The Geneva Strategy

by Robert Ludlum

  “No. I’ll have one of the guys retrieve it. We’ve already sent out a driver to pick you up and take you home. Even though we did a sweep on your residence and it was clean, that was before these two showed up. Now I’ve ordered a surveillance watch on your house for the next twenty-four hours. You can go home. And I’m sorry to say it, but if you get into any more trouble I won’t be able to help. I’m going dark until later this evening.”

  “I don’t expect to do anything except sleep for the next eight hours.”

  “Perfect,” Russell said.

  8

  Kimball Canelo marched his troop along the edge of a small ridge overlooking the ocean in Djibouti. It was six in the morning and warming up with each step. Soon the heat would make marching impossible. They walked in a straight line behind Canelo, accompanied by the soothing sound of the ocean. The breeze blowing in over the water smelled tangy and clean and Canelo was relieved to be out of the dingy, smelly, litter-filled streets of Djibouti, if only for a few hours. His men seemed equally at peace. None complained and none spoke. They marched in silence, with only the rhythmic crunching of boots on gravel to mar the quiet of the morning.

  They reached the top of the cliff and Canelo turned to walk along the rim. The path wound only ten feet from the edge and the hundred-yard drop to the stony beach below, where waves crashed over scattered boulders and an outcropping of stones. The only thing between them and the drop was a narrow ledge. A bee the size of a small hummingbird buzzed at Canelo’s ear and he swatted it away without taking his eyes off the trail.

  Behind him he heard a gasp and he looked on in horror as his first lieutenant hurtled downward, his arms pinwheeling and his face a study in fear. His body hit the rocks below and lay there as the waves washed over him.

  “Johnson, what the hell happened?” Canelo yelled at the man walking right behind the lieutenant. Johnson, a fresh-faced new recruit from the Watts neighborhood in Los Angeles, didn’t respond, but instead stepped toward the cliff edge and continued until the path fell away and he was hurtling downward.

  “Halt!” Canelo said to the troops, all of whom continued forward, still in lockstep and not slowing. The third man followed Johnson, and Canelo lunged to grab at his arm, missing it. “Washington, stop!” he yelled, nearly in Washington’s ear, but the man simply looked over at him, smiled, continued forward, and plummeted over the edge to his death.

  Canelo grabbed the next man, holding him by both arms. “I said, Halt!”

  The man smiled into his eyes but continued forward, leaning against Canelo’s opposing pressure. This solider, named Wilmington, was a foot taller and forty pounds heavier than Canelo and he pushed the lighter man backward with little effort. Canelo glanced down, saw that they were only inches from the edge. He released the man and flung himself sideways. Wilmington stepped off and hurtled downward.

  Canelo regained his balance and planted himself firmly in front of the next man. “Halt!” He roared the word, infusing it with as much authority as he could muster. The next man smiled, ignored the command, and walked into Canelo, knocking him back. Canelo wrapped his arms around the other man’s torso, dug in his heels, and hauled the man off balance. The soldier staggered away from the ledge, but started to struggle to release himself. Canelo propelled off his back foot, forcing the soldier away from the ledge. The man leaned against Canelo, but this time Canelo was ready for the resistance, however crazy it was, and he swept the man’s feet out from under him in a throw Canelo had learned in judo almost five years before. They fell together to the hard ground.

  Canelo lay in the dirt, sweating, and he watched three more men walk over the ledge. The soldier he’d thrown sprang to his feet, took two steps, and on the third encountered nothing but air.

  “No!” Canelo screamed.

  Monroe was next, a man from Baltimore who was one of the best new airmen Canelo had ever had the pleasure to command. Monroe was three steps away from the edge. Canelo swallowed, pulled his sidearm, and shot him in the fleshy part of his thigh. Monroe staggered and fell, landing on the trail and moaning. The troops behind him walked around him without looking down. Monroe began crawling to the edge and disappeared from sight as he fell over it. Canelo shot at the next man, but missed.

  The last remaining member of Canelo’s troop walked off the ledge.

  9

  Smith entered a conference room at Fort Meade and took stock of the attendees. There were three people present: his commanding officer and the man in charge of USAMRIID, Colonel John Siboran; an anxious-looking man in a standard military prison uniform with “Canelo” on the name tape; and Katherine Arden. Colonel Siboran rose and Smith saluted him.

  “It’s good to see you, Colonel Smith. This is Major Kimball Canelo and his attorney Katherine Arden.”

  “Mr. Smith and I have met before,” Ms. Arden said.

  Siboran looked surprised at this information, but waved Smith into a conference chair.

  “I’ve brought you here at Ms. Arden’s express request. As you know, a soldier can hire private counsel in his defense at court-martial and Major Canelo has done so. It appears as though Ms. Arden believes USAMRIID can assist her client in his defense and she has petitioned the court to allow her access to USAMRIID’s research files.”

  Smith raised an eyebrow. USAMRIID engaged in biochemical and biological warfare detection and defense and conducted heavy research on multiple angles involving pathogens known and unknown. While it often partnered with the civilian Centers for Disease Control and the World Health Organization, as well as many civilian governmental contractors from the Department of Defense, there were still a whole host of research topics that required confidential clearance to access. Smith had no doubt that many of the more sensitive research protocols would be protected from the normal channels of discovery in a court process.

  Siboran regained his seat and nodded at Arden. “I’ll let Ms. Arden explain the situation.”

  “Major Canelo was in charge of a troop stationed at Camp Lemonnier in the capital of Djibouti that plunged to its death. If you’ve been watching the media at all in these past few days I’m sure you’ve seen the reports.”

  Smith nodded. “I’m familiar with the story. As you say, it’s been all over the news.”

  Arden grimaced. “What the news media hasn’t seen fit to report was that Major Canelo did his best to stop the men from walking off the cliff.”

  “By shooting one of them?” Smith said.

  “I shot him to stop him!” Canelo said in a harsh and angry voice.

  “The story that’s being reported is that you held a gun on them and forced them off the ledge.”

  Canelo stood up and Siboran came to attention. Smith thought his superior was prepared to restrain Canelo if need be.

  “Lies!” Canelo said. “I—”

  Arden waved her client to silence. “What you say here is not privileged and can show up as evidence at your trial. Let me tell the story.” Canelo subsided, sat down, and put his face in his hands. Siboran slid back in his chair. Arden inhaled and began again.

  “It is Mr. Canelo’s assertion that the men walked off the cliff on their own and despite his many attempts to stop them.”

  Smith exchanged a glance with Siboran who looked grim, but not as incredulous as Smith would have expected.

  “A suicide pact?” Smith asked.

  Arden shook her head. “It’s our belief that they were either drugged or brainwashed into doing what they did. I’ve issued a discovery request to USAMRIID to produce all their past and pending research on any diseases that can cause mass hysteria, mass brainwashing, and any vaccines or drugs in current development to halt such diseases or biological actors. It is my understanding that USAMRIID is in charge of protecting the military from biochemical warfare and that clinical trials are in process regarding several such diseases and their possible cures. It’s possible that one of these trials, or USAMRIID’s investigation files, can explain what happened on t
hat cliff.”

  Smith shot another glance at Siboran and again was surprised to see that he wasn’t objecting.

  “All right. Fair enough, but I don’t see how I can help,” Smith said.

  “Your unit handles biochemical disease and pathogens, does it not?”

  Smith nodded. “Currently I’m assigned to the viral side of the unit, not the bacteriological side. For that you’d have to contact another one of our scientists.”

  Siboran shook his head. “I’d like you to spearhead the review from both sides of the bench. Her access will be limited to research already released to civilian entities.”

  Arden sat up straighter. “That’s not what the court order states. USAMRIID argued that angle in front of a judge and he denied the motion and ended up ordering the documents to be released. He signed a subpoena confirming the request.”

  Siboran held up a hand. “Let’s let Smith look into the matter and draw up a list of projects. It’s quite possible that most of the research is not classified, and in that case we’ll make it available.”

  “And if you find classified research?” Arden asked.

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” Siboran said.

  Arden shook her head. “That’s not acceptable. I need whatever research USAMRIID has in this field, not a truncated list of only publicly available information. I can get that on my own through civilian channels.”

  Smith jumped into the fray before Siboran could continue.

  “Most of our research is just that, research, and most of it is conducted under Biosafety Levels Three or Four. I don’t see how any of it can have affected a troop of soldiers thousands of miles away.”

  Arden snorted in disbelief, opened a ringed binder, and flipped a tab.

  “Let’s see. In 2003 USAMRIID found over one hundred vials of live bacteria buried in the ground under prior administrations. In 2009 over nine thousand vials, almost one-eighth of your entire stock, were unaccounted for in any records. Also in 2009 one of your researchers became sick with her own research bacteria after she failed to follow safety measures. And, of course, in 2001 there were the anthrax attacks that the FBI determined were perpetrated by a researcher here. One of your colleagues, Dr. Smith.”

  Siboran made a sound of protest and Smith waited to hear his response. What Arden had said was absolutely true. USAMRIID had had its share of safety lapses and outright criminal activity in past years. Smith wasn’t going to engage in an argument in which the other side argued in hindsight and he was stuck claiming future perfection. Perfection in any secure setting was only as good as the dedication to the protocol required to achieve it, and USAMRIID researchers were human and had broken protocol many times in the past.

  “Since that time we’ve taken steps to pinpoint researchers at risk for mental health issues and arrange for them to receive proper counseling, testing, and offering them leave should they require it,” Siboran said. Smith thought of Taylor and her mad dash from the mental health facility last night.

  “Who are these scientists currently under leave and what were they researching?” Arden said.

  Siboran stood. “You know that the HIPAA privacy provisions don’t allow me to reveal that information. I would hate to reveal the name of researchers grappling with a mental illness and have them possibly stigmatized because of it when we know that many such conditions can be stabilized, by either adjustment of medication, therapy, or both.”

  Arden shook her head. “The court order included the production of HIPAA documents. And USAMRIID refuses to release the names of those scientists or the research that they were conducting. The upshot is that at any given time this facility is at risk for the accidental release of the very pathogens that it is creating. And now you are aerosolizing these pathogens, which puts the risk even higher.”

  Siboran glanced at his watch. “I have another appointment so I’ll leave you with Colonel Smith.” He threw Smith a look that said Good luck, nodded at them both, and left.

  Smith reached over to a coffee carafe and poured some into a Styrofoam cup. He held the urn up and looked toward Canelo and Arden. Canelo accepted the cup and added some powdered cream.

  Arden waved him off. “I only drink green tea. Do you have any?”

  Smith shook his head. “You’re in an army facility. Strong coffee is the norm.” He watched as a ghost of a smile passed across Canelo’s features, the first Smith had seen since the meeting began. Smith filled a cup for himself, passing on the chemically laden powdered cream to sip the coffee black.

  “The facility is safe and I don’t think security can be easily breached from the outside,” he said. As he said it he thought of Westcore and his henchman. He’d look further into that situation after his work with Arden was done.

  “You’ve had twelve BSL-4 exposures just last year. That means possible Ebola, anthrax, and God knows what other pathogens are bubbling in this facility.”

  “That was out of thirty thousand entrances and involved scientists working on their own research when their positive pressure suits failed. I still believe this facility can’t easily be breached from the outside.”

  “It could if there was an insider with malicious intent,” Arden said.

  “There is nothing now to infer that any such motivation exists in the facility.”

  Arden threw Smith a cynical look. “It happened once, it can happen again.”

  “Sure it could, but it’s not likely. You’re fishing, Ms. Arden, and I don’t think that the court will appreciate you trying to hang USAMRIID with a crime that happened thousands of miles away.”

  “Let’s just take a look at the research and then I’ll decide.”

  The last thing Smith wanted to do was take a look at anything Arden wanted, but it was clear that Siboran was foisting her off on him. Once again Smith found himself struggling to control his anger in her presence. He focused on the investigation.

  “Were the bodies autopsied?”

  Arden nodded. “A few, yes. That’s how the bullet was found in one.”

  “Did they do a toxicology test?”

  “They did,” Arden said.

  “And?” Smith said.

  “And all they found was a few traces of marijuana, nothing to indicate recent use. In one there were traces of khat, a local, legal, drug.”

  “So where is this wild-goose chase coming from?”

  Arden bristled.

  Canelo spoke up. “From the fact that they just walked into the sea. I kept ordering them to halt and they just kept walking over the edge. I couldn’t stop them. I tried to fight with them, then I shot Monroe in the leg to make him stop and he crawled over the ledge. What would make a man do that? It had to be drugs.” Canelo looked sad and desperate and Smith thought that if he was acting he was doing a fantastic job of it.

  “Perhaps, but there’s nothing to indicate that those drugs came from USAMRIID,” Smith said.

  “USAMRIID is the facility charged with protecting the military from chemical or biological warfare the world over, isn’t it?” Arden asked.

  Smith nodded. “Yes, it is.”

  “I believe that’s exactly what’s happened. A biochemical attack. It’s possible that the answer to what happened on that cliff can be explained by some of the research being done here. I would think the facility would be interested in investigating this strange occurrence.”

  “Investigating it, yes. Being blamed for it, no. It’s highly doubtful that USAMRIID is involved at all.”

  “I’d like to confirm that. And I have a court order that allows me to confirm that, so please, Colonel Smith, let’s not waste any more time. I’d like to go to USAMRIID now.” Arden stood up and Canelo did as well. Smith rose slowly to telegraph his reluctance, a fact that was not lost on Arden, because she looked visibly annoyed. She walked to the door and opened it, where an MP stood ready to return Canelo to his cell. As Canelo walked past Smith he grabbed Smith’s arm.

  “Find out what happened to my
men. Whatever it was could happen again and you should know that if it does there will be no stopping them.”

  10

  Berendt Darkanin stood in a room in Shanghai and watched as a crew of hackers, their eyes glued to their computer screens, pounded away on their keyboards. At forty, Darkanin had risen to one of the highest positions in an international conglomerate of pharmaceutical companies. He’d done it by stealing his competitors’ research-and-development trials, and he’d done that by hacking.

  Darkanin watched as a nearby hacker repeatedly attempted to disrupt an industrial water containment system on the United States’ eastern seaboard. He’d successfully paused the system but was having trouble getting through to the main dashboard in order to alter the facility’s coded operating instructions. The man, no more than twenty, swore in Chinese as he worked.

  Darkanin’s silent partner, known only to Darkanin as Yang, stepped up.

  “Did you get the password?”

  Darkanin shook his head. “Not yet, but soon.”

  “And the other?”

  “Taken as a decoy only. They’re both drugged and unconscious. We’ll deliver the decoy back none the wiser when our main target talks.”

  “I have heard that the doctor has fled and is no longer in your control. This I do not like.”

  Darkanin frowned. Yang’s voice was filled with menace, as if he was Darkanin’s equal and could scare him into obedience. Never assume that you can threaten me, Darkanin thought.

  “That’s not your concern, it’s mine,” Darkanin said.

  “I don’t agree. We fail in this mission and there are several bad elements that will find us, cut out our tongues and eyes, and feed us to the jackals. You know this.”

  Darkanin snorted. “Who? The Ukrainian rebels? The al-Qaeda terrorists? Hardly. They can’t follow me into America without setting off alarm bells in every intelligence agency in the United States.”

  “None of those. The Russians, Romanians, and Italians from Naples.”