Team Red

by David DeBatto

  And then, a thought occurred to her. She sat up in her chair, thinking a moment, then found a fresh syringe and extracted a sample of her own blood. She prepared a slide, and then examined it.

  The same virus that had killed Anthony Fusaro was now replicating rapidly in her own blood, coursing through her body. By now, it was no doubt everywhere inside of her.

  “Oh, my,” she exclaimed. “Well. I guess that proves Koch’s third postulate, doesn’t it?”

  And then she set about her business, opening a new file and typing as fast as she could, because she knew she didn’t have much time, and that the morning shift would be arriving in only a few short hours.

  When DeLuca was finally able to log on to his computer and check his e-mail, he read only the relevant messages. The CID lab at Fort Gillem regretted to inform him there’d been a delay in processing the syringe he’d sent them, but that he could expect a response in another four to six weeks. Scottie e-mailed him to say he’d forwarded the photographs they’d discussed to Captain Martin c/o General LeDoux’s office, with a brief query added at the end: “How’d the talk with Mom go?”

  He read with interest a report from Walter Ford on one Professor Mahmoud Jaburi describing Jaburi’s activities and Ford’s suspicions. He said Gillian O’Doherty was processing the man’s DNA, which Ford intended to use to cross-reference against other crimes in the cities where he’d visited.

  Needless to say, I CCed Tommy at HS in case he wanted to go through channels there, but I was also thinking of talking to our friend Mike O’Leary at the FBI. He’s been promoted since we worked the Angiulo thing but I’ve stayed in touch and had him come talk to my classes. He can back me up but he could also take the ball and run with it if I get benched for some reason. What do you think?

  Just when you say to yourself you’re too old for this shit, there’s more shit.

  Yours,

  Walter

  DeLuca wrote his friend back saying he thought it would be a good idea to contact O’Leary, and that he probably carried enough weight to run interference against Timmons for him if he needed it, but also to give Tom a chance. He finished by adding:

  I’m too old for this shit, too, but fortunately, the shit is aging at the same rate. No rest for the weary. Who did you see a few years ago when you had that back problem? I might need to consult with somebody when I get home.

  David

  The last e-mail he opened was from Gillian. She wrote:

  Dearest David,

  I wish I had better news for you, and I suppose in a way I do, because I have achieved some positive and reliable results, but I fear I’ve discovered something I wish wasn’t true.

  Attached to this letter, you will find the report I’ve been working on for the last few hours. I’ve sent copies to you, to Walter, to Tom, to the Boston police, to the Centers for Disease Control, to the FBI, to the Public Health office, and a couple other places (a printed-out sterilized hard copy is also in my safe), but let me put it in a nutshell for you.

  When you asked about dockworkers, I checked my files and found a man named Anthony Fusaro who’d died in a fire. When I ran my tests, I discovered that Mr. Fusaro had an extremely virulent form of weaponized smallpox that would have killed him if the fire didn’t. It is, I believe, quite different from ordinary smallpox and much deadlier, smaller, more infectious and vaccine-resistant. I don’t know how Mr. Fusaro might have contracted this illness, but I imagine Walter and our friends on the force will be able to track that down. The fact that Fusaro died in a fire is fortunate. I think whatever fomites might have existed in his house would have been destroyed by the heat. None of the EMTs who handled the body were affected. I believe the virus was stopped there, except for that which existed in his blood, where it persisted, in those parts of his body that weren’t burned all the way through.

  Unfortunately, in the course of doing my work, I seem to have contracted the disease myself, even though I followed the safety protocols, as I usually do. My mask only filters out particles larger than twenty microns, and these things are about seven, so I may have inhaled the viral particles. The fact that these viral particles can be spread through mere evaporation is alarming, to say the least.

  We may be lucky, in one sense. Because of the “Mad Cow” scare and because the prions that cause BSE are such tiny buggers, the HEPA filters in our laminar flow units were upgraded a year ago to two microns. That means, I believe, that the air is safe and that no viral particles have escaped my laboratory, which is not quite airtight but which is kept at negative pressure all the same. The new lab they’re building will be even better, they tell me.

  However, midway through my examination, I realized, much to my chagrin, that the agents I’m working with should really only be handled in a level four biosafety laboratory, and mine is only level two. “May be safe” isn’t good enough. I’m sure that if I gave you time, you’d arrive at the same conclusions I’ve arrived at, but for the sake of brevity, I’ll spell it out for you, so you can see my logic:

  1. If this agent is easily transmitted, and is extremely dangerous; and

  2. If this lab is contaminated and must therefore be decontaminated; and

  3. If I too am contaminated; and

  4. If I leave this room, I will quite likely spread this disease; and

  5. If I could seal off this room somehow and allow the illness to run its course, nevertheless, whoever examines my body will themselves become contaminated;

  6. Then I have no choice but to destroy myself in such a way as to avoid leaving a body, while at the same time destroying this laboratory.

  And there you have it. Bit of a pickle.

  The building is scheduled to be torn down in a few months anyway, and no one else is working in the building at this hour. I’ve scrubbed everything I could think of with betadine. I’ve also gathered together fire accelerants and materials, and I’ve rigged a timer that should work. I’ve left instructions that the building is to be thoroughly incinerated before anybody goes in to look for me.

  These instructions MUST be followed.

  By then I will, however, be gone. I need to explain this last bit, because it might create an unnecessary amount of ambiguity if I don’t. Because fire obviously didn’t quite complete the job with Mr. Fusaro, at least not until he was ultimately cremated, I fear I cannot consign myself to the flames and hope for better results, plus I quite don’t like the idea at all. However, happily, we have a device here that’s designed to dispose of large animal carcasses (lucky we’re connected to Tufts). All that’s left are the bones, which crumble like soft chalk. These may be interred as per instructions I left with my attorney when I was diagnosed with cancer a year ago. That, FYI, is no longer in remission. I was running out of time as it was.

  So please, David, do not worry about me. I believe I’ve taken every precaution now that I could take. The digester works on a timer, and the lid self-seals, so all I have to do is set the thing and get in. We are occasionally called up to euthanize animals, so I’ve prepared a lethal dose of pentabarbitol to use, once I’m inside. I’ll be dead within two or three seconds of injecting myself.

  You will find Mr. Fusaro’s tissue sample in my safe, which is fireproof, as well as a sample of my own blood. It’s possible that a vaccine can be made from them, otherwise I would have destroyed these too. I’ve taken care to secure the samples, and they’re clearly labeled. You will also find the Scotch I was hoping to drink with you. Please pass it around at the next poker game and pour a shot over my grave if you get the chance.

  I am quite at peace with all this, David. I look forward to being reunited with my Robert. I’ve been a good Catholic all my life, and I believe in the promise of eternal life, and if that should prove not to be the case, I’m going to come back and strangle a few priests I could name. It would have been nice to fill an inside straight against you all one more time, but I’m old and enough is enough. I’ve had a wonderful life and you’ve all been a huge par
t of it.

  I do fear for what could be a rather serious public health crisis, regarding this virus I’ve got. It worries me that there could be more of the virus from wherever Anthony Fusaro got it, and that it could get out into the population. I’ve never seen anything quite like it, in all my years of medical science. But it gives me some sense of peace to know that good men like you are fighting to prevent this. If my death can aid the fight, it will not have been in vain.

  Be well, David, and say goodbye to the others for me, and share this letter with them if you see fit. Goodbye, and love.

  Gillian

  The e-mail had been sent seven hours earlier. When DeLuca finally got Walter Ford on the phone, Ford told him the building had burned completely to the ground, and that Gillian’s bones had been found inside the digester, along with seven partially dissolved buttons, the rubber soles of her jogging shoes, a syringe containing traces of pentabarbitol, her rosary beads, a string of pearls, and an empty picture frame.

  The safe had been sealed in plastic and sent to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta.

  Chapter Eighteen

  COLONEL STANLEY REICKEN, WHO HAD BEEN denying that his men ever fired on Iraqi insurgents in the middle of surrendering (“While I’m certain my men are innocent of these charges, at the same time, we want to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible, in order that . . .”), first learned of the photographs when he saw them on Al Jazeera television, at which time he told reporters they were fabrications, adding, “It’s simple to doctor photographs using computers these days—our people in counterintelligence do it all the time.” DeLuca would have slapped himself in the forehead if he hadn’t thought he’d pass out from the pain.

  When the various experts began to authenticate the photographs, stating that they were images from the United States’ own satellites, Reicken called for an investigation into leaks coming out of the IMINT office, only to learn that the photographs had been made public by the judge advocate’s office, whereupon Reicken changed his tune and said that while he had no personal knowledge of the events transpiring at the house of Omar Hadid, it was his responsibility as commanding officer to make sure those who did know were held to account, no matter how high the rank.

  Later that evening, Al Jazeera broadcast a tape recording, purported to be Reicken’s voice, saying, “I don’t give a shit what he’s waving in the air—I want the house taken down, do you understand, Captain?” Reicken denied that it was his voice, adding that it was as easy to edit and doctor a tape recording, taking words out of context, as it was to doctor a photograph, and who could believe anything they saw or heard on Al Jazeera anyway?

  DeLuca had been working hard to get better ever since he’d read Gillian’s e-mail. He would grieve for her later, he decided, but for now, she was the inspiration he needed to get back on his feet and do whatever he could to give her death meaning. Thanks to her, the thing was real now. Nobody could dismiss what he was telling them or ignore him or write him off as some inexperienced Guardsman. The CIA had to listen now. CENTCOM had to listen. The Pentagon and the White House had to listen.

  He was on his feet when LeDoux found him. He’d ditched his hospital johnny and was having some trouble getting his pants on when LeDoux walked in on him. He knew someone important was coming down the hall by the number of “Attention!”s and “As you were”s he heard.

  “What are you doing out of bed?” Phillip asked.

  “Mooning you, apparently,” he said.

  “Get back in bed, and that’s an order,” LeDoux said. “Your doctor told me it would be two or three weeks before you’d be walking.”

  “He told me that, too,” DeLuca said. “Phil, there’s no time. After we fucked up at Sinjar Jebel, Al-Tariq has gotta be moving up his deadline . . .”

  “Sit! And don’t make me talk to you like you’re a goddamn guard dog. All right?”

  “I’m really much better,” DeLuca said, sitting gingerly in the chair and grimacing slightly when he tweaked his neck. “Not quite at full speed, but it’s not a big deal.”

  “I’ll let the doctors tell me how big a deal it is,” LeDoux said. “I suggest you do the same. Your friend Evelyn called me for a quote about Reicken.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I said we were taking care of it. I didn’t tell you this but we were already looking at him for how he was handing out no-bid contracts to Halliburton for work at Anaconda, and elsewhere. He’s not the only one doing it, but it looks like there may be some quid pro quo involved.”

  “Kickbacks?”

  “Something similar,” LeDoux said. “It’s being handled. How did she get those tapes? What was this guy’s name? The one who made them?”

  “Yaakub,” DeLuca said. “Richard Yaakub.”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Not exactly,” DeLuca said. “I guess Evelyn’s powers of persuasion were better than his interrogators’. Can we talk about something that’s actually important?”

  “I’m sorry about your friend Gillian.”

  “She was brilliant,” DeLuca said. “In thirty years, I don’t think I ever once bluffed her off a hand. She beat me like a redheaded stepchild. So what’s happening?”

  “Well,” LeDoux said, “thanks to her, I think we’re going to get the support we need. Don’t expect to see any of this in the papers, but things are moving. The people who matter are on this. What’s the word on Al-Tariq?”

  “Still working,” DeLuca said. “We think the CI HQ thing is working, but it might take time. They want more from him. My boy Adnan lost his family—you don’t get more motivated than that. I’m meeting with him day after tomorrow.”

  “You think he’s up to it?”

  “He was undercover with the Republican Guard for years,” DeLuca said. “He thought we didn’t know. He knows the tricks. We make him an asset to them and they’re not going to look too closely at the rest of it. They might be paranoid, but in the end, everybody sees what they want to see. I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “CI’s just a state of mind, right?” LeDoux said.

  “He’ll come through,” DeLuca said. “He knows we’re in a hurry, but I don’t want to force it and tip his hand.”

  “Speaking of force,” LeDoux said, “we’re looking at another option. We’re going back to Sanandaj. In numbers, this time. With permission from the Iranian government, by the way—they don’t like these guys any more than we do, but don’t be surprised when they bitch about the violation of their sovereign territories and the whole nine yards. We need family members to talk to us. Right now, it could be our best shot.”

  “Not a problem,” DeLuca said. “Now that I’m a HALO expert.”

  “David,” LeDoux said, “that’s not how we’re going, but more to the point, I’m sorry, but you’re not part of this. You’re not even supposed to be sitting in that chair, goddamn it.”

  “You’re going to need somebody who’s been there before . . .”

  “That’s not as high a priority as . . .”

  “You can’t hospitalize someone against their will. Everyone has the right to refuse treatment.”

  “Maybe in a civilian hospital, Sergeant DeLuca,” LeDoux said. “I’m not going to jeopardize the mission as a favor to you. Fair enough? Healthy, you’re the first guy I want, but injured, you’re a liability. I know that’s harsh. I’m sorry.”

  At that moment, Captain Thomas appeared in the doorway with DeLuca’s chart under his arm. The doctor snapped to attention and saluted when he realized there was a general present.

  “Doctor?” DeLuca said. “Just tell me something—what would I need to do to get out of here? You’ve got stronger painkillers than this, right?”

  Dr. Thomas looked at DeLuca, then at the general, wary of coming between them in a dispute.

  “Lift your arms as high as you can,” Thomas said. DeLuca complied. He wasn’t quite ready to do the wave yet, but he could get his hands up even with his ears. “R
otate your head as far as you can,” the doctor told him. “First to the right. Then left.” If he moved slowly, DeLuca could move his head with about 50 percent of the flexibility he’d had before.

  “So?” DeLuca asked. Thomas put his hand on the back of DeLuca’s neck and pressed.

  “The swelling is down, but it’s not gone. I could prescribe pills that will take the pain away completely,” Thomas said.

  “But?” LeDoux said.

  “But,” Thomas said, “you don’t necessarily want to be pain-free. People with back or neck injuries take pills that take the pain away and then they do more than they should, because they’re not feeling anything, and they reinjure themselves. You could be fine, or you could hurt yourself and be looking at anything from bed rest for a few months to being in a wheelchair for the rest of your life.”

  “Well then it’s a no-brainer,” DeLuca said. “I go. Write the prescription.”

  “Stop,” Phillip LeDoux said. He paused. DeLuca waited, knowing he’d pled his case and would have to abide by whatever LeDoux said. LeDoux knew it, too. “The mission is in three days. At which time we’ll review. In the meantime, David, you do what you can to rehab. And then we’ll talk. I meant what I said.”

  LeDoux moved toward the door, then stopped.

  “By the way—I got Sadreddin’s people on the governing council. Took a bit of doing. All but one. The rest checked out.”

  “I appreciate it,” DeLuca said. “It’s going to pay off. How about Omar Hadid?”

  “Not this round,” LeDoux said. “He’s second generation. I had a long meeting with him. I was impressed. I’d hate to play cards with that guy.”

  “I have to call him,” DeLuca said. “His nephew’s doing great, by the way.”

  “That’s good to know,” LeDoux said. “He’ll be happy to hear it.”

  The general saluted them both, turned on a heel, and left, his departure accompanied by the same “Attention”s and “As you were”s that had attended his arrival.