The Dragon Factory (10 page)

“How long before anyone else is likely to make the same kind of report?”

“I don’t know . . . it’s still confined to the Akpro-Missérété Commune. I can quarantine it quietly. Say, two weeks. Three at the outside.”

“We only need a week,” he said, “but we need the full week. Find out what hotel the doctors are staying in.”

“I don’t want any of this to land on me, Otto. Headlines won’t help.”

Otto laughed. “An electrical fire in a cheap hotel in Cotonou will barely make headlines even
in
Cotonou. And as for the nurses . . . something will be arranged.”

“Do whatever you have to do, but keep me out of it.”

Otto chuckled again and disconnected.

Dr. Hlasek hung up the phone and stared at the stack of reports. Then she stood up, straightened her skirt, picked up the reports on the sickle-cell outbreak, and carried them over to the paper shredder.

Druid Hill Park, Baltimore, Maryland

Saturday, August 28, 10:13
A.M.

Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 97 hours, 47 minutes

I drove randomly for another hour, then pulled in behind a Cineplex and swapped license plates with another car. I stopped in a McDonald’s to wash up as best I could, and then I closed myself in a toilet stall, leaned against the wall, and tried to sort this out. The reality of what was happening caught up to me again, and shock outran adrenaline. My hands were shaking and I forced myself to go still and quiet, taking long, deep breaths until the panic eased its stranglehold on my nerves.

I was on the run from the NSA, and there was a real possibility that the whole DMS could get torn down. If that happened I was screwed. I’d already passed up the opportunity to start at the FBI academy. My old job with Baltimore PD was probably still there if it came to that, but a bad report in my jacket wouldn’t do much for my career.

The main thing, though, was that since I’ve been running Echo Team for the DMS I’ve seen a much bigger picture of the world and how it works—and of the major wackos who were trying to burn it down. The DMS was doing good work here; I knew that for a fact. Hell, even
I
was doing good work here. Having this organization destroyed would do a lot more harm than just screwing up my career path. How could the Vice President not see the value of the Department of Military Sciences? Hell, we’d saved his wife’s life less than two months ago.

I guess my problem was that I found it hard to buy that the Vice President was doing this because he believed Church was blackmailing the President. That didn’t feel right. Maybe I’m getting cynical in my old age, but it seemed to me that there had to be some kind of hidden agenda.

Of course, there was about one chance in a zillion that I’d ever find out what it was. Maybe Church would, if he wasn’t in jail. I tried calling him but got no answer. Swell.

The smell of the bathroom brought me back to the moment and I washed my hands again and left the grungy little room. Outside I bought a sack of burgers and a Coke, then got back in the car and drove to Druid Hill Park in northwestern Baltimore. I parked the car and walked into the park, wolfing down the burgers to put some protein in my system. After wandering around to make sure that I had nobody dogging me, I sat cross-legged on one of the tables inside Parkie’s Lakeside Pavilion and pulled my cell.

This time Church answered on the second ring. He never says “hello.” He simply listens. You called him, so it’s on you to take the conversational ball and run with it.

“I’m having a moderately trying morning, boss,” I said.

“Where are you?”

I told him. “What’s the status on my team?”

“I’ll tell you, Captain, but in the event that anyone is within visual range of you I want you to keep everything off your face. This isn’t good news.”

He told me about Big Bob Faraday. There was no one else in the Pavilion, but I kept it off my face. I also made sure to keep it out of my voice, too, but inside there was an acid burn working its way from my gut to my brain.

“These were Russians?” I asked, and from the tone of my voice you might have thought I was asking about last season’s baseball scores. “Care to explain how my team gets ambushed by Russian shooters in Wilmington?”

“We’re short on answers today. We’re running their prints through NCIC and Interpol. Too soon for returns, but I suspect we’ll get something.”

“Since when does the NSA hire out hits to the Russians?”

“They don’t, and as of now we have no evidence of a connection
between Wilmington and the NSA other than the bad luck of this happening on the same day as the Veep’s run at the DMS.”

“You don’t think they’re related?”

“I said that we have no evidence of that. And, let’s face it, that isn’t a likely scenario.” He paused. “Actually, a lot of unusual things have happened in the last twenty-four hours, Captain. Some old colleagues of mine have died under unusual circumstances over the last few weeks, and I just got word that a close friend of mine was killed in Stuttgart yesterday.”

“Sorry to hear that. Is that related to this NSA stuff?”

“Again, we have no evidence of it, but my tolerance for coincidence is burning away pretty quickly.”

“I hear you.” I sighed. “Is Big Bob going to make it?”

“Too soon to tell. He’s at a good hospital and getting top-quality care, but he had a collapsed lung and damage to his liver, his right kidney, and his spleen. He’ll probably lose the spleen and, unless he’s very lucky, part or all of one kidney.”

“When this NSA bullshit blows over I’m going to run this down,” I said.

“I have no doubt. Use whatever resources you need. Carte blanche.”

“Thanks.”

“Losing men is hard, Captain. It never gets easier.”

“No, it fucking well doesn’t . . . and it pisses me off that I can’t be there with my guys because of this bullshit.” I only had three active operatives in Echo Team. There were six others almost ready to join, but they were in Scotland doing some field training with a crack team from Barrier, the U.K.’s most covert special ops unit. With Big Bob down that left Top and Bunny. It made me feel like they were suddenly vulnerable.

“For what it’s worth, you’re not the only one on the VP’s most hated list. There are two NSA agents in the hospital in Brooklyn. They attempted to forcibly arrest Aunt Sallie, but that didn’t go as they expected. Some convalescent leave and a few months of physical therapy and they’ll be fine.”

“Ouch.”

Church said, “There’s more, and this probably does have something to do with Wilmington. We’ve lost touch with the Jigsaw Team out in Denver.”

“The whole team?”

“Yes. The Hub itself went into lockdown, but Jigsaw was on a mission and went radio silent about thirty minutes before the NSA started trying to kick doors.”

The Hub was the Denver DMS facility. I’d worked only one three-day operation with Jigsaw and they were very tough hombres. Their leader, Hack Peterson, was ex–Delta Force and he looked like he ate pit bulls for breakfast.

“Do you see the NSA taking the whole team into custody, ’cause I don’t.”

“Captain Peterson may have gotten a sniff and gone dark,” said Church. “But I have a bad feeling about it. I’d like you to head out there.”

“When?”

“Now. I’ll have someone pick you up at the park. You’ll recognize the driver. Be at the exit closest to I-Eighty-three, say twenty minutes.”

“Um . . . hate to break this to you, but this might not be the best time for travel. The U.S. government seems to want my head on a pole.”

“Cry me a river,” said Church. “I need you in Denver. I have private transport waiting in several secure locations.” He read them off to me and gave me a rendezvous timetable. “Get to one of those and head west. First Sergeant Sims and Sergeant Rabbit already arrived at the first location. I was going to have them wait for you, but just in case you’re taken I’ve sent them on ahead. They’ll meet you at the other end.”

Son of a bitch moved fast.

“Normally I’d wait on this and let the Los Angeles office deal with it, but they’re in lockdown and you’re the only senior officer on the streets. Besides,” he said, “the Denver thing looks like it’s going to break big.”

“Meaning . . . ?”

“Meaning that it’s starting to look like a DMS project. There’s a high probability it’s tied to the deaths of my colleagues overseas, and to
some old cases that were supposed to have been closed a long time ago. Now it seems that we were wrong. Once you’re airborne you’ll teleconference with Dr. Hu, who will send you a feed of a video we received from an anonymous source.”

“A video of what?”

“I’d prefer you watch and form your own opinions, but . . . it’s compelling.”

“Can you vague that up a little for me?” I said.

He ignored me. “Contact me when you’ve watched it. This is a bad day, Captain, and tensions are running high. I need you to be cool. Tell your people the same thing. This other matter, the Denver job . . . if it turns out to be what I think it is, then it’s big.”

“Bigger than the Vice President launching a witch hunt?”

“Potentially,” he said.

“Swell. Okay, I’ll go see what I can do . . . but one last thing about the Vice President: if anyone else at the DMS gets hurt because of this—politically, legally, or otherwise—then I’m going to want to do some damage.”

“Are you talking about revenge, Captain?”

“And what if I am?” I snapped.

There was a sound. It might have been a short laugh. “I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

With that he disconnected.

Baltimore, Maryland

Saturday, August 28, 10:15
A.M.

Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 97 hours, 45 minutes

Mr. Church closed his phone and laid it on the desk in front of him. He was a big man, broad shouldered, blocky, strong. There were gray streaks in his dark hair and old scars on his face, but rather than serving to reveal his age they stood as marks of use; their presence toughened him in ways the people who knew him could recognize but not define.

For over a minute he sat with his big hands resting on either side of the phone, which sat just off-center of the green desk blotter. He might have been a statue for all the animation he betrayed. His eyes were only shadows behind the lenses of his tinted glasses.

To his left was a glass of water, no ice. Beside it was a plate of vanilla wafers. After he’d sat for two full minutes, Mr. Church selected a cookie and bit off a piece, munching it thoughtfully. He brushed a crumb from his red tie.

Then he swiveled in his chair and reached for his office phone. He punched a code to engage the scrambler and then entered a special number. It was answered on the fourth ring.

“Brierly,” said a crisp male voice.

“Linden,” said Church, “I know you’re busy, but I want you to listen very closely. This is a Brushfire Command Protocol.”

“Ah,” said Brierly, “it’s you. I was hoping you lost my number.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Please verify that you’re on active scramble so we may proceed.”

Brierly made a sound that might have been a curse, but he verified the scramble. Linden was the Regional Director of the Secret Service and was directly responsible for overseeing the safety of the President while the Commander in Chief was in Walter Reed for his heart surgery. One slip and Brierly would be working out of a field office in the Dakotas. A successful job, on the other hand, could be the last résumé item needed for the step up as overall Director of the Secret Service, which would make Brierly the youngest man to hold that office. The hot money—and the heavy pressure—was on him during the current crisis.

“Here is the Brushfire code,” said Church, and recited a number-letter string that identified him and his authority to make this call.

Brierly read back the code, moving one digit and adding another.

Church repeated the code and made his own two-point change.

“Verified,” said Brierly. “Brushfire Protocol is active.”

“I agree,” said Church.

“You just activated a Presidential Alert, my friend. We’d better have missiles inbound or Martians on the White House lawn. You
do
know
what’s happening today?” Even with the mild audio distortion of the scrambler, Brierly’s sarcasm was clear as a bell.

Church said ten words: “The Vice President is trying to take down the DMS.”

“What?”

Church explained.

“Jesus H. Christ, Esquire,” Brierly growled, “the President will fry him for this. I mean
fry
him. Even if he has the Attorney General in his corner, Collins can’t possibly believe that he’s going to make a case against you.”

“He seems to think so.”

“This is weird. I know him pretty well, and this is not like him. For one thing, he doesn’t have the
balls
for this.”

“Then he grew a set this morning. For now let’s assume he wouldn’t attempt this kind of play if he didn’t have some interesting cards in his hand. What they are and how he’ll ultimately play them is still to be seen.”