Biowar db-2 Read online

  “I’m just a government employee and let’s leave it at that,” he said, and the nice-cop routine came to an end.

  They went over the statement twice. Around four, the investigator’s boss came in, a Lieutenant Knapp. Short and so muscular that the bullet-proof vest he was wearing looked like a flat baking pan, Knapp asked Charlie exactly two questions after looking over the statement:

  This true?

  You think your friend did it?

  He answered “yes” and “no,” respectively.

  “You’re done here. Make sure Gorman has a phone number where he can reach you.”

  “He does.” Dean started to leave.

  “If Kegan contacts you,” said Gorman, “we’d appreciate knowing about it.”

  “Sure,” said Dean.

  Gorman frowned but said nothing else.

  4

  Rubens spread his forefinger and pinkie apart, nudging the key combination to kill the program. He sat back as the screen blanked, letting all that he had read settle into his brain.

  The premonition of something truly awful lurked in the comers of his consciousness. He sensed that Dean — and thus Desk Three — had inadvertently stumbled upon a conspiracy with the gravest possible consequences. And yet the actual evidence would not have persuaded a logical man that anything more than a sordid murder had taken place. Rubens, a mathematician by training, prided himself on being logical. But he was also the descendant — now some generations removed — of a famous painter, an artistic genius, and as such Rubens could not deny the validity of emotional intelligence and intuition. It was important now to combine the two, to balance premonition with cold analysis.

  To block out fear yet be aware of it.

  Kegan had missed a scheduled contact visit with an FBI agent a day before. That was suggestive, especially since Dean’s latest account made it seem the murder had likely taken place then. Autopsy information would not be available for some time, and the state police had apparently been uncooperative when a local Bureau liaison tried to get an update. But the FBI was extremely interested — worried more likely — and had already assigned an agent to find out where Kegan had gone.

  Kegan, according to the information Marie Telach had retrieved on his behalf, was an expert on viruses and bacteria. While that in itself was not particularly noteworthy — many doctors might make similar claims — his area of expertise involved bacteria, and to a lesser degree viruses, that could be weaponized. He had served, briefly, as a consultant to the Pentagon some years before.

  Was this connected to the murder?

  Possibly. As best Dean and Telach could gather, the dead man had carried no identification. Officially he was a John Doe, an Asian — or Asian-American — in his twenties, no weapon, no apparent reason to be in the house. The murder sounded like a robbery gone bad: doctor comes upon an intruder, shoots him in the head, then panics when he realizes what he’s done.

  Telach had asked about the possibility of something more titillating: a homosexual affair gone bad. Dean discounted that, pointing out that Kegan had been married three times; Rubens decided that was not necessarily a disqualifier.

  So more than likely, the murder had nothing to do with Kegan’s profession and skills.

  And yet, a connection could not be dismissed. Kegan was due to attend a conference in London on viruses in just two days, a conference that the NSA had in fact already been asked to monitor. This was merely routine; the science and technology section often gathered information for a variety of government agencies, and in this case the Agency’s involvement amounted to providing a tape recorder for a Centers of Disease Control expert who would be attending the sessions. The agency would then transcribe the information, which would in turn be disseminated to the CIA and Defense Intelligence Agency as well as the CDC.

  The conference concerned penicillin-resistant bacteria, an area where Kegan had not published. It was an area of interest, however, especially for someone interested in getting government grants, so it wasn’t completely out of the ordinary that he would attend.

  Of more interest was a contact by a company supposedly unknown to Kegan but tracked by the NSA to a firm named UKD. UKD was a Ukrainian pharmaceutical company with links to a Polish “entrepreneur” named Radoslaw Dlugsko. Dlugsko had made a fortune selling surplus Polish arms to third world countries. UKD, meanwhile, had been communicating with the Research Institute for Viral Preparations in Moscow, which itself had connections to the Russian military’s germ warfare program.

  Connections, links — but no firm evidence of anything. Shades and shadows of great interest, but no precise forms.

  Kegan had reported the contact, apparently because of a provision in one of his government contracts requiring him to note overseas contacts that might be of a suspicious nature. Rubens had the contact report on his computer — there was no mention in the report about why he thought it suspicious. And it was apparent from the processing that the people who had reviewed the report, including a low-level FBI official, had no idea, either. But the agent had at least been savvy enough to tell him to pursue the contact and then report back. Kegan had therefore sent a note saying he would be at the London conference and could be contacted there.

  And into this mess walks Charles Dean, Kegan’s friend since high school.

  Coincidence?

  Surely.

  An unexplained murder at the home of a biology expert who had been contacted by possible terrorists — precisely the sort of situation Desk Three had been created to investigate.

  Well, not precisely, but the executive order establishing the organization was suitably vague. Rubens picked up the phone and dialed the FBI.

  5

  Kjartan “Tommy” Magnor Karr walked up to the two men dressed in black and stretched out his arms.

  “Maybe I can fly,” he told them.

  The men didn’t laugh. As a general rule, the National Security Agency’s men in black didn’t have much of a sense of humor, and the select few who manned security at OPS 2/B — also known as the Headquarters/Operations Building National Security Operational Control Center Secure Ultra Command — were about as given to laughing as the hand-built supercomputers in the basement.

  Besides, they’d heard that one many times.

  The two men waved two small wands over Karr’s body. One of the devices checked for electronic recorders and bugs; the other was a metal detector sensitive enough to detect the paper clip Karr had inadvertently forgotten about in the change pocket of his jeans.

  “Just testing you, guys,” said Karr, handing it over.

  The two men resumed the scan. A second snag would mean a trip to a room around the corridor where, shoeless, Karr would be stood in the middle of a chamber that simultaneously conducted X-ray and magnetic resonance scans of his body; the search wasn’t painful, but it would make him even later for his meeting downstairs. The blond, blue-eyed Scandinavian-American giant waited silently, forgoing his usual kidding around in hopes that the Black Suits would quickly clear him through. The men were efficient but not particularly quick, and they stuck religiously to the security protocol, slowly running their scanners over every inch of his six-seven frame.

  “Mr. Karr,” intoned his boss when he finally made it down to the conference room. William Rubens pushed back his suit jacket sleeve to expose his Hermes watch; Karr smiled and took a seat next to Charlie Dean.

  “Where’s Lia?” he asked Dean.

  “She’s on assignment,” said Rubens. “If we may continue.”

  Karr reached for one of the 7UP cans on the table, then slid back in the seat. The NSA spent billions of dollars a year on high-tech computers and other gadgets; the table, for example, had flat-panel video screens that rose on command from the glass surface and could be tied into any number of inputs. It seemed as if no expense had been spared for Desk Three, which had its own satellite network, a small but potent air force, and hand-built weapons and sensors. But there were priorities: the se
ats arrayed around the table were so cheap the plastic nearly bent over backward under his weight.

  Then again, Karr wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Rubens picked them purposely to make sure everyone stayed awake during his interminable briefings.

  “Dr. Lester is from the CDC,” said Rubens, introducing everyone. “Bill Westhoven is with the FBI. You’ve already met Dean. Tommy Karr is one of our best people. Chris Carter, Joe Tyler, are experts in germ warfare.”

  Rubens clicked a small remote control in his hand.

  “This is Dr. James Kegan. He’s regarded as one of the world’s preeminent experts on bacteria and viruses, though his expertise is fairly wide-ranging.”

  As Rubens spoke, the video panels began to rise. A picture of a fiftyish, ponytail-wearing man in an open-collar shirt filled the screens.

  “Dr. Kegan has consulted with the FBI, CDC, and various other government agencies on facets of germ cultivation and weaponization,” said Rubens. “Recently, he was contacted by persons apparently unknown to him, contacts that he had questions about.”

  Karr sipped his soda, waiting for Rubens to get to the punch line. He’d been called back to duty after only a few days of what was supposed to be a two-week vacation, so he knew something serious was up. But Rubens wasn’t exactly the explaining kind — or rather, he did explain, but always in his own way after an interminable lead-in.

  Dean shifted in his seat next to Karr. He cocked his eye toward the older man, who seemed unusually uncomfortable.

  It was more than just the chair. His face had tinged red.

  “Dr. Kegan was due to attend a conference in London two days from now,” continued Rubens. “The FBI had hopes that the people who tried contacting him would show up. Dr. Kegan apparently did not know who it was who had contacted him. It’s not clear why, therefore, he thought it suspicious. We’ve been able to track the contact to a Ukrainian company named UKD,” continued Rubens. “Their purpose is not entirely clear. UKD, however, is connected with both the international underworld and the Research Institute for Viral Preparations in Moscow, which has some interesting intersections with the Russian germ warfare program.”

  “So what’s the punch line?” Karr asked.

  “The punch line is that Dr. Kegan has disappeared,” said Rubens, “after someone was found murdered in his house.”

  “A John Doe,” said the FBI agent.

  “Kegan’s disappearance presents us with a problem checking this connection out,” said the FBI agent. “We don’t have enough time to develop another source. So we were hoping that with your technology, you could fill the gap.”

  “What are we going to do, clone him?” said Karr. He smiled at the scientists, but their expressions remained somber.

  “What they have in mind is sending a replacement who can claim to be his assistant,” said Dean. “Someone who knows a lot about him.”

  “Like who?” said Karr.

  “He was a friend of mine,” said Dean. “I’m the one who discovered he was gone.”

  “And the body,” added the FBI agent.

  “And the body,” said Dean.

  “You think your friend shot this guy, Charlie?” asked Karr.

  “I don’t know,” said Dean. “Probably not.”

  Under other circumstances, Tommy might have laughed and said something funny, something to get everyone to relax. But Charlie was too serious, and even Karr fell silent. He’d only met Dean a short time ago. The two men were very different; Dean was more than twice as old as the twenty-three-year-old Karr and even under the best of circumstances considerably less easygoing. But the danger they’d faced together had drawn them close; Tommy felt sorry for his friend. Dean had obviously learned something he didn’t want to learn about someone he’d thought he’d known.

  “Kegan wouldn’t kill anyone,” said Dean, folding his arms. The room remained silent for a moment.

  “So all right. When are we leaving for London?” Karr asked finally.

  “Mr. Dean will spend the next day being briefed on some of the areas that Dr. Kegan was working in,” said Rubens. “Lia DeFrancesca is already en route to London to prepare for surveillance there. The FBI is in the process of obtaining subpoenas to check on the lab work that Dr. Kegan performed at a variety of institutions; we should know if there’s anything unusual in a few days.”

  “What about me?” asked Karr.

  “For the moment, I’d like you to go to Dr. Kegan’s home in New York and take a fresh look at it.”

  “Poke through the garbage cans, huh?”

  “I believe the garbage has already been inventoried.”

  6

  While Lia DeFrancesca was in a general sense en route to London, the route was rather circuitous and included a climb down a nearly sheer cliff at a nature sanctuary in New York’s Hudson Valley. The cliff itself wasn’t much of a problem for Lia, who had done much harder climbs with full combat gear during the Army Special Forces Q, or Qualifying, Course, which she was one of the few (if not only) women to complete. But Lia was making her descent in decidedly unmilitary attire — a skirt that stopped some inches above the knees, and a pair of black heels, which went well with the skirt but not the rocks.

  It did not help that her runner — a Desk Three officer monitoring her progress via a satellite link from the Art Room, Deep Black’s special situation center deep within OPS 2—thought the situation rather humorous. Lia could hear Jeff Rockman’s high-pitched giggle in her ear as she shifted her weight on one of the ledges, her backpack leaning precariously off her arm.

  “I’m going to put you in a skirt and see how you like it,” she growled at him.

  “You’re the one who didn’t want to wait for the next guard change, when you could have walked right down the main road,” said Rockman. “‘Let’s take the shortcut,’ you said. ‘Bring it on,’ you said.”

  Lia glanced to her right and saw a middle-aged man and woman walking down the path toward her, at the moment oblivious to her. She continued to descend, unable to do anything to reinforce her modesty. As she stretched for a fresh foothold, she heard the faint yet distinct sound of over-stretched panty hose giving way.

  “Son of a bitch,” she complained as the stockings ran halfway up her left leg.

  “Well!” said the woman, stopping just below her.

  Lia looked down. She was now only eight feet above the path. “Get the hell out of my way,” said Lia, kicking off her shoes.

  “What?” demanded the man.

  “Move or catch me,” Lia told them as she leaned down. She intended to grab onto the footholds but missed and so did, in fact, practically jump on them. She rolled as she hit the ground; naturally her skirt hiked in the process.

  Disgusted, she got up and reached into her backpack for a substitute pair of panty hose.

  “Hanes Her Way. Satisfied?” she snapped as she reached up to change.

  The couple started to back away. Lia rolled off the panty hose, exposing her sensible cotton to the fauna. She put on her shoes and began walking up the trail, which led to a gravel road.

  “Turnoff in another hundred yards,” said Rockman.

  Lia could hear him through a small device implanted in her skull just behind her ear. His voice was like a whisper in her head, audible only to her. The microphone and an antenna array were embedded in her jacket.

  “Any more surprises?” she asked. “And I’m telling you, I’m not swimming a moat.”

  “There’s no moat,” Rockman assured her. “Just the cameras and the physical security, plus the fence.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  Lia continued up the path, slipping her handheld computer from her jacket pocket and using its GPS function to find the exact point where she was to go in the woods. The small computer looked like a Palm PDA, the sort of device a traveling businessman might use to keep his schedule and contact information. But the NSA version had a wide range of capabilities, thanks to its capacious onboard memory and fo
ur processors that, ten years before, would have been found only in a supercomputer. It hooked into the Desk Three communications system, allowing it to accept downloads of satellite views and other information. The Art Room beamed her a situation map showing her position overlaid on a diagram of the facility she was approaching. She got her bearings and returned the handheld to her pocket.

  Lia could see the security wall of the research building through the trees on her left as she turned. She had to walk along a very precise path about five feet wide — the gap in the coverage of the facility’s perimeter cameras. Fortunately, the woods were cleared, and even with her heels on she found it easy going.

  “There poison ivy here?” she asked Rockman as she got near the wall.

  “Got me. Leaflets three, let it be,” he added.

  “Learn that in Boy Scouts?”

  “I doubt there’s any poison ivy,” said Telach. “Hold at the wall. There’s a jeep just starting a sweep.”

  Lia leaned against the smooth concrete, listening. Rockman had tapped into the facility’s security system and was watching the video feeds as they were presented to the security desk. The high-tech system was controlled by a computer, which had made it relatively easy for the NSA snoops to break into.

  Not that they wouldn’t have found a way if it were more difficult. The FBI was still at least twelve hours away from obtaining a subpoena allowing it to review all of Dr. Kegan’s experiments here. In the meantime, Desk Three’s standing mandate to preemptively gather intelligence against potential terrorist threats would be used to covertly examine the facility’s computer records for anything untoward.

  While she waited, Lia took what looked like a bunch of small, flat spoons and a lipstick holder from the inside pocket of her jacket. Unscrewing the top of the lipstick holder, she slid one of the spoons into the slot and held it against the wall. As the truck roared past, she pressed the end of the lipstick holder and fired the spoon into the wall about head high. When the truck was gone, she used the small handhold to hoist herself up and then over.