63
GIDEON TRIED TO focus on the road as Fordyce began to talk. “There’s a book proposal here, just ten pages. It’s titled OPERATION CORPSE.”
Gideon eased off the accelerator, slowing down to eighty so he could devote more attention to Fordyce. “A book proposal?”
“Yeah. An outline for a thriller.”
“About nuclear terrorists?”
“No. About smallpox.”
“Smallpox? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just listen.” Fordyce paused, gathering his thoughts. “You need to understand some background first. The outline explains that, as a human disease, smallpox was completely wiped out in the wild back in 1977. All remaining viral cultures held in laboratories were destroyed…except for two. One is currently at the State Research Center of Virology and Biotechnology in Koltsovo, Russia. And the other is at USAMRIID, in—” Fordyce paused for effect—“Fort Detrick, Maryland.”
Gideon felt himself go cold. “No shit.”
“The outline tells the story of a gang that plans to steal the smallpox from Fort Detrick. They want to get their hands on it and threaten to release it—in order to blackmail the world. They want a hundred billion dollars and their own small country—an island in the Pacific. They plan to keep the smallpox as protection, a guarantee of sorts, on their island and live out their lives in luxury and comfort.”
“So far, I don’t see the connection.”
“The rub is how they’re going to steal the smallpox: by creating a fake Islamic terrorist plot to detonate a nuke in DC.”
Gideon glanced at the agent. “Sink me.”
“And here’s the kicker: they fake the terrorist plot with an irradiated corpse—left in an apartment in New York City, made to look like it was killed in a radiation accident involving a nuclear bomb core. And the apartment is salted with phony evidence linking the man to radical Islamists and a jihadist terror cell.”
“Chalker,” Gideon said.
“Exactly. Not to mention a calendar with the intended date, and a burned map of Washington with potential targets.”
The wheels in Gideon’s mind began to turn. “Fort Detrick is only forty miles from Washington.”
Fordyce nodded. “Right.”
“So the threat to DC will have drawn off most of the soldiers at Fort Detrick.”
“Exactly,” said Fordyce. “Not only will the nuclear threat empty Fort Detrick of soldiers, but it’ll also strip away most of the security from USAMRIID, leaving the smallpox vulnerable.”
“Unbelievable,” said Gideon.
“In the outline, they have an inside contact who’s given them the codes to get into the vault where the virus is. They walk in, punch in the codes, open the biosafe holding the smallpox, take out a few frozen cultures, and walk out. The smallpox cultures are stored in these cryogenically sealed disks that are so small they can be hidden in your pocket.” Fordyce tapped the laptop. “It’s all here—in a book outline Blaine wrote six years ago. And get this: it says here the idea for the book was based on an actual covert operation launched by the British during World War Two, called Operation Mincemeat. British intelligence floated a corpse off the coast of Spain. Supposedly, it was the body of a high-level Brit officer drowned in a plane crash. In the pockets of the corpse were secret documents indicating that the Allies were going to invade Italy through Greece and Sardinia. But the whole thing was a plant—a scheme to misdirect the Germans from England’s true invasion plans. And it totally fooled the Germans, all the way up to Hitler himself.”
There was a brief silence as Gideon processed this. “British intelligence,” he murmured. “MI6. Just like Blaine.”
“The only difference,” Fordyce went on, “is that Chalker wasn’t a corpse.”
“Even alive, he was damn effective,” said Gideon. “Even a massive dose of radiation takes time to kill. They must’ve kidnapped him, kept him locked up, and performed God only knows what kind of brainwashing on him.”
“That dog crate in the lab we found,” Fordyce said. “It probably wasn’t for a dog, after all.”
“So those crazy rantings of Chalker about being kidnapped, experimented on, weren’t so crazy after all.” Gideon paused. “They framed him for being a jihadist—just like they framed me.”
Fordyce tapped at the keyboard. “Let me read you something. It says in this proposal that, since it’s been forty years since smallpox was seen in the wild, most people alive today have no resistance to it. It would scythe right through the human race. Check this out.”
Variola major, or smallpox, is considered by many epidemiologists to be the worst disease ever to afflict humankind. Depending on the strain, the mortality rate can run as high as one hundred percent. Variola is as infectious as the common cold and spreads like wildfire. Even those who survive are physically scarred for life and often blind as well.
Smallpox causes one of the most frightening and terrible deaths known. It commences with high fever, muscle pain, and vomiting. A rash develops, covering the body with hard, distended pustules, often forming on the tongue and palate. In its fulminating form, the pustules merge to form a single pustule-like covering to the victim’s entire body. The blood leaks out of the vessels into the muscles and organs, and the eyes fill up with blood and turn bright red. The symptoms of the disease are often accompanied by acute mental distress in which neurological changes cause the victim to suffer an overwhelming feeling of suffocating terror, a dread of impending doom. All too often, that fear becomes reality.
The World Health Organization has stated that a single case of smallpox appearing anywhere in the world would be a “worldwide medical emergency of the highest order” and would require “a complete and total quarantine of the infected region combined with an emergency ‘ring of vaccination’ program as containment. It seems likely that significant military force would be required to implement an effective quarantine of infected areas.”
When Fordyce finished reading there was silence in the car, the humming of the tires filling the space.
“So Blaine had an idea for a novel,” said Gideon. “He worked out all the details, wrote the proposal. It was going to make a terrific thriller. And then he realized it was too good to waste on a book. He decided to do it—for real.”
Fordyce nodded.
“I bet he went for it when he met Chalker and realized what a golden opportunity had just fallen into his lap. I mean, what better scapegoat for his irradiated corpse than a nuclear scientist at Los Alamos who’d converted to Islam?”
“Yes,” said Fordyce. “And another thing: I’d bet we’re dealing with a larger group here—not just Blaine. Novak’s in on it, and there must be others. This isn’t the kind of thing you can pull off solo.”
“You’re right. And I’ll bet one of those others is—or was—an airplane mechanic.”
“But here’s what I don’t get. Without a real nuke, how did they irradiate Chalker?”
Gideon considered this. “There are other ways. The most obvious would be with the radio-isotopes used in medical diagnoses.”
“That stuff’s easily available?”
“Not easily. But it is available to those with the right licenses. The thing is, medical isotopes are generally fission products of uranium or plutonium, the result of controlled criticality reactions. Of course, they’d have to calculate radioactive isotope ratios based on medical radioactivity, due to the fission yields driving these isotopic ratios.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“What I mean is, it could be done. You could fake a nuclear core accident by leaving traces of medical radio-isotopes in just the right ratios. Not only that, but medical radio-isotopes could have been used to irradiate Chalker, as well.”
“What about the U-235 they found on Chalker’s hands?” asked Fordyce.
“If you had an inside contact at Los Alamos—like Novak, say—that wouldn’t be difficult. All you’d need is a few nan
ograms. Someone could obtain that amount by simply swiping the tip of a gloved finger on a piece of U-235. The glove would bring away many nanograms of material that could then be transferred to Chalker’s hands with a mere handshake.”
“So why didn’t anyone consider the possibility this was faked?”
“It’s so improbable,” Gideon answered. “So…outré. Would you ever have guessed?”
Fordyce thought about this a moment. “Never.”
“Blaine must have rented that Queens apartment, supposedly for Chalker. No wonder Chalker said it wasn’t his place—chances were he’d never been there before. They probably kept him in that basement cage until he was suitably disoriented. Then they irradiated him, put a gun in his hand, and stuck him in Sunnyside with an innocent family. All for blackmail, for money.”
“If you’re talking smallpox, for a whole hell of a lot of money, no doubt.”
Gideon shook his head. “Jesus, that’s cold.”
They flashed past a sign announcing they were entering Virginia. Gideon slowed further.
“N-Day is here,” said Fordyce, glancing at his watch. “And we’ve got maybe five hours to figure out how we’re going to stop this thing.”
64
THEY DROVE THROUGH the Appalachian foothills of southwestern Virginia in silence. While the westbound lanes were still choked with fleeing cars, the eastbound lanes they were traversing were practically deserted. Gideon stared straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel, his mind still racing. Should he try calling Glinn back? The man obviously had the right connections. But he dismissed the idea quickly: Garza had made it abundantly clear that Gideon was now completely on his own.
“We know their plan now,” Fordyce said. “What we need to do is contact NEST, have them secure USAMRIID, and we’re done.”
Gideon drove on, considering this.
“It goes without saying,” said Fordyce, “that we can’t do this ourselves.”
Still, Gideon did not reply.
“I hope you agree. I’m calling Dart.” Fordyce took out his cell phone.
“Just a moment,” said Gideon. “What makes you think Dart will believe us?”
“We’ve got the computer. We’ve got the file. If this isn’t proof, I don’t know what is.” Fordyce began to dial.
“I don’t think so,” Gideon said slowly.
Fordyce stopped dialing. “You don’t think so.”
“Dart’s not going to believe us. He thinks I’m a terrorist and you’re a fuckup whom he relieved of duty and who’s now gone AWOL.”
“The proof’s on the computer.”
“In a Microsoft Word file that could easily have been created or altered by us.”
“…But the DES encryption!”
“Big deal. The file wasn’t encrypted—just the computer. Stone, think: this investigation is way too invested in the jihadist plot theory. There’s simply too much momentum for it to turn on a dime.”
“It doesn’t have to turn on a dime. All Dart has to do is redeploy a dozen armed soldiers to guard that smallpox vault. It’s what any prudent investigator would do.”
Gideon shook his head. “While Dart isn’t stupid, he’s a prisoner of the book. He’s not the kind who thinks outside the box. You call Dart now and we’ll be arrested as soon as we show up with this computer. They’ll want to analyze the computer, make sure it isn’t a plant of some kind. They’ll debrief us at length…and meanwhile the smallpox will be stolen. Only then, when it’s too late, will they believe us.”
“Yes, but I know the FBI, and I’m telling you they’ll cover their asses by instantly deploying at least a few troops to guard USAMRIID.”
“This isn’t just the FBI now, or even NEST. It’s a monstrous, hydra-headed, out-of-control investigation that’s no longer acting in a rational manner. They’re drowning in false leads, red herrings, and conspiracy theories. We come in at the eleventh hour, babbling some out-of-left-field talk of smallpox… Think about it. Dart isn’t going to respond in time, and the bad guys will get the virus. You call Dart and they win. Game over.”
Fordyce slammed his fist on the dashboard. “Damn you, so what do you propose instead?”
“Simple. We go into Fort Detrick—I’m pretty sure we can talk our way in, especially with that shield of yours—and ambush the bastards when they come out with the smallpox. Catch them in the act. Then we take away the smallpox at gunpoint, hold them, and call the cavalry.”
“Why not stop them before they get the smallpox?”
“Because we need to catch them with it. If we just stop them at the door, there might be a scuffle, and then we’ll be arrested and they’ll go free—free to execute their plot. We need proof that the crime was committed.”
Fordyce laughed mirthlessly. “So, what—now you’ve got a hero complex? What if they show up with ten guys armed to the teeth?”
“They’re not going to do that. Think about it. This plan is all about quiet. Draw off the security and go in and out quietly.”
“I say we call Dart.”
Gideon felt a surge of anger. “I know Dart. He was director of the lab my first year at Los Alamos. Sure, he’s smart, but he’s also stubborn, defensive, and rigid. He’s not going to believe you, he will not put guards on the smallpox, he’ll arrest us both and dick around until it’s too late. Once they drive off with the smallpox, it’s over. Because all they have to do is toss one of those petri dishes out the window and the United States is fucked. We’re all freaked out about a loose nuke. Well, here’s a news flash for you: that smallpox is worse than a nuke. A lot worse.”
A long silence. Gideon shot a covert glance at the FBI agent. Fordyce’s face was red with anger, but he said nothing. Gideon seemed to have gotten through.
“We will not take this to Dart,” Gideon said. “We’re going to do this ourselves. Otherwise, I’m out.”
“Have it your way,” said Fordyce, his lips tightening.
There was a long silence.
“You want to hear my plan?” Gideon asked.
After a moment, Fordyce nodded.
“We socially engineer our way in. You stake out the lobby. I go to the Level Four lab where the smallpox is kept. I’ll put on a biosafety suit, unrecognizable. You call me when Blaine arrives, I ambush him in the lab after he opens the biosafe, and I hold him at gunpoint while you call in the cavalry. It’ll all take place in Level Four, so even if the smallpox does escape, it’ll be contained.”
“What if they’re armed?”
“I doubt it. That would be risky. Like I said: this whole plan is all about subterfuge and misdirection, not force. But if they are armed, I’ll have the drop on them. And believe me, I’ll shoot to kill if need be.” Even as he said it, he wondered just what it would mean if he killed Alida’s father. He pushed that unsettling thought out of his mind.
“That would work,” said Fordyce slowly, after a moment. “Yes. I think that might work well.”
65
GAINING ENTRANCE TO Fort Detrick was a piece of cake: Gideon pretended to be Fordyce’s driver and Fordyce did his thing, waving his FBI shield around and explaining they were on a routine assignment, just checking out one of many undoubtedly false leads related to the nuke alarm. He was careful to say nothing about smallpox. The lone man in the security station helpfully directed them to the USAMRIID complex, drawing their route on a photocopied map of the base, which Gideon examined then stuffed in his pocket. The man waved them through, the base’s single main road winding around a golf course before heading for the main section of the compound.
At three thirty in the afternoon on a weekday, Fort Detrick was eerily deserted. Its green, extensive grounds, covering over a thousand acres, had an almost post-apocalyptic feel: parking lots were empty, buildings vacant. The only sound was that of birds, chirping in the spreading oaks.
They cruised slowly through the leafy base. It was surprisingly attractive. In addition to the golf course, it had baseball diamonds, several suburban n
eighborhoods of neat bungalows or trailers, a small airfield with hangars and aircraft, a fire station, and a recreational center. USAMRIID was at the far end of the base, next to the base’s large motor pool—bristling with military vehicles, but apparently devoid of humanity save for a single mechanic. USAMRIID itself was a sprawling, 1970s-style building with a welcome sign on the approaching drive: The United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases. The large, wraparound parking lot was, like the others, mostly empty. There was an air of desuetude, even abandonment.
“Blaine called it right,” said Fordyce, looking around. “Everyone’s in DC. Let’s hope we beat him here.”
“Not cool if Blaine sees his own Jeep parked in the lot,” Gideon said. He drove past the building to the lot of an unrelated complex, parking the Jeep behind a van. He shrugged into a new disguise, and they cut across the lawn, approaching the entrance.
As they’d discussed the plan, Fordyce had used the laptop’s broadband card to access USAMRIID’s website. In the process, they had learned quite a lot about the facility: that its name was pronounced You-Sam-Rid; that it had once been the hub of the country’s biological warfare program; that it now served as the main center for biodefense research in the country, its primary mission to protect the United States from potential bioweapon attacks.
And it was one of two repositories of smallpox left in the world. The virus, the website helpfully mentioned, was kept in a high-security vault in USAMRIID’s Biosafety Level 4 laboratory complex, located in the basement of the building.
They entered the lobby. There was a security guard at a locked entrance door at the rear, seated behind a small window of what appeared to be bulletproof glass. Fordyce was going in as himself; Gideon, on the other hand, had sorted through his arsenal of clothes, hairpieces, and accessories in order to create a new persona. He didn’t have a lab coat, but he deemed that overkill anyway. Instead, he went for the tweedy, somewhat disheveled absentminded professor look. “A cliché to be sure,” he’d told Fordyce, “but clichés often work when it comes to disguises. People like to have their prejudices confirmed.”
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