Crime Zero (aka the Crime Code) (1999)

by Cordy, Michael

  "Shit."

  Then Decker smiled as an idea came to him. "But that doesn't mean we can't start stirring things up before we get all the evidence. We've got the Axelman disc, and you know what's in the trunk, yes?"

  "Yes."

  "And you reckon Pamela Weiss should be informed of what we know as soon as possible?"

  "Of course, but how? There's no way I can get to her, and even if I could, Naylor would get to me first."

  "You're right," said Decker, reaching for the phone, switching it onto speaker. He dialed a number he knew by heart. "So we need a go-between. Someone with access to the great and the good."

  Kathy gave him a quizzical look, but he didn't say anything. Matty smiled as if he'd already guessed what Luke was going to do. The phone rang five times before the familiar voice of his old Berkeley buddy picked up. "Hank Butcher," the journalist said, his voice filling the room. He sounded harried.

  "Hank, hi, it's Luke. Do you remember the other night when you said that you were tiring of just doing profiles and witty stories and wanted to get your teeth into something big? What did you call it, a real Pulitzer prizewinner?"

  Butcher laughed. "Yeah, buddy, isn't beer great? Hey, Luke, now isn't a great time, OK? You might not realize it, but one of the most historic elections in American history is taking place tomorrow. This Project Conscience announcement has changed everything. I've even got myself invited to a celebration party on Thursday, assuming Weiss wins and becomes our first female President. Frankly I don't think any story of yours is going to cut it right now."

  "What if I said my story involves the star of that historic celebration bash you're going to on Thursday?"

  "Oh, yeah?"

  Decker looked over at Kathy, who was now nodding her understanding. "How about an exclusive on Weiss's Project Conscience announcement from the scientist behind the original idea?"

  Hank gave a dismissive snort. "You mean, Alice Prince?"

  "No, the person she got the idea from."

  "Go on."

  "And what if I told you that Project Conscience wasn't all it seemed?"

  "Meaning?"

  "There's a huge cover-up under way, including abducting the scientist behind the project, deceiving the FDA, and cov

  ering up deaths related to the Conscience treatment?"

  "Luke, this is on the level, right?"

  "Yup."

  "I assume you've got evidence?"

  "Let's just say I've got enough for you to ask our future President some pretty searching questions. And there's more evidence coming." Decker could almost hear Hank's mind working, preparing his Pulitzer Prize acceptance speech. "So, Hank, do you want an exclusive or not? Of course, if you're not interested, I can call someone--"

  "Cut the crap, Luke." Hank interrupted with a short laugh. "You have my undivided attention. Tell me more."

  Chapter 21.

  ViroVector Solutions, Palo Alto. Wednesday, November 5, 6:00 A.M.

  As the United States of America awoke to the news that it had elected its first female President, TITANIA was not surprised. It had planned for Pamela Weiss's victory and based many of its far-reaching projections on its coming to pass.

  TITANIA had had no vote to cast in yesterday's election, but since it never slept, it had been busy all night raiding the computer-controlled electronic ballot boxes, counting up the results. TITANIA knew within a matter of hours that Pamela Weiss had won with the biggest landslide victory since Rea-gan's in 1984. The reason for TITANIA's lack of surprise was that this victory represented yet another domino falling in a sequence it had long predicted.

  As always, a small proportion of its vast neural net was focusing on Crime Zero, continually updating progress on the differing phases and fine-tuning its predictive sequences. Phase 1 was now complete, as was the related Project Conscience. The supercomputer needed to check how Phase 2 was developing. Its progress against predicted action standards was vital to the launch of Phase 3. Interrogating its search engines, TITANIA scoured the Internet for feedback on Iraq.

  Logging on to hospital databases in Baghdad and military systems while at the same time piecing together apparently unrelated snippets of information from Reuters, CNN, the BBC, and the other syndicated news agencies on the World Wide Web, TITANIA soon found the pattern it was looking for.

  The above-average number of deaths on the computers at the military hospital in Baghdad, all males below twenty-five with suspected brain hemorrhages, and isolated reports of an unexplained rash of suicides within the armed forces of Iraq told TITANIA all it needed to know. The Iraqi military was fast becoming an amplification zone, and the reports were increasing in number. TITANIA would continue to monitor these reports, feeding the findings into its predictive model. But for the moment Phase 2 appeared to be on schedule.

  Only now did it look at Phase 3, the most complex stage of all. First of all, it interrogated the control computer at the target airports, ensuring that the radioactivated bacteriophage filters were in stock, waiting for its command. Only then did it rerun its predictive sequences.

  Phase 2 employed an infectious vector that was transmitted by touch. But Phase 3 was transmitted via the respiratory system. It was airborne, and therefore, once launched, the spread would be much faster and much harder to predict.

  Using earlier test data, TITANIA knew how fast the Crime Zero Phase 3 viral vector incubated within the human body. It could also predict the spread of the viral vector through a population by extrapolating the spread characteristics of past airborne pandemic plagues, particularly the Spanish flu epidemic of 1918-1919, which had killed almost fifty million, and the more recent Chinese flu outbreaks of 1957 and 1961. Using this base model and continually checking empirical data on the World Wide Web, TITANIA was able to give a real-time prediction for when Crime Zero met its final objective of Time Zero.

  Its original forecast was more or less unchanged, putting Time Zero still some three years away. If nothing changed and the human entity, Madeline Naylor, carried out her next task, then TITANIA had only to launch Phase 3 at the designated time and wait for the final dominoes to fall.

  As TITANIA E-mailed its Crime Zero status report to Prince and Naylor, it had no conception of the morality of what it was doing, only that it was technically possible and increasingly inevitable.

  The White House, Washington, D.C. Thursday, November 6, Noon

  Director Naylor hated being kissed. At social functions she always tried to avoid the European affectation of greeting people with a kiss on each cheek--air or otherwise. A handshake sufficed. But at the White House champagne reception Bob Burbank held in the magnificent East Room Madeline allowed herself to be kissed. She even maneuvered her face so that the President's lips momentarily brushed against hers. As she did so, Alice Prince looked on, a nervous frown of fascinated horror on her face.

  The grand room with its Bohemian crystal chandeliers and floor of Fontainebleau parquetry was filled with the party faithful who had helped Pamela Weiss win. Campaign advisers, secretaries, canvassers, and a few journalists mingled and congratulated one another as liveried waiters ferried around endless trays of canapes and champagne.

  Naylor stood with Alice Prince and Pamela Weiss, talking with Bob Burbank, as his wife, Nora, chatted with Pamela Weiss's husband, Alan, and Todd Sullivan, Weiss's campaign organizer.

  The President was all charm and bonhomie, beaming his Gregory Peck smile at Prince and then Naylor. "So since you guys are the real heroes in winning this election, can you tell a simple country boy like me how Conscience actually works?"

  "Don't ask me," said Naylor with a smile, resisting the urge to wipe her lips. The President was no country boy, and he was only laying on this charm offensive because Project Conscience had made him look good, a visionary President assured of his place in the history books. But that was OK. Bob Burbank's charm offensive had already allowed her to achieve what she had come here for.

  She turned to Alice, who now appeare
d to be coming to terms with the shock of seeing Libby. The funeral had been two days ago, and she already seemed calmer. She had been typically reluctant about today, though, forcing Naylor to remind her of their plans. "It's the science that makes Conscience work," she said, smiling at Alice.

  "Well?" Burbank said, turning to Alice. "Can you explain it to me?"

  Alice looked at her and then back at the President. "Vectors, Mr. President."

  "Vectors?"

  "Yes, viral vectors," said Alice nervously, clearly annoyed Naylor had focused the spotlight on her. "You see, Mr. President, Project Conscience is all about getting the right control sequence into the right cells, and to do that, I must create the right virus. Like a cross between a parcel and a cruise missile, a viral vector can target and deliver any DNA I insert into it. Viral vectors are gene changers. With them I can alter the very essence of what a person was born with."

  Burbank took a sip of his champagne. "How targeted can they be?"

  "Well, with the right engineering I can create a virus that will target a particular cross section of humanity, or a particular person, or even a particular type of cell."

  "You mean, it will ignore any other target and hit only what it's supposed to? Like a smart bomb?"

  "That's the idea."

  "I wish we could be as precise in solving the Iraq crisis."

  At that moment the tone changed. The escalating problem with Iraq was casting a shadow over the celebrations.

  "Yes, what's the latest?" asked Alice Prince.

  Burbank shrugged, and Naylor fancied she saw relief in his eyes. As if he were glad to pass on this particular baton to his successor in the new year. "Well, we're doing everything we can. I only hope he's going to see reason. But as you know, Iraqi troops are still gathering north of the thirty-second parallel."

  "Surely he realizes that if his troops cross that line, for whatever reason, then the coalition allies will stop them?" asked Alice.

  Burbank nodded. "Oh, yes. French and British carriers as well as our own are already on standby in the gulf. Troops and fighter planes are also on alert in Saudi, Kuwait, and Turkey. We're ready for him, but he doesn't appear to care."

  "Why?" asked Alice.

  "He's warned that he'll view any attempts to thwart his repossession of what he calls the Iraqi province of Kuwait as extreme provocation and will unleash an 'appropriate response.' "

  "But he hasn't got nuclear weapons, has he?"

  "No, not yet. Not nuclear. But we believe his biological capability is pretty awesome. Despite all our inspections, our intel suggests he's got something special up his sleeve."

  "And if the Iraqi president does launch anything?" Alice asked.

  Burbank frowned. "Then the allies under the U.S. will have little choice but to escalate to nuclear weapons, razing Baghdad to the ground."

  Naylor turned to Pamela Weiss and could see that this very real scenario filled her with dread. Becoming the first ever woman President was fine, but becoming the first to launch a nuclear warhead in anger was not.

  As if to reinforce the urgency of the situation, a tall African-American in dress uniform appeared beside Burbank. General Linus Cleaver was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "Mr. President, can I have a word, please?"

  No sooner had Burbank turned away than he turned back again to lean toward Weiss. Speaking to his successor, he kept his smile fixed and his voice low, but Naylor heard him. "I'm sorry to break up the party, but something's just come up involving Iraq. I've arranged a briefing in the conference room. I think you should be there. We need to keep a united front during the handover. I suggest we meet in the Oval Office in ten minutes."

  Naylor watched Weiss clench her jaw. "Thanks, Bob, I'll be there."

  Burbank smiled once more before walking back toward the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. With him Alice recognized Secretary of State Jack Manon and Defense Secretary Dick Foley.

  "You OK, Pamela?" asked Alice.

  "Yup. But it looks like I'm not going to get much of a honeymoon period. I'll see you guys later."

  "Good luck," said Naylor, watching her say good-bye to her family, then walk toward the door in the direction of the Oval Office. As Weiss neared the door, Naylor saw a compact sandy-haired man in a dark suit appear from the throng and shadow her. Naylor knew it was Toshack, the Secret Service agent assigned to organize her protection. She didn't like him. He never showed her fear, only politeness. And since he was Secret Service, she had no authority over him.

  Then, just as Weiss reached the door, a rake-thin man with curly hair suddenly stepped out in front of her and extended his hand. Toshack tensed but held back. Everyone here had been vetted and searched. Weiss shook the man's hand, but she kept on walking, clearly not intending to stop. He smiled at her and appeared to be congratulating her.

  "Who is that?" Alice Prince asked Naylor.

  Squinting her eyes, Naylor stared for a while, then gave a small nod. "I think it's a journalist. You know? He does all those pieces for Vanity Fair. Interviewed Pamela about three years ago, when she was being launched as a major contender for the White House. It was a big piece in all the magazines at the time. Did her a lot of good. Hank . . . er, Butcher, I think."

  Suddenly Weiss stopped in her tracks, her face no longer smiling. Butcher was saying something, and Weiss was listening intently. Then Pamela darted a quick look in Naylor and Prince's direction before shaking her head at the journalist and pointing to her watch. After exchanging a few more words, the journalist pulled an envelope out of his jacket and handed it to her. Then they shook hands, and Butcher left. Weiss quickly looked in the envelope, then called Toshack over. She said something to him before leaving the room.

  "I wonder what's going on," Alice said to Naylor. "She doesn't look too pleased."

  To Naylor's surprise, Toshack approached them. The agent was courteous but unsmiling as he addressed them. "Excuse me, Dr. Prince, Director Naylor, but Governor Weiss requests that you meet her tonight to discuss an urgent matter relating to Project Conscience. Eight o'clock at your offices, Director Naylor?"

  "Fine," said Naylor with a tight smile. Next to her Alice was fingering her pendant nervously.

  "She also has a question for you," said the agent, his face impassive.

  "Oh, yes?" said Naylor. "And what's that?"

  "Who is Dr. Kathy Kerr?"

  Chapter 22.

  The Mandrake Hotel, Washington, D.C. Thursday, November 6, 1:17 P.M.

  Hank Butcher felt pretty pleased with himself as he walked to his rental car in the underground garage beneath the new Mandrake Hotel, where he had stayed last night. The evidence Decker had given him about irregularities on Project Conscience had been enough to challenge the President-elect, and she had appeared suitably shocked. With more evidence to come, he was sure there was a huge story here.

  His story.

  This could dwarf Watergate and the Lewinsky affairs of the last century. Moreover, if he handled it well, he could be credited with blowing the first ever female presidency wide open--before she was even inaugurated.

  He blew onto his hands. The temperature had dropped dramatically since election day. Washington was in the grip of a cold snap, and snow was forecast. After getting into his car, Butcher opened his briefcase and checked his airline ticket. His American Airlines flight from Reagan National to San Francisco left in one and a half hours.

  He pulled out his cell phone and pressed a preset button. Decker's phone was turned off, so he left a voice mail. "Luke, hi, it's Hank. I've spoken to Weiss. She put on a pretty good show of looking shocked. I'd even go so far as to say she knows nothing about this. Let me know when you've got the rest of the stuff. I should be back home tonight."

  Just then a figure entered the deserted underground lot. A tall woman in a thick winter coat. Although he recognized the face, he couldn't believe it. She was so rarely alone. Her entourage usually accompanied her. She stopped and checked her watch as if annoyed that whoev
er was supposed to be picking her up hadn't arrived. She must have had a clandestine meeting at the Mandrake. It wouldn't be the first time deals had been struck in the discreet hotel. She had probably arranged to be picked up down here so as to avoid prying eyes.

  Butcher had thought of approaching her at the White House reception earlier but wanted to get a response from the President-elect first. Also, Decker had warned him to leave her alone until they knew more. But this was a heaven-sent opportunity. He opened his door.

  "Director Naylor?"

  Turning to face him, she looked startled and wary. "Yes?"

  "The name's Hank Butcher. I saw you at the White House reception. Can I ask you a few questions?"

  She gave him a withering glare. "You can do what you like. But I doubt I shall answer them. I'm in a hurry." She checked her watch again and turned away from him toward the exit sign.

  He left his car. "C'mon, Director. It'll take only a few moments. I need to ask you about Project Conscience. I was going to ask you at the White House, but I wanted to get a comment from Pamela Weiss first."

  "I'm sorry, but like I said, I'm in a hurry. I have to get to National." She pulled a cell phone out of her pocket with her gloved hand.

  "No, don't call for your car. I'm going to the airport too. Let me give you a lift there. We can talk on the way, OK?"

  "I don't think so."

  Butcher gave her a sly smile. "What if I told you I know all about the cover-ups on Project Conscience? And that I'm going to get all the evidence I need to blow it right open. Do you still refuse to talk to me?"