by Jeff Buick
Rothery rubbed his forehead. “Why? Why would they bother to create a new virus? Why not just use Ebola?”
“Ebola is unpredictable and incredibly dangerous. I’m running tests on the virus we found in Hughes and English to see if whoever mutated this thing mellowed it a bit, but that’s not overnight work. It’s going to take a lot of tests to find out those differences.”
“What extent of damage could this cause if the wrong people are controlling it? Give me an educated guess, Dr. Henning,” Rothery said.
He was pensive, choosing his words carefully.“If I was in their shoes and my intentions were to unleash a virus on the United States, I’d want one that was controllable until I released it. After that, maximum destruction. Easily spread through contact, possibly even aerosol contamination. I’d look for a fast-acting bug with ugly symptoms and no known cure. And so far, from what I’ve seen, they’ve got check marks next to most of those. And if they have enough of the virus and the manpower to spread it quickly when they actually start, I’d say we could see deaths numbering into the hundreds of thousands, possibly millions. And very quickly-within days, not weeks.”
“Jesus Christ,” Rothery snapped. He turned to his FBI counterpart. “Jim, what have you guys got on any groups acting inside our borders that may have this technology and the facilities necessary to develop and store the virus?”
Allenby glanced quickly at his files. “A handful of possibilities, J. D. I’ll get entire dossiers on each one to your department by end of work today. We’ll be approaching this problem with total interdepartmental cooperation. Anything you need, just ask.”
Rothery nodded his approval. “Thanks, Jim. What’s going on outside our borders, Craig?”
Craig Simms, Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, had been quiet, assimilating information. He was a thoughtful, academic man with intelligent gray eyes and a full head of silver hair that matched his eyes perfectly. He was a veteran of the espionage community, and his knowledge of terrorist cells operating worldwide was renowned. He shifted his gaze to the people at the table as he spoke, ignoring the thick file he had brought with him to the meeting.
“We have identified twenty-seven possible locations in nine countries where there is what we consider to be the right mixture of personnel and facilities. There are thousands of buildings that could be used to create and breed this virus, but only a few molecular biologists that would have the expertise and hate the United States enough to actually do it. We’ve spent the last few weeks tracking these experts and we know where most of them are. Getting into some of these labs will be easy; others will be next to impossible, but we’re ready to begin covert ops if necessary. Seventeen of the labs are in countries where our operatives can move about in relative anonymity, but the other ten are in very hostile territory. At present, we’re using satellites to watch every vehicle that leaves these labs and we’re trying to intercept them whenever possible. We’ve had some success, but to date we haven’t found anything that resembles this virus.”
“What about the seventeen labs you could gain access to?” Rothery asked. “Have you done anything about that yet?”
“You mean have we sent in operatives to terminate operations?”
“Yes.”
“No. We suspect at least twelve of these labs are al-Qaeda, and we’ve been monitoring them, trying to identify al-Qaeda members as they come and go. It’s working very well. We’d rather not go busting down their doors and lose the information trail we’ve spent months, sometimes years, putting in place.”
“But if you had to…”
“If we had to, we would cooperate, Mr. Under Secretary,” Simms said evenly. “But let’s try to keep that avenue as a last resort. Identifying al-Qaeda operatives is our top priority right now, and I’d hate to lose what we’ve worked so hard to put in place.”
Rothery nodded and pursed his lips. “I understand, Craig,” he said.“Let’s let the status quo remain intact for now. I’ll let you know if we need to shut down those labs.”
“Thank you.”
“Tony, what does the National Security Agency think about all this?”
Tony Warner, the youngest of the four and just into his thirties, shook his head. He had GQ looks, and his jet-black hair, which he wore just touching his shoulders, swung back and forth with the motion of his head. “We don’t know what to think at this time. Our people at NSA are analysts, and we need time and data before jumping out on a limb.”
Rothery nodded and glanced about the room. “Anything else?” he asked, closing his folder. No one spoke. “Then let’s get working on this, gentlemen. I want whatever group is behind this shut down.” He locked eyes with each person individually.
“Shut down or dead,” he said. “Either is fine with me.”
22
Twin Pines Sawmill was tucked into a dense stretch of forest about twenty-two miles south of Butte. Signage was good and the main road into the mill was paved and well maintained. The rugged foothills of the Beaverhead Mountains framed the smokestacks that rose above the trees and quietly released thin trails of white smoke against the crisp blue sky. Aside from a low droning sound and the occasional high pitch of a saw slicing into cut timber, the woods were quiet.
Jennifer Pearce parked in one of the assigned visitors’ spots near the front door and stared at the sawmill. What was she doing here? It had taken her seven hours of flights and connections to arrive in Butte, and another hour to rent the car and drive to the mill. It was five o’clock Saturday afternoon and she was tired, irritated with airlines and airports, and apprehensive about meeting Gordon Buchanan. She ran a comb through her hair and stepped from the car into the warm Montana sun. It felt good on her skin.
The front-end offices of Twin Pines were modern and bright, the walls painted sage with ocher trim, the floors gleaming hardwood. Four maple desks with flatscreen monitors and dedicated laser printers dotted the office. Only one of the desks was occupied, and the young woman stopped typing on her keyboard as Jennifer entered.
“Good afternoon,” she said pleasantly. “Can I help you?”
“I’d like to see Gordon Buchanan,” she replied, ready for the usual runaround when you ask to see the top dog. It didn’t happen.
“Let me find him for you,” she said, reaching for a two-way radio. “Mike?” she said, depressing the talk button. A voice came back over the air in a second or two. “Do you know where Gordon is?”
“At the planer.” The voice was clear and resonated through the almost empty room.
“Thanks, Mike,” she said, and set the radio back on the desk. “I’ll show you where the planer is, but I can’t take you personally. It’s Saturday and I’m the only admin staff in.” She rose from her desk and walked to a window overlooking the main mill. She pointed to one of the larger buildings. “Go in the north entrance and just ask someone. They’ll know where Gordon is. And here, you’ll need these.” She handed Jennifer a hard hat and a visitor’s pass.
Jennifer signed the guest book, thanked the woman, and headed across the lumber yard to the building the woman had singled out. When she had dressed in the morning, it was with a sawmill in mind, and she wore snug jeans, running shoes, and a button-up-the-front cotton shirt. The mill hands seemed to appreciate her choice, and most of them stopped what they were doing to watch her as she made her way between the pallets of trimmed lumber. She locked eyes with one of the men, and he smiled and tipped his hard hat. She returned the gesture, which elicited an even wider grin. She reached the planer building and entered, asking the first man she saw if he knew where Gordon Buchanan was.
“Sure,” he replied, giving her a quick glance, then focusing on her face. “He’s over here.”
She followed him through the building, which housed a series of large machines where raw lumber was being sliced into thinner strips. It was noisy inside the building, but not to the point of displeasure. The smell of wood sap and freshly cut timber was strong, and the fine
sawdust floating in the air tickled the inside of her nostrils. She sneezed a couple of times, and the man leading the way said, “Bless you,” both times. They reached a machine that was quiet, the massive saw blades sitting idle. Her guide pointed at the ground under the machine.
“That’s Gordon,” he said, then turned and headed back to work.
A pair of legs stuck out from under the machine, blue jeans ending in cowboy boots. She was still staring at them when the owner slid out from under the machine, his eyes focused on hers. Buchanan had stripped off his shirt to loosen the saw blades so they could be removed and sharpened.
Jennifer took note of the man’s physical condition. His upper body was well developed and his waist was trim, abs showing. He smiled as he rocked himself into a sitting position, then up on his feet. He wiped his hand on a flannel rag and extended his hand.
“Gordon Buchanan,” he said. His voice was deep and strong and fit the environment perfectly.
“Jennifer Pearce.”
He slipped on a shirt that had been draped over one of the levers sticking up from the machine’s control panel, buttoned it, and tucked the tails into his jeans. “Now, Ms. Pearce, it’s not often I get visitors who look as good as you in a hard hat. What would you be doing at a sawmill in the middle of the Montana forest?”
“I wanted to speak with you, Mr. Buchanan.”
“Nobody calls me Mr. Buchanan. Gordon is fine.” He smiled.
“All right. I think we need to talk, Gordon.” She returned the smile, the thought dragging through her head that this was one very self-assured and quite handsome man.
“About what?” he asked, motioning toward a door leading to the afternoon sunshine.
She waited until they were outside to respond. She slipped off her hard hat and held it in her hand. “I work for Veritas Pharmaceutical.” The moment she uttered the words, she saw Buchanan’s face and eyes harden and his body language shift to the defensive.
His voice was different when he spoke, almost threatening. “Why are you here?” he asked, leaning on a tubular steel railing outside the planer building.
She faced him, the afternoon sun in her eyes. His face was in the shadows, but she could see his eyes, and they were focused on her, unblinking and cold. “I’ve been with Veritas for about three months now, in the Alzheimer’s research group. Actually, I head up the group. Kenga Bakcsi worked for me. She was my office administrator.”
Gordon was silent. He crossed his arms on his chest. “What does this have to do with me?”
“I was taking care of Kenga’s cat while she was on vacation. When I was feeding the cat, I thought of something that might be important to my research. I logged on to Kenga’s home computer and typed the information into a file. As I was signing off, I saw a file that contained restricted information-a file that if the brass at Veritas knew was on her computer would have gotten her fired. I glanced through it. And I found your name.”
“What was in the file?” Gordon asked.
This was the moment Jennifer had been dreading: the point at which she would either tell Gordon what she had seen or keep the data close to her chest. She had flown all day to get here, and she knew that his brother had died and she strongly suspected he was looking at Veritas for answers. The chances were good that Buchanan already knew what was in that file. She made her decision.
“The file contained both the formula and the process for manufacturing Triaxcion, an antibalding drug commonly prescribed to middle-aged men. A drug that had been prescribed to your late brother, Billy.”
“I’m still not sure how this interests me, Ms. Pearce.”
At least he was using her name. She pushed on. “A couple of days ago, I got some bad news. Kenga Bakcsi was killed while vacationing on a Caribbean island. I kind of put two and two together.”
“And what did you come up with?” Gordon asked.
“That you think Billy’s death is somehow tied to Veritas Pharmaceutical,” she said. He didn’t respond, and she continued. “Kenga couldn’t possibly have accessed that information on Triaxcion by accident. She had that formula on her computer for a reason. And your name. Why would she store the name of a sawmill owner from Montana inside a secure, stolen file? But when I read about your brother dying, I knew I had the connection.”
“That Triaxcion killed my brother.”
“Somehow, yes. At least, you think it did.”
“That’s very interesting, Ms. Pearce. And if any of this were true, what would happen? Why are you here?”
“Kenga’s dead, Mr. Buchanan. And I think her death may be suspicious.”
“So you’re concerned that someone in your company found out Kenga was stealing classified information for me and they had her killed.”
It sounded crazy when put that way, so matter-of-fact. “Yes, something like that.”
“So you’re accusing your own employer of killing its employees. That’s quite a serious accusation, Ms. Pearce.”
As much as she tried, she couldn’t read the man. She felt he was prodding her, knowing all along exactly what she was telling him but never opening the door, not even a crack. “I flew out from Richmond, Virginia, specifically to meet with you, Mr. Buchanan. That speaks to how serious I think this is.”
“All right, let’s assume some glimmer of all this is true. A dead woman on St. Lucia, my brother’s death tied to Triaxcion. What then? Where do we go from here?”
“You’ve probably already tried the legal channels, where the biggest and most prestigious firm in your hometown sends Veritas a series of threatening letters and they swat at you like you’re an insignificant insect,” she said. There was something in his eyes that told her she had hit a nerve, and she continued. “It’s pretty typical. The drugs that are released on the markets often have side effects. Listen to the television advertisements. Half the talking is the announcer telling you not to take the pill if you have high blood pressure, diabetes, are subject to skin rashes, are or could be pregnant, blah, blah, blah. There are risks associated with taking prescription drugs. And with risks come reactions to the drug and accidents the research company did not foresee. Suddenly, there are seriously injured or dead people looking for justice.
“So their lawyers begin to circle the castle. But the guys inside the castle are smart, powerful, and flush with cash. The corporation’s lawyers fill the moat, pull up the drawbridge, and fortify the walls with a hundred high-priced lawyers. Then they tell you to come and get them. Most legal firms won’t touch a major pharmaceutical company unless they’ve got a serious tort case. Even then, there are no guarantees. So if Billy’s death is tied in to Triaxcion, it’s natural that you’re going to want answers. Just as I want answers about what happened to Kenga. But answers and retribution are slow coming, if ever.”
“And how would we find those answers, Ms. Pearce?” Gordon asked, leaning forward. The waning light ebbed onto his face and she could see an incredible inner strength in his eyes.
“You could have a source inside the company,” she said.
“According to you, I already had one. She’s dead now. Remember?”
Jennifer didn’t take the sarcasm well. “I came to you,” she snapped. “I’m offering you assistance. Being facetious is not necessary.”
“Why would you offer me anything, Ms. Pearce?” he asked, backing off, his voice softer.“You don’t know me from a hole in the ground, yet here you are, asking me if I want your help nailing your employer to the wall. Can you see how I may be a little skeptical?”
“Why would I want to help you?” she asked, and he nodded, unfolding his arms and dropping them to his sides. “Because I liked Kenga. She was a really nice woman, with a life that no one had the right to take. If they murdered her, then they should pay.”
“I see,” Gordon said quietly.
“And,” Jennifer added, “because I’m scared. I don’t want to work for a company that kills its employees. I don’t feel safe quitting, not after seeing what
I saw on Kenga’s computer. And I know that someone from the company came back to Kenga’s computer and removed the Triaxcion file. The file that had your name in it, Mr. Buchanan. I didn’t know where else to go. I thought of asking the local police for help, but that would be insanely stupid. If the police were to begin nosing around, whoever killed Kenga would be looking for a piece of paper somewhere in the precinct report with a name on it. And eventually they would find it. Then I’d be in the same condition Kenga is-on a cold slab in some morgue.”
“There are other avenues of help available, Ms. Pearce,” Gordon said. “Both the FBI and the FDA would probably take an interest. The CIA as well, as Kenga’s death happened outside the country’s borders.”
“Same reason,” she said. “I’m sure the FBI could protect me much better than the local police, but what about my life? I’m a pharmaceutical researcher with a great career. And if I went up against these guys, I could never work in my chosen field again. I don’t want to end up in a witness protection program for the rest of my life. And that’s the best-case scenario.”
“So you came to Butte to meet with Billy Buchanan’s brother.”
“Yes. I came to Butte to talk with you.”
