“Kira Miller couldn’t be located, but later that morning police found that the victim’s apartment had been broken into and turned upside down. Turns out Lusetti had installed a motion-activated nanny-cam inside a hanging plant in the apartment. Because of the nature of his work he tended to be a bit paranoid.”
You’re not paranoid if they really are out to get you, thought Desh dryly, but he didn’t interrupt.
“Lusetti’s secretary alerted the authorities to the existence of the camera, which recorded some nice footage of Kira Miller ransacking the place and leaving with a large file folder and Lusetti’s laptop. They were able to enhance the footage enough to make out the label on the file she took. Turns out it was a file Lusetti had on her.”
“Interesting. Do we know why she was under investigation?”
Connelly shook his head. “No. Lusetti’s secretary knew nothing about it. And Kira Miller’s file was the only one he kept at home. There were no other records ever located that made any mention of her at all—other than the ones she took, of course.”
Connelly gestured at the photographs and Desh flipped to the next one.
“Alan Miller,” said Connelly. “Kira’s older brother.”
Desh studied the photo. Blue eyes. Handsome. He could see the family resemblance.
“Around midnight that same day, brother Alan turned up dead in Cincinnati. His house was found burned to the ground with his charred remains inside.”
“Arson?”
“No question about it. A rental car was found abandoned near the house with traces of acetone inside, the fire accelerant used in the arson. The DNA from a strand of hair found on the driver’s seat of the car matched Kira Miller’s DNA from hair samples police had taken from her condo.”
“And she had rented the car?”
“Yes. Using an alias. The name and license she used to rent it turned out to be untraceable. But the rental car agent identified her picture from ten that were shown to him. Later, police found a cab driver who recognized her picture. The Cabbie said he had picked her up a few miles from the brother’s house, about an hour after the fire, and had taken her to the airport.” Connelly frowned. “This is where the trail ends. We presume she took a flight, but if she did she used fake identification.”
Desh pulled Kira Miller’s 8-by-10 from the photo pile and examined her once again. She had such a friendly and appealing look. But this was just a carefully constructed mask. Being burned alive was one of the more horrible ways to die. Killing anyone in cold calculation in such a sadistic fashion—especially a family member—pointed to a psychopathic or sociopathic personality. And these soulless monsters were hard to spot. In fact, Desh knew, they were often quite intelligent and charismatic, and highly skilled at hiding their true nature.
Connelly nodded toward the last photo Desh held in his hand. It was of a tall man, probably in his early fifties, with wavy, seemingly uncombed salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in business casual slacks and shirt. He had a long, thin face and a wild, faraway look in his eye that reminded Desh of a stereotypical professor.
“Tom Morgan. He was NeuroCure’s Chief Scientific Officer and Kira’s boss when she joined. He was killed in an auto accident almost exactly three years after Kira Miller’s hire. In light of future events, we now think there’s a good chance it wasn’t an accident.”
Desh frowned and was silent for several long seconds, digesting what he had been told so far. “You said her parents were deceased. How did they die?”
“I figured you’d jump to this question,” said Connelly approvingly. “You really do have a singular talent for connecting dots.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” said Desh. “But these particular dots aren’t exactly difficult to connect.”
“You’d be surprised. Anyway, to answer your question, her parents both died in the same auto accident. While she was in high school. As with Morgan, the police didn’t suspect foul play at the time and didn’t do much of an investigation. But in light of everything else, it’s not hard to imagine that their daughter was behind it.”
Desh knew signs of sociopathy were usually present from a very young age if anyone was looking in the right direction. If Kira Miller could torch her brother in cold blood, she wouldn’t likely be squeamish about killing her parents either. A thorough examination of mysterious deaths and disappearances with her as epicenter was almost certain to be revealing. Perhaps brother Alan had been helping this private investigator, Larry Lusetti. This was as good a conjecture as any for why she killed him so soon after recovering the file Lusetti had on her. Alan Miller could probably have pulled any number of skeletons from his little sister’s closet—perhaps literally.
“Any other unexplained accidents in her wake?” said Desh.
Connelly nodded grimly. “An uncle drowned while swimming alone when she was twelve. And he was known to be a very strong swimmer. There were two other incidents involving teachers at Kira’s high school the next year. One turned up dead in her apartment, her face so badly eaten away by sulfuric acid it was unrecognizable. The other went missing and was never found. Neither case was ever solved.”
So the breathtaking, fresh-faced girl smiling in the photo was a psychopath, and was at the very least a double murderer. The tale Connelly had spun was truly grisly. But Desh knew the worst was yet to come. There was only one reason any of this would warrant the colonel’s attention. “So what’s the terrorism connection?”
Connelly sighed heavily, as if he had hoped he could somehow avoid this discussion. He rubbed his mustache once again and said, “As the Lusetti investigation and hunt for Kira Miller continued, the police found evidence that she had been in communication with several known terrorist organizations, including Al-Qaeda and Islamic Jihad.”
“Nice groups,” said Desh dryly.
“The case was turned over to Homeland Security. There’s a detailed report in the accordion file, but they quickly found that she had millions of dollars deposited in banks throughout the world, well hidden, including several numbered Swiss accounts. They’re certain they haven’t found it all. The methods she used to obscure the trail between herself and her money were quite sophisticated. They also found several false identities, and are convinced she has more.”
“Working with Jihadists is an interesting choice for a Western woman, even for a sociopath. These groups aren’t exactly known for being progressive when it comes to a woman’s place in society.”
“It’s a puzzle alright. She’s not Muslim and there’s no evidence she ever supported this ideology. She could be in it just for money, but somehow I think there’s something we’re missing.”
“Do you think she’s attracted to the danger of working with terrorists?”
Connelly shrugged. “It’s impossible to say. Normal motives don’t necessarily apply to psychopathic personalities. Jeffrey Dahmer murdered and cannibalized seventeen people, three of whose skulls were found in his refrigerator.”
“That’s perfectly rational behavior,” said Desh sarcastically. “He just didn’t want them to spoil.”
A smile flashed across Connelly’s face, but only for a moment. “You’ll read in the report that they found a flotation tank in her condo,” he continued. “Top of the line. That’s a pretty unusual device to have taking up space in your living room.”
“Flotation tank?”
“They used to be called sensory deprivation chambers. Basically a giant coffin filled with water and Epsom salt. Seal yourself up in one and you bob around like a cork, weightless, in total silence and total darkness. You receive virtually no sensory input while inside.” Connelly grimaced. “One can only imagine what she was doing with it. Performing bizarre rituals? Locking people in for days at a time as a means of torture?” he shuddered. “This girl is our worst nightmare: brilliant and totally unpredictable. No conscience; no remorse.”
The room fell silent. Both men were alone with their thoughts. Desh knew that any problem Connelly had that he cou
ldn’t solve with his vast resources and was important enough for him to summon Desh had to be very, very ugly. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know what it was. Maybe he should just leave now. What did it matter, anyway? Stop one villain and another would always spring up to take his place. But he couldn’t bring himself to walk away, at least not until his curiosity was satisfied.
Desh took a deep breath and locked his eyes on Connelly. “So let’s cut to the chase, Colonel. What are we really talking about here, biological warfare?”
Connelly frowned. “That’s right. And she’s the best around—maybe ever.” Connelly’s demeanor, already fairly grim due to the nature of the events he had been reporting, took a sharp turn for the worse.
“With her skills and experience engineering viruses,” said Desh, “I’m sure she could make them more deadly and contagious. But to what end? You can’t contain them. They could easily boomerang back on the terrorists. I know these groups aren’t very selective in who they kill, but their leaders, at least, aren’t in any hurry to meet the seventy-two virgins awaiting them in heaven.”
“My bioweapons experts tell me someone with her skill can get around the containment issue by designing in molecular triggers. The DNA not only has to be inserted, it has to be read and turned into gene products,” explained Connelly. “There are promoter regions on the DNA that control under what circumstances this happens. Triggers. Someone as talented as Kira Miller can engineer these to her specifications. Like a Trojan Horse virus that infects your computer. It lies dormant until whatever predetermined time the asshole who invented it has specified. Then it emerges and demolishes your files.”
Connelly took a deep breath and then continued. “We think she’s engineering the common cold virus to insert specific Ebola virus genes into human chromosomes like a retrovirus does,” he said gravely. “As with any cold, it would spread quickly. But now, in addition to a runny nose, those infected would get a bonus: the genes responsible for the massive hemorrhagic fever associated with Ebola. This is almost always fatal. Victims suffer from fever, vomiting, diarrhea, and uncontrollable bleeding, both internally and externally—from the corners of their eyes, their nose—everywhere.”
Desh’s stomach tightened. Ebola was the deadliest virus known. He shouldn’t have been surprised that something as promising as gene therapy and molecular biology could be bastardized to kill rather than cure. Humanity seemed to have a singular ability to find destructive uses for any constructive technology. Invent the computer, and you could be certain someone would invent computer viruses and other ways to attack it. Invent the Internet, an unimaginable treasure trove of information, and you could bet it would be used as a recruiting tool for hate mongers and instantly turned into a venue for child pornographers, sexual predators, and scam artists. Humanity never failed to find a way to become its own worst enemy.
“I still don’t see how the terrorists can be certain of avoiding the Ebola genes themselves,” said Desh.
“They can’t be. But there’s more to the story. This is where the molecular trigger comes in. Remember, the genes don’t only have to be inserted, they have to be activated.”
“So what activates them?”
“We believe she’s trying to engineer them to be triggered by a chemical. One specific to a certain food. Ingest this chemical and the inserted Ebola genetic material begins to be expressed by victims’ cells. And once the genes have been triggered, there’s no stopping them. People’s own cells are transformed into ticking time bombs. A few days to a few weeks later, boom!—you’re dead.” Connelly raised his eyebrows. “Any guesses as to what food sets it off?”
Desh looked blank.
“Pork.”
Desh’s eyes widened. Of course it would be pork. What else? Only those at the pinnacle of the Jihadist pyramid would know of the plot, but since ingestion of pork was forbidden in the Muslim religion, their followers would be safe. And Desh knew how these people thought. In their eyes, any Muslim around the world who ignored this prohibition and did eat pork deserved to die anyway.
“Our organic chemists tell me there are several complex molecules that are swine-specific. We believe the Ebola genes are set to be triggered by one of them. But even though the genes are triggered, the viral parts aren’t present, so it isn’t infectious like the natural Ebola. That’s what keeps the terrorists safe. As long as they don’t eat pork, they have nothing to worry about.”
Desh’s lip curled up in disgust. It was a masterful plan from the terrorist’s perspective. And as utterly horrific as their strategy was, it was not without its boldness or creativity. Ironically, in addition to devout Muslims, religious Jews would also be spared. This would be the only fly in the ointment of an otherwise ideal plan from the terrorists’ perspective. The fact that their most hated enemy would remain untouched would sit like open sores in their stomachs.
“Can she really pull it off?” he asked
“This is as difficult a genetic engineering project as there is, but if anyone in the world can do it, Kira Miller can. She’s that good.”
“And the expected casualties?”
“Depends on how efficiently her designed virus can insert the genes, and how efficiently the pork-specific organic chemicals can trigger them. Worst case, hundreds of millions around the world. Best case, given the high quality of medicine in the West, maybe a few hundred thousand.”
The color drained from Desh’s face. This attack had the potential to be more costly in human lives than a nuclear bomb set off in a population center. And the very nature of the attack would unleash a raging wildfire of irrationality and panic that could have an incalculable effect on civilization. “And this would be only the beginning,” he whispered to Connelly.
“That’s right,” said Connelly. “People would fear they had other Trojan Horses buried in their genetic material, primed to go off with one wrong bite. No one would know what foods to trust. Rumors would race around the world. Fear would be at a fever pitch. Economies would collapse. The most ordered societies would degenerate into chaos and devastation almost overnight.”
Desh knew this plan could set civilization back hundreds of years—which is exactly what the Jihadists wanted. No wonder Kira Miller was so wealthy. If she could convince Al-Qaeda she could execute on this plan, she could name her price. Death and devastation on a vast scale wouldn’t trouble a soulless psychopath like her in the least.
“At some point, we may be forced to issue a warning not to eat pork,” said Connelly. “But this wouldn’t buy us all that much. The warning itself would incite some of the panic we’re trying to avoid. Many wouldn’t get the message and still others would ignore it, believing it to be a government conspiracy. And we believe the Jihadists have a contingency version ready to go, with a different trigger. So sounding the alarm would just push them into plan B. The terrorist leaders would still know which foods to avoid, although since they’d only risk sharing this secret with a select few, they’d lose far more of their followers under this scenario.”
Desh shook his head in disgust. If it came to that, the need to sacrifice scores of their followers for the cause would not give them the slightest pause.
Desh placed the photographs back inside the folder and reinserted it into the accordion file. Before arriving at Fort Bragg he had already felt dead inside. Being on the grounds, a reminder of a past he so desperately wanted to forget, had made things worse. And now this. He felt ill. He needed to conclude this meeting and get some air. “So tell me,” he said pointedly. “Why am I here?”
Connelly sighed deeply. “Kira Miller has been off the grid since her brother’s murder—for about a year now. She’s vanished. Like magic. We have reason to believe she was in San Diego last November, but she could be anywhere now. Only Bin Laden and a few others have been the subject of bigger manhunts, and we’ve basically gotten nowhere. There are those who think she must be dead, but we can’t make that assumption, obviously.”
“I ask
again,” said Desh. “Why am I here? Plan B? Send in a solitary man when entire armies fail?”
“Believe me, we didn’t wait until now to try the Lone Ranger approach. We’ve been sending in individual agents for several months. The best and brightest. They’ve gotten nowhere.”
“So what am I, then,” remarked Desh. “Plan E? What do you expect I can do that your first choices couldn’t?”
“First of all, you would have been my first choice had you remained in the military. You know that, David. You know my opinion of your abilities. I didn’t think I could get authorization to recruit a civilian, so I never recommended you.”
Desh looked confused. “Then how am I here?”
“Someone up the food chain realized your value and asked me to recruit you. I was thrilled that they did. Not only are you unequaled as a soldier, you found more top-level terrorists on the lamb than anyone when you were in the service. No one is as creative and tenacious on the hunt as you are. Kira Miller has a knack for gene therapy. You have a knack for finding those who are off the grid.”
Connelly leaned forward and fixed an unblinking stare on Desh. “And you’re someone I trust absolutely, someone outside the system. This woman has massive amounts of money and is quite persuasive. I wouldn’t put it past her to have found a way to monitor us, or to compromise some of our people.”
“So you think you have a mole?”
“Honestly … no. But with the stakes this high, why take chances?”
Desh nodded. He couldn’t argue the point.
“We failed as an organization. The individuals who have tried have also failed. There could be many other good explanations for this, but now it’s time to try something different.” He rubbed his mustache absently. “You have a singular talent for this and you don’t report through military channels. Let’s keep it that way. Use your own resources, not ours. In the file you’ll find the reports of your predecessors: all the information they gathered on Kira Miller.”
Wired Page 3
