by Hank Parker
Hoffman slammed his fist on the desk. “Sorry? Goddammit, Kennedy, who do you think you are! You had no right. I should fire you both. Maybe have you arrested.”
As Kennedy stared back at Hoffman, he saw his boss starting to relax, his shoulders no longer hunched up to his neck, the veins in his neck starting to look less prominent. “They did try to kill us,” Kennedy said, “so obviously someone had something important to hide.”
“So what happened at the farmhouse?” asked Hoffman gruffly. “Give me all the details.”
Kennedy related the previous day’s events. He voiced his conviction that someone was working with dangerous pathogens—maybe Kandahar—in a home laboratory.
“Did you get inside the garage?”
“No. The van showed up as I was looking through the window.”
“Did you get a good look at the occupants of the van?”
“No. All I could see was two people in the front. Both males. Obviously they must have been watching the place. Probably CCTV, well disguised. Those goons showed up pretty fast. I did get a plate number.” Kennedy jotted it down and passed it to Hoffman.
Hoffman glanced at the paper and set it on his desk. He was silent for the better part of a minute. When he spoke again his voice was lower and more controlled. “Here’s the deal. I’m worried about your safety. I want you two to head right out to the West Pacific—Saipan. You can get moving on the Nipah work.”
“That’s crazy, Frank,” said Kennedy. “You need our expertise to help stop the spread of this virus back here. And what if this was an act of terrorism? Don’t you want all hands on deck?”
“I don’t disagree,” said Hoffman. “But whoever was chasing you will find out that you lived. They may already know. Your lives will be in danger. Better that we discreetly get you out of the country for a while. And we’ll do our best to keep this out of the press.”
So he’s worried about publicity, thought Kennedy. “You think they won’t track us down in Saipan?” he asked.
“Not right away.”
“You can’t send us out of the country,” said Kennedy again. “You need us here.”
“My mind’s made up. I’m booking you on the first available flight.”
“But Mariah’s just getting out of the hospital. She’s had a concussion. She needs to recover.”
“Fine,” said Hoffman. “I’ll delay it a couple of days. But you guys will have to lay low until then.”
When Kennedy tried to object, Hoffman waved him off. “Check back with me this afternoon,” he said. “I’ll give you details then.” He motioned toward the door.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AUGUST 30
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The president of the United States sat behind his uncluttered desk in the Oval Office and looked directly into the TV camera. He spoke in a clear, level voice. “My fellow Americans. As most of you know, many of our citizens in the northeastern United States are dealing with a major crisis.”
The president described the epidemic in Pennsylvania. He was straightforward about the nature of the disease, the human casualties, the risk of further spread, and “the critical importance of a secure quarantine zone.” He apologized for the culling of wildlife and domestic animals but emphasized that it was necessary to protect the human population. He assured the nation that “all available resources” were being devoted to the crisis and that there was “outstanding cooperation among federal, state, and local authorities.” He expressed his gratitude to the first responders, including law enforcement, medical, and veterinary personnel, and to the National Guard, all of whom were “working around the clock” to contain the disease so that it did not spread beyond southeastern Pennsylvania.
The president paused and leaned forward, his eyes still fixed on the camera. “This is not an easy time for any of us, especially for those brave citizens in the affected area,” he said. “The nation will weather this crisis, as we always have, and we will be stronger for it. But we all must do our part. Above all, we must obey the law. On Friday, a terrible incident took place near Philadelphia. An unruly crowd of demonstrators challenged the National Guard and tried to break through the quarantine barrier. Tragically a soldier and a demonstrator were killed. This only happened because a few selfish individuals decided to take the law into their own hands. Those people are now in custody. We cannot and will not allow anarchy. The quarantine zone is essential to assure public safety and stop the spread of the virus. I am committed to doing everything I can to guarantee the security of our nation, and we will not rest until this disease is eradicated.” He paused. “Thank you all. Good night and God bless America.”
The president waited until the television crew gathered their equipment and left the room and then turned to his chief of staff. “What do you think, Al?” he asked. “How did it go?”
Alphonso Cruickshank was uniquely qualified to answer the president. Trained as a lawyer, he had ascended to a partnership in a large Boston law firm, but ninety-hour workweeks played havoc with his family life. So he resigned from the firm and took an in-house legal position at the Washington Post, where he eventually became general counsel. The position had given him an unusual ability to understand the workings of the press and the legal maneuvering necessary to navigate the stormy political waters of the nation’s capital. Even so, Cruickshank carefully considered his answer before responding to the president. “Quite well, sir,” he said. “I think the American people will believe you’re leveling with them. But the Guard did show their inexperience. Let’s just hope the press supports you. You know how they can be.”
“There’s not much I can do about that,” said the president.
“I think there is. It’s all about the information flow. If they think that’s drying up or somehow being manipulated, they’ll be ruthless.”
“You’re suggesting more briefings.”
“That’s right,” said Cruickshank. “I think you should meet with the White House Press Corps every other day. At least until we turn this thing around.”
The president winced. “I’d rather spend time in a lions’ cage. But I know you’re right.”
* * *
Mariah poured two glasses of white wine and handed one to Curt. They sat across from each other at her small dining room table. Curt had offered to take her out to dinner to celebrate her release from the hospital, but she’d insisted on his coming over to her apartment, mostly because she really didn’t feel like going out in public.
Curt raised his glass and clinked hers. “To life outside work,” he said.
“Is there really such a thing?” Mariah asked wistfully, and then chided herself for saying something so wonkish. Her dog was sniffing at Curt’s pant leg. “Dancer, leave him alone,” she said.
“She just smells my mutt,” Curt said, smiling down at the dog. “Seems to be pretty interested. Maybe we should get them together.”
Mariah wasn’t sure if that was Curt attempting to flirt or just making a joke.
“The forensics people thoroughly searched that garage,” Curt said, turning back to Mariah, serious now. “Completely cleared out—no sign of any equipment. Even the vent pipe was gone.”
“Any sign of virus?” Mariah asked.
“Hoffman said someone wiped everything down with bleach. The odor was still pretty strong. No trace of the pathogen.”
“Fingerprints? Other evidence?”
“They’re still looking,” Curt said. “Hoffman says the van license plate was stolen, so that wasn’t any help, and that supposedly government car we followed? No record that any had been signed out from the agency car pool.”
“So if I have this straight . . .” said Mariah slowly, focusing on her plate. “Then, excuse me, but what the hell?”
Curt shook his head and shrugged. “They turned it all over to Homeland Security.”
&nb
sp; Mariah cocked her head, raised her eyebrows.
“Now we leave for Saipan on September first. And until then Hoffman wants us away from the lab,” said Curt. “ ‘For our safety’ are his words.”
“September first—that’s the day after tomorrow!” said Mariah. When Curt didn’t answer, she asked, “And it’s supposed to be safer in the Marianas?”
“In theory, it would take longer for the bad guys to track us down.”
Mariah put her fork down and was silent for several seconds. She stared straight ahead, lips pressed together, her arms tightly crossed. Finally she refocused on Curt, her eyes locked on his. “You’re not just a scientist, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“That whole business at the farmhouse. You obviously knew what you were doing. You’ve done that kind of thing before. You’re some kind of spy, right?”
Curt looked at her steadily. Then he said, “I’m with an outfit called the Bio Investigative Service. We work closely with USDA.”
Bio Investigative Service? Mariah had never heard of it. Was it a cover for something? “So you don’t actually work for USDA?” she asked.
“No, I do,” said Curt. “USDA is my employer of record.”
“But your real employer is this ‘Bio’ organization,” said Mariah. When Curt didn’t reply, she said, “Does anyone else at the Barn know?”
“A couple.”
“Hoffman?”
“No.”
“But you’re still taking orders from him.”
“Right,” said Curt.
It was obvious to Mariah that Curt wasn’t going to say anything more, so she asked him, “Has Hoffman pulled us off the Kandahar team?”
“He’s not saying that. Remember, we were supposed to go to Saipan anyway.”
“But they need us here now for this disease outbreak,” said Mariah, struggling to keep her voice from rising. “That’s far more important.”
“I told him that, but he insisted.” Curt was speaking calmly, in a way that made Mariah feel like she was being managed. “We’ll be back on the team once they find the guys who tried to kill us,” he said.
“Can’t you get your ‘investigative service’ people to overrule Hoffman?”
“In the first place, they’d probably agree with him that we’re in danger,” said Curt. “Second, they’d only intervene in extreme circumstances.”
“Well, Christ!” she said, her anger finally getting the better of her. “These are extreme circumstances, Curt. I can’t believe you went along with this. No way I’m going to Saipan. Not with everything that’s happening around here. We’re needed more than ever. I assume you’ve been listening to the news.”
“You mean the incident in the park,” said Curt. “With the horse and rider.”
“Incident! Full-scale riots are breaking out. The disease is spreading. Hospitals are overwhelmed. They’re having trouble bringing basic supplies—like food—into the area. If we don’t get this thing under control quickly, we’re looking at a major catastrophe. Homeland Security should understand that. They’d want us here to help out. Who knows the science better than us?”
“We can’t refuse a direct order,” said Curt. “Maybe it even came from higher up. Like the White House.”
“I doubt that,” said Mariah. She picked up her glass and swallowed the last of her wine. She was feeling slightly reckless. “I think it’s Hoffman’s bright idea. He’s covering his ass. He doesn’t want us killed on his watch.”
* * *
Later that evening, after Mariah had made it clear she was done talking about Saipan, their dinner had continued to go south, their small talk becoming terser and more awkward until finally Kennedy left for home. Once back at his apartment, he dialed a number from a secure phone. Bill Cothran answered on the third ring.
“Nice to hear from you,” said Cothran. “How was your trip back from Hawaii?”
“Uneventful,” said Kennedy. “Which is good when you’re flying.”
“I heard a bit about your latest adventure,” Cothran said. “I’m up to speed on the disease outbreak. And the agency’s involved now. You guys both okay? It’s Mariah, right?”
“We’re fine,” Kennedy said. “Yes, it’s Mariah. Mariah Rossi. But look, Hoffman’s sending us to Saipan. He’s concerned about our safety. But Mariah thinks it’s bogus, doesn’t want to go, thinks we’ll be more useful here, and the thing is, she’s right. We’re critical members of the research team.”
“So why call me?” asked Cothran.
“Figured you could do some checking around. Maybe dig up some information that will help me make a better case to Hoffman. It’ll have to be pretty quick. We’re scheduled to fly out day after tomorrow.”
“You know this isn’t in my job description.”
“Get serious, Bill,” Kennedy said. “Even you can’t define your job description.”
Cothran chuckled. “Okay. I’ll need some details. Anything that might be relevant. Even if it doesn’t seem important. Go ahead. I’m listening.”
For ten minutes, Kennedy spoke without interruption, and when he finally finished Cothran said, “Longest I’ve ever heard you talk, Kennedy. Let me see what I can find out. Plan to be there in an hour or so. I’ll call you back.”
* * *
While Kennedy was wrapping up his conversation with Cothran, three shadowy figures in black sweatshirts and tight nylon stocking caps crouched in drizzly darkness near a wire fence in rural Chester County. They silently watched an approaching National Guard soldier. They waited until he had passed their hiding place and begun to move away on his patrol down the fence line.
The trio’s leader quickly reviewed some numbers in his head. Patrolling Guardsmen were spaced a thousand feet apart. Walking speed of three miles per hour, 250 feet per minute. The trio was hiding midway along the soldier’s route. It would take two minutes for the soldier to reach the farthest extremity of his patrol, two more minutes to get back to them. That gave maybe two minutes for the three men to act, once the Guardsman got far enough away.
The trio leader began to count off seconds in his head. When he was satisfied that the soldier was out of sight and earshot, he signaled to the other two. They emerged from bushes and crept toward the fence. One pulled a pair of wire snips from his pants pocket and began to cut.
Seconds later, they were inside the fence. They moved quietly toward an old barn a hundred yards away, barely visible in the gloom. They knew that a small flock of sheep was sequestered inside the barn and that, if they didn’t act, it would be the last night on earth for these animals. In the morning they’d be rounded up, packed into slat-sided cattle trucks, transported to a distant field, and executed.
The insurgents, who preferred to think of themselves as guerrilla warriors, stopped halfway to the barn, crouched again, listened, and carefully looked around. The leader pointed toward the barn, where a solitary figure was standing just outside the door. “Another Guardsman,” he whispered. He was annoyed and more than slightly surprised. “I’ll take care of him.” He waited until he was sure that the sentry was facing away from him, then stealthily approached, slipped up behind him, and slit his throat. He gestured to the others to move up.
The guerrillas made their way to the front door of the barn, but found it padlocked. The man with the wire snips shined a pencil flashlight on the lock. “No problem,” he said. He retrieved a screwdriver from his pocket and began to back off the screws on the hasp.
A loud klaxon noise blasted into the night.
The trio leader cursed. Old barns like this never had alarm systems. “Hustle!” he yelled at the man with the screwdriver. Seconds later, the hasp was off the door. The three slid the door open and rushed inside. They heard bleating noises and soon found the sheep, clustered in a pen at the far end of the barn. They ran to the pen, opened
the gate, and tried to shoo the animals out. The sheep wouldn’t budge.
The leader, who’d worked on a farm when he was younger, entered the pen and located a large ewe. He pushed on the animal until it began to move toward the gate. The rest of the sheep followed in a shapeless mass, as if tethered to the ewe, reaching the opening more or less at the same time, creating a bottleneck that was broken only by the combined efforts of the three animal rights activists. The sheep finally cleared the gate and began to scatter, bleating in confusion and fear. Running back and forth behind the sheep, the three men tried to herd them, to move them toward the gap in the wire fence. After a brief struggle they had the animals under control.
Then sirens pierced the night air.
The sheep dispersed again, moving in all directions, leaving the insurgents exposed in the open. Illuminated by flashing blue lights, a half-dozen armed National Guard soldiers wearing helmets and bulletproof vests stormed through the fence opening, weapons at arm’s length. One of the soldiers shouted into a bullhorn, “On the ground, facedown. Now!”
The guerrilla leader reached into his belt, pulled out a .45-caliber pistol, and began firing, triggering a fusillade of bullets in return. By the time the shooting ended, the three insurgents lay motionless on the ground. One soldier was sitting, clutching his bleeding arm. The sheep had congregated in a tight cluster against the fence.
* * *
Close to midnight, Kennedy answered his ringing phone.
“That guy you saw in the lab?” said Cothran without preamble. “The one you followed to the farmhouse. We have no clue who that might be. Of course, you didn’t give us much of a description.”
“Not too easy to do,” said Kennedy. “The guy was wearing a moon suit.”
“Right,” said Cothran. “But we do have some information about that van that followed you from the farmhouse. Picked it up on surveillance video at Philadelphia airport two days ago. Three guys inside. One was dropped off at the terminal.”
“ID?” asked Kennedy.
