Encrypted: An Action-Packed Techno-Thriller

by Carolyn McCray

  After only a second of pondering the second option, Zach tossed the prophylactics into his bag. Be prepared. That was his motto, but he doubted it was what his Boy Scout leader had in mind.

  The turtleneck came out again. He wasn’t posing for the cover of a magazine, after all. But if he didn’t bring it, what would he wear Sunday when they went out? Zach snorted. Who was he kidding? Did he have any right to think the cop and robber would ever have a second date?

  Oh, how he hated his therapist right about now. This was all Dr. Webster’s fault. The guy wouldn’t stop harping about fantasy projections and fears of intimacy. Every time Zach would complain about Ronnie, the good doctor would always turn the topic around to focus on him. Why was he so afraid to meet? Why was Zach reluctant to bring the relationship into the real world?

  Well, maybe, just maybe, it was because someday he might be forced to arrest her ass. But, of course, he couldn’t say that to Webster. Instead, he’d gone and invited Ronnie to meet him, and it hadn’t been until after the high had worn off that he remembered that he was breaking about fifteen federal laws.

  Bad FBI agent! Bad!

  But what good was he to the Bureau when his heart was divided like this? He couldn’t stop thinking about her, and not in a “how do I apprehend a fugitive?” kind of way. More in a “How do your eyelashes glisten in the morning?” kind of way.

  Okay, that was it. No more internal arguing. No more doubt. No more inner turmoil. He was going, and that was that. Tucking the turtleneck back in before he zipped his bag closed, Zach checked his watch. Crap. He was running late. Well, not exactly late. Late as in he was tapping into the three-hour lead time he had given himself. On the weekend, traffic across the border could be unpredictable, and he wanted to have plenty of time to find the bar and knock back a few beers to take the edge off before she arrived.

  Before he could start doubting himself again, Zach headed for the door. Alarm set and keys in hand, he left the house and strode toward his car. Bag in the trunk, and he was ready to leave. But as he opened the car, he noticed a little “Welcome to Our House” garden sign by the front door. A bunny chewed on a cute little carrot. He’d walked past that thing every day for months, and had forgotten it was even there. The last of Julia’s decorating touches.

  He knelt, pulled the sign from the ground, and chucked it in the trash can. That phase of his life was over.

  Zach settled in behind the wheel and went to start the engine when the passenger side door opened. His hand instinctively flew to his gun, which wasn’t there. Luckily, the intruder was just Grant.

  “What do you want, Fifer?”

  The younger agent hopped into the car and had on his seat belt before answering. “Coming to your cousin’s party with you.”

  “You’re not invited. Get out.”

  “Is that a way to treat a trusted colleague, Hunt?”

  “Get out.”

  Grant looked him up and down. “You know, you actually look somewhat fashionable, for once. And to go to a bawdy bachelor party?”

  Zach’s teeth ground against one another. “Get out.”

  “Is that really hair product in your hair?”

  “Get out.”

  “And if I am not mistaken, and I seldom am, you got a manicure this morning.”

  Unconsciously, Zach pulled his hands back from the wheel. How in the hell could Grant miss a shell casing lying in the middle of the street, but somehow know that Zach’s nails were buffed?

  “Get out.”

  “Hey, all I’m saying is, you are looking to get laid tonight, my friend.”

  “Get out.”

  Grant put his head back on the SUV’s headrest. “Make me.”

  Zach was certain that he was grinding the enamel off his teeth. He knew he doth protest too much. Grant pulled this kind of crap all the time, and Zach usually just let it slide. After all, to Fifer it was just a two-hour drive to a bachelor party where they would split up until the drive home. But wait! That was his out.

  “I’m planning on staying the weekend.”

  But Grant’s face just lit up as he pulled his bag into the car. “Me, too!”

  Zach groaned as Grant flipped the SUV’s music selection. “Hey, you got any Snoop Dogg in here?”

  This was going to be a really, really, really long drive.

  CHAPTER 8

  Plum Island

  10:44 a.m., EST

  Amanda stared at the electron microscope picture of the bacterium, Yersinia pestis, extracted from a New York plague victim. The pudgy bacterium looked so innocent. Like any other of the millions of Gram-negative bacteria in the body. But this one packed a punch.

  Many of her colleagues in this room would argue with her anthropomorphizing a microscopic organ. Was Yersinia pestis any more sinister by nature than Lactobacillus, the bacterium that helped humans to digest milk? Did Yersinia pestis take pleasure in the havoc it wreaked?

  To Amanda, the bacterium certainly seemed to. Was it by intelligent design or selection of the meanest that Yersinia pestis found the nearly perfect host in the common flea? The bacterium somehow figured out how to hitch a ride on the bloodsucking parasites. Jumping from infected host to new victim in the flea’s saliva. Okay, so Yersinia pestis had to count on the fact that fleas regurgitated into their bites, but still it was a pretty slick operation.

  Add in the fact that because of superstition, all cats—not just black cats—were killed off by the droves in medieval Europe. Which led to an overpopulation of rats, which led to an overpopulation of fleas, and one could see how Yersinia pestis could spread so rampantly through the known world.

  And Yersinia pestis wasn’t just clever, but ambitious as well. The reason the plague took such a heavy toll, becoming the Black Death, was the fact that the bacteria attacked the body’s immune system, killing or incapacitating the host’s white cells. From there, they hit the bloodstream—spreading to every part of the body, destroying tissue as they went.

  Forget about sharks. Yersinia pestis was a nearly perfect killing machine.

  Jennifer walked in and set another picture beside the current plague bacterium. Amanda scanned the new photo. This sample dated back to the fourteen hundreds. Yersinia pestis pulled from the tooth pulp of long-dead Black Death victims. It is how scientists first established that the Gram-negative bacteria had been the culprit during the Middle Ages.

  Wow, Jennifer was quick. The World Health Organization had just asked Plum Island to verify that the current Yersinia pestis was the same strain as the 1347 pandemic. Jennifer hadn’t just looked up the files online, but had gone down into the basement and pulled the original reports.

  Amanda scanned the documents quickly. Everything seemed to be lining up perfectly. Both the current bacteria and the 1347 plague carried all the same genetic markers. The same bipolar staining. The same negative uptake of indole. In every way, they seemed to be the same strain—except with one vital difference. This new strain was showing significant antibiotic resistance. Even to third-generation aminoglycoside?

  Trying not to jump to conclusions that would get her laughed at, Amanda reread the results. It wasn’t uncommon in this age of “give a pill for every sniffle” that bacteria had become more and more resistant to common-use antibiotics. Just look at the distant cousin of Yersinia pestis: Mycobacterium tuberculosis. That ancient bacterium could become resistant to an antibiotic over just the course of a two-month treatment window.

  But how had Yersinia pestis developed resistance to an antibiotic it hadn’t even seen before?

  If this didn’t support her theory regarding weaponization, what would?

  “Thanks, Jennifer.”

  Her assistant gave her that look, though. Like, “Is that all you’ve got?”

  Amanda studied the reports again. Except for the antibiotic resistance, they seemed the same. Jennifer pointed to the current strain’s electron microscope picture. Then to the 1347’s photo. They appeared to be identical, except…Wait.
>
  The protein markers on the current Yersinia pestis seemed more prominent. Like way more prominent. Like three times as many markers as the 1347 photo.

  Amanda sat up abruptly.

  Whoever had done this was absolutely evil, yet outstandingly brilliant.

  “Get Dr. Henderson,” Amanda directed Jennifer. “He’s got to see this.”

  * * *

  Ronnie couldn’t believe that she had let Quirk talk her into this. Banging another elbow on the airplane’s bathroom stall, she cursed under her breath. Another bruise, and for what? She looked in the mirror. It was hopeless. Yet another low-cut, spaghetti-strapped nightmare. Her body shape wasn’t meant for silk and satin. The fabric fell awkwardly off her not-quite-so-feminine broad shoulders. Usually, she liked being tall for a woman, but these dresses were cut for some petite little debutante without any cleavage.

  The super-Wonder Bra wasn’t helping, either. Her breasts were a good two inches north of where they normally hung out. She tried to adjust the straps again, but the apparatus was determined to give her perky nipples.

  “Well?” Quirk asked from outside the stall.

  “I am not coming out in this Britney Spears reject.”

  Her assistant jiggled the door. He was intent to continue this little in-flight fashion show. “Let the audience decide.”

  Tentatively, Ronnie opened the lock and stepped out. Well, the men gave a thumbs-up, or more accurately, other anatomical appendages, to the dress. The women however, scowled. Ronnie stepped back into the cramped bathroom and threw the bolt.

  “Okay, okay. That one was a little bold,” Quirk admitted through the door as she ripped the dress off. “I’m telling you, try the black one.”

  Ronnie looked down at the forest of bags at her feet. “There are fifteen black ones in here.”

  “The one with the piping and long sleeves.”

  Even though she didn’t know why she did it, Ronnie dug through the inventory. Luckily, only one dress fit that description. There was something different about this dress. It felt soft on her skin, not all slippery. And the sleeves gave the garment a classier look, rather than the cocktail-whore look the rest had going for them.

  “Well?” Quirk prompted.

  Shimmying into the sleek, black dress, Ronnie was surprised at how well it fit. The thing might have sleeves, but they made up for that material by not really giving it a back. She could feel cool air all the way down to the rise of her buttocks. The front didn’t waste much fabric, either. The neckline plunged down and ended just a hair’s breadth from her bra’s scalloped edge.

  “I don’t know…”

  “Get out here!”

  She was nervous about exiting. Not because they might like it, but because they might not. Ronnie never pictured herself as the type of woman to fill out a dress like this. Dresses like this were reserved for the über-pretty. The ones who didn’t dream of electric sheep.

  Opening the door, she was met with a rumbling of “ahs.” Even the women nodded approvingly.

  “We’ve got a winner,” Quirk said then guided her back to their seats. “Now for some makeup.” Before Ronnie could ask exactly what he had in mind, Quirk signaled to the flight attendant. “Yes, señorita, could you please have the pilot announce that everyone should close their shades, and have him turn off the cabin lights?”

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “Lights-o off. Shades-o down.”

  Even though her words were accented, she made it very clear that she was fluent in English. “I understood your words, señor. I just did not believe you were saying them.”

  Ronnie tried to quiet him down, but Quirk would have none of it. “How else can I apply makeup worthy of a goddess in this harsh lighting?”

  The flight attendant’s eyebrow shot up. “Genius is always a burden, señor. Make do, like the rest of us.”

  Quirk seemed ready to go another round, but Ronnie pulled him down into his seat. “I just want some eyeliner and mascara, anyway.”

  Her assistant gave her one of those looks, then pulled out a case that would put Estée Lauder to shame. “I’m thinking that we should start with the gold.”

  Ronnie gripped Quirk’s wrist. “If I end up looking like a transvestite, so help me…”

  * * *

  Francois remained with his head against the wall, listening to the room with his eyes blissfully closed. News report after news report covered the growing panic that spread from New York outward. Another dozen victims had been hospitalized, and they were not all from the same flight. The first case was not an anomaly. The Black Death was here. He had failed thrice.

  When the front door opened, Francois cracked an eyelid open. But he could not have seen what he thought he had seen. Jerking upright, Francois stared straight ahead. He could not believe his luck. There it was. The painting. He had thought it beyond his reach. Stored in some dim evidence locker in downtown El Paso. How could it be in the same room as he?

  Not ten feet from the bars that held him was the scorched canvas, sealed in plastic, and carried in by an older agent. But as much as he wished to rush forward and press his claim, the Frenchman knew he could not. They did not understand why he must have it. They did know what it held.

  “Dude, get over it,” the younger agent said to the older.

  The gray-haired agent shook his head. “I’m telling you. They made me sign my life away.”

  The sandy-blond man shook his head. “The El Paso Police Department just doesn’t want to be responsible if anything happens to it.”

  “My point, exactly. I was looking forward to my retirement benefits.”

  Francois couldn’t help that his brow furrowed. Why would the local authorities release the painting to the Federal Bureau of Investigation? Why, in fact, was he in the Bureau’s custody in the first place?

  After the rapture of the fire, all was a blur until this morning. Francois had not questioned in whose custody he was in, only that he had failed. He had known it was a risk to set the painting on fire in the museum, but he sensed that time was constricting. Francois should have been at a local jail.

  Why had the Federal Government taken an interest in a crazed old man?

  * * *

  Amanda studied the readout until her eyes almost bled. Every bit of data streaming in from New York and a dozen other cities only worsened her initial prognosis.

  “Amanda?” a voice, seemingly distant and unimportant, spoke.

  Startled back to reality, she found Dr. Henderson standing over her. “You said you had something to report?”

  Wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, Amanda nodded, signaling Jennifer to bring up the latest information.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Just one?” the director said as he sat down.

  She grinned at his attempted joke, but the theory Amanda was about to present was absolutely no laughing matter.

  “The plague is definitively not natural.”

  Henderson stretched, yawning like a man who hadn’t gotten any sleep in a very long time. “That is what you keep insisting.”

  “Now I have proof.”

  The director sat up. “You have my attention.”

  “And mine,” Devlin said as he joined them near the monitor.

  Good. She might need a little encouragement to get through this presentation.

  “As you are aware,” Amanda started, “the current theory for the New York flight victims is that they were all exposed in Venice.” She waited until they nodded. “The only problem with that is the timeline doesn’t add up.”

  Jennifer called up a listing of all the passengers on the red-eye flight. “You are also aware that quickest incubation period for the bubonic plague is twenty-four hours.” Amanda pointed to the map showing where each of the passengers had been twenty-four hours from when the first victim became clinical. The dots were spread all over Europe, Russia, and even Africa. “How did all of these people come into contact with the plague in al
l of these desperate locations, then somehow all board the same plane?”

  Devlin snorted, but Henderson nodded. “It would be statistically impossible.”

  “But what does that mean?” Devlin asked.

  Her assistant fast-forwarded the passenger’s trek to Venice until all the dots were clustered at the airport. “It means that someone infected them with a strain of Yersenia pestis that is much more virulent, moving through the latency phase faster, attacking the body with more force.”

  “That would imply a level of bioengineering that we are years away from,” Henderson noted.

  Normally the director would have been spot on, except for the fact that he wasn’t. “Just look at how quickly our first New York victim became stricken and sought medical care.” Jennifer brought up the medical record. “I mean, the problem with the plague is the fact that the first wave of symptoms seem to be nothing more than the average flu. It isn’t until day two or three, when the lymph nodes in the groin and neck begin to swell, that people head to the hospital.”

  Henderson stood up and read the report aloud. “Upon admission, patient complained of high fever, 102 Fahrenheit, muscle cramping and flushed skin, especially on the extremities.”

  “If we agree that the infection must have occurred at the Venice airport, those symptoms occurred within nine hours.”

  Devlin looked from Amanda to the director, and then back at the screen. “I am no epidemiologist…” That was an understatement. “But if I were going to bioengineer a bug, wouldn’t I want people walking around for longer not showing symptoms? Wouldn’t it spread wider that way?”

  Henderson looked Amanda’s way.

  “It would if you were relying on natural spread of the disease,” Amanda explained.