Chimera

by Sonny Whitelaw

  What he'd read in the Project Jota files had identified him as both witness and victim. He recognised that the impact of this now made him an impediment to the investigation. The same sort of impediment he'd thought Spinner was when he'd first interviewed her. Nate Sturgess and Chuck Long also had their own share of emotional baggage. It was personal, for all of them. But they were still assets to the investigation. And now, all the lose ends had come down to this one, simple piece of information.

  The look of shock on Chuck's face no doubt reflected McCabe's own, but for different reasons. The naval officer, caught up in his own personal grieving, had genuinely failed to make the simple mathematical connection. Five Iraqi BW scientists had been killed in the bombing of the Federal Murrah Building.

  The final boarding announcement call for the flight to San Diego came over the loudspeaker. "Dave Wilson is dead," McCabe said quickly.

  "What?" Jordan demanded, he eyes widening still further. "When? How?"

  Ignoring her, he watched Chuck's expression. It took a moment for the information to register, then the man's face darkened and his nostrils flare in anger. "You went down to Jo'burg?" he replied.

  "Wilson gave me a heads-up," McCabe replied. "Who told you?"

  "Same CIA contact who told me about the Iraqi defectors-straight after I was ordered to report to San Diego. I've been pulled from the Mathew Island investigation. The Navy suddenly has a pressing need for a weapons expert in some back room archive." Chuck stood and picked up his cover and bag. Briefly nodding at Spinner, he added to McCabe, "Keep me in the loop." Then he turned walked away.

  Eyes darting between them, Spinner stood and demanded, "What the hell is going on, McCabe?"

  Still ignoring her, he watched Chuck leave. Everything was being cleaned up and neatly disposed of.

  "McCabe!"

  The boarding call for their flight was announced. He picked up Spinner's carryon, took her by the elbow, and said, "C'mon. Plane's waiting."

  Seated with them on the flight to Chicago, a grandmotherly type kept up a running commentary about the latest Oklahoma bombing conspiracy theory involving aliens. McCabe almost wished it were true.

  They managed to get seats to themselves on the connecting flight to Reagan. When the aircraft levelled off and the seatbelt light blinked out, Jordan turned in her seat and demanded, "When were you were in South Africa? And what happened to Dave Wilson?"

  "I'll explain when we get to DC. Tell me what you found." He loosened his tie.

  Spinner looked like she was about to object, but then she said, "It's not just Dave Wilson. Key witnesses, people I tried to talk to, are dropping dead like flies."

  No surprise there. "Who, exactly?"

  "An explosives expert who was in Oklahoma at the time of the bombing wasn't happy with the conclusion that the truck of ANFO alone could cause such damage. He took samples from the Murrah building to a laboratory for chemical analysis. The results showed fulminated mercury residue."

  "Which is normally employed in cutting charges that demolitions experts use to bring structural columns down."

  "He was going to take everything to the grand jury, but changed his mind when he became convinced that the FBI was determined to scuttle any investigative avenue outside the 'lone bomber' scenario. He was then hit with a subpoena demanding all of his materials relating to the bombing, including his lab test report-which has since vanished. Four days ago, his private twin-engine plane crashed in 'mysterious circumstances'. Everyone aboard was killed."

  A flight attendant came by and offered them a drink. Spinner accepted a glass of wine, while McCabe ordered something he knew he wouldn't drink. He then proceeded to fiddle with the cheap plastic swizzle stick. "Who else."

  "They're the same people as in your files, McCabe."

  His files contained reports from over sixty reliable witnesses who had identified two Middle Eastern men seen with McVeigh during the week prior to the bombing. Eight independent witnesses had also seen McVeigh and the same men in the basement the day before the bombing, doing what the witnesses had assumed was some 'telephone wiring.' To the best of McCabe's knowledge, nine of those witnesses had since died.

  Angrily downing most of her wine, Spinner spent a good part of the flight relaying the remaining witnesses' stories in detail. Finally, she added, "Not one of them was asked to testify before the grand jury. On the contrary, they were directed to not make statements. And since most of them are Federal employees or cops, they've complied. The Bureau's fingerprint expert admitted to me that he'd been ordered- ordered -not to run checks on over a thousand fingerprints and palm prints taken from McVeigh's car and motel room. With McVeigh about to go to trial, they're still withholding twenty-two surveillance videos from the Murrah Building and the surrounding area!"

  McCabe knew the details. He also knew that the 'Middle Eastern' men had been pulled off a flight to Jordan just hours after the bombing. When the FBI found bomb-making equipment in their luggage, one of the men confessed to having been a member of Hussein's elite Republican Guards. He'd emigrated to the US in 1992, along with Ramzi Yousef-the man convicted of the 1993 World Trade Centre bombing. More evidence that would never make it to McVeigh's trial.

  "It makes no sense!" Spinner snapped.

  Oh, but it did-now. "Garry Wade Benson-you remember, the guy with the bubonic plague?" said McCabe. "He might be a white supremacist but his paranoia is grounded in fact. Iraqi sleeper agents were sent to the US after the Gulf War, and some of them attempted to assassinate the eight Iraqi defectors. As Chuck said, they succeeded only in killing three."

  She stared at him a moment. "And the remaining five were taken to Oklahoma. C'mon, McCabe, get to the point!"

  He held the swizzle stick up to the light. There was no one, simple point. It wasn't a linear chain of events but a complex mesh of deception. Exposing just one part of the truth would bring the entire structure-and a good chunk of the US government-down like a house of cards. In order for Spinner to see that, she had to join the dots herself.

  Her analytical perspective might also help him confront his own nightmare. Could he trust her that much? Or was it better to go to Susan? "During any investigation the first thing a profiler looks for is a pattern of behaviour. By definition serial killers are repetitive, and while their actions may escalate and evolve into increasingly complex scenarios, their behaviours can be predicted." She glared at him impatiently until he said, "Based on the material evidence and numerous, creditable eyewitness reports, and, regardless of any preconceptions about the five Iraqi defectors or anything that furtive elements in this government may be trying to hide, what does the evidence tell you happened?"

  The attendant offered to freshen their drink. Spinner shook her head while McCabe opted for a club soda. "No matter how illogical it sounds," he added when the attendant moved on.

  "All right." She spoke in tones he knew well, an expert witness presenting cold, analytical data. "The plot to blow up the Murrah Building was conceived by Terry Nichols and Ramzi Yousef during one or more meetings in the Philippines. Nichols knew Timothy McVeigh wanted to punish the FBI and ATF for its actions at Waco. With the assistance of two Iraqi sleepers that McVeigh met through Nichols, McVeigh installed sophisticated cutting charges on the columns in the basement of the Federal Murrah building. The fertilizer in the truck was only the calling card; the primary blast occurred inside the building. Additional charges set to go off after rescuers arrived on the scene, failed to detonate, possibly because the mechanism had been damaged in the initial blasts."

  "Okay." He nodded in approval. "Now consider the pattern of behaviour and tools used within the context of past terrorist attacks on US interests. The Marine barracks in Beirut and the February 1993 bombing of the World Trade Centre. Spinner, in the first hours of the Oklahoma investigation, everything pointed to an Islamic Jihad cell in Tampa, Florida. This cell ties into a network of Osama bin Laden, which sponsored Ramzi Yousef's group in the Philippines.


  "Typically," he added, idly tracing the patterns of moisture on the foldout tray with the stick, "people like Yousef concoct a plan, then, like a franchisee, they go to bin Laden for funding. Under a local banner, they then incite homegrown radicals to pull off the operation. That's exactly what happened at the World Trade Centre. Bin Laden got pissed when we apprehended and convicted Yousef, because that's never been part of bin Laden's game plan. He likes to let the local organisation take the credit-and the fall, which may be a one-way ticket either to Paradise or a US Federal prison-while the franchisee moves onto the next disaffected country.

  "It's simplistic to dismiss the notion that white supremacists like McVeigh would shun Islamic fundamentalists, because both believe the American government is run by Zionists who support Israel. The enemy of my enemy is-"

  "Still my enemy," Jordan countered. The seatbelt sign went on, and the aircraft began to descend. "One minute you're suggesting the Consortium is behind this, then you tell me it's Iraqi agents, and now you're claiming its bin Laden, whose fundamentalist philosophies are diametrically opposed to Hussein's, but he's ticked off about Ramzi Yousef's prosecution?"

  He smiled. "Go to the top of the class, Dr Spinner. You've grasped something the vast majority of the American people seems chronically incapable of understanding. It's dangerously naïve to assume that some sort of catchall mindless dogma universally motivates all terrorists. They work together only because of the belief in a common enemy.

  "As to Iraq," he added, "during sentencing, Yousef said that he wanted to punish the American people, that, The Iraqi people must not be made to pay for the mistakes of Saddam Hussein , and that, The United States tacitly supported Iraq during the 1980s, when Saddam Hussein killed thousands of his own citizens with chemical and biological weapons ."

  Her eyes widened in comprehension and she went to speak, but McCabe kept talking. "Bin Laden might be a fundamentalist, but he views the pillars of Western culture as our Achilles heel. He cheerfully raises capital through the stock market and charitable organizations, and he uses the darker fruits of Western materialism, like BW technology, and disaffected groups, such as anti-Semitic neo-Nazis, as potential tools against us. The hypocrisy is not lost on me, but he uses the term fighting fire with fire in a very clever, lateral-thinking manner.

  "While McVeigh and Nichols' agendas were entirely different to those of Yousef and bin Laden, their goal was the same. To strike a blow at the United States government by bombing the Federal Murrah building."

  There was a slight jerk as the plane landed. "What about Hussein and the Consortium? What did they want?" Spinner asked.

  "The five Iraqi defectors housed in the building knew who was involved in manufacturing bioweapons in Iraq-I'm not talking about today, but twelve years ago when the US were pals with Saddam. Hussein wanted these five men dead because they were defectors. The Consortium wanted them dead because they could identify who had worked with them on BW programmes. Four completely different motives, yet all desiring the same outcome."

  "You're saying that the Consortium, including men like Williams, once supported Iraq's BW programme?" Around them, people began to stand and collect their things.

  McCabe bent the swizzle stick between his thumb and index finger until it snapped. He stood and dropped the two halves onto his seat. "It was a convenience that backfired. And it wasn't just Williams, Spinner. One of them, the most brilliant and gifted of them all, perhaps, was my father."

  -Chapter 35-

  Washington DC, April 19, 1996

  Before Oklahoma, Jordan's contract renewal would have been a rubber stamp. Now, everything was an unknown, including where she would sleep tonight. She cared only insofar as she wanted to find the people who had ripped her soul out and… And now McCabe blithely informed her that his father was one of them?

  Conversation had been impossible during the bustle of getting off the plane and through the crowded terminal. "Your father," she finally said when he pulled her bags off the luggage belt.

  McCabe steered them out of the building with a gentle hand on her back. Friday evening in DC most people were trying to get out, not in. For once there were plenty of cabs. "He's dead, Spinner." His voice was devoid of emotion.

  She wanted to say, 'I'm sorry' but instead demanded, "How long ago?"

  "A year today."

  "Good, God! Oklahoma?" she blurted, almost stumbling.

  "No." He held the door open for her while she climbed into the cab. "Brant wants to see us on Monday morning. You can stay at my place. It's all there, even the family photos." Smiling bitterly, he added, "You'll like them, Spinner; snapshots of Ebola victims."

  There was a lasagne in the oven, a salad in the fridge and a corked bottle of red wine-Australian-sitting on a table set for two. No candles. Jordan frowned. McCabe's understated but expensive taste in clothing, and Broadwater's comment about New England family ties had hinted at old money, but she had still been taken aback by the size and comfortable stylishness of his penthouse apartment.

  The first time she'd been there, Meg, middle-aged and motherly, had met them at the door and enquired politely whether Jordan would be staying for dinner. Later that night, when Jordan had been sifting through McCabe's files on Oklahoma, Meg had announced that she'd freshened up the spare bedroom and that there were clean towels in the guest bathroom.

  McCabe's interest in her had never been anything more than professional. Even Meg hadn't presumed she was there to warm his bed. Saying no to the offer would have been petulant. Besides, the en suite alone was twice as large as most DC hotel rooms.

  Each time Jordan had been to DC over the following months she'd stayed at his apartment. But this seemed a little too calculated. "McCabe, did you tell Meg I was coming?"

  "Meg should have been a detective, Spinner." He smiled crookedly.

  "I'm serious, McCabe."

  "Listen to this." He hit the button on his answering machine.

  "Since you went to Oklahoma, I figured you might be bringing back that nice Dr Spinner. She'll be needing something warm and familiar, although I'm not sure if it's the right wine. I'll be in late tomorrow."

  Jordan picked up the bottle of red wine. Expensive, even in Australia. She had always considered McCabe cold, indifferent, yet he employed a housekeeper who gave him humanity. Perverse. Contradictory. It fit. "Tell me you didn't find Meg through the classifieds."

  "Meg and her husband were live-in staff at my uncle's-my father's brother. I inherited her when they died."

  "They?"

  "My uncle was a diplomat. Died in a motor vehicle accident in Kuwait late last year. Meg's husband was driving."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It was a lousy year. My brother got the house. I inherited everything else, including Meg. I got the better deal," he added, smiling.

  This was more of Joshua McCabe than Jordan had ever seen before. "Why are you telling me this?"

  He studied her a moment before replying, "To understand what's going on, you need background. My background."

  "You father's background, you mean."

  "My background is all I have to give. He was part of it, I can give you that."

  Her stomach growled. She had only picked at lunch.

  "You wanna eat first?" He opened the oven and looked inside.

  Suddenly, Jordan relaxed. She was tired, bone-tired, and the smell of lasagne, the oddly familiar surroundings, and even McCabe's contradictions were the closest thing she had to familiarity and comfort.

  After dinner, McCabe carried the coffees into the living room and placed them on the wood and glass table between the sofas. Instead of sitting, he walked across to where Jordan was examining a bookshelf that took up one entire wall.

  She'd long since noted that the contents were mostly medical, psychology, and law books, with a strong showing of classical literature. There also were an entire section of unusual, gilt-edged books with Arabic text on the spines. Jordan fingered the scroll-like text. McCabe's mot
her had been Egyptian, and he'd spent at least part of his childhood in Cairo. He was doubtless fluent in Egyptian Arabic and probably other dialects, for the same reason that she was fluent in French and several South Pacific languages.

  Crouching, McCabe pulled a thick, leather-bound photo album from the bottom shelf, and handed it to her. She took it across to the coffee table, sat on one of the couches and opened the first page. Ten cavity free smiles framed by ebony skin and enthusiasm stared out at her. Standing with them was a tall, olive-skinned woman with the large, slightly almond shaped eyes-a female version of McCabe. The next image was the same woman, this time her arm was around a short nun wearing a nurse's apron.

  "Like Dave Wilson and Chuck Long, I had always suspected that the Ebola outbreak in Zaire was anything but natural." McCabe sat beside her and picked up his coffee.

  Jordan wanted to know what had happened to Dave Wilson, but when it came to explanations, McCabe would not be deviated from the course that suited him. Once again, she felt like she was being subjected to some sort of test, so she said, "You've just been to South Africa? Why?"

  When he explained what had happened in Johannesburg, Jordan abruptly felt the wave of loss. Wilson, a man she hardly knew but someone who'd tried to expose the truth, was dead. Caught up in her own loss, once more she'd failed to see what was going on around her.

  "Scientists, especially men like Tissot, really cannot destroy their own work, no matter how potentially incriminating," McCabe added. "We knew Project Jota was real, Spinner. What we didn't know was how far they'd progressed."