The Devil's Pitchfork (8 page)

Dalton was tall, his physique as taut as a bowstring. He could have been a recruiting poster for the Army, a sandy-haired, square-jawed man in his forties, his gaze steady and hard. He leaned back in the chair, which creaked beneath him. “You never should have assigned Stillwater to this case.”

Johnston crossed his arms. He was older, closing on sixty, his shoulders broad, his thick chest swelling the tailored shirt beneath his dark blue suit. “I understand that you’re not Derek’s biggest fan. I have confidence him, though.”

“I don’t,” Dalton said. He tapped a finger on the chair’s armrest. “The man is a cowboy. Or a nutcase. You figure it out. I think he’s unreliable. You remember his last trip out to Kansas City?”

Johnston nodded. It had been memorable. One of the truths of working anti-terror, especially bioterror, was that luckily it was filled with false alarms. Every time the FBI’s HMRU was called out to investigate an envelope filled with white powder, or a food poisoning case that occurred in some government cafeteria, or water contamination, Derek or one of his colleagues for DHS was sent with them to evaluate. Two months ago, in Kansas City, the HMRU had been called because someone thought their Cheerios box had been contaminated with anthrax. By the time they got there it had been determined that the family’s kids had filled a bowl with Cheerios, added sugar, then decided they wanted toast instead and threw the bowl’s contents back in the box. Had the mother of the children not been a semi-hysteric with a job in a state senator’s office, it would never have even come to the attention of the FBI, or anyone else, for that matter.

But she had freaked out and gone to her boss who had called in the Bureau. Derek and the HMRU had flown in and Derek had taken one look at the box of cereal and flung it in the woman’s face, turning and storming out of the house. Johnston hadn’t known whether to laugh or reprimand Stillwater. Derek had offered to resign and buy the lady a new box of cereal, but Johnston had talked him into an apology. It was a legendary story within DHS. For that matter, Derek’s offers to resign were legendary ... and weekly.

Johnston shrugged. “Derek has an instinct for bullshit. And he’s right this time. If the FBI and USAMRIID have things under control, let him chase the long shots.”

Dalton scowled. “I wanted to assign Swanson. Why did you assign Stillwater? Next time he offers to resign, let him.”

Johnston sighed, craned his neck and looked at the ceiling. “You know, Sam, I’ve got to go and talk to the entire administration tonight about this. They’re going to want to know what we’re doing that the FBI and USAMRIID aren’t doing. It’s very useful for me to have an answer for the President besides, ‘Dogging the FBI.’ Besides, Stillwater’s much better than Swanson.”

“Swanson is by the book.”

“Swanson hasn’t had an original thought in his head in twenty years. He just likes being on the government payroll. He’s strictly an academic. His experience with terrorism and bioterrorism comes from books and made-for-TV movies.”

Dalton looked disgusted. “He gives us clear and articulate reports on time and doesn’t have panic attacks before every assignment.”

Johnston headed for the door. “Derek Stillwater’s reports
are
clear and articulate.”

Dalton flung himself out of the chair. “Oh, right. Let me see, do you remember:
‘The substance in the fucking envelope was fucking talcum powder.’”

Johnston suppressed a smile. That report had been memorable as well. Derek’s entire incident report, one sentence, two epithets. And completely accurate. Johnston put on his official face and turned to Sam Dalton. “Sam,” he said. “I still think Derek Stillwater’s my best troubleshooter. He stays on the case.”

Johnston opened the door, but Dalton tried one more thing. “He’s a psychiatric case. You know that. He has panic attacks in the field. It’s well documented.”

Johnston nodded. He met Dalton’s gaze. “Derek knows better than most that what he’s investigating could kill him. It’s a valuable bit of knowledge. He stays, Sam. Meanwhile, I want you to start nagging all our intelligence people to see if we can find out about Fallen Angels and this Richard Coffee. I’ll want a report before nine tonight. Consider it an order.”

10

U.S. Immunological Research

L
IZ
V
ARGAS LEANED BACK
in one of the mismatched conference room chairs and felt waves of exhaustion wash over her. What a day! She hadn’t experienced anything resembling this kind of stress since, well, never. The closest had been the death of her husband.

She rotated her neck, hoping to shake off the thought and relieve some tension. That was not a good place to go and this was not a good time to go visiting the worst period in her life. In her current condition she might start crying and not be able to stop for days.

Toughen up, Vargas! We’ve got a problem to solve
.

Sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup, she looked at Frank Halloran. Frank had sunk into a kind of dazed depression, head down, staring at his hands. He looked somehow diminished. She knew he was a fine scientist and a good administrator. Something had gone wrong, wrong in the worst way, and she didn’t blame Frank. But she got the feeling that the FBI and these Army guys did. And maybe blamed her as well.

Frank and Jim Scully had left the Army to start a more speculative biowarfare research center than what had been practiced at USAMRIID. From rumors she had heard, part of it may have been the pay. The Army paid their doctors and veterinarians and PhDs only a fraction of what they could make in the outside world. Their new think tank had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams, if pay was the only issue. It had turned out to be easier than they had thought to find government funding and there had been a few successful gene products and potential vaccines that had provided on-going commercial income.

But this disaster would probably ruin Frank’s career.

For the first time it occurred to her that she was likely to be painted with the same career-ruining tone of paint.

She closed her eyes again, trying not to think of what had happened to Mike Ballard and Jim Scully ... and Scully’s family. She tried to push aside selfish thoughts of career and think about all the people she had worked with who were dead or in the hospital. She tried
not
to think about the ramifications of a terrorist group getting their hands on Chimera M13. An involuntary shudder shook her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the gentle but commanding voice of Colonel Benjamin Zataki. Zataki was head of the science division—the scientific head of USAMRIID. A fit and aggressive career military man, he had been involved with biowarfare development in the 60s before Nixon put an end to it in 1969.

“Okay everyone. Let me summarize our progress. The HMRU has moved Doctor Ballard’s body and all the physical evidence to Detrick for processing.

“All of today’s casualties have been moved to the local Medical Examiner’s Office. Agent Spigotta has moved the investigation center to the Strategic Information Operations Center at the Hoover Building in D.C. We’ve brought in a team of MPs to secure the perimeter here.”

He cleared his throat. “I’ve had a chance to read up on Chimera M13.” Zataki paused. He had a thin craggy face that looked like he spent a lot of time on the water squinting into the sun. It was lean and weather beaten, tanned dark and leathery. It was hard to tell exactly how old he was, but Liz figured he had to be in his early 60s, at least. Despite the rank of Colonel he was not currently in uniform, instead wearing a pair of green surgical scrubs.

“Frank,” Zataki said. “I understand that M13 stands for Manufactured #13.”

Frank Halloran looked up, expression bleak. “Right,” he said slowly, as if coming awake from a deep sleep. “It was the thirteenth version. It did everything we planned for it to do, then we shut down the program.”

“Had you tried to develop a vaccine to M13?”

“No,” Halloran said, shaking his head. “The project was purely speculative. Could we develop a biowarfare weapon to our specifications entirely in the laboratory. Once we accomplished our goals we closed it down.”

There was silence. Nobody said what they all must have been thinking: You should have destroyed it, not tucked it away in a freezer.

Zataki picked his words carefully. “Do you have more sample of M13?”

Halloran looked up again. “Well ... yes. We had an A and B tank. As far as I can tell they only stole from tank A. Why?”

Zataki nodded, his blue eyes seeming to gleam. “And Chimera M1 through M12. Are they similar to M13?”

Halloran narrowed his eyes. “Yes. We think of some of them as failures, but each additional iteration was built on the previous.”

“Why a failure?” Zataki asked.

“Well...” Halloran trailed off.

Liz said, “They didn’t kill their host.”

All eyes turned her way. Zataki’s expression seemed to intensify, if that was possible. “Which ones?”

“M1, M2, M3 and M4. The test subjects got sick—in the cases of 3 and 4, very sick—but they recovered.”

Captain Sharon Jaxon said, “What about M5 through M12?”

Liz looked at her, recognizing in the athletic blonde someone that, under different circumstances, she could have been friends with. “They all killed their hosts. They didn’t always do it in a way we expected or in a time-frame that would have been considered practical for biological warfare. Everything after M4 was really just refinement.”

“What,” Zataki asked, “would happen if someone were inoculated with M1, 2, 3 or 4, then later inoculated with M13? Would the subject have developed an immunity to M13 from the early versions of the bug?”

Halloran was sitting up now, a little color and energy returning to his face. “We never tested that. We never even really discussed it. Chimera was a theoretical exercise, not a full-range research project.”

“It might work,” Liz said thoughtfully. “M1, 2, 3 or 4 just might work as a Chimera vaccine.”

Traditionally there are two types of vaccines against viruses. The first is to find a similar, but weaker type of virus to infect the host. Dr. Edward Jenner, in 1796, noticed that milk maids  infected with cowpox, a disease similar to, but weaker than smallpox, were immune to smallpox. He intentionally infected a boy with cowpox, then infected him a few days later with smallpox. The boy did not get smallpox. It worked—luckily for the kid—and the first vaccine was created.

A hundred and fifty years later Dr. Jonas Salk developed a vaccine against polio. Unable to find a similar virus, he eventually was able to “kill” the poliovirus using formaldehye, then filtering out the formaldehyde.

A form of genetic engineering is now used to identify, modify and kill viruses for vaccines, the most common being the yearly flu vaccination. It is, essentially, a variation on the Salk vaccine. It is effective, safe and time-consuming.

What Dr. Zataki was proposing was a version of the smallpox vaccine. His plan was to see if one of the earlier versions of Chimera M13 could make an effective emergency vaccine if the stolen Chimera M13 was let loose on the world.

Nobody much wanted to talk about what would happen if this plan didn’t work and the terrorists used Chimera.

It was decided to split up the operation between U.S. Immuno and USAMRIID. The reason for this was availability of disease-free monkeys. Sharon Jaxon suggested they get the CDC in Atlanta involved. Zataki said he would inform them of what was going on as soon as possible. In the meantime, the clock was ticking. They had to get started.

Three of the USAMRIID biologists were going to stay at U.S. Immuno. The rest would work at Fort Detrick. As Zataki set up the logistics, Liz realized with dismay that she was not being included in the plans.

“Hey! Wait a minute! I’m one of only two remaining people on the planet that’s worked with Chimera. What’s going on?”

Halloran said, “You’ve been through enough—”

”Fuck you, Frank. I’m not going home to rest. I helped create this mess. I’ll help fix it.”

An awkward silence settled over the room. She didn’t know if it was just her paranoia creeping in, but she thought they were all looking at her accusingly.

A wiry man from USAMRIID, Captain Jay Beckenstein, said, “I personally feel that there are a number of questions concerning your presence in HL4 during the actual theft and the question of your survival, that hasn’t been answered.” He had a thick New England accent that reminded Liz of Bobby Kennedy.

Liz glared at him. “What are you saying? You’re saying you don’t trust me? That you think I was in on it?”

Beckenstein, who had curly black hair and a lethal five o’clock shadow, nodded his head. “Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.” His dark eyes met hers unflinchingly.

Liz saw that a number of the others were nodding their heads in agreement. She felt her stomach churn and thought she would be sick.

Sharon Jaxon said, “I’ll work with you.”

Liz looked at her in relief and surprise. “Thank you.”

Jaxon nodded. “Okay Ben?”

Zataki nodded. “Frank will be working with my people here. Why don’t you come to Rid with the rest of us. We can use your help. Whatever you’re up to.”

“I’m up to everything,” Liz said.

Zataki nodded. “That’s it, then. Let’s get going.”

Within an hour Liz found herself strapped into the seat of a Huey flying above Interstate 270 toward Fort Detrick, the Catoctin Mountain glimmering in the haze ahead.

11

Pentagon

D
EREK SAT BACK IN
the office chair, thinking over the file he had just read on Richard Coffee.

Education: A dual degree in Linguistics and Slavic Languages from the University of Colorado.

Special language abilities: fluent in Russian, Lithuanian, Czech, Yugoslavian, German and Italian. In addition to his startling abilities in Slavic languages, Richard Coffee had been proficient, though probably not fluent, in French, Spanish and Greek.

And probably Sanskrit, Latin and Esperanto, Derek thought.