Biowar (37 page)

“An Asian fungus that works like penicillin. It cured one of my agents. We’re in the process of having it shipped back here for both study and use.”

“How many of those fifty-three are going to die?” asked Marcke.

“Probably all of them,” said Rubens, resisting the temptation to hedge.

“How many more people are going to get it?” asked Marcke. The President wore a blue oxford shirt with rumpled tan pants and Docksiders—about as dressed-down as he got. In contrast, Hadash was dressed in his normal business suit.

“Until we know for sure how it’s spread, it’s impossible to say how many cases we’ll get,” said Rubens. “But if the latest theories are right, then we should start to bring it under control soon. Dr. Lester is pretty confident that that’s going to happen. The wave that we’re seeing now are mostly medical people who weren’t aware of what they were dealing with. That will stop.”

Marcke nodded, though Rubens could tell he wasn’t entirely convinced. The media reports exaggerated the confirmed cases fourfold, and though the President had been told they were wrong, the specter of a widespread contagion was difficult to shake.

Precisely why they must act decisively, thought Rubens. And precisely why he must lay out the situation forcefully, without sugar coating, with a definitive plan.

“Even though we will contain this outbreak,” he told the President, “it remains a very dangerous weapon. If we lost the Russian strain now, there’s no telling where it would end up.”

“I agree,” said Hadash.

“Where is it?” asked Marcke.

“Moscow,” said Rubens. “A lab in the basement level of Botkin Hospital.”

78

Walking up the steps to the Syrian day school, Dean wondered what effect all these guards might have had on his own education. Besides a pair of policemen at the gate, there were several knots of supposedly private guards in nondescript uniforms posted along the driveway and in the infield of the small circle in front of the steps to the main building. Dean saw at least two men on the roof. The rifles the men had were AK-47s, old but in excellent repair, their wooden stocks gleaming. The driveway had obstructions so no vehicle could get close to the building, and Rockman told him as a “point of information” that there were mines implanted in the roadway and at least one antitank weapon trained on the approach. The security was not considered excessive—in the Middle East, Western children were always potential targets for extremists—but Desk Three had already determined that the private security force wasn’t private at all but rather a special unit of the Ba’ath Party’s own army.

A large wooden table, its top inlaid with dark and light wood, served as the reception desk in the open vestibule just beyond the doors. A large cupola behind the desk made the secretary’s words echo as she addressed Dean in English, welcoming him to the school. A man in his early twenties stood nearby, apparently Dean’s tour guide.

Dean adjusted his glasses—they had a video transmission set in them—and gave the little prattle he’d rehearsed about how great an opportunity he had before him if the educational aspects for his two children (stepchildren, adopted, second marriage, great kids) could be worked out.

The secretary waxed eloquent in response, telling him about the quality of the professors, who in any other country would be teaching at top universities. The amenities included a tennis court, swimming pool, and around-the-clock guards.

Dean smiled and nodded, nodded and smiled. After a few minutes he interrupted the woman, taking out a small inhaler.

“Asthma,” he said apologetically. “This climate is supposed to be good for it.”

The secretary smiled sympathetically and went on with her spiel. Finally, she called over Ahmed, a graduate of the school originally from Egypt. Dean knew that to be false—the man was a low-ranking Syrian intelligence officer—but nonetheless played up the concerned parent angle as they moved through the building. Athletics appeared to be the school’s Achilles’ heel; the soccer team had finished no higher than third in the national association contests over the past decade, a fact that made the guide hang his head in shame.

As Dean continued his tour, the sniffers in his coat were sending data back to the Art Room. Every so often he stopped and slipped a small black dot from his pocket onto the wall. The dot, of course, was a fly, sending audio back to the Art Room.

“You want to look at that music room more carefully,” said Rockman. “It accesses the east wing. We need you to get inside.”

Dean followed as his guide took him upstairs past a series of classrooms where the students were learning math. The east wing was perhaps 200 yards away.

“Is the music teacher available?” he asked as they walked down the hall toward the auditorium. “My oldest—my wife’s oldest really—is very interested in music. He plays the violin and piano.”

“I’m afraid the teachers are on holiday.” Ahmed smiled at him. “As I explained earlier. Our semester doesn’t begin for two weeks.”

“Oh yeah, sorry. Can we look at the music labs again, at least? I’ll check out the piano, that sort of thing.”

Ahmed smirked at him but then nodded. They continued to the end of the hall, then back down the stairs. Dean started for the room on the right.

“No, it’s this way,” said Ahmed, gesturing to the left.

“Oh, I thought it was right.”

“You are mistaken, Mr. Dean,” said the guide, pulling a pistol from his pocket.

79

Lia got up from the café table, sliding the coins for the tip under the saucer. She opened her pocketbook and took out her makeup case, examining her lips—and her Syrian tail—before leaving the small restaurant.

“He’s with me.”

“We can see him,” said Rockman, who had a video feed via a small fly attached to her bag.

Lia disliked pocketbooks, especially monsters like the one she had slung over her shoulder. She grumbled to herself as she made her way outside and then down the street, still waiting for the incompetent Syrian intelligence agents to get their act together and approach her. Finally, a young woman approached from the crowd of tourists at a small shop on Lia’s left.

“Ms. Ki?” she said.

“Finally,” said Lia. She saw the car approaching from the left and started toward the curb.
“Parlez-vous français?”

The woman shook her head.

“
Merde
. I have to speak English?” said Lia.

“Or Arabic.”

“My English is better than my Arabic. Come on.”

“I am to check you for weapons first.”

Lia scowled at the girl but took the Beretta out from under her knit shirt.

“And your bag.”

“Fine,” she said.

“You have a small gun on your leg.”

“That stays with me,” said Lia.

The young woman pursed her lips. A pair of white Renaults had just stopped at the curb, holding up traffic; four men got out of the second car.

“I really must insist,” said the Syrian.

“No.”

The Syrian agents nearby were all clutching their jackets, as if experiencing a group heart attack.

“Lia,” hissed Rockman in her ear.

“Oh, all right.” Lia undid her trousers and reached down to the gun, strapped at the top of her left thigh. “I’d better get this one back. I paid a fortune for it.”

The young woman took the weapon, nodding to the security people in the street. Lia got into the back of the lead car.

“Your English is very good,” said the young woman, sliding in next to her.

“I practice a lot when I’m pissed off,” Lia told her.

80

Rubens leaned back against the wooden chair, an ornate French piece that had allegedly been brought to Washington by Jefferson, though that provenance seemed highly unlikely. It was, however, very old, and Rubens felt it creaking and shifted his weight forward.

Marcke got up and began pacing back and forth. One of the President’s assistants appeared at the door to tell him that the others were waiting outside; Marcke waved him away, wordlessly telling him to keep them waiting.

Hadash, meanwhile, remained in his seat, his legs spread and his arms hanging down between them. He alternately cupped and uncupped his hands.

“Billy, you’re recommending blowing up a hospital,” said the President. “And potentially starting a world war with Russia.”

“With respect, sir,” said Rubens, “the plan won’t destroy the hospital, just the lab. We’d use F-47Cs. We’ve penetrated Russian airspace before without detection. If we want to eliminate the bacteria, this is the time and place to do it.”

“If we have a cure, the bacteria is useless,” said Marcke.

“If it works,” said Hadash. “There’s no guarantee yet that it does.”

“I think it does work,” said Rubens. “But we don’t know how much we can make, or how fast. As a natural substance, it’s pretty rare. We’re not sure we can get enough to take care of even the confirmed cases in upstate New York. And that’s if the disease proceeds in the manner Dr. Lester projects. In any event, having a cure does not eliminate the potency of the disease, or the threat. We can fight anthrax, after all. That doesn’t make it any less dangerous.”

“I agree that with or without a cure, the bacterial agent is a big problem,” said Marcke. “But not a reason to go to war.”

“If you had a chance to eliminate weaponized anthrax from the planet, wouldn’t you take it?” asked Rubens. He glanced at Hadash. “Wouldn’t the risk of collateral damage be worth it?”

Neither man said anything.

“This isn’t an act of war,” said Rubens. “It would be a preemptive strike against a threat not just to us but the entire world.”

“On the contrary. I would consider a Russian attack on a hospital in Washington or anywhere else an act of war,” said Marcke.

“We’re not hitting the hospital. Only a small portion of the lab beneath it. We can put a two-thousand-pound bomb down one of the ventilation shafts,” said Rubens. “The attack will appear to have been launched by separatists using a remote detonator. There’ll be radio transmission for the Russians to overhear.”

Marcke stared at him.

“It’s doable. We can blow it up with no fingerprints. The odds are that no innocent people would die,” added Rubens.

“You can guarantee that?” asked Hadash.

“I can say with ninety-eight percent certainty, yes.”

“That leaves a two percent chance of a world war.”

“There’s another risk,” said Rubens. “If the bacteria is shipped to Chechnya and the Russians lose control of it, it will undoubtedly be used. The disease will spread throughout Russia, and then Europe, and then here. We’ll have lost the easiest chance we had to contain it. And if the so-called antidote turns out to be as effective as we believe, the results will be beyond catastrophic.”

“Show me the details of the plan,” said the President, pointing to Rubens’ briefcase. “Then we’ll let the others in.”

81

“What is this?” insisted Dean, looking down at Ahmed’s pistol.

“You are an Israeli agent.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Through that door there, and then down the stairs,” said Ahmed. “Come on.”

“Men coming down the hallway,” warned Rockman.

Ahmed started to grab him. Dean threw his forearm into the young man’s neck; in the same breath Dean smashed his heel into Ahmed’s foot and then kneed him. The gun clattered away. Dean pushed the sniffer he’d been holding in his hand over Ahmed’s nose, giving him a dose of a quick-acting Demerol derivative; the drug would make a 150-pound man sleep like a baby for four hours.

Dean grabbed the pistol and aimed it point-blank at the doorway just as the two guards entered.

He fired, once, twice, three times—the pistol just clicked helplessly, its magazine empty: Ahmed had obviously been under orders not to harm him.

For a moment, Dean and the guards exchanged looks of shock, compounded by awe. Then Dean threw himself into the closest man, bowling him and his companion over onto the floor, Dean grabbed at one of the rifles, managing to wrest it free and drive the barrel into the man’s neck and chin. Then Dean rolled free, slamming the butt end of the gun into the side of the man’s head.

Dean was just getting up when he heard the click-clunk of an automatic weapon being locked and loaded.

The other guard was holding his gun perhaps five inches from Dean’s head and jabbering something.

“Okay,” said Dean, letting go of the other rifle. He held his hands out, then started to cough. “Okay.”

The man motioned with his gun for Dean to step back. Dean coughed again, then pointed to the inhaler on the floor. He motioned that he needed it.

The man was unmoved.

“The word,” said Dean. “Inhaler. Jesus.”

The Art Room translator responded, “
Inhaler
.”

The English word served in Arabic as well.

Dean was dubious but kept pointing and repeating the word. Finally, the guard stepped to it and kicked it at him.

“Thank you,” said Dean. He picked it up and fiddled with it, then took a breath—and began coughing even more uncontrollably. The guard poked him with his rifle, prodding him toward the door.

Dean pressed the button on the inhaler, sending a spray of the Demerol solution flying about ten feet—in the wrong direction. Poked again, he cursed and coughed and then got the spray in the man’s face, grabbing for the rifle at the same time. The guard pushed hard enough to knock him down—but then the drug took over, and he fell to the ground.

“
Inhaler
’s the right word?” said Dean, grabbing the rifle.

“I wasn’t sure, so I guessed,” replied the translator. “A lot of medical terms come straight over.”

“You guessed?”

“It worked, right?”

“Okay, Charlie, back across the hall,” said Rockman. “There’s a door at the far end of the music room. Combination lock—we’ve already defeated it. Don’t worry; we’re inside their computers. We have a good handle on this.”

“That why you let the guards nearly kill me?”

“Their brains aren’t wired into the system,” said the runner dryly.