Biowar (19 page)

Rubens soldiered the muscles in his face into blankness and even managed a smile as the conferees signed off. Before he could decide how to proceed—before, really, he could recover from his shock at the new political fault lines appearing around him—the Art Room rang with an update.

“We have Johnny Bib on the line,” said Chris Farlekas, spelling Marie as supervisor. “We’ve been waiting for your conference to clear.”

“Put him through,” said Rubens.

“It’s an open line.”

“Understood.”

“Mr. Rubens?” Johnny’s voice was uncertain, as if he’d never used a telephone before.

“Johnny—what the hell are you doing in New York?”

“I had a hunch that Kegan was using a substitution code and that I could find the codebook.”

There were many possible replies. Rubens might have mentioned that this wasn’t World War I—or, more accurately, any of the campaigns undertaken during the Roman Empire, which was about the last time that codebooks might be relevant. But instead he said simply, “And you discovered what?”

“My hunch was wrong,” said Johnny Bib, with such enthusiasm that he actually suggested the opposite.

“I’m shocked that you made a mistake, Johnny. I will circle the date in my calendar and play it in the lottery tomorrow.”

“You’re being sarcastic.”

“Very possibly.”

“Well,” said Johnny Bib. “Then perhaps I won’t tell you what I’ve found.”

If I get to pick my successor, thought Rubens, I will first scour the nation’s elementary schools for a seasoned kindergarten teacher.

“Johnny, unfortunately, it turns out that I have a great number of things to do this evening, just as I have every evening. And morning. And noon. And night.”

“More sarcasm?”

“I’d appreciate it if you could tell me what exactly you found. Expeditiously.”

“He’s looking at plants because he’s trying to find a cure for rat-bite fever.”

“For what?”

“Sodoku. It’s an Asian disease that was brought back to Europe during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. There were apparently cures, and he’s researching them.”

“And you know this, how?”

“I have the books right here. Pages turned, things underlined. They were sitting right on the shelf. There are gardening texts and botany texts, historical references—it’s a mother lode.”

“A mother lode, yes. Have you talked to the scientists about it?”

“I passed it on to my team. I’d like to take the books down for them.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Do you have a digital camera?”

“Uh, no—”

“We’ll get you one, along with a secure hookup. Those books can’t leave the property,” Rubens told him. “Nor can you. I’ll get someone to ferry up the items.”

“I can’t leave?”

“I’ll have one of the medical people call up to explain the technical details. You can tell him what you’ve found. It’s probably just a senseless precaution.”

He thought of Dean and Tommy Karr—they had been at the house and should be quarantined as well.

But he couldn’t afford to lock them away for days. On the contrary.

“What should I do here?” asked Johnny.

“Keep reading. I’m told there’s plenty of material handy.”

28

“Nice night, huh?” Karr told the Thai guard outside the door to the command tent.

The Thai guard mumbled something in response.

“He’s saying something along the lines of ‘go away,’ except it involves your relatives,” said Chafetz. “We’re having a little trouble with the volume.”

“I’ll ask him to speak up on the way out,” said Karr, putting his hand up to push against the door.

The guard pulled his M16 up, ready to fire.

“Phone call,” Karr explained. “I have to make a phone call.”

Chafetz told him the words. Karr spoke several languages, including Russian, but Thai wasn’t one of them. The word for “call” sounded like “ree-uk,” but the tone was difficult to get unless you were familiar with the language, and finally Karr found it easier to use English and pantomime. The guard frowned but finally pulled the gun back upward and let him pass.

There was a second guard inside. He’d been sitting on a small folding chair near several crates of papers and maps, probably dozing, but the conversation outside had gotten his attention. He met Karr with a drawn pistol.

“Hello,” said Karr, letting the door bang behind him. “Phone. I have to use the phone.”

“He wants to know why you’re not with the major,” said Chafetz.

“Because I don’t want the major to see me breaking into his computer?”

“Tommy—”

“So give me the words again,” he told the runner. He took his hand and made it into a phone, miming as he struggled with the language.

The guard said something with Sourin’s name in it.

“Did the major give you permission?” translated Chafetz.

“Sure.”

“Chai,”
said Chafetz.

“Chai.”

Tommy’s pronunciation clearly puzzled the soldier—he said the word as if he were ordering Russian tea—but the man let him pass as he walked toward the communications center. Karr made sure to pick up the generic phone—it had a white receiver—that Major Sourin had allowed him to use earlier to talk to the embassy. The Art Room had already compromised the line, and Karr found himself talking to Farlekas.

“Thailand is a beautiful country,” said Farlekas. The Art Room supervisor had served two tours in Southeast Asia during the Vietnam era—first as an Army medic and then as a CIA paramilitary. “Very ancient and proud.”

“Reminds me of Scandinavia,” said Karr.

“Oh, I can see that,” said Farlekas. “We’re ready here anytime you are.”

“I’m working on it,” Karr told him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He gestured to the Thai guard, who looked at him dubiously but then accepted a cigarette. Karr tried to light it for him, but the cigarette lighter wouldn’t catch. He tried several times, the flint failing even to spark.

“Any second now,” said Karr.

“Don’t knock yourself out,” said Farlekas over the phone.

The soldier reached into his pocket and pulled out his own lighter—a Bic with a picture of a bikini-clad model on it. He lit his cigarette, then handed the lighter to Karr. The op actually didn’t smoke and turned away as he choked back a cough.

“Taking a while,” said Karr as he handed back the lighter to the guard.

“Sure he got a good whiff?” asked Farlekas.

The guard’s eyes began to close. “All right, here we go.”

The anesthetic that had been in the phony lighter had finally knocked the soldier out. Karr put the phone down on the nearby table as he pulled the dongles from his pocket. He attached them to the laptops, then hunted around the desk for blank floppies. He didn’t want them to boot into their normal C drives for fear that a security program would trip him up.

“Any disk will do,” Chafetz reminded him.

He found a pair and booted up.

“Strike CONTROL-DELETE-D, all together,” said Chafetz.

He had trouble settling his large fingers on the Chicletsstyle keys but managed to get the combinations. The computer screens blanked.

“We’re in—have them both,” said Chafetz. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh for you or uh-oh for me?”

“Sourin’s stirring.”

“How long do we need?” Karr asked.

“Thirteen and a half minutes,” said Chafetz.

“Pull ’em,” said Farlekas.

“Nah. I don’t have any more of the gas with me up here,” said Karr. “This is our best shot.”

“He’s out of the tent,” said Chafetz.

“Probably just taking a leak, right?”

“No—checking his guard position on the west flank. Can you get one of the Marines to divert him? Talk to him or something.”

“Too late,” said Karr. “Besides, he doesn’t like them. He’d know something was up. Nah, we’re cool. I can deal with him. Just keep the download flowing.”

“Talking to the guard,” said Chafetz. “Telling him to not play with his toes. Well, more or less. He’s a little graphic for a Thai.”

With 1:33 left, Sourin turned from the guard position and began walking toward the command tent.

“You can pull unit two,” said Farlekas.

“Wait until he’s ten seconds away,” Karr told him.

“He’s thirty seconds now,” said Chafetz. The computer could calculate his progress based on his stride.

Karr reached to unit two, making sure he’d removed the floppy, then pulled the dongle.

Karr slid his hand over the back of the laptop as the guard outside snapped to attention and loudly challenged the major—probably as much to warn his fellow guard inside as to impress the officer.

The door to the tent flew open.

“Mr. Karr,” said Sourin in English.

“Hey,” said Karr. He put his hand on the laptop as if steadying himself. He had the white phone to his ear.

“What are you doing?” asked Sourin.

“Could you hold on a second?” Karr said into the phone.

“Pull it, Tommy,” said Farlekas.

Karr smiled at Sourin, shook his head back and forth, then motioned to Sourin that he would be right with him. Sourin took a step into the tent.

“No, no, I really need you to hang on a second,” Karr told the imaginary person on the other end of the line. He put the phone down.

“What are you doing?” demanded Sourin.

“Just calling in to check on that support you wanted.” Karr glanced to his right where the Thai guard was dozing. Sourin’s eyes followed—and then widened in rage. He began cursing—or at least the flood of words sounded like curses. The guard from outside ran in as Sourin’s voice rose in a shout, and he dragged the unfortunate man out of the tent. Karr stepped back to the laptop and yanked the dongle out, palming it as the major returned.

“What are you doing in here?” the major demanded.

“Like I said, talking to my people to get you support.”

“What’s in your hand?”

Karr held it up, turning it over. “Helps me make a connection if I need one,” he said. “I put my computer into it.”

“No, Tommy,” warned Chafetz.

But it was too late. Sourin came over and yanked it from his hand. “Show me.”

“You’re not cleared, my friend.”

Sourin yanked his pistol from his holster and pointed it at the op’s head. “Show me.”

“Afraid I can’t,” said Karr.

Sourin extended his hand. His pistol was an older Colt model, a .45-caliber that would make a very artistic hole in Karr’s head if fired.

“Tell you what—I’ll show you on one of your computers if you want,” said Karr. He reached over and picked up one of the laptops. “Plug it in like this.”

He felt Sourin’s gun press against his ear. “That’ll be enough,” said the major.

“Suit yourself,” said Karr, returning the dongle to his pocket. “Mind if I finish my phone call?”

“It’s finished,” said Sourin.

“You want that gear or not?”

The major frowned at him but then holstered his pistol.

“I’m a crank when I don’t get my sleep, too,” said Karr, picking up the phone.

“You pushed that too far,” said Farlekas.

“Yeah, no kidding,” said Karr, smiling at the major. “So what time should we expect delivery? And can you include a steak?”

29

Dean felt the perspiration rise from his body as if it were steam, bubbling and running off into his clothes in rivulets. The bed seemed to have sunk in the middle, and his head buzzed; the inside of his stomach felt like scorched sandpaper, and the fire smoldered up his esophagus.

He pushed himself upright, breathing slowly to try to clear his head. Lia had taken him to a hotel several towns away from where he’d been dropped; she was sleeping in the next room. Security men—they were Air Force sergeants, borrowed from an Air Force base in Germany and dressed in plainclothes—were watching the floor, along with several people Lia had taken from the embassy earlier.

God, he was hot. He touched his skull beneath the back of his right ear where the com device had been implanted. A butterfly stitch bandage covered the incision.

Was his headache a result of the operation? It hadn’t lasted thirty seconds.

More likely the beers.

Dean went over to the window, and despite the fact that he’d been admonished not to even look out, he opened it now, trying to get a full breath of air. His lungs rebelled, and he started to cough.

Dean settled back on the bed. He’d had a wild dream, and it came back to him now—he and Keys in high school, cutting a class and hanging out by the baseball field drinking a god-awful mixture of wine and whiskey Kegan had lifted from his dad’s liquor cabinet.

Kegan leering at him, drunk. “We’re cows,” he said. “Cows.”

Dean shook his head.

That hadn’t happened. Kegan never cut class as a kid. Kegan was too serious about his grades, too committed—or too scared maybe.

Not scared. Serious. Very serious. Even in those days, he knew he was going to be a doctor. Dean figured he’d find a cure for cancer or something like that.

Kegan had predicted that, hadn’t he? During one of their drinking sessions—they did have drinking sessions, though his memory was foggy about them now.

Dr. Kegan, the man who would save the world from the scourge of cancer.

That’s how Dean thought of his friend.

Not as a murderer. Though the two things weren’t necessarily contradictory.

Dean’s stomach rumbled. He pushed himself up out of bed, stumbling toward the bathroom.

30

Sandra Marshall was the first person William Rubens saw that evening when he walked into the secure conference room in the White House basement. She was sitting just opposite the doorway, looking at something on the screen of the computers reset into the tabletop. Blue light reflected up from the screen, casting her face in a soft glow. The light was more than flattering, and Rubens was surprised by a twitch of lust.

He moved quickly to take a seat next to his boss, Vice Admiral Devlin Brown. Brown wasn’t particularly happy that Homeland Security was involved; like most, if not all, Washington and military veterans, he had little use for the agency.