by Earl Merkel
It was not long before the exact nature of the Americans’ concerns was common knowledge among the Kôan teams. This time, it was said, the Aum fanatics had attacked both the Americans and the Russians—not with poison gas, but with some kind of untreatable, incurable plague germ.
Hideo shivered. He was a brave man and valued his honor highly. But he did not relish wading into a den of religious death-seekers, to face weapons for which there was neither defense nor cure. Better to stand at a safe distance—which, for the MP5, was anything up to thirty meters—and blast away all remnants of this black-minded cult. Sensei or not.
“Ten seconds.”
The voice sounded inside his skull, as if his conscience were chiding him for his attack of cowardice. It steeled him. He glanced at the others on his team, dark shadows pressed against the lighter stone wall. All professionals, all prepared to follow him to whatever waited inside.
“Three, two, one—detonate!”
The C-4 exploded with a noise that was somehow both sharp and flat, silencing the crickets as if a switch had been thrown. The acrid smell of pyrotechnics and scorched metal filled the night air, and the planned chaos of the attack surged forward.
Two of his men formed the vanguard, kicking past the collapsed gate and rushing across the courtyard inside. Simultaneously, another assault group appeared from the far side of the expanse, pincering with Hideo’s men on the main building. There, an ornate mahogany door proved no match for the solid-slug shotgun blast that shattered the lockset. In a choreography precise in its execution, the invaders moved through a series of unlighted and unoccupied rooms. They charged down a wide corridor toward a wall of modern glass doors that opened, Hideo remembered, to a large auditorium. He skidded to a stop behind an arching free-form sculpture of heavy polished wood. From there, his submachine gun commanded both of the corridors as well as the auditorium entrance.
“Kami-Six actual,” Hideo whispered, confident that the induction transmitter was picking up every word. “Main building access achieved. No resistance encountered.”
His team now flanked the auditorium entrance. Hideo’s second, a sergeant who had also been present on the first raid here, made an interrogative gesture with his black-gloved hand. In it he held the gray canister of a flash-bang.
Hideo shook his head once. His weapon at the ready, he spun around the statue in a crouching run. In an instant he had joined his men, flattening himself against the flanking wall. The policeman listened closely; aside from the noise of the other Kôan attack teams across the courtyard, he heard nothing.
“Kami-Six actual,” he whispered. “No hostiles encountered. Entering auditorium.”
He signaled to his sergeant to follow, and eased open one of the glass doors.
The stench that rose to greet him was horrendous, and unmistakable.
Mingled with it was the still-lingering, smoky perfume of a hundred candles.
Hideo risked a quick look inside, holding his breath as he did so.
A few of the larger candles, once tall as a man but now reduced to guttering stubs, still burned. They cast a flickering light, illuminating the carnage that covered the floor like a thick, uneven carpet.
Chapter 17
Moscow
July 22
“They were all dead?” Alexi Malenkov’s voice was carefully neutral. If it was an attempt by the Russian to mask his own turmoil—to push it aside simply in order to allow himself to function—it was done with a competence that Beck envied.
Beck nodded, also carefully professional.
“Not the flu, thank God. The Japanese police believe it was poison, a mass suicide. There were three hundred and seventeen bodies. All had been dead two, perhaps three days when the raid occurred.”
“This does not help us, my friend,” Alexi said. “It tells us nothing.”
“At the very least, it confirms your theory about where this virus originated,” Beck said.
“To confirm what we already knew is but cold comfort, Beck.”
“It tells us is that the Aum felt there was a pressing need to self-destruct,” Beck argued.
Alexi shrugged, and Beck saw defeat in the gesture.
“You wish to use logic on those whose actions defy it,” the Russian countered. “Allow me, also. They fear the death they have unleashed—so they kill themselves?” He laughed bitterly.
“Maybe they did it to escape capture,” Beck countered. “Maybe they did it to protect their last secret.”
“I believe you try to convince yourself that there is still some chance, some small possibility, that we can coerce an antidote from these murderous madmen. This will not happen. Accept it. There is no antidote, no vaccine, because none was ever developed. The Aum saw no need for one. This lunatic act of self-immolation proves it.”
And he’s probably right,thought Beck.
He berated himself for not having foreseen it: the long trial of Asahara, the death sentence with which it had recently culminated, the finalGötterdämmerung of the faithful themselves—all fit the traditional pattern that doomsday cults tended to follow. Beck disagreed with Alexi, but only as a matter of semantics: for the Aum, mass destructionwas logical, simple and direct. The outside world was poised to destroy its Divine Leader, which meant that it intended to destroy Aum. For the cult, there was no recourse other than a preemptive action, and to make that action an Armageddon for all.
Alexi’s voice broke into Beck’s thoughts.
“And so—where does this now leave us?”
“It leaves us with Davidovich,” Beck said.
“Ah, yes—the CIA’s man inside the Aum,” Alexi said mockingly. “Or is it the other way around? No matter. Have you now rethought your prejudice against our methods of interrogation?” He stopped abruptly. “I am sorry, Beck. At times, I speak before I think.”
Beck fixed him with a level gaze. When he spoke, it was in a conversational voice that betrayed no sign of emotion.
“CIA records indicate Davidovich, described as a Russian national, was an agent-in-place here in Russia. He was covered as a journalist, Carson says. He insists that the only product Davidovich delivered was basic, low-level political and economic intelligence. Is that accurate, Alexi?”
“That is perhaps what he delivered to CIA,” Alexi said. “In part. But it was not the activity in which he was engaged, either as CIA or as an Aum.”
“Then what, Alexi? What was his assignment?”
“For the cultists, he was engaged as a provocateur. His instructions were to find and offer assistance to the various extremists that exist in theRodina, in Russia.”
“He was talent scouting,” Beck said, and Alexi nodded grimly.
“I will provide you with the transcript of his interrogation. It is interesting reading. Our friend was to find in Russia those who oppose the direction our society has taken. Such people can be useful to groups like Aum, which deal in terror. We are today a turbulent nation. There is no shortage of ideologues who would embrace violence.”
“Yes. Some of them with their own private armies. Like our militia movement in the States.”
“We too have paramilitary organizations in Russia, my friend. They are no less crazy than your militias—and, I fear, ours are far better armed. Some of them are clearly fascists, others seek a return to socialist values. A few even wish to restore the czar.”
“And the CIA?”
Alexi shrugged. “Your good associate was ordered by the CIA to report on these elements. To get close to the leadership. If possible, to become part of the movement. This he did very well. With great enthusiasm, in fact.”
“And they knew he was Aum.”
“Probably not,” Alexi said. “Just as the Aum probably did not know he was affiliated with the CIA. But, my friend, I find it somewhat improbable that your people were unaware of his, shall we say,religious persuasions. I have not found CIA case officers to be totally incompetent; they certainly research the background of agents they recruit
.”
The Russian shook his head. “No. My belief is that your people thought that by recruiting Davidovich, they expected that they also acquired a window into this interesting little cult.”
“So Carson lied,” Beck said evenly. “Davidovich was providing information on Russian opposition movements, perhaps even channeling CIA assistance to them. And he was providing information, real or not, on the Aum.” He looked up at the Russian, and his tone was chiding. “Unless you’re lying to me now. Are you, Alexi?”
“Perhaps a little,” Alexi admitted. “Old habits are hard to break. One must balance discretion against the requirements of our profession. For instance, it would be indiscreet to tell you that our people have agents in place close to your own paramilitary extremists. But of course, we do.”
Beck nodded, filing away the information and wondering why it had been offered.
“And all the while, Davidovich was acting as an emissary for the Aum. I imagine he was very generous to your extremists.”
“Yes, indeed,” Alexi said. “He extended to them an assistance that far surpassed their own capabilities. Our friend Davidovich offered to provide them with nerve gases, which excited them greatly. And he hinted to them of even more interesting toys with which they might play.”
Beck looked up. “Not this virus?”
“It is one possibility. I fear the Aum were disinclined to share the specific nature of this other plaything, even with our friend Davidovich,” Alexi said. “Davidovich claims he does not know. Perhaps he is truthful in this.”
“And your people were following him all the while,” Beck said. “Watching and waiting.”
“We waited perhaps not long enough,” Alexi replied. “We took Davidovich into custody six days ago. It was a stroke of very bad luck. A day later, there was a visitor at his apartment. When he found no one at Davidovich’s apartment, he knocked on the door of the building superintendent and spoke to the man who answered.” Alexi snorted. “A Japanese—very polite, as they so often are to one’s face. Our so-called building superintendent said he spoke abominable Russian. Very difficult to understand. It might have been because the man appeared to suffer from a bad cold.” Alexi had the dark look of a man who wished he had someone to hit, hard. “Had we the wit to arrest this visitor, we might have been spared much sorrow.”
Beck felt his heart beat faster.
“Now, how do you think we obtained this extensively detailed information?” Alexi’s voice was mockingly professorial. “You will approve, my friend. No physical coercion was involved. Do you wish to guess?”
He waited for the briefest of moments before continuing.
“The superintendent was not the real superintendent! He was FSB, one of my oh-so-expert surveillance specialists. He made his report on this visitor—fortunately, by telephone—the day before he began to display symptoms of influenza. He died the next day.”
Alexi took a deep breath; he did not look at Beck.
“You have, of course, guessed the final piece of this puzzle: Davidovich lived in Tuvelov, where the infection began.”
“I want to talk to Davidovich,” Beck said.
“The conversation would be a trifle one-sided, I fear. Like his fellow believers, Comrade Davidovich is no longer in a condition to discuss anything.”
“You killed him?” Beck was aghast. “My God, Alexi. He could have—”
“No, my friend, though I certainly would have done so with pleasure. He saved us the effort. Last night, he did the job himself.”
Chapter 18
Helena, Montana
July 22
“Provisionally, I’m going to rule it a clean shooting,” said Frank Ellis. “Under normal conditions, you’d be placed on administrative duties pending a formal hearing.” The Helena special agent in charge looked up at April O’Connor and eyed his subordinate steadily. “These are not normal times. I need you on the job.”
April nodded. She did not need to say anything; disclosure that the Florida outbreak was a terrorist attack had galvanized the Bureau. Every available agent was called in, pulled away from any other assignments and targeted on this terrible new threat.
April had been filled in at the emergency midmorning briefing, piped by video feed to all FBI field offices in the United States. Every available agent was called in for the event. Attendance was mandatory, as was evident from the large number of agents who crowded into the Helena office: financial and white-collar crime specialists, RICO task force teams, even a number of agents pulled from deep-cover assignments. April had been painfully aware of the low buzz of comments that had circled the room when she took a chair. She had seen the surreptitious glances they had sent her way and ignored them. Instead, April had donned an ice queen demeanor, narrowing her focus tightly on the FBI director’s image on the oversized monitor and the procession of speakers who followed him.
Along with the others in the room, she listened with a growing sense of horror. The litany of the mortality rate, the projected spread, the lack of a viable response—all struck each agent like a physical blow. The additional updates focused on the mushrooming turmoil that was spreading its own wildfire in virtually every major city. When the teleconference was over, April walked down the hallway in a state near shock—a state mirrored on the faces of her FBI colleagues.
Now she was seated in her SAC’s office and granted absolution, at least the official kind, for the previous night’s tragedy. It was a relief, as well as a surprise. She had been certain she would be dismissed—transferred, at the least—and was not yet fully convinced such an action would have been unjust. Certainly, Robles’s death weighed on her mind; she knew she would relive every moment for a long time. But from a professional viewpoint, she had come to grips with the killing as an accident of war. She was certain she could tough out any psychological aftereffects—without outside assistance, if possible. With it, if the Bureau insisted, as she assumed it would.
Ellis quickly disabused her of that notion. All the usual rules were off.
“Doyou think you need a psychologist?” Ellis’s voice was that of a man who did not brook fools well, or easily. “Neither do I. When this is over, we’ll see if we’re both right. Until then—hell, no. I need you to stay on the job you’ve been doing. Find Trippett. Track down this paramilitary group he’s part of.”
April was startled, and it showed on her face.
“You have a problem with that, O’Connor?”
“No, sir. I just assumed every agent would be working on the virus outbreak.”
“That’s right. You are.”
The SAC pushed a thin sheaf of computer printouts across the desk to April. “Washington says there’s a Japanese connection in the Florida virus. We’ve got one here also. The nerve gas in the warehouse—the manifest had it down as ‘garden supplies—pesticide.’ Shipped in by Federal Express yesterday morning, an international delivery from Kamikuishiki, in Japan. The town is headquarters for a religious cult called Aum. They’re the same bunch that released nerve gas in the Tokyo subways a couple of years back.”
April scanned the top sheet, a frown lining her features. “This cult is sending nerve gas to terrorists in the United States?”
“Looks like it,” Ellis said. “Here’s the thing: FedEx and Customs ran a search on every shipment that came out of this Kamikuishiki place and into the United States over the past six months.”
“Let me guess,” April said. “There were more of them.”
“Yeah,” Ellis said. “In addition to the container delivered yesterday morning to Columbia Falls, there was another sent to an address in upstate New York. Same size, same weight as the package that went to your warehouse.”
“God, Frank,” said April. “There’s more of this out in New York?”
“No.” Ellis smiled coldly. “We got lucky. FedEx tried to deliver yesterday morning, but nobody was around to sign. So it came back to the terminal. It was sarin, the same kind of nerve gas we found here.�
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“New York pick up the addressee?”
The SAC shook his head. “Alias. Probably used the foyer scam.”
April nodded. It was a tactic common to credit card crimes. The perp uses stolen card numbers to make a purchase by phone, gives the number of an apartment building, and pays extra for next-day delivery. By ten o’clock, he is waiting in the foyer when the delivery arrives—to all appearances just one more overeager consumer.
“Here’s the bad news,” Ellis said. “Those two were only the most recent deliveries. Ten days ago, both addresses took receipt of another shipment. Manifest said it was food products, canned soup.”
“We have any ideas what was really in there?” April asked.
“All we know about is the boxes it came in,” Ellis said. “They were bigger, April. And heavier.”
He straightened in his chair, assuming an almost formal posture.
“Start looking for Orin Trippett,” Ellis said. “This Mountain Warrior bunch he’s involved with had M-16s from the National Guard break-in. Trippett himself gets sent nerve gas from some crazy religious cult—the same one that may have let loose germ warfare on us. The thought of what else he may be carrying around now scares the hell out of me.”
April stood. “Who do I work with, Frank?”
“Start solo. I’m trying to find you some help,” Ellis said. “I’m working with Andi Wheelwright—used to be Bureau, now she’s something or other with National Security. Washington’s got her coordinating the security side of all this. She wants to send out a guy, an expert on terrorist groups, biological warfare. A professor—but apparently he used to work with the intelligence people.”
“He’s a spook?” April asked.
