The Ares Decision

by Robert Ludlum

  Sarie cleared a spot on her desk and pointed to the courier bag slung over Smith’s shoulder. “Is your specimen in there? Is it from Maryland?”

  “No and no.”

  Smith’s attention was drawn to a picture of her and a very old man standing over a dead antelope of some kind. She was holding a rifle and grinning out from beneath a broad straw hat.

  “Eland?”

  “Kudu. Terrific eating if you get a chance while you’re here.” She pointed to the case again. “Now, did you mention something about a new parasite? Something no one’s ever seen before?”

  He chewed his lower lip. “What I have in here is very secret and—”

  “Ja, ja,” she drawled. “You told me that over the phone, Colonel. Or do you prefer Doctor?”

  “Jon.”

  “Jon. Secrets are so corrosive to the soul. Why don’t you just show me? I’m certain it will make you feel better.”

  “I need to impress on you that this is something my government would consider at the very least top secret.”

  “You’re killing me, Jon. I am absolutely sweating with anticipation.” Her tone turned playful. “I understand that if I talk, you’ll have to kill me.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the case, but it’s an option that would get discussion.”

  She started to laugh but then seemed uncertain that he was joking. There was a brief pause before she nodded. “Fine. I swear on my father’s grave. Now, give it here.”

  She seemed a bit perplexed when he pulled out a laptop and set it on the desk, but lowered the shades behind her and leaned over the computer to watch the video that was starting.

  Smith cleared a chair of books and dropped into it, a cloud of dust rising around him as he watched her turn increasingly pale.

  “Hectic,” she mumbled when it was over. A few moments passed before she could get anything else out. “Who were the people that died?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “I’ll bet it is to them.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Where was the video taken? Somewhere in central Africa?”

  “Uganda. The men you saw were there to try to capture Caleb Bahame.”

  “Bahame?” she said, the hatred audible in her voice. “I’m sorry they didn’t find him. Find him and kill him.”

  He held out a redacted copy of the CIA’s report and the information Star had come up with on the parasite angle.

  “Eighteen ninety-nine?” she said, leafing through it. “I see you like to keep your research current.”

  He actually managed a half smile. “So what do you think, Doctor?”

  “Sarie.”

  “Sarie. Could a parasite cause that kind of behavior?”

  “It’s certainly possible. Making people violent isn’t all that difficult.”

  “But the behavior is more sophisticated than that.”

  “You’re referring to the fact that they don’t attack each other?”

  He was impressed. She was as quick as her reputation suggested. “Exactly. That’s why we’re leaning toward the cause being a combination of narcotics and charisma. But we want to be sure.”

  “What do you know about the blood?”

  “It’s not painted on, if that’s what you mean. But they could have cut their scalps for some kind of ceremonial purpose.”

  “I doubt it. Ceremonial cutting, sure, but why hide it under your hair? Why not a big, intimidating slash across your chest? And as far as them not attacking each other goes, it wouldn’t surprise me. If a parasite is affecting their brains, what mutation could possibly be more beneficial than one causing them to recognize other infected people and leave them alone? It would be a huge evolutionary advantage over similar parasites that cause their victims to end up in some kind of free-for-all. From the parasite’s standpoint, that’s suicide.”

  “Still,” Smith said skeptically. “The kinds of specific changes that would have to be made to the human brain in order to make all this work seem far-fetched.”

  “Oh, no, I disagree. Take Toxoplasma gondii, for instance. It’s a protozoan normally parasitic to cats but it can infect a number of other species, including humans. The one we’re interested in for the sake of this example is rats. Now, rats are terrified by the smell of cat urine—a not-so-surprising survival adaptation. However, rats infected with Toxoplasma are not only unafraid of cat urine; they’re actually attracted to it. Not great for the rat, but just lovely for the Toxoplasma, which gets to return to its preferred host when the rat gets eaten.”

  “So you’re saying—,” Smith started, but she kept talking—whether to him or to herself he wasn’t sure.

  “And what about Hymenoepimecis argyraphaga? It’s a parasitic wasp that attacks a certain Costa Rican spider. Its egg hatches on the spider’s abdomen and sucks its blood. Eventually it releases a chemical that causes the spider to spin a complex web designed to protect the wasp instead of catching food. Then there’s a different parasite that breeds underwater but infects grasshoppers. The only way it can procreate is to cause the grasshopper to commit suicide by drowning itself.”

  She began pacing back and forth across the crowded office, occasionally pausing to look at a particularly interesting note stuck to the walls or furniture. “So what we potentially have here is a parasite that’s spread through blood—thus the bleeding from the hair.”

  “And the violence,” Smith said.

  “Exactly. You’ve got to get the blood into your victim, and what better way than to attack them, open cuts, and then bleed into them. It’s similar to your viruses. They cause you to sneeze or cough or have diarrhea. All simple strategies to move from one host to another.”

  “So what do you think? Bottom line.”

  “I think there’s a very good chance you’re dealing with some kind of pathogen. Based on the documents you brought and the complexity of the behavior, I’d say a parasite is your best bet. It’s really quite incredible! We’ve never seen anything like this in humans. I mean, Toxoplasma is fairly common in our species, but the only significant psychological effect we can find is that it makes us lousy drivers.”

  “Did you say ‘drivers’?”

  She nodded. “Might have something to do with appetite for risk. Not really sure. So are you going to Uganda?”

  “Based on what you’re telling me, I don’t suppose I have much of a choice.”

  “Is there time for us to swing by my house?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I just need to grab some gear before we leave.”

  Smith opened his mouth to protest but then caught himself. She had extensive field experience in Africa, was the world’s foremost parasitologist, and based on the photo on the wall, could handle a rifle. No point in being hasty.

  * * *

  JIM CLAYBORN SAT in the grass on the University of Cape Town campus, keeping an eye on an Iranian exchange student who had taken an intense, and extremely suspicious, interest in Dr. Sarie van Keuren.

  In his peripheral vision, he watched the young man casually retrieve his cell phone as van Keuren appeared with a tall, fit-looking man who according to his rental car agreement was Colonel Jon Smith of the U.S. Army. The Iranian snapped a few shots of van Keuren being introduced to an older man who stank to high heaven of British special forces.

  Clayborn tapped a brief text into his own phone, then ran it through a state-of-the-art encryption algorithm before sending it off to Langley. They weren’t going to be happy. Things looked like they were about to get complicated.

  23

  Langley, Virginia, USA

  November 20—1035 Hours GMT–5

  THE GLOOM WAS DISPELLED by a slide projecting an elegant line of stone buildings against a mountain backdrop. Brandon Gazenga zoomed in on three people standing at the top of a set of stairs.

  “Starting at the far right, we have Lt. Colonel Jon Smith, a medical doctor and microbiologist attached to USAMRIID. He—”

  “Brandon
,” Lawrence Drake said, not bothering to hide his impatience. “Dave and I have a meeting in ten minutes. What’s so important about this that it couldn’t wait?”

  “Yes, sir, I understand. But we have reports that a week before this photo was taken, Dr. Smith was at Camp Lejeune talking to the surviving SEAL from the Uganda operation. Apparently, he was there when he committed suicide.”

  Drake leaned forward, feeling the muscles around his stomach tighten. “Okay, Brandon. You have my attention. Who’s the woman?”

  “Sarie van Keuren, a name I think you’re familiar with.”

  “The parasitologist. Are the Iranians still watching her?”

  “Yes, sir. They have roughly the same photo you’re looking at.”

  “And the man she’s shaking hands with?”

  “That wasn’t as easy to figure out—he’s traveling on an Argentine passport under the name Peter Jourgan. His real name, though, is Peter Howell. Former SAS, former MI6, now retired and living in California.”

  “If he’s retired,” Dave Collen said, “what the hell is he doing in Cape Town talking to van Keuren?”

  “I should have said semiretired. He still does some consulting work, but the details aren’t clear.”

  “I assume you’ve accessed the army’s records,” Drake said. “What are Smith’s orders?”

  “He doesn’t have any. He’s officially on a leave of absence.”

  “Bull. Is he military intelligence?”

  “He’s been attached to Military Intelligence in the past,” Gazenga responded. “But there’s no evidence that he’s associated with them now.”

  “And if he was still working for them, he wouldn’t be over there with a British freelancer,” Collen added.

  “I agree,” Gazenga said. “You probably remember that Smith was involved in the Hades disaster through his job at USAMRIID. After that, though, he starts turning up in a lot of places that can’t be as easily explained.”

  “Someone recruited him after he brought down Tremont,” Drake said.

  “I think it’s a safe assumption, sir.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t find anything that would even indicate a direction to look. If he is working off the books for someone, they’re incredibly good at staying in the shadows.”

  Drake settled back in his chair and examined the stark blue of Smith’s eyes. Who had the juice to recruit and operate an asset like Smith? And who had an undue interest in Caleb Bahame? The answer to those questions had the potential to lead in a very dangerous direction.

  “Where are they now?”

  “On their way to Uganda.”

  Collen turned his chair toward his boss and spoke under his breath. “Jesus, Larry…”

  Drake nodded silently. “I want them followed, Brandon. I want to know everywhere they go, everyone they talk to, and everything they learn. And I want to know it in real time. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I also want to know who the hell they’re working for.”

  Gazenga nodded obediently but seemed increasingly uncomfortable.

  “Do you have something else to say, Brandon?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Yes, you do. Speak up.”

  He hesitated, shifting back and forth in the glare of the projector. “Sir, what we’ve done so far is…”

  “Legal?”

  “All due respect, I was going to say plausible. Everything we’ve said about Bahame’s methods and the Iranians’ interest has been completely reasonable and defensible from an analysis standpoint.”

  “But?”

  “While we don’t know specifically who Smith’s working for, it stands to reason that it’s someone on our side…”

  “Are you making a recommendation or just stating the obvious?” Drake said.

  Brandon stood a little straighter for the first time in their relationship. Defiance?

  “In a way, this could have a silver lining for us, sir. The Iranians have been cautious up until now. An American virus hunter poking around could force their hand and give us corroboration of what Khamenei is doing.”

  “So you think we should throw a year of meticulous planning out the window and rely on two foreign nationals and an army doctor with no apparent orders?”

  Brandon didn’t back down. “I think we have to consider op—”

  “The Iranians continue their nuclear weapons program,” Drake said, cutting him off, “and we slap them on the wrist. Now their country is destabilizing and could very easily fall into the hands of Farrokh, who has the confidence of the Iranian scientific community. What do we do? We stand by. And that’s what we’ll still be doing when they have nuclear warheads that can reach our shores and OPEC is controlled from Tehran.”

  Gazenga’s resolve began to waver and he moved out of the beam of the projector in an obvious attempt to hide the fact. “If we—”

  “That’ll be all, Brandon,” Dave Collen said.

  “But…Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  Drake reflected on how quickly and violently the world was changing as the young man hustled through the door. Russia and China were more easily controlled than people suspected—both countries had large, sophisticated bureaucracies, populations with predictable long-term goals, and an arsenal of economic and military weapons that remained inferior to America’s. Iran was different.

  In direct opposition to Castilla’s policy of noninterference, Drake had been waging a silent war against the Iranians. The two nuclear scientists recently killed by car bombs and the Stuxnet computer worm that had damaged their centrifuges were all off-the-books agency operations. But he was just delaying the inevitable. The threat posed by the Islamic Republic needed to be made clear and, more important, the American military’s ability to deal with that threat had to be demonstrated. This time there would be no endless street skirmishes, no corrupt local politicians, no buried IEDs. Iran would be quickly and completely obliterated from the air.

  The Muslim world had begun to mistake America’s obsession with preventing civilian casualties for weakness. It was a misconception that would be quickly dispelled as the world stood by and watched Iran’s few survivors scramble to eke out an existence in a land literally returned to the Stone Age.

  Worldwide order would be restored and a clear message would be sent to the Pakistanis, the Afghans, and all the others: If you keep your fundamentalists under control, America will stay on the sidelines. But if you let them become a threat, you will be next.

  All he needed was a catalyst, and Caleb Bahame’s parasite was perfect. Even by biological weapon standards, it was so visceral and terrifying that virtually every government on the planet would turn their backs on a country that used it.

  If he allowed Smith and his team to confirm the parasite’s existence and learn of the Iranians’ interest as Gazenga was suggesting, their plan would be stillborn. The politicians would move in, rattling empty sabers while Iran issued denial after denial. Castilla and the UN would debate, demand more evidence, make pointless resolutions. And the war-weary, financially strapped American people would resist a call to arms over yet another unseen and unproven WMD program.

  No, in order for the United States to regain the determination to retaliate with overwhelming force, the threat couldn’t exist solely in the mouths of newscasters and government spokesmen. The Iranians would have to be allowed to use Bahame’s parasite. The soft and increasingly self-absorbed American people would have to experience the consequences of their apathy.

  “Larry?” Collen said, breaking the silence in the still, shadowy office. “What are we going to do? We didn’t anticipate any of these complications. And Brandon’s starting to waver.”

  Drake let out a long breath as he forced himself back into the present. Gazenga’s knowledge of central Africa had been critical to their operation thus far, but it had always been understood that he’d eventually have to be dealt with—that he wouldn’t have the courage to go as far as wa
s necessary. Losing him now, though, would be a minor disaster.

  “I take it you’ve been learning fast, Dave?”

  “Everything I can. But my level of expertise is nowhere near his. And neither are my contacts on the ground.”

  Drake nodded his understanding. “We’re going to have to move up the timetable and go to full surveillance on him. I want it in place by tonight. Maybe he’ll show more backbone than we expect.”

  “And Smith?”

  “For now, we’ll just track him—see if he tips his hand as to how much he knows and who he’s working for. The moment it looks like they’re going to come up with anything useful, though, they’re going to have to disappear.”

  * * *

  BRANDON GAZENGA SMILED blankly at the people moving through the hallway, trying to keep his gait natural as he slipped into his office and closed the door behind him.

  How the hell had he gotten himself into this?

  It was a depressingly easy question to answer. Drake had come to him personally and he’d swooned at the personal attention from the DCI. Given a chance to advance his career and play with the big boys, he’d just closed his eyes and jumped.

  A world that seemed so black-and-white in college turned hopelessly gray inside the walls of CIA headquarters. A little spin here, a little data selection there, and you could make a report say anything you wanted. But now things had been turned completely upside down. There was no doubt in his mind that Drake was going to eventually want Smith and his people dead. Of course the CIA’s involvement would be as indirect as it always was—a quick cash payment to an intermediary, a passing along of information to bandits in the area, maybe a word to one of Bahame’s people. It was a cardinal rule that he had learned well over the past year: deniability must always be maintained.

  But he would know the truth. The fact that the blood didn’t splash directly on him didn’t absolve him of responsibility.