Biowar (3 page)

“You know, Mr. Dean, the thing is, this is a pretty serious felony here.”

“Yeah?”

“Be better if you cooperated.”

“You don’t think I did this, do you?”

“Be better if you cooperated.”

Eventually, Charlie Dean found himself back at the troopers’ barracks, giving his statement for the third time. Gorman used two fingers to pound it into his computer. At three o’clock, as they waited for the printer to deliver a fresh draft, the investigator picked up his phone and sent one of the troopers to the deli for some sandwiches. That signaled the start of a short interval of nice-cop behavior; the invesdgator got a cola from the soda machine in the lobby and even offered Charlie a plastic cup to use. Charlie stuck with the can.

Gorman claimed he had a relative who worked for the GSA in Washington, and wanted to know which government agency Charlie worked for.

“I’m just a government employee and let’s leave it at that,” he said, and the nice-cop routine came to an end.

They went over the statement twice. Around four, the investigator’s boss came in, a Lieutenant Knapp. Short and so muscular that the bullet-proof vest he was wearing looked like a flat baking pan, Knapp asked Charlie exactly two questions after looking over the statement:

This true?

You think your friend did it?

He answered “yes” and “no,” respectively.

“You’re done here. Make sure Gorman has a phone number where he can reach you.”

“He does.” Dean started to leave.

“If Kegan contacts you,” said Gorman, “we’d appreciate knowing about it.”

“Sure,” said Dean.

Gorman frowned but said nothing else.

4

Rubens spread his forefinger and pinkie apart, nudging the key combination to kill the program. He sat back as the screen blanked, letting all that he had read settle into his brain.

The premonition of something truly awful lurked in the comers of his consciousness. He sensed that Dean—and thus Desk Three—had inadvertently stumbled upon a conspiracy with the gravest possible consequences. And yet the actual evidence would not have persuaded a logical man that anything more than a sordid murder had taken place. Rubens, a mathematician by training, prided himself on being logical. But he was also the descendant—now some generations removed—of a famous painter, an artistic genius, and as such Rubens could not deny the validity of emotional intelligence and intuition. It was important now to combine the two, to balance premonition with cold analysis.

To block out fear yet be aware of it.

Kegan had missed a scheduled contact visit with an FBI agent a day before. That was suggestive, especially since Dean’s latest account made it seem the murder had likely taken place then. Autopsy information would not be available for some time, and the state police had apparently been uncooperative when a local Bureau liaison tried to get an update. But the FBI was extremely interested—worried more likely—and had already assigned an agent to find out where Kegan had gone.

Kegan, according to the information Marie Telach had retrieved on his behalf, was an expert on viruses and bacteria. While that in itself was not particularly noteworthy—many doctors might make similar claims—his area of expertise involved bacteria, and to a lesser degree viruses, that could be weaponized. He had served, briefly, as a consultant to the Pentagon some years before.

Was this connected to the murder?

Possibly. As best Dean and Telach could gather, the dead man had carried no identification. Officially he was a John Doe, an Asian—or Asian-American—in his twenties, no weapon, no apparent reason to be in the house. The murder sounded like a robbery gone bad: doctor comes upon an intruder, shoots him in the head, then panics when he realizes what he’s done.

Telach had asked about the possibility of something more titillating: a homosexual affair gone bad. Dean discounted that, pointing out that Kegan had been married three times; Rubens decided that was not necessarily a disqualifier.

So more than likely, the murder had nothing to do with Kegan’s profession and skills.

And yet, a connection could not be dismissed. Kegan was due to attend a conference in London on viruses in just two days, a conference that the NSA had in fact already been asked to monitor. This was merely routine; the science and technology section often gathered information for a variety of government agencies, and in this case the Agency’s involvement amounted to providing a tape recorder for a Centers of Disease Control expert who would be attending the sessions. The agency would then transcribe the information, which would in turn be disseminated to the CIA and Defense Intelligence Agency as well as the CDC.

The conference concerned penicillin-resistant bacteria, an area where Kegan had not published. It was an area of interest, however, especially for someone interested in getting government grants, so it wasn’t completely out of the ordinary that he would attend.

Of more interest was a contact by a company supposedly unknown to Kegan but tracked by the NSA to a firm named UKD. UKD was a Ukrainian pharmaceutical company with links to a Polish “entrepreneur” named Radoslaw Dlugsko. Dlugsko had made a fortune selling surplus Polish arms to third world countries. UKD, meanwhile, had been communicating with the Research Institute for Viral Preparations in Moscow, which itself had connections to the Russian military’s germ warfare program.

Connections, links—but no firm evidence of anything. Shades and shadows of great interest, but no precise forms.

Kegan had reported the contact, apparently because of a provision in one of his government contracts requiring him to note overseas contacts that might be of a suspicious nature. Rubens had the contact report on his computer—there was no mention in the report about why he thought it suspicious. And it was apparent from the processing that the people who had reviewed the report, including a low-level FBI official, had no idea, either. But the agent had at least been savvy enough to tell him to pursue the contact and then report back. Kegan had therefore sent a note saying he would be at the London conference and could be contacted there.

And into this mess walks Charles Dean, Kegan’s friend since high school.

Coincidence?

Surely.

An unexplained murder at the home of a biology expert who had been contacted by possible terrorists—precisely the sort of situation Desk Three had been created to investigate.

Well, not precisely, but the executive order establishing the organization was suitably vague. Rubens picked up the phone and dialed the FBI.

5

Kjartan “Tommy” Magnor Karr walked up to the two men dressed in black and stretched out his arms.

“Maybe I can fly,” he told them.

The men didn’t laugh. As a general rule, the National Security Agency’s men in black didn’t have much of a sense of humor, and the select few who manned security at OPS 2/B—also known as the Headquarters/Operations Building National Security Operational Control Center Secure Ultra Command—were about as given to laughing as the hand-built supercomputers in the basement.

Besides, they’d heard that one many times.

The two men waved two small wands over Karr’s body. One of the devices checked for electronic recorders and bugs; the other was a metal detector sensitive enough to detect the paper clip Karr had inadvertently forgotten about in the change pocket of his jeans.

“Just testing you, guys,” said Karr, handing it over.

The two men resumed the scan. A second snag would mean a trip to a room around the corridor where, shoeless, Karr would be stood in the middle of a chamber that simultaneously conducted X-ray and magnetic resonance scans of his body; the search wasn’t painful, but it would make him even later for his meeting downstairs. The blond, blue-eyed Scandinavian-American giant waited silently, forgoing his usual kidding around in hopes that the Black Suits would quickly clear him through. The men were efficient but not particularly quick, and they stuck religiously to the security protocol, slowly running their scanners over every inch of his six-seven frame.

“Mr. Karr,” intoned his boss when he finally made it down to the conference room. William Rubens pushed back his suit jacket sleeve to expose his Hermes watch; Karr smiled and took a seat next to Charlie Dean.

“Where’s Lia?” he asked Dean.

“She’s on assignment,” said Rubens. “If we may continue.”

Karr reached for one of the 7UP cans on the table, then slid back in the seat. The NSA spent billions of dollars a year on high-tech computers and other gadgets; the table, for example, had flat-panel video screens that rose on command from the glass surface and could be tied into any number of inputs. It seemed as if no expense had been spared for Desk Three, which had its own satellite network, a small but potent air force, and hand-built weapons and sensors. But there were priorities: the seats arrayed around the table were so cheap the plastic nearly bent over backward under his weight.

Then again, Karr wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Rubens picked them purposely to make sure everyone stayed awake during his interminable briefings.

“Dr. Lester is from the CDC,” said Rubens, introducing everyone. “Bill Westhoven is with the FBI. You’ve already met Dean. Tommy Karr is one of our best people. Chris Carter, Joe Tyler, are experts in germ warfare.”

Rubens clicked a small remote control in his hand.

“This is Dr. James Kegan. He’s regarded as one of the world’s preeminent experts on bacteria and viruses, though his expertise is fairly wide-ranging.”

As Rubens spoke, the video panels began to rise. A picture of a fiftyish, ponytail-wearing man in an open-collar shirt filled the screens.

“Dr. Kegan has consulted with the FBI, CDC, and various other government agencies on facets of germ cultivation and weaponization,” said Rubens. “Recently, he was contacted by persons apparently unknown to him, contacts that he had questions about.”

Karr sipped his soda, waiting for Rubens to get to the punch line. He’d been called back to duty after only a few days of what was supposed to be a two-week vacation, so he knew something serious was up. But Rubens wasn’t exactly the explaining kind—or rather, he did explain, but always in his own way after an interminable lead-in.

Dean shifted in his seat next to Karr. He cocked his eye toward the older man, who seemed unusually uncomfortable.

It was more than just the chair. His face had tinged red.

“Dr. Kegan was due to attend a conference in London two days from now,” continued Rubens. “The FBI had hopes that the people who tried contacting him would show up. Dr. Kegan apparently did not know who it was who had contacted him. It’s not clear why, therefore, he thought it suspicious. We’ve been able to track the contact to a Ukrainian company named UKD,” continued Rubens. “Their purpose is not entirely clear. UKD, however, is connected with both the international underworld and the Research Institute for Viral Preparations in Moscow, which has some interesting intersections with the Russian germ warfare program.”

“So what’s the punch line?” Karr asked.

“The punch line is that Dr. Kegan has disappeared,” said Rubens, “after someone was found murdered in his house.”

“A John Doe,” said the FBI agent.

“Kegan’s disappearance presents us with a problem checking this connection out,” said the FBI agent. “We don’t have enough time to develop another source. So we were hoping that with your technology, you could fill the gap.”

“What are we going to do, clone him?” said Karr. He smiled at the scientists, but their expressions remained somber.

“What they have in mind is sending a replacement who can claim to be his assistant,” said Dean. “Someone who knows a lot about him.”

“Like who?” said Karr.

“He was a friend of mine,” said Dean. “I’m the one who discovered he was gone.”

“And the body,” added the FBI agent.

“And the body,” said Dean.

“You think your friend shot this guy, Charlie?” asked Karr.

“I don’t know,” said Dean. “Probably not.”

Under other circumstances, Tommy might have laughed and said something funny, something to get everyone to relax. But Charlie was too serious, and even Karr fell silent. He’d only met Dean a short time ago. The two men were very different; Dean was more than twice as old as the twenty-three-year-old Karr and even under the best of circumstances considerably less easygoing. But the danger they’d faced together had drawn them close; Tommy felt sorry for his friend. Dean had obviously learned something he didn’t want to learn about someone he’d thought he’d known.

“Kegan wouldn’t kill anyone,” said Dean, folding his arms. The room remained silent for a moment.

“So all right. When are we leaving for London?” Karr asked finally.

“Mr. Dean will spend the next day being briefed on some of the areas that Dr. Kegan was working in,” said Rubens. “Lia DeFrancesca is already en route to London to prepare for surveillance there. The FBI is in the process of obtaining subpoenas to check on the lab work that Dr. Kegan performed at a variety of institutions; we should know if there’s anything unusual in a few days.”

“What about me?” asked Karr.

“For the moment, I’d like you to go to Dr. Kegan’s home in New York and take a fresh look at it.”

“Poke through the garbage cans, huh?”

“I believe the garbage has already been inventoried.”

6

While Lia DeFrancesca was in a general sense en route to London, the route was rather circuitous and included a climb down a nearly sheer cliff at a nature sanctuary in New York’s Hudson Valley. The cliff itself wasn’t much of a problem for Lia, who had done much harder climbs with full combat gear during the Army Special Forces Q, or Qualifying, Course, which she was one of the few (if not only) women to complete. But Lia was making her descent in decidedly unmilitary attire—a skirt that stopped some inches above the knees, and a pair of black heels, which went well with the skirt but not the rocks.

It did not help that her runner—a Desk Three officer monitoring her progress via a satellite link from the Art Room, Deep Black’s special situation center deep within OPS 2—thought the situation rather humorous. Lia could hear Jeff Rockman’s high-pitched giggle in her ear as she shifted her weight on one of the ledges, her backpack leaning precariously off her arm.