Biowar (20 page)

“Dr. Lester is from the CDC,” said George Hadash, running the meeting in the President’s absence. “He’s going to give an overview of the situation, with input from the FBI and Desk Three.”

Lester started his summary from the beginning, focusing on the domestic outbreak, thus far limited to two positive and twelve suspected cases. Thanks to a heads-up from Desk Three—Lester at least gave credit where due—the CDC was now focusing on a family of bacteria known as S.
moniliforms,
which were responsible for streptobacillary rat-bite fever. Ordinarily transmitted by rat bites, the disease was characterized by a high fever that would typically cycle on in two-to-four-day series randomly recurring over the course of months. A maculopapular rash that looked like a large bruise typically accompanied the disease, which also featured a variety of flulike symptoms, meningitis, and pneumonia. Maculopapular referred to the fact that the rash was both macular—a stain-like mark distinguished from its surroundings—and papular—having pupules or eruptions above the surface of the skin like pimples.

The symptoms fit
S. moniliformis
better than
Spirillum minus
or
Sodoku,
a very similar disease also called rat-bite fever but caused by a different bacteria, which was also under consideration because of evidence the Desk Three people had uncovered. But there was one problem in making the connection—both diseases were caused by rat bites. As far as they could tell, Victim Two had not been bitten by a rat.

Victim Two was Gorman, the BCI investigator. The other man had died an hour before.

“We’re just in the process now of preparing the tests for the organisms,” said Lester. “Rat-bite fever is very rare in the U.S.”

“If you haven’t done tests, how do you know that’s what you’re looking at?” asked Marshall.

“We’ve diagnosed it clinically,” said Lester.

“But you just said it could be confused with half a dozen things.”

Lester glanced at Rubens in exasperation.

A good sign, thought Rubens. He could count on the doctor after all.

“There are indications unrelated to the disease itself,” said Rubens. “Intelligence indications.”

“What sort of indications?” asked Marshall.

“Until we’re really sure, I’d prefer not to get into methodology. We are assisting in the investigation, for reasons that the FBI can get into.”

Westhoven’s face blanched from sheen to high-gloss white. He began explaining the link with Kegan and briefly—very, very briefly—gave the scientist’s background. A thorough review of his current work was ongoing, but at the moment there appeared no connection with germ warfare of any kind, nor was there an apparent link with rat-bite fever.

“So, what’s the link then?” asked Marshall.

“None that we can ascertain.”

“Well, the house,” said Lester.

“The dead man there?” asked Marshall.

“As I intimated, rat-bite fever would not be something commonly looked for,” said Dr. Lester. “The dead man will have to be examined for that. He was possibly a carrier.”

“What was his contract work for the government?” asked Marshall.

“I don’t have the exact contracts in front of me,” said Westhoven. “But suffice it to be said that these bacteria were not involved.”

“But he could have constructed them?”

“Well...”

“Could he have, Dr. Lester?”

“Not really my area,” said Lester, demurring.

“I believe you might mean propagated them,” said Rubens, stepping in. “If he did, there’s no indication in any of the records anyone has found at any of his work areas.”

“Which you’ve accessed?”

She meant that as a jibe, Rubens realized, but he ignored her, continuing on. Kegan’s work with bacteria would permit him an opportunity for many things; the FBI tests of his labs would have to reveal whatever they could reveal.

“At this stage, the important thing to do is gather information,” added Lester. “We don’t really want to rule anything out. Because, frankly, the symptoms are very confusing. It’s very open-ended, and if it weren’t for the fact that Dr. Kegan was involved, we might not even be thinking in this direction at all.”

“Which direction, exactly?” asked Marshall. “Candidly, Doctor, I feel as if I’ve come in on the middle of a conversation. I don’t entirely understand what’s going on.”

“If the disease was caused by an engineered organism, which I emphasize we have no evidence of,” said Lester, “then we’ll need to study it very intensely. Is it penicillin-resistant?”

“Is it?”

“We don’t know yet. Patient Two hasn’t responded to the first course of treatment. Or the second.”

Lester backed up and once more went through the basic situation, this time studiously using simple terms. Was Marshall really a notch slower than the rest, Rubens wondered, or was it an act to disarm the others?

What was she really after?

Westhoven had tamed his belligerence considerably in the few hours since the video conference. He didn’t mention his opinion of what Lester called a soft quarantine—extensive tests of everyone who had been at Kegan’s house. Instead, Westhoven concentrated on the investigations the Bureau had done. Thus far, there was no indication that Kegan had done any work on bacteria except for those involved in the pollution projects—but those were, indeed, engineered.

Perhaps, Westhoven hinted, something had morphed out of control. Perhaps it simply appeared to be rat-bite fever.

“But how would that account for the dead man in the house?” asked Marshall.

Westhoven simply shrugged. It wouldn’t.

Marshall headed Rubens off at the door, reminding him that they had agreed to discuss the biometric IDs this evening. Trapped, Rubens offered dinner; he was hungry, he decided, so he might as well eat. She suggested Clancy’s, a fancy restaurant considered the latest trend on the Potomac. Under other circumstances, Rubens would have suggested a much quieter place, but he realized that might send the wrong message—here at least people would surely see them and it would be clear that he had nothing to hide.

The food turned out be surprisingly good, if slightly pretentious, even by D.C. standards. Rubens ordered the most basic selection on the menu: lamb chops with foie gras and apple-pear chutney.

“Lovely man, Dr. Lester,” said Marshall as they finished dinner.

“Oh yes,” said Rubens.

“Do you work with CDC often?” Marshall asked.

“We work with whom we work.” He paused, emphasizing the mystery. “But I would say rarely.”

“Rarely?”

“We do adhere to our charter.”

“Your operations are offshore.”

Actually, he had meant that the NSA’s primary concerns had little to do with the disease. Nor did the NSA charter specifically dictate that it conduct overseas operations only, a common misperception. But Rubens smiled in a way that he knew might suggest agreement yet leave things open-ended.

“I don’t suppose we should really talk about business,” she said.

“What would you like to talk about?”

“Oh, art. Are you really related to Peter Rubens, the Flemish painter?”

“Yes,” he said.

This wasn’t a secret, surely, but he was nonetheless surprised that Sandra Marshall—a California ladder climber—knew not only that his famous seventeenth-century ancestor was a great painter but that he had been a diplomat and almost certainly a spymaster as well. And Rubens was further surprised when she turned the conversation to the Matisse exhibit due at the Metropolitan in New York next month, discussing the early modem painter quite knowledgeably.

And then, before he could even ask how she had come by all this knowledge—an art history major in her undergrad years was his guess—she abruptly brought the conversation back on point.

“Have you thought of the Internet proposal?” she asked after the waiter had left them with a pot of coffee.

“Candidly, no,” said Rubens.

Marshall’s face flickered with disappointment.

“You really think it would be a good idea? Everyone gazing at a computer and embedding their ID in every keystroke?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

“You think we should use iris scans then?” she said.

“No, I was just throwing it out as a metaphor.”

“The President was inclined toward something similar.”

“Interesting. And George?”

He had debated how exactly to refer to the National Security Advisor. Rarely did he in fact call Hadash “George,” even to his face, and it took a supreme effort to make it seem natural.

“George seems to favor a thumb monitor that would work via the keyboard,” she said. “The specifics really are the realm of the experts. That’s why we need a study. You still oppose it?”

“Formally, we have no opinion.”

“But you think it’s a bad idea.”

Rubens had no point of safety to retreat to. He had to commit, or at least come as close as one did in Washington.

“Probably,” he admitted.

“Yes,” she said with obvious disappointment. And then she reached out and touched his hand. “I hope you’ll keep an open mind for a while.”

“First impressions are not always lasting ones,” said Rubens. He glanced at her hand, noting that it was still on his forearm.

“Are the rumors true?” she asked, pulling her hand away.

“Which rumors?” said Rubens.

“That you’re being considered for Secretary of State.”

“I didn’t know that there would be a vacancy,” said Rubens, honestly. He hadn’t heard of any rumors along those lines.

“Oh, there will be. You would be an excellent choice.”

“Well, thank you,” said Rubens, unsure what else to say.

Rubens’ head was practically spinning as he drove to his safehouse to swap cars and go home.

Secretary of State?

Of course it was a post he coveted. Defense was so much less refined—not to mention weighed down by the pendulous bureaucracies of the services the office was supposed to supervise. At the moment, State was not particularly effective, but under his leadership—well then, of course.

But there were no rumors that he knew of about the post becoming vacant. James Lincoln was not only competent but also an occasional ally.

An important ally. The fact that Rubens couldn’t stand him personally notwithstanding.

Secretary of State.

His Art Room phone buzzed. Rubens took it from his jacket pocket.

“Rubens.”

“Boss, this is Chris in the Art Room,” said Farlekas. “You ready for an update?”

Rubens listened as Farlekas detailed the data from the computers Tommy Karr had compromised in Thailand. The military unit appeared to be loyal to the central government, and there were no traces of penetration by the rebels. However, the Art Room had come up with three possible guerrilla cells operating nearby that might have penetrated the communications system. They were in the process of preparing missions to bug all three, sending vessels to land miniature flies in their area. Analysis of optical satellite data had turned up one interesting finding—there were pigs at one of the camps.

“The significance of swine would be what?” asked Rubens.

“Very useful for growing certain organisms,” said Farlekas, explaining how pigs were used to create insulin as well as other materials. Pigs were raised all across Asia for food, and in fact there were wild swine in many places as well. But Islamic law forbade the eating of pork.

“Wouldn’t the logical conclusion be that these are not Muslim guerrillas?” asked Rubens.

“Thai intelligence indicates that they are.”

“Chris, we’re looking for bacteria. All they need are petri dishes.”

“The scientists raised the possibility that if they were to be using animals, the program would be very far advanced. They might have found a way to use the swine as organism factories. It’s actually not as far-fetched as it sounds. Normal diseases, even the flu, can be harbored in animals. Any number of ailments have started naturally that way. The science section is very worried about this.”

Rubens did not believe that terrorists could use such advanced techniques. Or rather, he didn’t
want
to believe it. He thought the scientists had let their imaginations and fears run far ahead of reality, just as the Thai intelligence service had made a mistake about the guerrillas’ fanatical religious affiliation. And yet the history of fighting terrorism was nothing if not a history of imagination, prodding the brain into the odd comers of the unexpected. The terrorists’ few spectacular successes had come more because those fighting them had failed to anticipate—had failed to
imagine—
their capabilities.

As far as technology went, infecting a pig with a germ was hardly the cutting edge of science.

There was no downplaying the danger.

“Are these people connected to the Crescent Tigers?” asked Rubens.

“Not that we know, and not according to the Thai authorities. The Tigers seem to have fallen on hard times. Their Myanmar camp is abandoned. We’ve checked.”

“On foot?”

“I have more than a dozen satellite photos and a new series coming in about two hours. No fires, no traffic, no anything. They’re long gone. I have Johnny Bib’s people trying to track them down. I’ll put them at the top of the list if we find them, I guarantee.”

“Very well. Send Tommy to take a look at the most likely camps, with this as the priority,” said Rubens. “Have him go to the abandoned camp as well.”

“He’ll have to use the Thai military unit. They’d have to attack them.”

“That’s what the Thai unit’s supposed to be doing, isn’t it?”

“Their resources there are limited. Most of the firepower is on the other side of the country.”

A series of zeros flashed before Rubens’ eyes—the budget line he was about to blow past. Even Deep Black had to deal with bean counters.

But so be it.

“Very well. Find out what we need. Expedite the process. We may be working on a time constraint here; the sooner we recover Kegan the better. Europe?”

“We still have no leads on the people Dean met with.”

“Nothing?”

Rubens felt the steering wheel shake violently. He glanced down at the speedometer and saw that he was pushing the nondescript agency Malibu over eighty. He backed off the gas, trying to calm himself as well.