The Solomon Effect (29 page)

Dr. Hannah Clark received them on the wraparound porch of her
gingerbread-draped Victorian, where she was carving a pumpkin with crescent-moon-shaped eyes and a sad mouth. She was a tall woman, with her father’s bony frame and haunted brown eyes. Born in the last years of the Second World War, she was in her sixties now, white haired but still slim and vigorous. According to Matt, who had set up their meeting, she had retired from Ford Detrick the previous year.

She listened without interruption, her hand tightening around her small paring knife, while Jax told her of the salvaging of U-114 and the plot by unidentified agents to release the pathogen known as the Sword of Solomon. When he finished, she said, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because we’re hoping you can help us figure out who’s behind it.”

Laying aside the knife, she went to stand at the railing, her gaze on the canal that ran placidly beside the distant road. Despite the sunshine, the air was crisp and heavy with the scent of burning leaves. “It’s because of my father, isn’t it?
You think he’s somehow involved.” When Jax didn’t answer, she said, “Well, you’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

She swung to face him again. “Last December, shortly before I retired, the security guards at Fort Detrick caught one of the lab technicians trying to smuggle a sample of DP3 out of the facility.”

“DP3?”

“The pathogen was never called
die Klinge von Solomon
in this country. When brought here, after the war, it was given the name Dachau Pathogen III—DP3, for short.”

Jax and Tobie exchanged quick glances. Dachau Pathogen
Three?
How many of Kline’s other nasty diseases had the U.S. imported?

Jax said, “What happened to this technician? Can we talk to him?”

“Unfortunately, no. He was arrested and turned over to the local authorities for prosecution. Two days later, he was found dead in his cell. It was ruled a suicide.”

Tobie said, “Do you believe it was?”

A faint, ironic smile touched her lips. “After thirty years of working on secret projects for the government? Hardly. I heard they discovered that a hundred thousand dollars had been transferred into his account the week before the incident.”

“Did they trace the source of the funds?” said Jax.

“They tried. It came from a bank in the Cayman Islands.” She looked from one of them to the other. “You need to remember that DP3 has been is this country for sixty years. There are probably dozens of people who know about it.”

“Perhaps. But how many of them would know that when their attempt to bribe someone to steal the pathogen from Fort Detrick failed, there was more available on a U-boat that sank off the coast of Denmark in 1945?”

Dr. Kline’s daughter stood very still. A breeze kicked up, rustling the dying leaves of the beeches along the canal and fluttering the fine white hair that framed her lined face.

Tobie said, “According to what we’ve been told, this DP3 is some sort of respiratory virus that is only lethal to those of Semitic origin. Is that true?”

Dr. Clark put up a hand to push the windblown hair from her face. “It’s a retrovirus, actually, not a virus—which means it replicates itself by using its host’s cells to transcribe its RNA into DNA, which is then incorporated into the host’s own genome. At first we didn’t understand how the pathogen could kill some people so quickly while hardly affecting others. But with the advent of DNA testing, we were able to determine that many Europeans and Asians produce a series of three hormonelike substances called chemokines, which block the DP3 retrovirus from slipping into their T-cells. Those of Middle Eastern descent typically lack those three protective chemokines.”

“What about Africans?” said Jax.

“The results there have been mixed. It seems that those from certain areas frequently share the genetic sequence; others don’t.”

“It’s fatal?”

“For those who lack the necessary protective sequence, yes. Nearly always.”

“So it really is an ethnic bioweapon,” said Tobie softly.

“In a sense. But I’d hardly describe it as a smart bomb.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because the concept of race is a social illusion—not a scientific construction. The truth is, there is far more genetic variation
within
a group than
between
groups.”

Jax said, “Meaning?”

“Meaning that if this pathogen were let loose, millions of those who consider themselves ‘white’ would also die.
Anyone who sees DP3 as an easy way to rid the world of Jews and Arabs is not just evil; he’s a bigoted fool.”

Tobie said, “Is there a treatment for it?”

Dr. Clark shook her head. “The U.S. never had any plans to pursue DP3 as a weapon, so there was no need to develop a vaccine.” She must have seen the shock in Tobie’s face, because she gave another of her wry smiles and said, “The United States gets around the Biological Weapons Convention by saying our bio programs are purely defensive, which technically makes them legal. Unfortunately, knowledge that is developed for ‘defensive’ purposes can all too easily be used for a different purpose entirely.”

Tobie studied the woman’s even features. She looked like someone’s gentle, white-haired grandmother, not a mad scientist who had devoted her life to devising new and more lethal ways to kill. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Dr. Clark turned to look toward the canal, where a fat brown duck waddled complacently across the lawn, its feathers ruffled by the growing wind. “It bothered my father. He long ago decided that all such work is morally indefensible, since we never know how our discoveries will be used by others. It’s why he left Fort Detrick and went to MIT.”

When neither Tobie nor Jax said anything, she added, “I know you’re remembering what he did at Dachau, during the war. But if you think he’s involved in any of this, now, you’re wrong. He’s not the same man. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”

It was obvious that as far as she was concerned, the conversation was at an end.

She walked with them to the road beside the canal, where Jax had parked his car. Jax said, “Your father claims he never told anyone about the shipments sent out of Germany under Operation Caesar. But he may have told someone he’s hesitant to betray—someone he trusts and doesn’t want to believe could be involved in this.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line, and after a moment said, “I could try driving out to see him. He may be willing to talk to me.”

Jax handed her a card with his cell number. “Please.”

He started to get in the car, but paused to say, “If I wanted to expose a group of people to this pathogen, how would I do it?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Probably the best way would be to release it into a subway, or the air-conditioning system of a building—a hotel, perhaps, or a large office building. No one would ever know. That’s the terrible beauty of a biological weapon. With a bomb, there’s never any doubt that a deliberate attack has taken place. But if an epidemic suddenly sweeps across an area…who can say that it was the result of a deliberate biological attack?”

Jax’s gaze met Tobie’s, and she saw her own dawning horror reflected in his drawn features as the same thought occurred to them both: they might already be too late. The pathogen could have been released that morning, anywhere in the country.

And they would never know it.

“Maybe we’ve been going at this all wrong,” said October. They
were walking along the banks of Carroll Creek in the historic district of Frederick, waiting for Hannah Clark to call. “Maybe we should be focusing on the kinds of people most likely to do something like this. Or the sites they’d be likely to select.”

Jax shook his head. “They could have picked any one of a thousand sites—anywhere from the subways of New York or Washington, D.C., to the Sears Tower in Chicago. And as for the kinds of people most likely to do something like this…” He let his voice trail off.

“Where do you start?” she finished for him.

They walked on in silence, October’s head turning as she watched two laughing, shouting boys on bicycles run the makeshift obstacle course they’d set up in a nearby driveway.

Following her gaze, he said, “The problem is, wherever it is released, this thing is going to spread like wildfire. Not just here in the States, but across the world. That’s always been the problem with biological warfare: the world has grown too small. A disease targeted at one country will circle the globe within a year.”

“But that’s what these people want, isn’t it?” said October, turning toward him. “So it seems to me they’d be likely to pick someplace with Arabs and Jews from all over.”

“What are you suggesting? Disney World? Or how about—” He broke off as his phone began to vibrate.

Unclipping it from his belt, he hit Talk and heard Hannah Clark’s hushed, troubled voice. “Mr. Alexander? I’ve had a long discussion with my father. He says he had a visit last winter from one of his former graduate students at MIT, someone from Florida. They’ve kept in touch over the years, so the visit didn’t strike my father as unusual at the time. But it seems this former student asked a number of questions about DP3 and the samples that were sent out of Germany on U-114.”

“Who?” said Jax. “Who was it?”

“He won’t say. His concern is that the man’s questions were unrelated to what is happening, and that by telling you about this former student, my father will be implicating an innocent man. If you could somehow convince him—”

“We’ll be right there.”

On the way to Kline’s house, Jax put in a call to Matt. “See if you can get a printout of the personnel who’ve accessed the Navy’s files on U-114 in, say, the past two years. That might help verify that Boyd’s really our man. And while you’re at it, you might take a look at the flight records for the General’s jet. Maybe we can get something from his travel patterns.”

“I’ll get on it,” said Matt.

October said, “They have boats and palm trees in Florida.” Jax clipped his phone back on his belt. “They what? Oh,” he said, remembering the viewing she’d done with Dr. Bukovsky in Russia. “Florida is also a very big state.” He shifted down for a curve, then punched the gas again, hard. “We need this guy’s name.”

“And if Kline won’t give it to us?”

Jax shifted rapidly back up through the gears. “He’ll give it to us.”

Jax was slowing for the turn into Kline’s long drive when he spotted the white commercial van parked on the gravel sweep, beside the green-and-white Mini Cooper that he’d seen parked at Hannah Clark’s house. He hit the gas and kept going.

“What?” said October. “What’s the matter?”

“The Acme Cleaning Service van.”

“What about it?”

“See the guy standing next to the front door? The
open
front door?”

“The one in the Tyvek suit?”

“Yeah, that one. The one who’s just
standing
there.” He pulled off the road in the lee of the oaks down by the creek and reached over to pop open the glove compartment. “Here,” he said, handing her a Smith and Wesson 9mm. “Present.”

“Why do people keep handing me these things?”

“Because bad men keep shooting at you.” Easing open his door, he slipped his own Beretta from the holster he’d clipped inside the waistband of his slacks. “Let’s go.”

Following the tree line, they swung around until they reached a thick privet hedge that ran down to an arbor-shaded patio with a French door that looked as if it opened off the kitchen.

“Got the safety off?” Jax whispered as they edged close to the patio.

“Yes,” she answered with some annoyance.

“Just checking.”

Keeping low, they crept to the door. In the room beyond they could see an old round oak table, white beadboard cabinets, the gleam of a stainless steel fridge. No one was in sight.

Carefully reaching out, Jax turned the knob. The door
popped open. The pungent odor of spilled petroleum wafted out to them.

“Why do I smell gasoline?” whispered October, following him into the house and across the kitchen.

“They’re probably getting ready to torch the house,” said Jax, just as a big black dude wearing a Tyvek suit and carrying two red plastic gas cans walked through the doorway from the hall.

“Fuck!”
cried the guy. Dropping the gas cans with a sloshing
thump,
he reached for the Glock he wore in a shoulder holster.

October grabbed a giant chef’s knife from the pine block on the counter beside them and drove the blade deep into his chest.

“Christ,” said Jax. He snatched the guy’s silenced Glock 21 as his eyes rolled back in his head and he tumbled to the floor.

Pausing for a moment, Jax listened to the sounds of the old house stretching out around them, but heard nothing.

Taking a deep breath, he nodded to October to follow him. At the entrance to the hallway, they had to step over the body of the dead housekeeper. His gaze lifted to October’s. This wasn’t looking good.

They crept down the hall, treading warily on the old heart-of-pin floors, past the arched entrance to a shadowy dining room and the living room beyond. To their left, a staircase with an elegant turned banister swept up to the second floor. The front door to the porch still stood open. Through it, Jax could see a trio of pumpkins lined up at the top of the porch’s steps.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs from the second floor jerked his head around. He turned, the silenced Glock coming up, just as the man in the Tyvek suit they’d seen waiting outside walked in the front door.

“Take him!” shouted Jax. Dropping to the floor in a roll, he
pumped three rounds into the dude coming down the stairs.

He heard the
crack-crack-crack
of October’s Smith and Wesson. Looking over, he saw the guy in the Tyvek suit stumble backward.

October yelled, “Behind you!”

He swung around just as Carlos Rodriguez came charging through the doorway of a book-lined room at the front of the house. Jax fired both the Glock and his own Beretta at the same time. Slamming back against the wall, Rodriguez hung for a moment, then slid to the floor, leaving a bloody trail down the plaster.

Jax realized his ears were ringing. A blue haze filled the entry; the stench of burnt powder and spilled gasoline stung his nostrils. He waited, his heart pounding, his grip on the two sidearms tight. He heard the wind scuttling dry leaves across the gravel drive, the drip of gasoline from the cans dropped by the man on the stairs.

Jax pushed to his feet. The guy hanging upside down on the stairs was missing half his head. His Tyvek-suited buddy
on the front porch was a red, pulpy mess. From the looks of things, October had landed at least half a dozen rounds in him.

“You hit him,” said Jax.

She was leaning against the entry wall, her breath coming hard and fast. “He was five feet away and I emptied the gun into him. I should hope I hit him.”

Walking over to Rodriguez, Jax hunkered down to lay two fingers against the guy’s carotid artery and felt nothing. “He’s dead.”

She said, “Good.” Swiping the sleeve of her sweater across her eyes, she paused in the doorway to the study. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

Jax went to stand beside her. Kline was sitting in a chair beside the empty hearth, his ankles and wrists duct taped, his eyes wide and sightless. A line of blood trickled down his chin. His daughter lay facedown on the rug beside him.

Crossing to her, Jax gently turned her over, then pushed up to grab October before she got any closer. “Don’t look,” he said, pulling her back toward the hallway. “You can’t help her. Did you touch anything?”

She thought about it. “The chef’s knife. And you touched the back doorknob.”

He turned toward the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

“I hope you’ve got something,” Jax told Matt as they headed back toward the beltway, “because we just ran out of luck.”

“Your idea to check out who might have accessed the Navy’s report on U-114 turned up something interesting: a colonel by the name of Sam Lee. He’s one of Boyd’s protégés—in fact, Boyd got him assigned to the CIA two years ago. He may be our mole.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“That would be difficult. He was found in Rock Creek Park about an hour ago. Dead.”

“Shit. Sounds like they’re cleaning up their loose ends. I hope this doesn’t mean the operation’s over.”

Matt let out a harsh sigh. “I stumbled across something else while I was digging around. Somehow or another, the U.S. government knew U-114 went down with a mysterious weapon called
die Klinge von Solomon
on board. That’s why they sent the Navy looking for it when the Brits authorized their Operation Deadlight Expedition. They thought the Sword of Solomon might be the German A-bomb, and they were afraid the publicity surrounding the plans to raise the old U-boats might give someone ideas.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” said October when Jax relayed Matt’s information to her. “The U.S. government had all Kline’s nasties at Fort Detrick. They should have known what the Sword of Solomon was.”

“You’ve gotta remember they didn’t have computerized databases in those days.
Kline
knew DP3 used to be called the Sword of Solomon, but I doubt anyone else did. Why do you think they renamed all his nasty little bugs? Because they didn’t want anyone to know they were carrying on where the Nazis had left off. I’ve no doubt all the original records were destroyed decades ago. Even if they weren’t, you need to understand that the kind of guys playing with plagues up at Fort Detrick don’t regularly communicate with the guys down in Washington who worry about Nazi A-bombs and sunken subs. No one in Washington talks to anyone else, remember?” He paused for a moment, then reached for his phone again and hit Matt’s number on his speed dial.

“What now?” she said.

“I’ve got an idea.” To Matt, he said, “Did Boyd ever go to MIT?”

“Nope. He’s a West Point man.”

“Then I think we may have a lead to the guy who’s bankrolling this operation. Get onto the university and see if you can get a list of Kline’s former graduate students. We’re looking for a male with ties to Florida.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“And Matt?”

“Yeah?”

“Hurry.”