the 'nice men' who'd dropped by.
Spinner had only had time to skim over the documents before Brant had called and ordered her to Atlanta. The CDC were backlogged with so much work that Broadwater needed all the help she could get. Several times in the past four months, Spinner had returned to DC, parked herself in the spare bedroom of his apartment, and studied his files. She hadn't said much, but the fact that she'd kept coming back told him that she had not dismissed his claims: in order to ensure McVeigh's prosecution, the government was deliberately ignoring crucial evidence in the Oklahoma bombing.
Meanwhile, he'd been scrutinising the background checks on the other victims of Oklahoma, including Spinner's dead husband.
Like hundreds of other government contractors with high-level security clearances, Douglas Spinner had worked in US embassies around the world, installing and upgrading high tech communications equipment. The fact that he'd worked in Iraq had briefly tweaked McCabe's interest, until the realisation
that it had been the 1980s. Back then the US government had been pouring millions of dollars in aid into the impoverished, oil-rich nation. Douglas Spinner had been sent to Baghdad on six separate occasions to advise on the upgrading of Iraqi telecommunications and networking systems. Nothing in his time there or in the files that he'd backed up on a remote server, linked Spinner's husband to Adams' key phrase, five knew who .
Picking through the lives of Williams and Adams, right down to the type of take-out they preferred and who delivered it, had proven to be equally fruitless. Williams had left behind nothing that could link him to the Consortium. Adams' computer had indeed been wiped clean, and when McCabe had finally gained access to the evidence room, he'd found it held nothing more than what the Attorney General needed for the prosecution of McVeigh. But he couldn't shake the feeling that the connection was somewhere in that room.
The most frustrating aspect of the investigation was that the Consortium had achieved exactly what it set out to do. It had scared the crap out of senior US government officials and proven that a bioweapon capable of annihilating an entire population could be developed and deployed. Further, it had demonstrated that the dismantling of the US government's BW programme had hamstrung that same government's ability to track down, identify and retaliate against those who would employ such weapons. Accusing whatever rogue nation happened to be the flavour of the month was a politically convenient fairy tale. It was the perfect lie, because, like the facts behind the Oklahoma bombing, it was wrapped in truth. No one, least of all those secret members of the Consortium within the FBI and the Justice Department, wanted to peel back that truth and expose the corruption beneath.
Any minute now Susan would come bursting into his office and rant about being made a party to such a monumental deception. McCabe sighed, opened his eyes, and noticed the paper on his desk. It was a secure fax from David Wilson. He scanned the contents then flipped to the photograph on the second page-and froze.
A violent wave of nausea hit him. Blindly reaching for the trash bin, he swallowed hard, trying to prevent the reflexive action. A minute or so later he stood, crumpled the fax into a ball and jammed it into his pocket. Carefully, he made his way through the bullpen to the men's room, surprised and somewhat gratified that he made it to the toilet before throwing up.
Family secrets, pieces of a puzzle he'd avoided for decades abruptly fell into place. When gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers . Five minutes ago he'd wanted to stand up in that meeting and demand that the senior FBI, DIA, CIA and Pentagon officials pull their heads out of their asses and admit to what they seemed so determined to bury. But he hadn't. Why? Because somewhere in the depth of his subconscious he knew what had really happened and couldn't face the truth?
The cursed gift that allowed him to climb inside the minds of serial killers and their victims had not allowed him to penetrate those closest to him.
Uncle Albert .
-Chapter 32-
Johannesburg, South Africa, April 1996
McCabe glanced out of the window of the 747. From the air, Johannesburg appeared to have changed little since he'd last been there, more than twenty years ago. After his mother had died, there'd been no more trips to the southern parts of Africa. Even the regular stays with his mother's family in Cairo had shrivelled to a fleeting annual visit. For the most part, home had become boarding school or his uncle's house in Virginia.
Contact with his father during those years had been irregular. The occasional letter, almost always postmarked from places like Tehran and Baghdad, reminded Josh that, as a prodigy, great things were expected of him. His brother was already doing well in medical school, and young Josh would, of course, follow a career that had mapped out for him from the time he could remember. That expectation, the letters said, had become an obligation after Zaire.
While clearing customs and collecting his luggage, McCabe noted that some of the physical vestiges of Apartheid still remained. But a new constitution was due to come into effect in a month's time; one that would ensure a white minority never could again rule the nation. The economic fallout and massive problems facing the majority rule government couldn't suppress an air of vibrancy and promise in the atmosphere.
Outside, near the cab rank, McCabe saw David Wilson hurriedly walking towards him. "Sorry I was late," Wilson said. "Rush hour on the R24. Good flight?" He took one of McCabe's two bags.
McCabe wasn't entirely certain what Meg had packed, but she'd always had a knack of knowing exactly what he'd need. "Thanks for the heads-up. Your bosses know?"
Wilson paused in his stride and turned to him. Eyes narrowing, he said, "You think I'm yanking your chain? The CIA is up to it's fucking eyeballs in career bureaucrats, half of whom would prefer to believe Mathew Island really was a natural outbreak, while the other half are determined to pin it all on Iraq."
"No kidding. Albrecht Tissot?"
"I'll tell you in the car." Wilson began walking again.
Once inside the chauffeured vehicle, Wilson pulled his seatbelt on and said, "Albrecht Tissot was arrested two weeks ago in Pretoria, for possession of four hundred tablets of Ecstasy. Local authorities believe, and we concur, that it was to raise funds for Die Organisasie."
"That's a little desperate, even for them." McCabe glanced out the window. Die Organisasie , also known as Third Force, was a secret organization of disgruntled white South Africans. Working mostly in exile in the UK, they were under the illusion that they could topple the majority South African government. The bag of dirty tricks they'd used to cling to power had obviously taken a new turn.
"It gets better. The night he was arrested, Tissot died in jail."
McCabe's head snapped around. "Shit. I thought the Truth and Reconciliation Committee would have enjoyed parading Dr Death in front of the world."
"It's not what you think. Authorities are doing an autopsy now. Looks like Tissot committed suicide using one of his neat little concoctions."
Men like Albrecht Tissot didn't commit suicide, they were too damned arrogant… Which was exactly what he'd thought about Robert Williams. "Go on," McCabe said.
"Police searched his garage the next day, and guess what?"
"They found files from his Project Jota days?"
"Not just files, McCabe. They unearthed the entire fucking crown jewels-the Apartheid government's complete biowarfare library going back decades."
"Why would Tissot have killed himself knowing that the files would be discovered?"
Wilson shrugged. "You tell me, you're the head doctor. The DIA got a call from State about fifteen minutes after the local CIA officer in the embassy here informed Langley. The South Africans practically fell over themselves throwing the files at us. And from what I can see, I can't blame them. We found proof of Meryl Nass' theory. Not just of the anthrax and cholera outbreaks in Zimbabwe-"
"Ebola."
"When I read your name in Tissot's journal, I knew you'd need to see for yourself. Jesus, McCabe, you could be the Truth and Reconciliation Committee's star witness."
McCabe swallowed back his nausea. It was growing dark outside, but the sights and sounds, even the smells rekindled the old nightmares. "Where are the files being kept?"
"We're on our way there now."
The car parked outside a nondescript grey stone building on Jellico Street, just a few kilometres from the centre of town. The front entrance was poorly lit, but McCabe didn't fail to notice the armed security guards lurking in the shadows.
Wilson led him to the rear entrance, also guarded, and opened a thick metal door. At the top of two flights of poorly lit stairs, McCabe paused. "What the hell…? I thought you said they found this stuff in Tissot's garage?"
The entire floor of the building was crammed with cardboard boxes and wooden crates, metal filing cabinets and tea chests. Two men dressed in jeans and T-shirts were kneeling on a scrap of grubby canvas, sorting through books, while a middle-aged woman sat behind a computer terminal at a nearby desk. A
ll three of them briefly looked up, nodded to Wilson in recognition, and went back to work. Wilson's failure to introduce them told McCabe that everything about this operation would remain secret.
"Yeah, well, the 'garage' extended underground to a massive laboratory." Wilson led him to a metal desk covered in folders. "Tissot wasn't just selling drugs."
"If the South Africans don't want this stuff, why not ship everything back to the States?" McCabe noted that the heavily barred windows were boarded over. The only ventilation came from a noisy air conditioner that had seen better days. What little he could see of the walls and floor was scratched and covered in stains and graffiti.
"The new government wants to divorce itself from the contents of the files, but they're not prepared to lose the evidence."
McCabe could feel the grit underfoot as he walked across the linoleum floor. "The Truth and Reconciliation Committee."
"The Human Rights Violations Subcommittee to be specific. They're pissed about Tissot's death, but they're banking on getting a few more names from his files. We're working with the Subcommittee to sort and catalogue the entire library." He pointed to a set of photocopiers and a stack of grey archive boxes behind the table.
"Shit, that's going to take years." The sheer volume of paperwork was staggering.
"Not necessarily." Wilson pulled out a plain wooden chair from behind the table, and motioned to McCabe to take a seat. "It's not as random as it looks. More importantly, Tissot kept a card catalogue system in his study. I used that to go straight for the files on Ebola." He untied the string on one of the folders and handed it to McCabe. "I knew you'd want to see this first, to verify its authenticity." Wilson's dark eyes met his.
"And?" McCabe prompted.
"You're not gonna like it." The DIA agent stabbed a finger at a couple of leather-bound journals sitting beside his laptop. "When you're satisfied that the files are the real deal, check out Tissot's diaries. You can fill in the blanks. Hell, we all know the story, just not all of the names." He looked around the room. "But we will."
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