“There’s a camera,” Vladenko said. He pointed to a security camera in the upper corner. “We need to get to the feed and download a copy before the entire building goes up in flames.”
Russell nodded. He was right. They would need the feed to see exactly what had occurred on the rotunda. “The room is just there. On the right of the entrance. The smoke doesn’t seem so bad yet. Care to risk it with me?”
“Let’s go,” Vladenko said.
She turned to Wyler. “I’ll take that handkerchief now.” He produced it from his pocket. He appeared stunned.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He swallowed and pointed to a man lying in the middle of the driveway. “That was my driver.”
There was nothing to say to that. Russell pressed the cloth against her nose and headed to the entrance. There were two bodies in the hallway. Russell presumed they were security personnel from the office who had witnessed the scene and were gunned down as they ran to assist the others.
Heavy smoke clouds hung in the hall and Russell’s eyes stung from it. She turned into the anteroom. It was a small area, about eight feet by eight, and held a long, L-shaped desk and two computers along with an aluminum file cabinet. The computer monitor screen displayed a partitioned grid with various views. The ballroom views were blank and held only a red X where the picture should be, but the hall and front grounds were still transmitting.
She went to the desktop, reversed the program, and clicked through the screens. Vladenko moved up next to her, coughing from the increasingly dense smoke.
“Where are you sending the feed?” he said.
“To the cloud. From there I can forward it on.”
She reached the part of the feed that was time-stamped from when the bomb exploded. The images made her gasp and she began choking from the sudden influx of smoke and soot in her lungs. But she ignored the pain and the coughing, because what she saw on the screen astonished her. Seconds after the bomb exploded a second, less deadly one appeared to explode near the parked cars, and the bodyguards and drivers reacted instantly. All pulled their weapons and all moved into battle position.
And then they all shot each other.
The battle raged for a few minutes, until no one was left standing. The last man staggered around, staring at the others with a look of shock. Then he slowly raised his weapon to his temple and shot himself in the head.
13
President Castilla sat in the Oval Office listening to the director of national intelligence deliver his daily briefing. Starting after the attack in 2001, the DNI had created a daily report of collected intelligence from all the major agencies, collated into one document for the president’s use. In his mind, Castilla called the DNI’s daily brief the “daily dread” because it was full of some of the most dreadful news he could imagine. Chemical gassings from Syria against civilians, terrorist attacks and beheadings in the Kashmir borderlands region between Pakistan and India, and information that a drone mission in Afghanistan had gone terribly wrong and ten civilians had been killed. The brief also cataloged the myriad risks that were arising from various situations at any given time around the world.
“Also, we’re still looking into the attack on the embassy reception in Ankara. I’ve left a message with Carter Warner asking him to head up the probe. I understand from his secretary that he’s ill, so his assistant is handling it for the moment. As soon as Warner returns I’ll have him take over.” DNI head John Perdue finished delivering the overview and paused.
“Strange thing, that Ankara attack,” Castilla said. “Anything else?”
“There is something else. Two things, actually. The first is a bit weird and not really something you should be involved with, but Richard Meccean’s dog was found half dead on the street with a gunshot wound. I know you two were friends even before you appointed him to HHS, so I thought you would want to know.”
Castilla nodded. “He’s a good guy and he loves that dog. What did he say about it?”
“That’s the weird part. The veterinarian who removed the bullet scanned for a microchip, found one, and tried to contact Meccean first at his home to let him know and then used the office number that was also on the chip. He never reached Meccean but left a message with his secretary. Turns out Meccean had emailed her that he was ill. The secretary panicked when she heard about the gunshot wound. She took the dog to her home to convalesce and tried his cell. When Meccean didn’t respond she asked a friend of Meccean’s to go to his house. The door was locked and there was no sign of foul play, but the secretary filed a missing person report with the FBI just in case. They’re looking into it.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Castilla said.
Perdue nodded. “Me either. You know him better than I do; is there anything that would indicate he would take off and not respond to his office?”
“What do you mean?”
Perdue looked uncomfortable. “Well. You know that we’ve had a couple of cases of government officials just disappearing and then later being found having a fling somewhere without their wife’s knowledge. Could this be something like that?”
Castilla shook his head. “Rick’s not married and no, he’s not as nutty as that, I can assure you. Maybe you keep me posted on the FBI’s progress.”
“Will do. Like I said, sorry to mention it…”
Castilla waved him off. “No, that’s fine. I just hope he’s okay. And the other thing?”
“A helicopter crew flying a routine mission in Afghanistan crashed their helicopter into the mountains. Everyone on board died. The base collected the remains and listened to the last transmission from the pilots. It seems that nothing was wrong with the chopper, the pilot just forgot how to fly it.”
Castilla looked up from a document that he was signing. “What do you mean, forgot?”
Perdue looked perplexed. “That’s what I’m told the voice recorder showed. The pilot and another pilot on the transport were overheard panicking as the copter flew. The investigator said they were asking each other what various dials and controls were for and seemingly had no idea how to fly the machine.”
Castilla sat back and stared at Perdue. “Were they drunk? Drugged?”
Perdue shook his head. “Toxicology report showed nothing except caffeine. They went back and tested the coffee at the base and it was clean. They have absolutely no explanation for what happened there. The investigation is ongoing, and there’s nothing really to be done at this juncture until it’s completed, but it was so strange that I thought you should know about it.”
Castilla nodded. “Agreed. Keep me in the loop on that story as well, can you?”
Perdue closed his folder and rose. “Will do.”
Perdue left and Castilla’s phone rang. He punched on the speaker and his assistant said, “Fred Klein’s calling from his secure line and needs to speak with you. He says it’s urgent. I’m putting him through now.”
“Klein, what’s happening?”
“Mr. President, I’m not exactly sure, but it appears as though the Chinese have focused on Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith for reasons that are unclear.” Castilla listened while Klein ran down the events of the previous evening, including the fact that a small drone had been involved.
“I don’t like that they’ve targeted Smith. Do you think they’re aware of his Covert-One status?”
“I think it’s more likely that they were interested in his position as a researcher for USAMRIID. He’s the U.S. equivalent of Chang and they’ve never liked it that we assisted in Chang’s escape from China and harbored him here. With all the security around Chang, they may have thought to try to take Smith, hold him, and then negotiate a swap.”
“He’s safe now?”
“Yes. But I don’t like the use of the device. Smith seemed to think it wasn’t the most efficient way to attack him, or even kidnap him, when the usual attack would suffice, but I think it shows their willingness to operate illegally within our borders.
The FBI has jurisdiction and their counterterrorism unit is on it, but I’d like permission to investigate this deeper.”
“Of course. Keep me informed.”
Castilla hung up and couldn’t shake a sense that something evil was in the works and he was already far behind in the race.
14
An hour after Smith was ordered to assist Arden in her investigation his phone began ringing. He let it roll into voicemail each time without bothering to check the display, and so he jumped when a scientist from another building knocked and entered his office. He couldn’t remember the scientist’s name, but the excitement on the man’s face was unmistakable. Arden looked up from a folder that Smith had shoved at her.
“Sorry to bother you, Colonel Smith, but your phone’s on do not disturb and the White House is calling. Something about a press conference.”
Arden raised her eyebrows and Smith wanted to throttle the scientist. Arden had been present for his call to Russell of the CIA and now the White House. The lawyer was smart enough to understand that the average scientist at USAMRIID wouldn’t receive or make such calls on a usual basis.
Under normal circumstances Smith would never have gotten a call from the White House for either his role as a USAMRIID researcher or as a member of Covert-One. USAMRIID had personnel assigned to handle the press, and the only man who would contact Smith on behalf of Covert-One was Fred Klein. That the call came directly from the White House and with a cover story meant nothing good.
“What kind of press conference?” Smith asked.
“Regarding the new flu shot initiative. They want to see you in ninety minutes and they suggested that you stop at the Anacostia Yacht Club first for some instructions. You’d better hustle.”
Arden looked less intrigued and Smith was relieved. The reference to the Anacostia Yacht Club made it clear to Smith that it was Klein calling, not the White House, but Klein’s use of the White House gave Smith the opportunity to drop his meeting with Arden immediately. It also ensured that she wouldn’t cry foul and claim that USAMRIID was giving her the brush-off. The flu shot initiative gave a valid and mundane cover story for the call.
“It appears as though we’ll have to continue this investigation later.” Smith tried to sound disappointed but a bit of his satisfaction with the interruption leaked into his voice.
Arden wasn’t amused. “Call me the minute you can continue. Here’s my cell number.” She wrote a number on a Post-it note on his desk and handed it to him.
“Absolutely,” Smith said. I’ll take my time, he thought.
An hour later Smith was escorted into a situation room at the utilitarian headquarters of Covert-One. The only other occupant was Fred Klein.
Klein was a somewhat rumpled man in his early sixties with an academic air about him. He looked to be a professor and all would be surprised to learn that he spearheaded one of the most effective, and occasionally lethal, groups of covert operatives in the world. Drawn from various professions, all were experts in their respective fields and all were vetted and recruited only after a vigorous background check. Not all were known to each other. Only Klein knew the full list of active operatives. He walked over to shake Smith’s hand.
“Thanks for getting here so quickly. We’re waiting on one more. Take a seat.” Klein waved to the oval conference table. Smith sat down and looked around. The room was deceptively business-like in its appearance, but Smith knew that it had recently been renovated and was wired with state-of-the-art communication and Internet technology.
There came a knock on the door and the same staffer who had shown Smith into the situation room escorted in Mark Brand, the man Smith had spoken to on the phone the night before. His presence there confirmed Smith’s view that he was a member of Klein’s inner circle, if not Covert-One. Now the tall man with smooth dark skin and Rasta braids tied in a ponytail smiled a broad smile at Smith. He wore a dark suit with a muted tie and strolled over to Smith in a loose, rangy walk that belied his intensity.
“We’ve spoken to each other more in the last twenty-four hours than we have in two years. Good to see you again,” he said.
“I could say the same. How’s New York?”
Brand shook his head. “Have no idea. I didn’t mention it last night, but I’ve been promoted since I saw you last. Now I work in the DC branch.”
“Mr. Brand has some information that I think you should hear,” Klein said.
“About the drone last night?” Smith asked.
Brand shook his head. “We have some specific ideas about that, but I’ll let Mr. Klein fill you in. I’m here about something else. This is off the record, you understand. You may hear about this in a more formal manner, but I’m hoping to head off that investigation. The DC office has received a complaint about USAMRIID. More specifically, about you. Seems as though you were less than helpful after being informed about the possibility that an at-risk scientist may have been trying to access pathogens in the lab. You know anything about this?”
Smith sighed. “I suspect you’re talking about Dr. Laura Taylor. She’s a scientist assigned to the same area that I am. She’d been on medical leave, but I’m told that she appeared in the lab late last night. Two men were after her, and they claimed that she may have entered my office. My keycard was missing and a report left on my desk, but I never saw her, if indeed it was she that took the card.”
Brand frowned. “Did you report the missing card?”
Smith nodded. “To USAMRIID security and within minutes of my discovering it. I told the two men who were looking for her that I would and I did.”
“The Stanton Reese guys complained that you were highly uncooperative. May I ask why?”
“Intuition, I guess. They seemed pretty sketchy to me.”
“Do you know where the keycard is now?”
Smith nodded. “The guard found it on his station desk an hour after I called it in. But the card only allowed access to the lab, not the pathogens. Whoever took it would have needed an additional access method for those. And when I called security they informed me that though she’s been on leave her status and access rights have remained the same. I have never heard that she was barred from the labs. No memo or other notice was sent.”
Brand looked relieved and Klein’s lips quirked. As if he knew the information already.
“Seems to me that those two VA guys are trying to send misinformation around. What’s this about?” Smith asked. “I can’t imagine that you called me here to have this discussion. We could have done this at either of our offices.”
Brand and Klein exchanged glances.
“Continue, Mr. Brand,” Klein said. “You can speak freely.” He looked at Smith. “Mr. Brand is here to help me brief you on your next mission.”
Brand unbuttoned his jacket and sat down opposite Smith.
“From here on out I’m speaking to you not as an FBI agent, but as a fellow operative, you understand?”
Smith nodded.
“The day nurse at the hospital where Taylor was receiving treatment found several vials under her pillow. She turned them over to her supervisor, who gave them to the FBI, which is how we got involved in the first place. Seems as though they were marked as highly toxic and should never have been removed from a secure lab.”
“What were they?”
“I’m not exactly sure of the substance. Some chemical she was working on before her mental issues arose. Do you know what she was researching before she went on medical leave?”
Smith rocked his hand back and forth. “A little. She was investigating possible chemical approaches to relieve post-traumatic stress disorder in soldiers. As you can imagine, the military is extremely invested in finding a solution for PTSD. The current suicide rate is the highest that it has been in U.S. history. And last night an envelope was left on my desk containing a report that ran down her tests and results.” Smith rattled off the title.
Brand nodded. “I’ve seen that report. It’s logged into the
USAMRIID central data storage as well. Did she give you anything else?”
“Whoever was in the office had removed a report of mine regarding aerosolizing pathogens from a sorter on my desk and placed it next to the envelope. It’s odd.”
“I can fill in some of the blanks for you,” Klein said to Brand. “She was testing a possible drug that would wipe out traumatic memories, but leave good memories intact.”
Brand’s eyebrow flew up. “You can target a memory? How?”
“Apparently the portion of our brain that is involved with storing memory has a fat content that may house the actual memory. Dr. Taylor’s vials were preparing to wipe out that fat content. She was using a marker to search out and destroy only the traumatic portions.”
“That still doesn’t explain why we’re having this conversation in your offices,” Smith said to Klein.
“Thank you, Mr. Brand. I can take it from here,” Klein said.
Brand stood. “I’ll let the agency and the VA know that the card allowed only limited access. In the meantime, remember when I told you last night to watch your back? Well, I meant it. That someone spun a story to make it appear as though you were helping a mentally ill co-worker obtain dangerous pathogens tells me you’ve got some powerful enemies somewhere.” He nodded at Klein and left.
“Let me show you what we know.” Klein picked up a black remote control and pointed it at a flat screen on the wall. The monitor lit up and Klein accessed the Internet and clicked on a link.
“This is the entrance to a ballroom in Ankara, Turkey. The reception was the target of a terrorist attack. You won’t see it here, but a bomb exploded in the rear of the building. We had Ms. Russell there in an undercover capacity.”
“Is she okay?” Smith asked.
Klein nodded. “Yes, she’s fine. What you see next is an on-site feed that she was able to access and shows what occurred within a minute of the explosion.”