Nefarious (The Blackwell Files Book 1) (21 page)

“You also had to eliminate Laura Peterson, the CDC analyst who provided Agent Wilson and me with the CDC’s analysis of the Briggsfield “hemophilic anomaly” deaths. As best we can tell, you took care of Peterson’s hit-and run murder yourself. Along with the assassinations, you also directed Colonel Drake to order the CDC to remove the Rabinil-based anomalies from their records in the interests of ‘national security.’”

“You have a vivid imagination, Blackwell,” said Sutton. “How could I have possibly known about Luis Romero and this Laura whoever? I never visited Briggsfield or the CDC.”

“Finding out about Romero was easy. In her undercover role, Agent Thatcher wasn’t just sending you the real test results. She was also sending you the names of the people involved in the testing, and Romero was at the top of that list. For Laura Peterson, you used the FBI’s standard surveillance cookie on the CDC server files used to store information about the hemophilic anomalies caused by Rabinil testing. When Laura downloaded the hemophilic-anomaly files and saved them onto a flash drive, the cookie flagged the activity and signed her death warrant. Normally a court order is required to plant those cookies, but that wouldn’t do in this case, would it?”

Sutton was silent, and Alton continued. “Once the weaponized formula was complete, your final step was blackmailing Colonel Drake for as much money as you could squeeze from him. Of course, you’d have to murder him too, eventually, since he was the only person alive who could implicate you in the whole plan. Your scheme was brilliant. It exploited each person’s interests and loyalties to meet your personal goals. And it had the additional benefit of humiliating Colonel Drake, the man responsible for undeservedly ending your NSA career.”

“You think anyone’s going to believe all this?” sneered Sutton. “Based on what? E-mail messages you claim to have decrypted with software still being written? How can you prove you’ve even transcribed the messages correctly? It’s still basically just your word against mine.”

“Our proof is better than you make it out to be,” replied Alton, “but I have three other pieces of evidence. First, I have a recording of the phone call you had with Drake only a week ago. You didn’t know he recorded his calls, did you? You were smart enough to use a voice disguiser to hide your identity, so we can’t prove the voice on the recording is yours, but the content of the conversation certainly fits our theory.”

Alton pressed a small button on an MP3 player he had just removed from his pocket and placed on the table. A scratchy dialog filled the room.

“Colonel Drake speaking.”

“Good afternoon, Colonel,” replied a pleasant but clearly-altered voice.

“Do we need to meet?” asked the colonel.

“No, no need for that. I was wondering if you had heard about the latest round of test results.”

“Yes. They’re very promising.”

“Indeed they are—for both of us.”

“What do you mean?” asked Colonel Drake.

“You’ll soon have what you want: a cheap, effective biological weapon that can be deployed from the air. To top it off, if it’s manufactured on the right foreign soil, the costs will be so low they won’t even be on the radar in the Pentagon’s quarterly budget reviews.”

“Outstanding,” said the colonel.

“And I’ll soon have what I want,” continued the other. “Your ass wrapped up so tight in an illegal weapons program that there’ll be no extricating yourself if word of it ever hits the press. In fact, you’d be court-martialed if it did.”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed the colonel. “I’m just the Pentagon interface on an NSA project. If any of this comes to light, it’ll be you and your buddies that will hang, not me.”

“Colonel, there’s no paper trail leading back to the NSA. Don’t believe me? Call the NSA offices right now. They’ll deny any knowledge of the project. On the other hand, who is a regular visitor to the Briggsfield lab? Who initiated, authorized, and funded the project? You, and only you.”

“By NSA authority, dammit!”

“You don’t have a single shred of evidence to support that claim, whereas your fingerprints are all over this project from start to finish.”

“Where is this going?” said Colonel Drake in a voice laced with cold fury. “How can this course of action possibly help the NSA? I thought we were on the same side.”

“I don’t plan on this helping the NSA. I plan on it helping me.”

During the remainder of the recording, the caller extorted Colonel Drake, agreeing to take cash payments in exchange for remaining silent about Drake’s involvement in the project. The caller indicated he would allow the project to proceed on course, as long as the colonel continued to make payments.

Alton switched off the MP3 player. Several of the room’s occupants excitedly conversed but fell silent when Alton began speaking again.

“The second piece of additional evidence,” said Alton to Sutton, “concerns a statement you made to Agent Wilson at the very beginning of this investigation. You told her that Senator Braxton had ordered you to discontinue research on this case. You made this statement hoping Agent Wilson would immediately drop the investigation. When she didn’t, your only choice was to play the role of supportive supervisor until either Mallory or I fingered the wrong suspects or you had a chance to kill us. You certainly tried the latter approach, probably by telling the Richmond FBI field office we were dangerous criminals. Regarding your claim of Senator Braxton’s order, we’ll need only to consult him to confirm he never gave any orders to discontinue research on the Rabinil project.

“And now we come to the third piece of additional evidence,” said Alton. “I wanted to be absolutely sure about our theory, so I played a hunch.” He turned to face Sutton. “Since your NSA job involved scouting out potential targets in Afghanistan, you had to be able to communicate with the tribal leaders. Even though your e-mail messages were in English, I figured you probably learned Pashto, Afghanistan’s version of Arabic. You may recall that as everyone was taking their seats in this room, I shouted out
kha'en
, the Pashto Arabic word for ‘traitor.’ Only a proficient Pashto speaker would recognize that word, and only someone who felt they had been betrayed by their country would react to it in anger. That person was you. As I shouted the word, I watched your reaction. It was the final confirmation I wanted.”

“Your theory has a hole,” said Sutton. “You said yourself that Amy Newton has learned Arabic. Why didn’t she react when she heard that word?”

“Two reasons,” replied Alton. “First, even if Mrs. Newton recognized the word, she wouldn’t become angry. She might show
fear
if she thought she was being falsely accused, but not anger. What would she have to be angry about? Second,
kha'en
is a
Pashto
Arabic word, but Mrs. Newton learned Sudanese Arabic so she could more effectively communicate with her Sudanese husband.
Sudanese
Arabic has borrowed much of its vocabulary from indigenous Sudanese languages. It’s a dialect of Arabic that is unique to
Sudan
, so Miss Newton wouldn’t recognize
kha'en
. Only someone fluent in Pashto would recognize and react to it.

“But why take my word for this theory? I’m sure if someone claiming to be your associate—especially someone carrying a load of the weaponized Rabinil—were to visit Nahim Agha, your drug-dealing friend in Kandahar, Agha would be happy to pick your photo out of a lineup.”

Sutton looked down at the tabletop, silent. His mind seemed to be working furiously, trying to devise a plan to escape the net closing around him. Without warning, he jumped up from the table, knocking his chair over backwards, and bolted for the conference room’s door. As Mallory and Alton scrambled around the fallen chair to give chase, Sutton threw open the door and raced down the lone hallway for the exit and freedom.

CHAPTER 68

Washington, DC

Mallory was the first person to pursue Sutton down the hallway. Between his permanent limp and his more recent injuries, Alton knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up. As he jogged down the hallway as best he could, he spoke into his radio. “David, Sutton’s coming towards you. Are you ready?”

“Roger, Al, I’m in position,” replied David.

Unencumbered by injuries and fueled by anger at Sutton’s betrayal of herself and her country, Mallory steadily closed the gap with Sutton as they tore down the hall.

As Sutton slowed to push open the building’s heavy exterior door, Mallory finally caught up and tackled him from behind, sending both of them tumbling through the exit. Sutton’s body landed on Mallory’s arm, grinding it into the parking lot’s rough asphalt surface and sending a thrill of pain from her elbow to her wrist. Sutton was quicker to rise and hit her—hard—in the face, sending her back to the pavement. Mallory tried to stand again, but her world insisted on tipping to the left, and she struggled to keep her balance. David had drawn his Beretta but couldn’t take a shot; Mallory was directly in the line of fire. Sutton observed this and was careful to keep Mallory in the middle.

Alton spilled through the exit door into the lot and surveyed the unfolding drama. He fumbled in his pocket for anything he could use as a weapon. His hand closed around the small canister of Rabinil from Dr. Roland, the container he had planned to submit as evidence. He advanced towards Sutton, whose attention was absorbed by the other two.

“You think you’re smart, don’t you bitch?” snarled Sutton, glaring at Mallory. “Not smart enough to keep me from putting a bullet between your eyes.”

Sutton drew his Glock and pointed it at Mallory’s head.

“Wait, Chief, you don’t have to do this,” said Mallory, trying to stall. Within moments, Alton would be in range of dousing Sutton’s face with the toxic Rabinil. She just needed to buy a few more seconds.

“Chief?” whispered Mallory, literally able to see into the darkness of the Glock’s barrel.

As Alton depressed the aerosol button, Sutton pulled the trigger, and the simultaneous
hiss
and
crack
of the two actions were followed by dead silence.

CHAPTER 69

Walter Reed Medical Center, Bethesda, Maryland

Alton leaned forward in the hospital waiting-room chair and rested his chin on his right fist, trying to fight off the mists of fatigue that threatened to envelop his mind.

A stranger approached him.

“Mr. Blackwell? I’m Janice Jones, the hospital’s bereavement counselor. I understand you knew the deceased. I’d like to help you explore your feelings, if you’d like to.”

“I’m sorry…the deceased?” asked Alton.

“Yes, Mr. Mark Sutton was declared DOA—dead on arrival. I’m very sorry if you’re learning this for the first time. My understanding was that you already knew. Would you like to talk about it?” She gazed at him with the close-lipped smile and open eyes of the compassionate.

“No, thank you, Miss Jones,” replied Alton. “I knew he was dead. Do you have any news about Mallory Wilson?”

“I believe the burn specialist is still seeing her. Would you like me to check?”

“No, thanks,” said Alton. “I’ll go see for myself.”

Alton softly tapped on the hospital door.

“Come in!” rang out from the room.

Mallory was sitting up in the hospital bed while a doctor applied a final bandage to her forehead.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to assess your progress,” the specialist was telling Mallory. “I’d say you were pretty lucky. If you have any scarring, it will be minimal.”

Once the doctor left, Alton grinned and asked, “How are you, buddy?”

“Getting better,” replied Mallory. “You just heard about the gunpowder burns on my forehead. The neurologist doesn’t seem to be too worried about my concussion, but the orthopedic surgeon says my arm will take between six and eight weeks to heal.”

Alton was silent for a moment. “When did you switch Sutton’s bullets for blanks?”

It was Mallory’s turn to smile. “Once we uncovered Sutton’s murders of Peterson and Romero, I knew he would kill us, too, if he perceived us as a threat. As a supervisor, he rarely does any kind of dangerous field work, so I figured if he used his Glock, it would be against us. I remembered that he always kept his weapon in a holster mounted to the bottom of his desk. I bought the Glock blanks the same time I bought the extra ammo for David’s Beretta. Then when we went back to my office to pick up Dr. Roland’s Rabinil shipment, I switched the blanks into Sutton’s gun.”

“Why not just remove the live bullets? Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“Yes, but he might notice. He used the standard-issue Glock twenty-two but with the extended forty-round magazine, so he’d likely notice the weight difference if it were empty. It was too big a risk to take. He had to feel confident with his weapon.”

“It worked flawlessly,” said Alton. “Sutton thought he had you dead to rights.”

Alton could admire Mallory’s intellect while regretting that it was yet another attribute that raised her even further above him and his aspirations. Yes, she liked him—fondly—but he knew her feelings would never extend beyond friendship.

Mallory interrupted his train of thought. “So what’s happened with the other suspects while I’ve been out of action?”

“Emily Thatcher has been debriefed,” recounted Alton. “She won’t be disciplined since she was following Sutton’s orders. The Briggsfield R&D lab is undergoing a thorough review by the FDA and CVB—Center for Veterinary Biologics—to turn the Rabinil research back to its intended purpose: a true rabies vaccine. Colonel Drake has been arrested for the murder of Luis Romero, and Finch has been arrested for accomplice to murder one and perjury, since he falsified governmental reports.”

“I feel sorry for Finch, in a way. He had good intentions.”

“Yeah, but he let them cloud his judgment. Good intentions don’t justify covering up murder and experimental injuries.”

“I suppose not.”

At that moment, someone tapped on the door. A large, dark, muscular man Alton had never met enveloped Mallory in a bear hug. Silent tears ran down his face as he held her.

Alton felt strangely uncomfortable. He obviously knew a lot less about Mallory’s personal life than he realized. He admitted to himself that until seven days ago, he and Mallory had seen each other for only a few days out of the last six months.

“Do you know how much I love you?” the stranger whispered to Mallory.

Alton had long recognized Mallory as a superior caliber of person, one who could hardly be expected to feel anything more than friendship for a damaged ex-soldier who lacked her social graces and wit. Nonetheless, only at that moment did Alton realize how high he had allowed his aspirations to climb. His hopes now fell the full distance they had previously ascended and disintegrated on the hard surface of reality. A heavy pressure settled on his chest, and a black void surrounded his heart. His rational mind knew his hopes had never been reasonable, but the feelings persisted nonetheless.

Alton slipped out of the room as they spoke. He walked quickly but without a specific destination. He found himself in the hospital’s cafeteria, ordered black coffee, and settled into an empty table far away from the lunchroom’s other occupants. Eventually, he noticed the coffee cup was empty and returned to Mallory’s room.

The stranger, “Scott,” was still there, and Mallory was concluding her description of the events of the past week. Scott hugged her again, declared his love for her, and departed with a promise to return shortly.

Alton felt chagrined and uncomfortable, but also thankful that he had kept the silent current of his thoughts and aspirations to himself. Friendship with such a person as Mallory, after all, was infinitely superior to no relationship at all. It would allow him to spend time with her over the years, perhaps not in the manner he would have preferred, but it was all that was left to him, and he valued their friendship as never before.

For Mallory’s sake, he smiled and said, “That looked like a nice reunion.”

“Yes, it was,” replied Mallory, beaming. “I didn’t even know Scott was coming. It’s so awesome to see him here!”

In as good-natured a manner as he could muster, Alton joked, “You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend. Is there anything else I should know?”

Mallory silently observed him for a moment.

“Alton,” she said softly, “you researched
Sutton’s
relatives, not mine. Scott is my older brother. He came down from Wisconsin when he heard I was in the hospital.”

For a moment, Alton had to fight the urge to grin from ear to ear. But then Mallory’s irrefutable superiority checked this impulse. If Scott was her brother, there would eventually be another man in Mallory’s life who wasn’t, and she would never know the feelings Alton had cultivated for her in the private gardens of his heart. To tell her his true feelings would be to risk putting a constraint on their friendship, and he couldn’t take the chance of damaging their relationship—his only window into her life—with unwanted advances.

Alton walked across the small room to give himself time to collect his thoughts. Now that he understood the true relationship between Mallory and her brother, he found himself more willing to admit the obvious strength of their bond. He decided to acknowledge to Mallory the respect he felt for the depth of the siblings’ mutual attachment. As he turned to tell her, he caught Mallory staring at him, much as he used to stare at her. Like him, she quickly dropped her gaze to the floor.

“It’s hard to do justice to the love I just saw,” said Alton. “I can tell you two are really close.” This time his smile was genuine.

              For once it was Mallory who seemed lost in a different train of thought. She took a moment to recall herself. “Yes. My dad died when I was thirteen. Scott was like a father to me after that. He really was my protector back then.”

She continued, “But I think that role has been taken over by someone else now, don’t you?”

Alton looked at her closely and saw not only a tentative smile but also a moistness in her eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Then a tear ran down her cheek, and her smile broadened.

The storm clouds so long in Alton’s mind parted, and a beam of sunlight began to shine through. Perhaps it was premature to abandon
all
hope.

Alton returned her smile and tentatively approached the hospital bed. Could the colors of his life truly be changing in such an impossible way? Alton softly placed his right hand on hers. Mallory responded by moving her free hand atop his and squeezing it, both laughing and crying as her emotions overflowed.

His normal eloquence momentarily deserting him, Alton could only stammer, “Mallory, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Mallory brought his hand to her lips and softly kissed it, then gazed at him lovingly. “It’s
my
turn for regret avoidance.”

Smiling incredulously, Alton lifted a silent prayer of thanks to heaven for having guided him to the new, better chapter of life now opening before him. The victory of preventing the evil attendant with the diverted vaccine paled in comparison to the victory of the heart he had inexplicably won. He had never expected to claim Mallory as his beloved, and now, with this dream within his grasp, and gazing into her dark eyes, he vowed to daily prove himself worthy of it.