Cell phones and other gadgets with wireless connectivity were prohibited in the facility, eliminating the possibility of remote collection from across the hall using radio frequency signals and a mobile phone. She needed direct access to breach Hoffman’s system.
The PC tower had been modified and didn’t have any ports on the front, but the IT department had left one on the back covered by a steel plate that they could access to make updates. Ashley slid out the four-inch screwdriver—made from a synthetic polymer—hidden in her bra and quickly removed the plate.
She had two USB flash drives and took the device labeled FC Bayern—the name of a popular football or soccer team—in red and white across the top. It contained a thumb-sucking program that would infiltrate the hard drive, copy all the data, then crawl through the rest of the network seeking out any related files and catalog them. She inserted the small device that could hold up to one terabyte of data into Hoffmann’s computer.
An amber light flashed.
Copying one thousand gigs could take hours. Time she didn’t have. But Sanborn had assured her the infiltration program was lightning-fast and there wouldn’t be that much data to scrape. The buttload of storage space was just insurance.
Her gaze bounced between the flickering light and the hall. She waited, counting her heartbeats. One of her hands curled into a fist, nails digging into her palm, knuckles aching.
Come on. Come on. Finish.
The hall was still clear for now, but the knot in her stomach tightened.
Finally, the USB blinked green.
She swapped it with the yellow flash device marked BVB, after another team. This drive was infected with a malicious payload. The malware would send duplicates of the worm throughout the network by exploiting holes in the firewall, corrupting data while preventing its detection—ultimately erasing everything and crashing the entire system.
BGA was about to become the Titanic of biotech.
Thirty seconds to upload. She pulled the drive from the port and noted the time.
The IT department would notice glitches immediately. Within ten minutes, they’d flag a massive problem, without being able to pinpoint the source. Under the company’s vigorous security protocol, the building would be locked down.
Ashley had to make it out the front doors before then.
She’d later be blamed. Or, rather, Anna Kruger would: a twenty-nine-year-old, blue-eyed, brown-haired apprentice employed nine weeks.
Once the alarm sounded and the tactical security team—recruited from German Special Forces—realized she was the culprit, they’d be on her faster than a pack of rabid junkyard dogs.
Sweat beaded on her upper lip as she replaced the steel cover, tucked the screwdriver back in her bra, and stowed both devices in her shoes’ hollow heels.
Vaulting off the chair, she yanked Hoffmann’s door open and hustled past Marie’s desk. Smoothing down her clothes with clammy hands, she noticed a loose shoelace she’d have to tighten after she made it to the safety of her desk.
She looked up and staggered to a cold halt on the threshold.
Tim stood in the hall, holding two pieces of cake. She read the set of his jaw, the burn of his narrowed gaze.
Her stomach dropped in a way that made her want to retch. Evidence of what she’d done was on her. If Tim called the Rottweilers in security—the mercenaries who only appeared civilized in their black sport coats—they would tear apart her clothing, rip through her shoes, perform a body-cavity search, interrogate her. They’d find proof of corporate espionage, and then Ashley was on her own. No internal backup. No exfiltration team waiting on the street.
The CIA would disavow any knowledge of her and this mission, and Anna Kruger would be on her way to a German jail cell.
“What were you doing in there?” Tim looked over her shoulder, and she couldn’t remember if Hoffmann’s door had sealed shut.
Ashley’s mouth grew dry as sandpaper. She could barely work up any spit.
“Marie went to the bathroom looking sick. I left a note letting her know I don’t mind running to the pharmacy if she needed something,” Ashley replied, careful to hide any defensiveness. “She was so nice earlier, for once, helping me with this disaster.” She pointed to the faint blue ink stains on her shirt.
He nudged her aside, stepping into the office. Ashley’s gaze flew to Hoffmann’s door, training on the red locked light. Thank God, but not a single muscle loosened in relief.
Tim glanced at Marie’s desk.
Not a surprise he checked, regardless of their blossoming phony friendship. The company had a robust Big-Brother-is-always-watching program. Everyone was subjected to routine briefings. If you see something awry, question it, and notify your nearest security officer at once.
Ashley had left the yellow sticky prominently displayed. A-rule number one. “If I’d offered to her face—”
“The iron gatekeeper would’ve turned you down flat and soldiered through.” Tim’s features softened, and he handed her a scrumptious-looking piece of cake.
Acid bubbled in her gut. “Thanks. You’re so sweet.” She mirrored his rising smile and took the slice. Her hand trembled so badly a marzipan rose fell from the buttercream icing.
His gaze dropped to the plate shaking in her grasp.
An electric sense of urgency pounded in her chest.
“I need a cigarette.” She walked into her office and set the plate on the desk. “I’ve been trying to quit, but I need to pop out for a smoke.” She swiped her purse, holding it up, although there were no cigarettes inside.
“Mind if I join you.” A statement, not a question. “Let me grab my jacket.”
Ashley broadened her smile, her mind scrambling for an excuse. “I’m going to head down, and I’ll meet you outside.” She snatched her wool trench from the coat hook.
“I’ll just be a second,” he said, flouncing off to his office.
Ashley ignored him and rushed toward the elevator, doing her best to appear composed and impassive as a doll. She stabbed the button to summon a car and tied her shoelace.
This was the busiest time of day, especially with a birthday celebration. She pictured a herd of employees packing into the elevator, riding up one level, and funneling off onto the floor at a sloth’s pace—blowing her window to escape.
She made a beeline for the stairs.
The beasts in black blazers monitored the stairwell. Flying down like a bat out of hell would draw unwanted attention. She pumped her arms at a ninety-degree angle and kept her head aligned with her spine, power racing down five flights as though this were a mini cardio session.
Hurry. Almost there. In a few minutes, this would all be over.
You’ve got this. She’d better, since no cavalry was coming to the rescue. The only way to save herself was to flee the building in time. She risked going faster.
Her feet tripped on the last two steps, and she stumbled. Quick reflexes prevented her from falling as she caught the railing. She’d lost her balance, but not her nerve.
She checked her Timex. Four minutes, then IT would sound the alarm. Throwing on her coat, she wrenched the door open and fished her badge from her purse.
Personnel had to swipe a card reader to enter and exit the building.
In the lobby, she passed an imposing guard with a gun holstered on his hip and forced herself to appear natural.
Her special rubber heels squelched against the marble floor, grating on her ears, every nerve in her body quivering. The security-guard checkpoint loomed two hundred feet away.
A flirty, low-level lobby guard eyed Ashley hard as if he wanted to undress her right there. She ignored him, focused only on survival. Beyond the metal detectors were the card readers, another armed guard, and a few steps more to fresh air and freedom.
Anticipation ran electric through her.
&
nbsp; Gaining confidence in her stride, she picked up her pace. She tasted victory, and it was sweeter than the glorious cake upstairs. One of the tinted front doors swung open.
Herr Mueller, Anna Kruger’s boss, strolled inside. He passed security as she reached it.
“Glad I caught you. Did you finish the memo?” he asked in a clipped tone.
“Yes, sir. It’s on your desk.” She gave herself a mental pat on the back.
“Unfortunately, I need you to make changes so it can be sent out immediately.”
Victory turned to ash on her tongue, but determination burned bright as hellfire. “I was going for a smoke—”
He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “That disgusting habit can wait.”
She glimpsed her watch. Two minutes. A palpable ticktock pulsed through her blood.
Get out of there. The crazy idea of making a break for it whipped through her head. The instinct to run was overwhelming, but she’d never make it to the door.
Control. She needed to gain control of the situation and stay calm. “Of course, sir.”
She did a one-eighty and strolled alongside Mueller.
Get out.
Get. Out. Before all hell broke loose and she was dragged to the bowels of the building.
Her mind cleared—incredible how it did that when your life was on the line—her thoughts spinning ahead to a last-ditch solution. Glancing over her shoulder at the guard who’d been watching her, Ashley flashed a coy smile and held eye contact for two seconds, no longer. As she looked straight ahead, she let her ID card slip from her fingers to the floor.
Mueller yapped about the changes to the memo. His words were static in her ears as her vision hazed. He pushed the button for the elevator. The doors of the right car chimed open.
She hesitated. Inside, she was shaking.
If she got in the elevator, the only way she’d leave the building was in handcuffs or a body bag. She’d never see Logan again, never get to slap him, kiss him, tell him what she regretted not saying the last time they’d argued and he’d thrown her out, slamming the door in her face.
Muller stepped inside and stared at her with a puzzled expression. “I don’t have all day.”
Her heartbeat shot from wild to cardiac arrhythmia. She couldn’t breathe. The roar in her ears grew louder.
“Frau Kruger!”
She spun. The flirty guard strode toward her, holding up her badge. “I’ll be right up, sir,” she said to Mueller. “Don’t wait. There’s an urgent phone message on your desk.”
Before he finished nodding, she hustled to the guard with a genuine smile. The elevator doors shut behind her with a soft clunk.
“Thank you.” She took her badge from the guard and kept walking toward the entrance.
“I thought you were going back upstairs,” he said.
“I need a little fresh air first.”
The elevator chimed again, and she quickened her step. She thrust her handbag to the other guard seated at the checkpoint and walked through the metal detectors. After her purse was inspected, she took it and spotted Tim waving at her.
Go. Don’t look back. Now!
Spinning on her heel, she pushed through the door and embraced the slap of frigid wind.
Relief exploded in every cell of her body. The heavy breath she’d been holding left her in a sharp, delightful burst. Her heart was lighter than a balloon.
She gathered her wits and didn’t dare linger a second longer.
***
Munich, Germany
Thursday, March 3, 12:25 p.m. CET
Seated in a cozy café, Helmut Fuchs wiped his glasses with an anti-fog cloth and put them back on. He thanked the waitress as she set his third skim latté on the table.
She left, pinching her lips and rolling her eyes.
Nine weeks ago, he’d flashed the café owner a BfV—Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz—badge, declaring himself as German domestic intelligence—someone to be respected and feared—and stated he’d sit here every day until there was no longer a need. Cooperation was swift, albeit reluctant.
His orders: Observe only. Unless there was a clog requiring a plumber.
Wet work was his specialty, and he did so enjoy his job.
His eyes trained past the engaging Eisbachwelle—a man-made river that provided a forceful current of year-round waves for experienced surfers or naive amateurs willing to risk breaking their necks—to the tower of emerald glass and steel. BioGenApex headquarters.
The front door opened. His target rushed outside. She looked flustered, perhaps relieved. He glanced at his watch. This was a deviation in her routine—a routine he knew inside and out.
Where are you headed? Coffee? Bite to eat?
Or to her car, which she kept on the other side of the English Garden Park?
He adjusted his concealed Heckler & Koch VP9 tactical in his shoulder rig and threw on his parka. Tossing down euros to cover his tab, he watched her hurry to the corner. She raised her palm and darted across traffic—against the light. Not once had he ever seen her do that.
An alarm blared inside BGA, loud enough to capture the attention of every café patron. The target set foot on the sidewalk and took off at a dead sprint into the park.
Grinning, Helmut bulldozed through the door of the café.
The game was on.
***
Munich, Germany
Thursday, March 3, 1:30 p.m. CET
Ashley could never go back to the place she’d rented as Anna Kruger.
After spending an hour doing a surveillance detection route around the city, ensuring she wasn’t followed, she unlocked the apartment door of the Agency safe house. She stepped inside, engaged the dead bolt behind her, and stripped off her coat.
Before going home to Langley, she had to transmit the stolen data. She went to the wall unit and pressed a false wooden panel inside, opening the hidden storage compartment.
She retrieved the classified laptop with secure satellite uplink and her backpack with passport, extra euros, and the address of another safe house in Strasbourg, France—a four-hour drive away, where she’d be exfiltrated.
While the satellite link booted up, she shed her brown wig, removed the blue contacts, and changed her clothes, putting on sneakers.
She plugged in the USB drive. A prompt to begin transmission popped up. Once she hit enter and the upload was completed, the memory stick would be wiped clean.
Sanborn’s voice—his firm, fatherly tone and the last commandment he’d given her—filled her ears. For OPSEC, it’s critical that you don’t open the thumb drive for any reason. Complete the upload. Come home.
Going against Sanborn’s orders was a cardinal sin, and the importance of operational security had been drummed into her right after she joined the Agency, but if she ever wanted to know why the CIA was willing to destroy an entire company, this was her only chance. BGA stock would tank, marriages would implode, and the livelihood of thousands would be ruined.
Intense curiosity had gnawed at her since day one of the mission and spurred her on now. To be this close, with the carefully guarded secret at her fingertips, and never discover what this was all about would be like living with a splinter embedded under her fingernail.
She had to know. Langley was willing to lose an operative over it. To sacrifice her life. She’d earned the right. Hadn’t she?
Ashley opened the files. There were only three hundred megabytes worth of data. Compared to a terabyte, that was like saying she had one tree full of leaves when the drive could’ve held a forest. It was still a ton of data in terms of documents, about thirty volumes worth of an Encyclopedia Britannica. The files had been systemically categorized, making it easy for her to pinpoint an answer to the one question burning on her mind for nine weeks.
What was the game-c
hanger Hoffmann had been working on?
Her heart stopped when she found the answer. Oh my God.
The lead compound demonstrated revolutionary advancements in genome sequencing and oligonucleotide synthesis. Hoffmann was using it to solve agricultural problems for farmers without creating genetically modified foods that were banned in parts of Europe. Rather than engineering disease-resistant plants by altering their DNA, he found a way to inoculate crops.
His first success was making apple and pear trees resistant to fire blight—a contagious disease capable of destroying an entire orchard in a single season. He used the genes from a resistant spinach plant and combined them with a virus that he modified using the compound. The virus acted as a vector—a delivery system for the genetic material from the spinach—enabling the trees to produce their own bacteria-killing proteins against the disease, without genetically modifying the tree. There was even promising exploration in developing a vaccine against pests.
Ashley delved deeper. The implications were staggering. But not for the greater good.
Hoffmann called the project Ianus, the Latin name for the two-faced Roman god of duality. The compound could also weaponize a variety of crop viruses to destabilize regions and drive profits from the sale of remedies—something the BGA board was eager to pursue.
An ugly sensation rolled in Ashley’s gut. The potential applications were far worse than Hoffmann’s proposal. If the compound weaponized viruses infecting plants, the same could be done to human pathogens, opening a dangerous door to a new type of biological warfare.
The CIA’s concerns were justified, but passing this research from a corporate demon to a government devil wasn’t the answer. The Agency engaged in psychological, economic, and cyber warfare for political influence, dirtying their hands with the removal of governments, toppling regimes, interfering in foreign elections, and, at times, starting conflicts. Everything done was covert, often illegal, and if revealed on the world stage, it’d be condemned.
On occasion, Sanborn had voiced qualms about some of the darker Agency practices, but ultimately, he was one cog in a powerful machine, trying to tip the scales toward good.
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