by Jack Bowie
“Yes, sir. If you have any dizziness, . . .”
“Yes, I know. I’ll get it checked out right away.”
The paramedic shook his head and packed up his things. Braxton didn’t have time to deal with hospitals or doctors. He had to figure out what had happened tonight. And why.
“What time is it anyway?” he asked Chu.
“It’s 3:00 a.m.”
“3:00 a.m.! What are you doing here?”
“Besides you, my name’s the only one on the building’s emergency list. The police called me. And someone needs to look after you.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“You’re lucky you’re still alive, according to what I heard. Did that thief really try to shoot you?”
“Ah, I don’t know. No. I don’t remember. The thief. Did he take anything?”
“Not that I can tell so far. But he seemed mostly interested in your desk. You’ll have to check that when you’re feeling better.”
“I can do that . . .” He started to sit up again, but his head began to spin and he collapsed back down even before Chu could get to him.
“Adam Braxton, you stay put. You need to rest. I’ll be back in a minute.” Chu gathered the discards of the first aid kit and disappeared from his view.
The next hour was spent with the Fairfax Police, specifically a young detective named Wilson. Courteous and thorough, he had taken the consultant’s statement, asked a few questions, then returned to the team who were searching the office for any evidence the intruder might have left.
“Mr. Braxton?” Detective Wilson reappeared at Braxton’s couch.
“Yes, Detective?”
“We’re about ready to go, sir. You going to be alright?”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll be fine. Karen will take good care of me. Did you find anything?”
“Well, we took a number of prints but I imagine they will all be yours and Mrs. Chu’s. We won’t know much more until you have a chance to see if anything is missing. I’ll leave my card. Give us a call when you’ve done an inventory.”
“I’ll try to get to that later today, Detective. Thank you.”
Wilson stepped away then stopped and turned back. “You know, Mr. Braxton, I wish I could be more positive, but it is unlikely that we will be able to find the guy that did this. I’m not aware of any similar B&E’s in the area. Security is too tight in these buildings. I also checked the security tapes. There’s no record of an intruder. Whoever this guy was, he looks like a pro. You’re sure there’s nothing valuable here? Something someone would want very badly?”
“Nothing that I know of, Detective. All I have here are work records: Contracts, reports - that kind of thing.”
“You’re in security, right?”
“I do consulting in information security, yes.”
“What about the records of some of your clients? Something that would help someone break into their systems?”
“I suppose someone might think that, but all I have here are summary reports. No secret codes or incriminating files. When I have found security holes, my clients fill them immediately. I can’t imagine what anyone would want.”
“Well, someone wanted something, Mr. Braxton. Do check your records. And if I were you, I’d be a little more careful for a while.”
“Thank you, Detective. I’ll certainly try. But I do have one question.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Why is the FBI here? They don’t usually accompany you on a break-in do they?”
Wilson smiled. “Not hardly. Just professional interest. They were in the building on another case and heard the intruder’s shot. They called us after they found you. Lucky coincidence, don’t you think? They could have saved your life.”
“Oh, yes, Detective. Quite a lucky coincidence.”
After Wilson left with the investigation team, Braxton was finally alone with his thoughts. He knew this was not a random break-in. Someone did want something from his office and he was afraid he knew what it was. His discovery of the Vision One lab seemed to be public knowledge.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the card the intruder had put there. It was John Smith’s business card; the one from his desk on which he had written Slattery’s name. Braxton had decided not to mention the man’s message to the police. But what did it mean?
And what was the FBI doing in his building?
Chapter 57
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Thursday, 9:00 a.m.
The President looked up from the militia intelligence estimate his DNI had just delivered when his Chief of Staff entered. Dawson stopped in the middle of the Seal, waiting like the apocryphal messenger for his punishment. Carlson stood quietly by the side of the Resolute desk.
“Yes, Chad?” Matthews asked.
“The Emergency Response Team from AMRIID has completed their analysis, Mr. President.”
AMRIID, the Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Disease. Better known as the Doctors of Death from Fort Detrick. Matthews knew he wasn’t going to like this message.
“And?” the President barked.
“I’m afraid there’s no doubt, sir. The C. Pneumoniae was released. We found the fake sprinklers. Custom molded. Radio controlled release. Quite sophisticated devices, sir.”
“Shit. Everyone was exposed?”
“We have to assume so. The winds were appropriate to carry the microbe over the dignitaries and across the VIP seats.”
Jesus. What have those fools done now? Why did we ever start playing with this stuff?
“I have a full list of the attendees, Mr. President,” Dawson added. “We’ll alert each of them, confidentially of course, as to the possible danger.”
Matthews turned his head away from his visitors. He had thought about what he would do all night. God help us all.
“No we will not,” the President finally replied.
“What?” Dawson exclaimed.
“I said we are not contacting anyone, Chad,” Matthews continued. “There’s no way to know you’ve been exposed. Right, Steven?”
“Yes, that’s what Dr. Hawthorne believes,” Carlson replied. “The only symptoms look like the flu.”
“Then we’re not notifying anyone. What are we going to say? ‘Hello, Prime Minister MacAlister. You were just exposed to an incurable disease. You’ve probably got two weeks to live. Hope you had a nice visit.’ How will it look if seven of the world’s leaders are assassinated in Washington? We would lose all credibility in our foreign policy. We’d be a pariah.” Matthews hung his head and drove his fingertips into his temples. How could this have happened?
“Has everyone bought into the bomb threat?”
“It would appear so,” Dawson said. “That was enough of a shock.”
“Good. Let everybody be shocked. It will keep them occupied. Who discovered the plot?”
“Slattery from the CIA,” Carlson responded. “You met him at the briefing. He called the Secret Service crisis line.”
“Well I’m glad someone is doing their job. Make sure he gets a citation or something.” Matthews stood and looked down on his visitors. “The reality of this attack does not leave this room. Chad, you keep the White House secure. Work the Service through Bigelow. Make up some interesting story for the press. Steven, you make sure the Response Team keeps their mouths shut. And the CIA. Confiscate the reports.”
Matthews turned and stared out the windowed wall of the Oval Office, across the lawn where his home, the country’s home, had been defiled. What more could any of them have done?
“I only have one more question,” he said without moving. “Do we have an antidote for this thing?”
“Mr. President,” Carlson replied. “Dr. Hawthorne said that . . .”
“I remember what she said. I also know that more crap goes on at Fort Detrick than even SecDef Sorenson knows. Find the answer, Steven. If you don’t, forget what’s going to happen to the rest of the world. Think of what’s go
ing to happen to this country.”
* * *
Braxton shook his head and forced his eyes open. Jesus, he hadn’t even realized he was dreaming. Hadn’t he just been talking to Karen? Then he had been running through a dark tunnel. Flashes of light were all around him. Why had he been running? Was he running after someone? Or away from someone? He couldn’t remember.
He glanced down at his watch: 1:00 p.m. Shit, the day was half gone.
He pulled himself up and spun on his butt, carefully setting his feet on the carpet. Jesus his head hurt! He looked around at the disaster that had struck his office. The intruder had been bad enough, but the Fairfax cops had made it worse. Now there was dust everywhere and a horrible chemical smell. He had better start cleaning up.
His legs weren’t nearly as sore as his head and they successfully raised his body to vertical. After a brief moment of vertigo, his head cleared and he began a slow survey of his office. He had apparently interrupted the intruder as he was going through the desk: the drawers were still open and papers had been tossed across the floor. It would take him the rest of the day to clean up this mess.
“Adam! What are you doing?”
Braxton jumped at the voice and spun around, grabbing for his desk to keep from falling over. Chu stood in the doorway.
“My God, Karen, what are you trying to do, frighten me to death?”
“I heard a noise,” she answered sheepishly.
“I didn’t think you were here. You haven’t been here all night have you?”
“Well, yes. I couldn’t just leave you alone.”
Braxton shook his head at her dedication. He really didn’t deserve her. “I’m fine now. So you can go home. Russell must want to kill me.”
“Russell’s not getting home until five. I’ll finish up a couple reports and then go. But you should go home yourself.”
“I managed to get some sleep, actually. I’ll just check my mail and straighten up the office. Tell anybody that calls I’m out.”
“Okay.” She smiled a “that’s what mothers are for” smile and turned to go back to her desk.
“Karen?” Braxton called.
“Yes?”
“I’m really sorry you had to come in. But . . . thanks for last night.”
She nodded. “I’m glad I could be here, Adam. Are you really okay? Is there anything else going on?”
Damn. She could sense his problems better than he did. He couldn’t get her caught up in this mess.
“Not now, Karen,” he replied softly. “Give me a chance to get settled. We’ll talk later.”
Chu disappeared into the front office, and Braxton returned to the disaster that was his desk. He carefully knelt down, picked up a handful of papers, and piled them on an empty spot on his desk. Then he took a few more steps and picked up more sheets, returning them to the same pile.
Fifteen minutes later he sat exhausted in his chair, looking at two feet of paper wondering how he could have ever squirreled away that much in three rather small desk drawers. He was tempted to simply throw the whole pile in the wastebasket—how valuable could they be? —but thought better of it, and began to scan each page for its relevancy.
He had barely started when Chu’s voice came over the intercom.
“Adam, Mr. Smith is on the phone. He says he needs to talk with you.”
Smith? Oh, Slattery. Wonder what took him so long?
“Sure, Karen. I’ll take it.”
He punched a glowing button. “Braxton.”
“Adam. I just heard about the break-in. Are you alright?”
“Just a little bruised. I’m fine.”
“What did they want?”
“No idea. There doesn’t seem to be anything missing.”
“Well, I’m really glad you’re okay. You take care of yourself now.”
That’s all? Nothing about the White House? Where’s my “thank you for saving the country, Adam”?
“Uh, Mr. Smith! Wait.”
“Yes, Adam?”
“About the bomb scare. Was the alert in time?”
“Bomb? Oh, at the White House. Yes, everything is fine. Lucky it was only a false alarm.”
“Yeah. Lucky. Well, I’m pretty tired right now. But there is one other thing. Do you know anyone with albino eyes?”
“Albino eyes?”
“Yeah. Eyes with no color.”
“Not that I can think of. Why?”
“Oh, just someone I met. Thanks for the call.”
“Uh, sure. Hope you’re feeling better.”
Braxton slammed down the phone in disgust. No thanks. No congratulations. No nothing. He knew the attack was real. But they weren’t going to admit it. The bastards.
Why did I ever expect anything else from them?
As he tried to calm down, his eyes wandered to the small refrigerator sitting in the corner. He had avoided checking for the file, preferring to believe the intruder was a common burglar. But there was no hiding the reality of the break-in. The detective had said he was a pro. And Braxton had seen the cold dedication in the hollow eyes.
He limped over to the appliance, reached under it, and pulled out the small drainage tray. Taped to the bottom in a plastic freezer bag was the Vision One file. With the C. Pneumoniae diagrams and Braxton’s notes from his Internet search. This was what the intruder was after. He was sure. This was what may have already taken countless lives.
Braxton opened the file. What had he missed? What should he do with it now?
* * *
Slattery sat at his desk rubbing a tired set of eyes. He hadn’t gotten back to sleep until 2:00 a.m. and had been back in Langley at 8:00.
The latest intelligence findings on militia activity lay strewn over his desk. Things had been frighteningly quiet since the Tyler raid. The FBI had a few more leads now, but how many other groups were still hidden? Waiting for their moment to rise up and strike.
He felt so helpless. They had to find this Gary.
The call to Braxton had been a horrible mistake. He was sure the consultant hadn’t believed either his concern, which was real, or his White House explanation, which, of course, wasn’t. And what did his question about the strange eyes mean? It couldn’t be . . .
His private phone rang. “Slattery,” he grunted.
“Roger, Steven Carlson.”
Jesus! The DNI.
What have I done now?
“General. Good afternoon.”
“Steven, please. It’s only appropriate after all we’ve been through. I just came from a meeting with the President. He wanted me to express our thanks for your alert yesterday. Someday you’ll have to tell me how you figured it out.”
“Uh, yes sir. Certainly. Thank you.” Too bad it was a black-listed civilian who discovered it. “I just wish we could have uncovered the plan sooner.”
“So do we all, Roger. Has anyone taken any responsibility for the . . . bomb scare?”
“No sir. I was just going over the FBI militia reports. There doesn’t seem to be any response. We need to keep working to tie the White House attack to these extremists.”
“Well, that’s another reason for my call, Roger. Both the President and I feel that it’s very important that we keep this whole affair under wraps for now. There are global security issues we must evaluate. I’d like to ask you not to repeat anything of this activity.”
“I certainly agree with your assessment, sir, but I have to report . . .”
“Nothing, Roger. No reports. No findings. We can’t afford to have any record. And don’t worry about Peter. I’m meeting with him later this afternoon. Does that cover it?”
“Yes, sir. That about covers it,” Slattery said with a bit of an edge.
The phone went silent. All he heard was calm regular breathing. Shit! What did he think he was doing playing smart-ass with the DNI?
“I appreciate your trepidation, Roger,” Carlson finally said. “But this is an extraordinary situation which requires extraordinary measures.
I expect you will discuss this with Peter. He’s a good man.”
What could he say? Carlson had covered all the bases.
“Yes, General. I understand. Thank you for your call.”
“And thank you, Roger,” Carlson concluded. “Be assured that we will remember your contribution.”
Slattery stared into the phone. Was that a promise or a threat?
* * *
Braxton was halfway through the last pile of paper on his desk when he heard a knock and looked up to see Chu in the doorway.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Adam. But I think you need to see this. She had a FedEx package in her hand.
“I’m kinda tired, Karen. Maybe later.”
“You need to look at this, Adam. It’s very important.”
Her voice had an urgency that scared him. “Sure,” he replied. “Of course.”
When she brought the package to his desk, he saw that she had already opened it. It was a single sheet of paper: a business letter on Lockheed-Martin letterhead. Scanning the content, his eyes locked on one particular paragraph:
… Due to unforeseen business changes, we regret that we must terminate our consulting contract with you effective today. Please return all confidential materials in your possession as soon as possible. Our contracts administrator will contact you regarding outstanding invoices. We are sorry . . .
“What the hell are they doing!” he yelled. “This is a hundred thousand dollar contract! We just started it.”
“That’s why I thought you’d want to see it,” she replied firmly.
He had to calm down. This was his problem, not hers. The meetings in Pentagon City had gone perfectly. He had done all the right things: clarified the problem, identified the influencers, met with the decision makers, and answered the objections. They had been anxious to get started on the security review. What had gone wrong?
“Of course, Karen. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
“Should I call Kevin?”
Kevin O’Malley was Braxton’s corporate attorney. “Yes. And fax him the letter.”
“But it won’t help, will it?”
“Probably not. The contract says thirty days’ notice, but it would cost more to fight Lockheed than we’d ever get. It’s just gone. What the hell happened?”
