Chronic Fear (18 page)

Scagnelli wasn’t a hacker by profession, but he’d picked up enough skills to penetrate a firewall or two.

Not that he needed many skills. His level of respect for the CIA plummeted another few notches as he dug through the files on the stolen laptop. He’d previously hijacked their e-mails but he expected the case files to be secured. But Dr. Morgan’s stolen collection of brain scans and her surveillance records were all stored on the desktop in plain sight.

Scagnelli initially suspected they were red herrings, because nothing important was ever hidden in plain sight. But he gradually accepted it was yet more incompetence by Goatbreeder and Baby bin Laden, agents with so little professionalism that they didn’t even bother encrypting the files or using passwords.

When will the government learn that American pride can’t be exported?

But something about the whole job still smelled funny.

The CIA had always been the wild card of the intelligence community, an independent agency that made presidents uneasy and kept generals in line. But the reorganization in 2004 punished the agency for the failure of the country’s intelligence networks. The perception since then was that the CIA was more of a fringe watchdog group, useful in spying on everyone but not particularly reliable.

As such, it was the agency most likely to be exploited in a political bait-and-switch.

And from the information in the leather satchel he’d taken from the two dead agents, Senator Burchfield had triggered the investigation into Dr. Alexis Morgan, considering her research a matter of national security. That wasn’t so unusual, since practically everything was a matter of national security these days, from the ingredients of ballpark hot dogs to the newest panelist on
American Idol
. Burchfield’s primary influence was as chairman of the Senate health committee, but he also served on the defense subcommittee.

If Burchfield was applying pressure, he could have gone through one of the eight intelligence agencies in the Department of Defense. That meant he either didn’t trust his own channels, or he wanted a smokescreen to keep anyone from tracing the footprints back to him.

But Scagnelli was already tracing the footprints straight to Burchfield’s home in the Washington Park neighborhood of Winston-Salem, where million-dollar mansions covered the small rise where once Moravian settlers had hunted.

After returning to Darrell Silver’s lab and finding the place abandoned, he’d called Burchfield and set up the meeting, making sure he could get past the Secret Service agents assigned to the presidential candidate. Scagnelli didn’t mind adding another notch or two to his gun, but leaving blood on Burchfield’s patio would be harder to erase than a couple of bumbling agents dumped in the trunk of a Honda Civic.

Now, as he pulled onto the bricked driveway leading to Burchfield’s house, he mulled a plausible explanation for Forsyth’s disappearance. Most importantly, he didn’t want to be blamed for abandoning the stubborn old bastard. He was exiting his car when the obligatory Secret Service agent made a sudden appearance.

Jesus, these fuckers wear sunglasses even in the dark
.

“Are you Scagnelli?” the agent said.

“No, I’m Peter Cottontail, hopping down the bunny trail.”

The agent’s face was stone under the porch light. It was nearly midnight, and he’d probably been on duty all day. The Secret Service wasn’t known for smiles and giggles.

“You fit the description,” the agent said, escorting Scagnelli to the door and even pressing the buzzer for him. “Right down to being a flaming asshole.”

Burchfield was in a burgundy robe, although he wore a white T-shirt and sweatpants beneath it. Eyeglasses with thick plastic frames hung at the end of his nose, and his hair was casually raked to one side of his forehead. He looked like he’d been on duty all day as well, like a clown who’d just taken off his makeup but whose mind hadn’t yet fully left the ring.

“Nothing on Forsyth?” Burchfield asked, not bothering with formalities.

“I tried his cell. No answer.”

“He was meeting the Morgans, correct?”

“Yes, and they were having a little powwow over a drug called Halcyon. And from what I’ve found out, you and the Morgans have a history, too.”

Burchfield bristled at Scagnelli’s forwardness. “Why weren’t you with him?”

Scagnelli held up the leather satchel. “He sent me on another job. So either he thought he could handle things on his own or he didn’t want any witnesses for whatever he had planned.”

Burchfield raised his voice. “I’ve known Wallace since my first Congressional run. And he’s been both a mentor and one of my closest allies. Without his support, I’d still be a party delegate, not the next president of the United States. So if you’re coming here to make accusations—”

Scagnelli gave a vehement wave to placate the senator. The man who looked so confident and handsome on television appeared slightly sunken and pale in real life. He reminded Scagnelli of a sad uncle who used to give him quarters for video games, as if vicarious pleasure was the only kind he could enjoy.

“Let me show you what I’ve found, and you can decide for yourself,” Scagnelli said.

Burchfield tilted his head to invite Scagnelli deeper into the house. Two sets of stairs rose from the foyer, and the ceiling was fifteen feet high on the first floor. The walls were of dark wood, mahogany or some more exotic material that had probably dodged an import tax. An antique table bore a photo of Burchfield and his brainless-looking trophy wife, little wire baskets on each side filled with stinky potpourri.

Burchfield opened a door and ushered Scagnelli into a small office, shelves of books lining two sides. The room smelled of ink and furniture polish. An expensive collection of ceramic figurines lined the mantel of a gas-log hearth, representing notable historical figures such as Benjamin Franklin, Abraham Lincoln, and others that Scagnelli didn’t recognize. They were hand painted and their eyes seemed to track Scagnelli’s movements.

He wasted no time flopping the satchel onto a coffee table and spreading out the documents. In addition to the images of the brain scans, Scagnelli showed Burchfield copies of e-mails, decoded messages, and transcripts of intercepted phone calls. A few of the memos were cryptically coded “per Burchfield directive.”

“I’m afraid you didn’t do a very good job of covering your tracks, sir,” Scagnelli concluded.

Burchfield, whose lips pursed increasingly tighter as Scagnelli presented the information, finally spoke. “None of this is mine,” he said.

“The CIA’s already been busted for running covert programs without telling Congress,” Scagnelli said.

“Of course. That assassination program in the Bush era was a little embarrassing for us all.
Alleged
assassination program, I mean.”

“This might be a rogue thing,” Scagnelli said. “But if you’re not the one who ordered the investigation into the Morgans, then somebody’s setting you up.”

Scagnelli didn’t tell him about the e-mail messages he’d sent to Roland Doyle, routing them through a dummied-up CIA address. Those didn’t have Burchfield’s fingerprints on them, but an outside observer would probably lump them into the same ball of wax.

“Of course we were monitoring the Morgans, and everyone else connected to Sebastian Briggs,” the senator said. “But it was a closed loop. Halcyon was buried by CRO, who wanted nothing to do with it anymore. And Seethe…”

“The rage drug,” Scagnelli said, to let Burchfield know he was already in the loop.

Burchfield nodded. “It doesn’t officially exist, either. Halcyon at least made it to clinical trials, but nobody knew about Seethe until last year.”

“Nobody except the seven subjects in the original trial,” Scagnelli said. “And only five are alive now.”

“I have a personal stake in this,” Burchfield said. “I feel responsible, and these drugs are a threat to national security.”

The senator really meant they were a threat to his presidential bid, but Scagnelli kept quiet, knowing silence might elicit more information than agreement could.

“Wendy Leng has been in contact with Dr. Morgan,” Scagnelli said. “They all could be getting back together, which means they’re planning something, like maybe going public.”

“That can’t happen.”

“I won’t let it happen, if you like.”

“And you tried Wallace’s BlackBerry?”

“No answer.”

“He wouldn’t go dark on his own, not at a critical time like this.”

“If I may be so bold, sir?”

Burchfield sat on the plush leather sofa. “Fire away. I can handle it. Hell, I’ve heard worse.”

“There are a few options. One, Mr. Forsyth voluntarily went with the Morgans, wherever they are going.”

“They could have kidnapped him and are going into hiding.”

“It’s a possibility, but Forsyth isn’t good for anything except insurance. If they wanted value, they would have kidnapped the drug maker, Darrell Silver. After all, Silver is the one who cracked Briggs’s Halcyon formula.”

“So Silver’s disappeared, too? Maybe the Morgans kidnapped them both.”

Scagnelli pulled the miniature digital recorder from his pocket and placed it on the coffee table. “Audio proves that they left Silver there. No telling where he headed, but he was around at least half an hour after they took your friend, apparently uncovering stashes of drugs the feds missed.”

“So Wallace expected Mark to kill his wife? I know Mark is a little…unhinged.”

Scagnelli nodded. “From my understanding, Mark was the only one of the group who received his first Seethe exposure last year in the Monkey House. Besides, of course, you and Wallace Forsyth.”

“Damn it. I can hold my liquor. I’m the Charlie Sheen of DC. I haven’t noticed any ill effects.”

No, I’m sure sociopathy is immune to the effects of personality-altering drugs, because there is no humanity left to destroy.
“Oh, I’m sure of that, sir. You’ve behaved calmly and rationally through it all. The liberal bloggers can’t lay a glove on you.”

Burchfield gave a stately jerk of his shoulders, standing erect as if a camera and a flag were nearby. “I’ll admit, Seethe can be quite effective, which is why it’s so dangerous.”

“And so useful,” Scagnelli said. “I also discovered your plans to funnel Seethe to the Pakistan border. Enough crazy people killing themselves on both sides of the border, it will escalate pretty quickly, especially if some American troops go down as collateral damage. A hawk like you, already sitting pretty on the defense committee, would be very appealing to the voters.”

“That’s dangerous talk, Mr. Scagnelli.”

Scagnelli was amused. Burchfield was just another cog in the machine, and even if he achieved the presidency, he’d be no more than a house servant for wealthy corporations and the finance sector. Much like Scagnelli was a slave to Burchfield and Forsyth. At least for the moment.

Power had a way of flip-flopping when one side possessed something the other side needed.

“You hired me for danger, Senator. And I’m not suggesting your plan is seditious. Hell, just between you and me, I like it. But it’s not
you
I’m worried about.”

“Wallace?”

Scagnelli gave a casual shrug. If Burchfield could play the role of world leader, why couldn’t Scagnelli pull off the innocent bystander part as a supporting actor? “He’s been going a little afield, sir. At first, I thought he had orders from you that he wasn’t relaying to me. But he worried me a little with that Book of Revelations stuff.”

“Wallace has always been fundamentalist. That’s no secret. And I’ve found him to be a sincere man of faith.”

Scagnelli tapped the documents on the coffee table. “But doesn’t it make you wonder? It looks to me like the evidence puts him on the road to Halcyon and Seethe while pointing all the fingers at you.”

“Wallace is loyal to me.”

“A man of God will always choose the higher calling.”

“No.” Burchfield removed his glasses and tapped them against his thigh. “Wallace has always been a man of sound principle. And before you suggest it, he didn’t suffer any lingering effects from Seethe, either.”

“It might be cumulative. After all, Mark Morgan didn’t turn into a rampaging, well-armed lunatic overnight. From what I’ve discovered, the others may have built a tolerance to Seethe, probably because the Halcyon suppressed it.”

“Seethe is unpredictable. That’s what makes it valuable.”

And that’s what makes it fun.
Before this little adventure was over, Scagnelli planned on getting his hands on some Seethe. A guy never knew when dosing somebody into a murderous rage might be necessary, or at least entertaining.

“All I’m saying is Mr. Forsyth might not be his usual self,” Scagnelli said. “If he’s getting messages from God or whatever, then he’s going to have a different set of motivations.”

“Excuse me.” Burchfield picked up his own BlackBerry and dialed, then ordered the person on the other end of the line to run a GPS search for Wallace’s BlackBerry. “Call me when you know.”

Turning back to Scagnelli, he said, “You mentioned other options?”

“Well, Mr. Forsyth had me kidnap Mark Morgan.”

“Kidnap? I didn’t order that!”

“I assumed it was to force Dr. Morgan to turn over the rest of her research records. But what if he wants to partner with them? Maybe even go public, too?”

Burchfield clenched his fist. “He’d never betray me like that. I am going to make him vice president.”

“Why settle for number two in the U.S. when you can be number one in heaven?”

“No way. No fucking way.” Burchfield stormed across the office. The windows were concealed by thick curtains, but Burchfield parted them to glance into the darkness. “Wallace, you son of a bitch.”

Rage. That’s an unhealthy emotion, Senator. Causes errors in judgment. Or maybe just allows us to give in to our true nature.

Scagnelli tossed some gasoline on the flames. “Of course, it’s equally possible that he partnered with Darrell Silver. Who cares about the monkeys when you can own the banana tree?”