Biowar (9 page)

“Yes,” said Johnny Bib, who had an annoying habit—a mathematical habit, it must be admitted—of acknowledging the validity of the question before actually answering it. “No. Not apparently. Funguses in a few cases, but mostly plants. So: Does he have a garden?”

“I don’t know,” said Rubens. “We can find out. Have you checked the images for code?”

“Yes. No.”

Rubens really wondered if perhaps the best approach might be simply to throttle him. “Talk English, Johnny.”

“There are no fractals, none of that sort of thing,” said Bib, referring to a type of encryption that used complicated formulas as keys, inserting the information in what looked like data for something else. “And we looked at the originals. But maybe they are code for something:
apple
for anthrax, that sort of thing.”

“A substitution code?”

“Primitive, but effective if you can’t sample a large message. And we can’t.” Johnny Bib handed over a page of names that the team had pulled off the computer. “Some of these are exotic.”

“Are they real?”

“Oh yes.”

Rubens looked at the list. The names were all in Latin, with explanations about the species next to them.

“There is one point of intersection,” said Johnny Bib.

Rubens realized that the analyst was testing him, trying to see if he caught on. He glanced through the list; he didn’t recognize any of the words.

But he would sooner go home than lose a game like this to the likes of Johnny Bib.

Come to think of it, he really ought to go home. What was it, two o’clock in the morning?

He glanced at his watch—past four. Good God.

“They’re all from Asia.” Rubens was guessing—he truly couldn’t think of any link at all. But his tone was assured.

Johnny Bib’s face fell. “Yes.”

“Why, Johnny? Why? That’s the question. Was he working on plants?”

Johnny Bib shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“So what do we do next?”

“I, uh, there were several zoological books in the library that Mr. Karr surveyed,” said Johnny Bib. “We’d like to take a look at them.”

“Yes, certainly,” said Rubens. “We’ll have to work with the local authorities to get them—the New York State Police, I think.”

“Unless he has a garden.”

“I don’t know if he has a garden—”

Rubens’ direct line to the Art Room rang, interrupting him.

“Yes?”

“They just contacted Dean,” said Telach.

“I’m on my way.” Rubens rose. “Figure it out, Johnny. That’s your job. Whatever it takes.”

Johnny Bib nodded.

“And, Johnny, please don’t play those coy little guessing games with me anymore. They’re so ... obvious.”

11

Lia watched Dean on the handheld as he went through the store, following the video that was being fed from the bookstore’s security system. The view switched to one of the video flies she had planted as he started outside; she moved across the street and retrieved it, a good three-quarters of a block back when he was approached.

“They told him to go to the Tube,” said Rockman.

“Can’t even spring for a taxi?”

Lia turned the comer and saw Dean and the thug just going down the steps. Another man was following them, obviously a backup.

“They showed a gun,” said Rockman.

“Why?” Lia asked.

“Not clear at the moment.”

“Let’s play along,” said a new voice on the line. It was Rubens.

“Why are they flashing guns if it’s a voluntary meeting?” asked Lia.

“Dean can take care of himself,” said Rubens. “That’s why he’s there.”

“I’m not worried,” lied Lia. “I’m just wondering what they’re up to.”

“So are we.”

“We’re going to lose him down in the subway,” warned Rockman. “Can you get closer?”

“Yeah.”

Lia squeezed past the tourists, moving quickly but not running, for fear of drawing the attention of a second trailer or the bobby who was standing on the other side of the turnstiles. Lia fished for a ticket as she approached the stiles; she had to step aside to look in her purse for it.

“We’re going to lose him,” said Rockman. “Jump the stile.”

“Yeah, right, asshole,” she said, finally retrieving the ticket.

Dean’s instincts prodded him to make a play for the gun as he reached the bottom of the escalator. He decided that would jeopardize the mission, telegraphing to the people who had made contact that he wasn’t the meek scientific type. So instead he walked calmly ahead, turning to the left and passing a white-tiled wall that opened to the tracks.

Keys wasn’t a meek scientific type. Granted, he was fifty now and hadn’t had the benefit of twenty years in the Corps to keep his body in tune, but he could still probably take Dean two out of three in a game of hoops.

So would his assistant be a wimp?

There were about a half-dozen people on the platform. As Dean stopped near them he realized he was still wearing his sunglasses. He took them off and replaced them with the clear set he had in his pocket.

“Our train coming soon?” asked Dean.

The man who had met him on the street ignored the question. Another man walked up near him; obviously they were a team.

Dean rocked his shoulders gently as he waited for the train to appear. His body was still on Washington, D.C., time—it felt cranky, like it ought to be turning over in bed somewhere.

Next to Lia would be nice. He spotted her walking past an archway in the hall that ran between the lines. Dean stared at the space as she passed, pretending not to notice.

A train rumbled in on the opposite platform. The goon who had shown Dean his gun poked him in that direction but then reversed course as another train came in on their line.

“Where?” Charlie asked.

“Here,” said the man, finally sliding into the train.

Lia waited—the men with Dean seemed unsure of which direction to take. Finally, they got on the line headed toward Leicester Square. She pushed in, elbowing a pensioner aside as the doors closed, then opened again. She saw Charlie and the two men at the next door. The man on the right of him moved backward—they were getting off. Lia tried to follow but found her way blocked by the old man she’d pushed aside, as well as a pair of women with a baby carriage. She threw her hand forward to grab the door, but it was too late; she pounded the door so hard and cursed so loudly that despite the roar of the train as it left the station, everyone in the car turned and stared at her.

“What, you never missed your stop before?” she barked, and they all looked away.

12

Both Desk Three ops were so far underground that they weren’t shown on the locator map. Rubens stepped back from the consoles, considering Johnny Bib’s earlier question regarding plants.

A substitution code?

Surely not. The fact that they were all Asian was surely significant.

Plant-eating bacteria, perhaps? Or a virus that lived within a plant host?

He might talk to one of the biology people on the off-chance.

Except there were none.

“Where the hell are our biology experts?” he snapped at Telach.

“It’s a little early.”

“You’re here. I’m here. What happened to the CDC people? Lester promised around-the-clock coverage.”

“They still haven’t passed all the lie detector tests,” said Telach. “The conference isn’t for another two days.”

“Get them here now,” said Rubens.

“But procedure requires—”

“Get them down here. Blindfold them if you have to, but get them
now.”

Telach touched the phone on her belt and turned away to talk.

This was how things screwed up down the line, Rubens realized. A small slipup that escalated. Not even a slip—just slavish adherence to standard operating procedure.

He had invented Desk Three to avoid the tangle of standard operating procedure, and here he was, ambushed by it.

Did he have to attend to everything himself?

“They’re on their way,” Telach said. “I’m sorry. I messed up.”

“Yes.”

Telach frowned. Rubens frowned back.

On the right side of the room, Sandy Chafetz was keeping tabs on Tommy Karr, who had caught a military flight en route to Japan, where he would transfer to a civilian airliner for the final leg to Thailand.

“We’re still trying to get resources lined up,” Chafetz told him. “Satellite allocation is getting stingy because of the situation in Cambodia. There’s been some skirmishing now with the Thai military, and they’re asking for support. Meanwhile, Special Forces Command locked up the visual satellites for a campaign in Malaysia against the insurgency that starts in another eight hours.”

Rubens folded his arms. They were dealing here with a situation of far greater import than a minor border conflict. It wasn’t Telach’s fault, of course—she was merely the messenger.

“Do we have leads on Kegan or Pound yet?” he asked.

“No. We have a hotel where Kegan stayed in the past. But nothing definitive. It may be that Pound went into the country under a different name. We’re trying to run down some of the possibilities, eliminate them before Tommy gets there.”

“Johnny Bib found a list of various plants that Kegan was checking on,” said Rubens. “Could they be a link?”

“Plants?”

“Check on the disk contents. You’ll see the pages.”

Chafetz turned back to her computer console and brought up the information, looking at the Web pages that had been found. “Pretty basic stuff. You sure he didn’t have a garden or something?”

“I’m not sure, actually,” admitted Rubens.

“Did he work with plants?”

“Admittedly, it does appear a red herring,” conceded Rubens. “But keep it in mind, in case there are any intersections.”

Chafetz nodded. “I’d like to be able to call on some military assets if things get tight.”

“Tight?”

“They’re practically at war with Cambodia. We don’t know where this is going.”

“What exactly do we need?” he asked.

“I won’t know until I know.”

“Talk with USSOCOM,” he said, referring to the military’s Special Forces Command, which oversaw special operations personnel and missions.

“I have.”

“And?”

“That’s why I’m talking to you.”

Rubens frowned. “Have Marie allocate assets from Space Command,” he told her.

“I already have a platform,” she said. “I’d like an RS-93, some—”

The RS-93 was a remote-controlled space plane that could provide stationary surveillance over any spot on the globe. But it was enormously expensive to operate and required a large support team. Even if he could justify it, it would never be ready in time. Besides, he might need it later on.

“No,” said Rubens. “Not at this stage.”

“The CIA has a Huron under contract. It’s in-country already.”

The Huron was a turboprop aircraft dressed to look like a civilian but equipped with high-resolution digital still and video cameras as well as a side-looking ground-imaging radar. Tasked to work with the Thai military in patrolling the border area, the Huron mostly sat around at Chiang Mai International Airport. But using it meant talking to Collins, the Deputy Director of Operations at the CIA.

She’d be only too happy to help, of course.

“Boss?” said Chafetz.

“All right. I will get the Huron,” grumbled Rubens.

“And for fire support—”

“What fire are we supporting?”

“If we need it, how about F-47Cs? Or a Puff?”

The F-47s were robot fighter-bombers. Puff was the nickname for the A-230, an unmanned gunship that was like a downsized AC-130.

“Why are we going to need assets like that?” asked Rubens.

“Do you want me to be prepared or not? As it is I’m running him with just embassy backup.”

“We don’t need the CIA’s help.”

“Except for the Huron.”

“Except for the Huron.”

“There are a few Marines and a freelancer we can call on.”

“Very well.” Rubens sighed. “If we have the need, we can have the A-230.”

“I have to have it flown in from Manila.”

“Position it,” Rubens told her. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks, boss.”

He feigned interest in something on one of the systems’ tech screens. The systems technicians—two sat in the row immediately behind the runners—were jacks-of-all-trades who spent most of their time breaking into various computer systems during the operation and providing data to the runners.

“Something’s up,” said Rockman.

Rubens went down and joined her at Rockman’s console, looking over her shoulder at the large flat panel displays. The one on his left showed the ops’ positions against a grid map. Both were purple, indicating that they hadn’t been updated in at least ten minutes. Suddenly one of the markers went green, appearing in the next grid. Rockman pressed his headset to his ear.

“It’s Lia,” said Rockman. “She lost him in the Tube.”

Rubens bent over the screen, trying to correlate the grid to the city. The Thames ran along the bottom edge of the map; Lia had gone one stop to the left of where she had gotten on, emerging aboveground in Leicester Square. The radioactive isotope system they used to track their field ops was undetectable by monitoring devices, but it had its limits—roughly six meters belowground, a distance exceeded by the London Tube.

“Cursing up a storm,” said Rockman.

“Just tell her to relax,” said Rubens. He looked at Telach, whose bottom lip had curled in on itself.

“They did show a gun,” said Rockman. “That’s the part I don’t get.”

Rubens straightened, reminding himself of advice a yoga master had given him many years before: There were long moments in life when chaos threatened to intrude, and at those times one must tap energy from the kundalini, a point somewhere near the lower spine that the master believed was the center of Rubens’ personal, transcendent soul.

Rubens held his breath for a moment, then exhaled silently, summoning and exuding calm for the rest of them.

“Here we go,” said Rockman, pointing to the screen. Dean had surfaced at Bank Street near the Thames on the eastern side of the city. Rockman worked his keyboard as he updated Lia, trying to see if there were any obvious destinations in the area. Dean was still in the terminal above the subway level; Rockman told the op not to move yet, since it wasn’t clear where he was going.