by Jack Bowie
“For starters we ought to know who’s buying our cultures. But more important, the strain is 252M.”
“So? It’s still just Chlamydia.”
“Not exactly. DZ252M is an abnormal variant of Chlamydophila Pneumoniae. Same family, different genus. It’s Biosafety Level 4; same as Ebola and Hanta. It’s resistant to all known antibiotics. If it got out . . .”
Tracomb’s mouth fell open. “Shit. How the hell was I supposed to know that? I’m not in Bacteriology.”
Bastards. Now some executive’s gonna rake me over the coals.
“Take it easy, George. Let’s just call the CDC back and see if we can figure out what happened to the shipment.”
Maybe she was right. If he could trace the requester now, no one would need to know he screwed up the first time around. He reached for the phone, dialed the CDC, and heard the same polite southern voice.
“This is George Tracomb from NCC. I called last week. We’re trying to trace an order to Dr. Weaver.”
“Yes sir. I remember. But I’m sorry, there is no Dr. Weaver on staff.”
“Is there anyone whose name is close? Maybe I’m pronouncing it wrong.” He spelled the name for the receptionist.
“There’s still no match on the clinical list, sir.”
“You’re telling me there’s no one named Weaver at the CDC?” he yelled into the phone. What the hell could have happened?
“Well, no,” the voice replied. “There was a Randy Weaver in the support group. I believe he worked in the mailroom. But he quit about four weeks ago.”
Right after the shipment. Randy Weaver. Wasn’t he the guy at . . . Ruby Ridge? Oh, shit. Tracomb swallowed and the bitter taste of bile filled in his throat.
“Uh, thanks. I guess we’ll just have to double-check our records. So, thanks. Good-bye.” He slammed down the phone.
“George, what’s the matter? You’re white as a sheet!”
“We screwed-up, Cindy. Bad. What’s the extension for security?”
Chapter 41
Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia
Friday, 1:30 p.m.
From the frying pan into the fire. Slattery had barely finished with the aftermath of yesterday’s Amsterdam shooting when Flynn had called. She wanted him at the NCTC to review the militia strategy.
They’d better come up with some answers soon. Something was going on and the longer it stayed hidden the more worried he became.
He had invited Ikedo for company and was packing up his papers when the phone rang.
“Slattery.”
“Afternoon, Roger. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
It was Fowler. How was he going to handle him this time?
“Hello, Sam. Actually I was on my way out.”
“Well, this won’t take but a minute. Any word on that Marino gal?”
Slattery took a deep breath. “Nothing significant, Sam. Just your average citizen.”
“Oh, I see. I’ve had a little trouble getting back to her family. You have a hometown?”
“Hey, you expect me to do all your work for you?”
“Just looking for some help, Roger. No problem is there?”
“No. Of course not. She just came up clean. I really gotta go, Sam. Talk to you later.”
“Sure, Roger. I hear you. Later.”
He slammed down the phone. The noose around his neck just got a little tighter.
* * *
Slattery settled into his chair in one of the FBI conference rooms at the NCTC. The map on the far wall mimicked the one he had seen at the DNI’s meeting. Red pins highlighted the latest militia attacks. Photos and reports papered most of the other walls. Peppered among the documents were far too many large hand-written question marks. The wastebaskets were filled with foam containers and empty pizza boxes.
They had already gone through the obligatory introductions: Manny Ikedo from the CIA, Carol Courington and Tony Lasalle from the Serial Crimes Unit. Slattery recognized the rumpled clothes and lethargic demeanors as signs of long hours in a confined space. The FBI pair had spent too many days in this room already. Even Flynn had lost some of her edge.
“Looks like your war room, Mary Ellen,” he commented.
“The Serial Crimes Team had started it up after the first attacks,” Flynn responded, “and we kinda took it over once everything escalated. We still run operations out of the SIOC downtown, but all the thinking gets done in here. You’ll have to excuse the look of the place. A lot of the team have been living in here the past week.”
The Strategic Information and Operations Center was the FBI’s latest $20 million high-tech baby. Located at FBI Headquarters in D.C., it was designed to handle up to five major crises at once. All fiber optics, high-speed computers, and video walls. Unfortunately there had already been nine militia attacks. The hotshot designers must be having seizures.
“Well, Manny and I really appreciate your inviting us over. We’ve been trying to figure out what the motive for these attacks could be, and frankly, we don’t buy the militia revolution angle.”
“We would have expected to have received some demands, Director Flynn,” Ikedo said, picking up on the thread. “Extortion or at least political rhetoric. Something like the Unibomber’s manifesto. The lack of demands suggests there may be an alternate explanation.”
Slattery watched as Flynn sized up his associate. Her response would determine how far this exchange was going to go.
“Mary Ellen, please,” Flynn replied to Ikedo. “We have far much too much to do to get hung up on formalities. I have to agree with you, Roger. We have been thinking along similar lines.”
“Have your teams uncovered anything new on the person behind all this?” Ikedo asked.
“Nothing directly. But we have traced the explosives that were used. Carol?”
The bleary-eyed female agent opened her folder. “The composition of the Semtex matched that of a shipment that was stolen from the Razorback Armory, outside of Little Rock, Arkansas. The theft was reported over a month ago.”
“Anything else taken?” Ikedo asked.
“Yes. A case of ignitors, seven light mortar launchers, and ten crates of 9mm ammunition.”
“Jesus,” Slattery said. “How did they get all that out?”
“Just drove up and loaded it,” Flynn replied. “They had all the right paperwork with all the right signatures. Nobody knew anything was wrong until we traced the Semtex composition from the manufacturer. A couple of Army captains in Arkansas are up shit creek about now.”
“Everything points to a very sophisticated and knowledgeable coordination,” Ikedo added. “How can we get any information on the leader?”
“A good question,” Flynn responded. “Unless we have some new outside information,” she turned her eyes back to Slattery, “the only way we know is to get it from inside the militia groups.”
“None of your informants have heard anything?” Ikedo asked.
“No. No one we deal with has any idea who’s pulling the strings. It’s like he knows exactly where we are all the time.”
“A leak?”
“Possibly, but not necessarily. As I said to the DNI, this has not been a major focus area for us. Sure, we have contacts in the big organizations, but the groups are so splintered, and there are so many of them, it wouldn’t be hard for a terrorist to find the clean ones.”
“It sounds like our only option is to break one of the involved cells,” Slattery said. “Have we got any possibles?”
“Tony’s run the latest correlations,” Flynn replied turning to the young agent. “What have we got?”
Lasalle passed out a sheet of facts and statistics. “With only two sets of attacks we’re going on a lot of guesswork, but the best bets are one cell in Tennessee and another in Georgia. Both are very close to two attack locations, and fit the psychological profile of vulnerable militia cells. The members are all local with no apparent connections to other groups other than local militia gather
ings.”
“The one in Georgia,” Slattery asked. “Is this the same cell you were investigating previously?”
“Yes,” Flynn replied. “And to answer your next question, we still have no idea what happened to Agent Thomas.”
Everyone in the room fell momentarily silent, respecting the memory of a fallen comrade.
“Why not just go in and shake them up?” Slattery asked.
“You heard Carlson,” Flynn replied. “If I go in on our analyses alone, without any corroboration, he’ll have our heads. And it could jeopardize any evidence we do get.”
“How about if you had an independent source?” Slattery asked.
Flynn’s eyes bored into the agent. “Roger, you better not be holding anything back from me.”
“Something new, Mary Ellen. Another source. Nothing I’d bet my career on by itself, but the source confirms outside involvement in the Georgia farm, and the cell’s activities.”
“Who is it, Roger?”
Slattery knew this was coming. He didn’t want to divulge Luckett’s identity just yet, but had to provide some verification.
“I think he’s the source of your original tip on the Georgia farm.”
Flynn looked over at Courington and Lasalle. They both nodded.
“Then let’s go for it,” she said.
“Can you get a warrant with just this?” Ikedo asked.
“Absolutely,” Flynn responded with an uncharacteristic grin. “Judge Wilfred Campbell had an office in the Middleton Courthouse. Lost the autographed Georgia Tech football he had kept for forty years in that fire. He’ll sign anything I give him if it’ll help catch the arsonists.”
“Okay, what about timing?” Slattery asked.
“We may have something there,” Courington said. “As you know, we still have the Tyler farm under surveillance. They have a pretty set pattern when they’re preparing for practice exercises. We saw the pattern before last weekend’s activities and have observed that pattern again this week. I believe the farm will be crawling with militiamen this weekend.”
“The more the merrier for interrogation,” Ikedo commented. “But can you set something up that fast?”
“We’ll get it set up,” Flynn said without hesitation. “Don’t worry about that.”
Somehow Slattery had no doubt the Special Assistant could get it done.
“If there’s anything we can do, Mary Ellen,” Slattery added.
“Thank you, Roger. For now, just keep that source handy in case I get in any hot water.”
“Will do. I guess we’ll leave the rest to you.”
Flynn nodded and Slattery gathered up his papers. The others followed his lead, packed up, and headed for the hall.
As they were filing out, Flynn touched Slattery’s shoulder.
“Can I have a minute, Roger?”
“Sure.”
They waited until the others had left the room.
“It’s about IMAGER.”
“Come on, Mary Ellen. I’ve told you all I know.”
Flynn raised her hands in defense. “No. I understand that. Don’t talk, just listen. I’ve been hearing things about IMAGER. That it may not be real. If this is something another intel agency cooked up, it will be big trouble for everybody involved. I just wanted to warn you. I hope you’re out of the way if it ignites.”
Slattery stood expressionless. He knew Flynn was fishing. She was looking for any twitch, any confirmation. But her instincts were right, however she got them. “Another intel agency.” Who else was there except the NSA? When she gets her proof, Robinson will be history, clever or not.
“Thank you for coming, Roger,” she finally said. “And for your help. By the way, I really like your colleague. Bring him along anytime.”
“Thanks, Mary Ellen. I’ll tell him.”
Slattery turned and left the conference room to find Ikedo.
“So what do you think of our Special Assistant, Manny?” he asked when he had caught up to the agent. “All you expected?”
“Quite a lady, Roger. I’ll bet she gets just about anything she sets her sights on.”
Slattery thought back to Flynn’s last comment. “Probably does, Manny. But I’d be careful if I were you. I think she may have you in those sights.”
* * *
“What’s happening?” Robinson cried into the burner cell phone. He was cowering inside his Lexus in a not very hospitable southwest D.C. neighborhood.
“Robinson? What the hell are you doing calling me here?”
“I want to know what happened in Amsterdam. Who killed Yang?” Robinson raised his head and scanned the neighborhood. But not out of fear of identification.
“How the hell am I supposed to know? He was a goddamn commie for Christ’s sake. Who cares?”
“But he was with Slattery’s consultant.”
“Yeah. And he was your hotshot cryptologist’s brother. So what? The damn consultant didn’t find out anything did he?”
“How could he? There was nothing to find out. You didn’t have anything to do with . . .”
“Jesus Christ, Garrett. I’ve got more important things to do than orchestrate a sanction on an unknown Chinese scientist in Amsterdam. What’s the matter with you?”
A group of three teenagers gathered on the corner across from Robinson’s parking place.
“I . . . I think we may have a problem.”
“Problem?” The voice turned cold and deadly quiet. “What kind of a problem?”
“I think the FBI may know about IMAGER.”
“The FBI? You mean Flynn, right? What does the bitch know? Tell me, Garrett.”
The order came through loud and clear. “I’m not sure, sir. I just think we need to be careful. She’s been acting strangely the last few days.”
“Shit! I told you to be careful around her. She’s a goddamn viper. But you had to keep up your damn tryst. How deep is the intrusion?”
“I think it’s just the CIA cover.”
“You’d better damn well find out if that’s all! And come up with some kind of story if we need to go public.”
“I’ll find out.”
“Good. Now about this consultant. He’s not going to be a problem is he?”
“No. No way. Slattery will take care of him.” At least Robinson hoped so.
“Make sure.” There was a pause, then the voice returned in a lighter tone. “And loosen up, Garrett. Everything’s going just fine.”
“Going fine? We have no goddamn idea where anything is going. Seven people are already dead!” He stole a glance and the youths were now pointing in his direction. Shit!
“We know more than you think. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Sure, sure. But what about the message? Shouldn’t we tell someone?”
“Tell them what? We’ve got some screwy message about some fairy tale operation? Do you know what it means?”
“No, but we still . . .”
“Why?” the voice demanded. “To show our hand? Let our enemies run to ground? Then we’d never find out what they’re up to. No. We tough it out until we know for sure.”
“But it’s all happened. It’s the truth.”
The line went silent. All Robinson could hear was the throbbing of his blood in the earpiece.
“Listen, Garrett,” the voice began slowly. “There is no absolute truth. You know as well as I do that absolute truth requires absolute knowledge. And we’re not quite that good yet. Until we know more we keep our mouths shut. I’m not going to have you jeopardize this breakthrough by telling everybody in Washington you can read their mail.
“You and your whole goddamn organization get paid to support the policies of this administration. Not to go off and get some bleeding heart conscience. Remember that and you’ll live a long and happy life. Now get off this line. And keep your zipper shut for a while. I’ll find a way to derail Flynn.”
The line went dead and Robinson threw the phone on the passenger seat. Two seconds l
ater the neighborhood and his young admirers disappeared in a storm of dirt and gravel.
Chapter 42
Cerberus Consulting, Tysons Corner, Virginia
Saturday, 7:30 a.m.
His biological clock completely broken, Braxton had awakened with a start at 5:30 a.m. He tossed and turned for another half hour, finally deciding there was no way he was getting back to sleep. He showered, dressed, and drove to his office. At least he’d be able to get an early start on the backlog of work from his trip.
The yellow Virginia sun hung low in a hazy blue sky. He felt physically relieved to be out from under the gray Amsterdam weather. It had been an ill-conceived journey that had answered none of his questions and left him even more confused about Megan than before he left. Did her death have anything to do with Lawson’s? Was Lawson’s death an accident? And what was the meaning of the laboratory under Vision One?
It would be over an hour before Karen arrived, so he picked up a cold Coke and a bag of bagels from the downstairs all-night deli. Carefully balancing his purchases and his briefcase, he waited patiently for the elevator in the lobby. When it arrived, an oriental man brushed past him hurrying to get in the empty cab. Braxton shuddered. The sight of the man brought back painful memories. He had tried to put the encounters with Yang out of his mind. They had yielded little information, and nearly gotten him killed.
No more cloak and dagger, he promised himself. Why the hell should he help the CIA with their problems? They had already caused him more trouble than they could ever repay.
Arriving at his desk, the workload was even worse than he had imagined. The stack of phone messages was an inch think, his voice mailbox was filled, and his blinking email icon had become a dangerously red beacon. He was afraid to even check how many messages were waiting.
While he had been gone, he had tried to keep up with daily calls to Karen, but after the attack he had simply asked if she could come in on Saturday to help him with the backlog.
Procrastinating long enough, he decided to first check his voice mail. The most urgent messages would be there. He logged into VIRNA and settled in.
Most of his messages were from clients, wanting to know the status of some report or clarifications on some proposal, but the sixth one yanked a knot in his stomach.
