by Greg Bear
Yet Griff was happier than William had ever known him to be. ‘It hurts all the time,’ he had told his son last week, ‘but the hurt is on the outside. I can take that kind of hurt.’
Tracer Warnow flapped out a newspaper and said, ‘Listen to this. Senator Josephson kicks a dead horse.’
‘We’re not dead yet,’ William said in his best Monty Python accent.
‘Just listen. This is better than coffee.’
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Gorton said.
‘Gets your blood moving.’
‘Hand it here,’ William said wearily.
‘You’ve got your slate. Look it up. I prefer newspapers. They belong to an earlier, civilized age.’
William pulled his slate from his pocket and scanned the headlines from AP and Reuters. Nothing on Josephson: they were full of news from the invasion of Saudi Arabia. ‘Here’s something to warm your cockles,’ he said. ‘ANTI-SAUDI FORCES ADVANCE ON RIYADH: THOUSANDS FLEE.’
‘Bastards are reaping the whirlwind,’ Gorton said. ‘Mecca’s next. Stay out of it, I say,’ he added. ‘I don’t want my son dying to defend King Abdullah.’
William moved past two more headlines: OHIO PUBLIC HEALTH: MEMORY CASES APPARENT FLUKE, and 10,000 ACRES BURN IN EASTERN SAN DIEGO COUNTY: Blazes not yet contained, rain and floods may follow.
‘The whole world is going to hell,’ Gorton went on, his voice a low rumble. He had pulled out the last remaining picnic-style table and sprawled across it.
William frowned and tapped on the Ohio headline. The dateline read yesterday, Cleveland.
…hundreds of residents in Silesia, Ohio, and in at least five neighboring communities cannot seem to clearly remember events that happened years or even months ago. A few exhibit all the symptoms of advanced dementia. Doctors are puzzled by the diversity of cases, but all symptoms, according to Doctor Jackie Soames of the National Institute of Allergies and Infectious Diseases, appear to tie into defects in how memories are processed. ‘Short term memories seem to be unaffected. Our patients can function on a day-to-day basis, and can even perform jobs that do not require deep memory. Most of them, however, remember little about their history of the past few years, or even why they live where they live, or how they acquired families.’
Theories range from a new and unknown viral infection to BSE, or Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy, commonly known as Mad Cow Disease…
William felt an urge to call Rebecca, but what was there to act on? A coincidence? Loss of memory had nothing to do with anthrax, of that he was certain.
He pinched his nostrils to stifle a sneeze, then read on about the fires in San Diego County.
‘Hey, Agent Griffin! TP!’
He raised his head and saw the Newark SAC, Tom Hartland, standing in the open glass door of the empty restaurant. ‘Warden’s giving you a reprieve. You’ve got a ticket to Quantico.’
William looked at Gorton, who smirked and shook his head in envy. Hartland escorted William to the street and a staff Lincoln Town Car idling at the yellow-marked curb.
‘Get in.’ Hartland unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s side door. ‘Tell me, Griffin—what do you know about solid rocket fuel?’
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Bethesda, Maryland
Rebecca Rose stood on the brick porch, adjusted her long cashmere muffler—a luxury she had purchased for herself on the first crisp day of fall—and pushed the ivory-colored doorbell button. Behind the paneled door, chimes rang and a dog immediately began barking. She lifted her white paper bag with its box of See’s chocolates. Alph tended to bounce when visitors arrived.
Nancy Newsome opened the front door, restraining a midsized Springer spaniel. Silver-blonde, wide-faced, with a sharp nose and pale blue eyes, pleasantly plump and wearing a tailored pink suit even at this hour of the evening, Mrs. Newsome immediately broke into a smile. ‘So good to see you, Rebecca! Hiram has been so looking forward. He’s in his study.’
Alph was beside himself with welcome. Rebecca patted him, gave Nancy a hug, and held out the bag. ‘To be rationed,’ she suggested.
‘How awful of you,’ Nancy said conspiratorially. ‘I will hold these over his head whenever he irritates me. He will be so grateful. Hiram, I mean, not Alph.’ Another glorious smile, and then she ushered Rebecca through the classically Colonial hall and across elegant rugs of Persian design—but American manufacture—to the study. ‘He’ll only come out if I tell him it’s you,’ Nancy said, lips judgmental. ‘He’s been on the computer and then on the phone since three. I’ll give you both ten minutes, and then I’m serving dinner. Pot roast. Plain fare for just plain folks.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ Rebecca said. Alph tagged dutifully at her heels, past his initial glee but more than willing to be company.
Hiram sat half in shadow, his face moon-colored in the glow from an old CRT. One hand was holding a phone receiver to his ear and the other was moving a wired mouse on a foam pad so old its edges curled. The desk was covered with piles of printouts loosely arranged by topic—news stories, emails, copies from texts. The rest of the room—dark wood wainscoting, matching maple furniture, white walls, crystal cove lights pendant from brass fixtures—was immaculate. The walls were covered with plaques, framed photos, testimonials.
Alph nosed his master’s leg and Hiram looked up. His face was unhappy in a Jovian way, an expression he had probably maintained all afternoon. ‘I’m on hold. Ah, forget it.’ He slammed down the receiver. ‘Did you hear Josephson’s rant?’
‘Good evening to you, News,’ Rebecca said, and pulled up a second chair to sit. ‘I’ve been trying to avoid it.’
Hiram rotated in his desk chair, glowering. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he said. ‘Son of a loose-titted, sow-bellied, egg-sucking bitch.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Rebecca said, grinning her appreciation.
Hiram flung out his arm and lifted a page from the desk. ‘Read it. It’s our death warrant.
She held the printout under a light.
‘We are at the end of a long and awful period of the repeal and repression of civil liberties. Secret courts, secret files—all tied to a binge of muddled thinking that has done nothing to protect America, which became abundantly clear on 10-4. The FBI, as the most important law enforcement agency in our nation, has been complicit in many of these transgressions, and I think a break-up is long overdue. I say we remove the FBI from its homeland of radical indoctrination, and reconstitute its most talented and least culpable agents in a new agency, based on the West Coast, that deserves and rewards their best efforts, and does not lead them always down the paths of uncivil retribution for political ideas with which senior executives happen to disagree.’
‘Gasbag,’ Hiram said as she lowered the page. ‘What in hell would the bureau do in San Francisco?’
‘Our offices would look pretty,’ Rebecca said.
Hiram snorted. He took the page and sadly finished Josephson’s speech. ‘“A small hiatus in FBI activities is to be expected.” Oh, the mice will play, Rebecca. Let me put it politely, before Nancy comes in here with a bar of soap and a spittoon. As a nation, we’re up shit creek.’
‘Some of it’s true,’ Rebecca said.
‘Makes it worse,’ he shot back. ‘The lick of Papa’s strap is all the keener if you actually stole the cookie.’
Alph put his paws up on Hiram’s knee and stared soulfully into his master’s face, muttering doggy sympathy. ‘Josephson’s just a rooster crowing on the tomb. The President is the hangman. She called the director today and gave him his walking papers. Jesus wept. “No confidence.” So who’s next?’
Rebecca had been at headquarters all afternoon. ‘I brought some material for you to look over,’ Rebecca said. ‘Fair warning from some old friends.’ She handed him a clipped folder.
He lifted an eyebrow. The folder hung in Rebecca’s hand. Then he grabbed it, pulled the clip, and muttered, ‘Too much goddamn paper.’
Nancy appeared at the door. �
�Is Senator Josephson joining us?’ she inquired archly. ‘Because I hear his name so often, I’m wondering what he likes to drink with his pot roast—beer or wine.’
‘Irish whiskey,’ Hiram said, lost in the pages. ‘Just a minute, Nancy.’
‘Table’s set, Hiram.’
‘Don’t get cross with me. The whole world is cross with me.’
‘Poor baby,’ Nancy said. She withdrew after exchanging a womanly glance with Rebecca.
‘These are OPM internal vetting documents, Rebecca. How’d you get them?’
Rebecca said nothing, just looked sweet and simple.
Hiram riffled through the papers, eyes wide. ‘Sam Adams, they’ve got dirt on half the people I work with.’
Rebecca leaned forward. ‘They’re looking for somebody whose hands aren’t covered with mud. Someone who can finish what he starts and knock heads—but the right heads, and with practiced charm.’
Hiram’s face went pale.
‘I heard something on the weed vine,’ she continued. ‘Nobody knows if the rumors are true.’
The phone rang. Hiram jerked, then sat up, looking as if he were about to be shot.
‘Scrub your hands, sir,’ Rebecca advised.
A second ring. His lips twitched. ‘I won’t do it,’ he said emphatically. A third. ‘I won’t preside over a funeral. I’m not a damned undertaker.’ The phone rang for the fourth time. Hiram looked as if he were contemplating the easy out of just dropping dead. ‘Crap,’ he said.
‘Answer the phone, Hiram,’ Nancy called from the dining room.
Hiram wrapped his forehead in one thick-fingered hand and rolled back to the desk. He picked up the phone and listened for a moment, then said, ‘Yes, Madam President.’
Rebecca took the folder from his hand, pulled back the brass screen, and tossed the papers into the light and heat of the office’s small fireplace. She walked into the dining room, where Nancy had just laid out on the damask tablecloth a large pot roast smothered with potatoes, carrots, and onions.
Nancy pushed through the kitchen door, balancing a tray of drinks in crystal glasses. ‘Elderberry wine?’ she asked archly, and handed Rebecca a tumbler of Scotch. ‘Pardon me for my big ears. I do not countenance profanity, my dear, you know that. But what in hell are they about do to my husband? I’ve actually enjoyed having him around, the last few months.’
Rebecca could not provide a comforting answer.
‘If they take him back and move him up the ladder, will I ever see him?’ Nancy sat with a flump on the nearest chair. ‘I remember Alice Sessions, way back when. I remember what they did to her husband. If the President has chosen Hiram without consulting the other senior executives, OPM will bring out the long knives. Hiram’s a healthy man, but this could give anyone a heart attack.’ She stretched out her hand, tears in her eyes. ‘Give me that, damn it.’
Rebecca returned the glass of Scotch. Nancy slugged it back neat.
The dinner was brief, the pot roast having been re-heated twice. They ate quickly and with hardly a word, and immediately after, Hiram retired to the study to make more calls.
Nancy insisted Rebecca stay for a glass of port. Sitting in the living room, she realized she was still wired—still on the grid, if anyone was tracking. She deactivated her Lynx and then looked at her slate: five calls from one number. She looked up the number. It was in Israel.
Nancy returned and caught her with her slate out. ‘Never mind me, dear,’ she said, a little tipsy, and set down a glass of Ficklin on the table beside Rebecca. ‘I know that look. Something demands your immediate attention.’
Rebecca took a sip of port. ‘What an evening, huh?’
‘I’m sure,’ Nancy said. ‘Use the guest bedroom, past the entrance and on the immediate right. It’s quiet. I sweep the bugs out every day.’
‘Thanks.’
The Jerusalem number belonged to a former Quantico student named Ehud Halevy, an international trainee now an officer in the Israeli Police—a brigadier general. The Israeli police used the whole range of military ranks. Rebecca had been an instructor at the Q during Ehud’s class a decade ago. She did the math and came up with Israel’s current time. It was four a.m. but he had left his message just a half-hour before.
Her call went through immediately. The general was wide awake. ‘Agent Rose, thank you for returning my call. I am distressed that we have not communicated earlier. But this is no time. Why has not anyone told me of BuDark?’
‘I don’t know much myself, Ehud. What’s up?’
‘We have come upon something terrible, something you must have certainly known about. Did we not discuss anthrax, American anthrax, ten years ago at FBI? Now it is here, in Israel, in the hands of Islamic terrorists. They were going to use it on Jerusalem, Agent Rose. Jerusalem!’
‘Please, General. Tell me what you can.’
‘Fireworks rockets, brought in on private jet by a group working out out of Iraq and Syria, but they are receiving their supplies from America. Some of the captives are talking. It is an unbelievable story. We are analyzing what we have found. This will take time, because we are using such precautions. How could you allow this? Has America become a gigantic infection, a boil that is bursting?’
‘Listen, Ehud, what do you know about the American connection?’
‘Some have told us it is a tall man, blond and quiet. He minimizes his contact with others, but some say he is a lady’s man. He has one blue eye and one green eye, that he sometimes disguises with contact lenses. He is very careful, and he is no longer in Israel, if ever he was. That is all we have been able to learn.’
Rebecca sat on the bed and bent over, feeling as if she were about to be sick. ‘Can I reach you at this number, any time?’
‘Yes. I may never sleep again, Agent Rose.’
‘Thanks for trusting me, General. Let me do some work here.’
‘I only hope your FBI and government will trust us, Agent Rose. We have of course informed the Prime Minister and Knesset, and they are talking with your State Department. We need answers very soon. We have in custody only one team. What if there are others?’
Rebecca came out of the guest bedroom, her face ashen. Nancy was asleep in the chair. She could hear Hiram still talking in his office.
She slammed her fist on the heavy door.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Silesia, Ohio
William hitched a police ride from the tiny local airport. The driver, a young officer from the Ohio State Patrol, had been ferrying officials back and forth for two days now and she looked stretched thin. ‘They’re telling us nothing. Must be pretty big.’
Big enough to get him out of a garbage detail.
He quietly observed the neighborhoods of modest homes, trim and clean—except for block after block of overgrown yards. He noticed two or three burned-out houses and wondered if that was above average for a town this size. On the flight, he had hooked up to Web reports about Silesia, famous mostly for grain distribution, bakeries and local German food—as well as for its churches.
He had also read what little was available about Silesia’s medical crisis. That made his brain itch. He couldn’t fit these reports into a compelling pattern.
A large yellow tent had been set up in the Warren K. Schonmeyer Park. Three patrol cars, two local police cars, a big FBI van, and a CID semi-trailer had been pulled up on the grass next to the tent. Power cables and hoses ran to a brick restroom that had been marked off limits with police tape.
The officer parked. William got out and saw George Matty, the Mississippi agent from his class, standing by an open flap near one corner of the tent. ‘Thanks,’ William told the officer. She popped the trunk and retrieved his floppy bag, then backed her patrol car out for more runs to the airport.
William walked across the patchy grass toward the tent. The afternoon air was crisp. He sidestepped a dog turd. Matty grinned. ‘Scoop your poop, Agent Griffin,’ he called out. ‘That one’s been lying in wait for some un
wary bastard for two days.’ He held out his hand and William shook it firmly. ‘I’m case agent. Luck of the draw, I guess.’
William suspected it was much more than that. Matty had slimmed down in the months since Quantico. He had also lost some of his drawl. He wore a gray suit and black walking shoes and looked a proper FBI agent, blue through and through. Compared to Matty, William suspected he still looked rumpled.
‘How’s Cincinatti?’ William asked.
‘Gritty,’ Matty said. ‘Nice town on a long slide. Great work environment. I hate it. Silesia is better, except nobody remembers where they left their keys.’ He smirked. ‘That makes interviews a challenge.’
‘You pulled me out of garbage detail,’ William said. ‘I owe you one.’
Matty escorted him across the tent. ‘As soon we got a bulletin about cardboard tubes and traces of polybutadiene, the Patriarch connection came up and we flew out of Cincinatti like bats out of hell. I told the ASAC one of my Academy mates had worked Patriarch fireworks with Rebecca Rose. He doesn’t get along with Agent Rose, I guess, so he told me to bring you in.’
‘Show me,’ William said. Matty took him to a folding table. Beside a a small portable spectrum analyzer, a row of ten clear-top plastic boxes had been filled with fragments of mushy cardboard reassembled on pristine white paper. Pieces were missing but at a quick glance William could see that each cardboard tube, reassembled, would be two or three inches in diameter and about fifteen inches long.
‘A sleepless little old lady filed a complaint,’ Matty said. ‘She said there were about a dozen bright flashes one morning, very early, right over the park and the town. She was out on her porch and she says she counted them. A couple of months later, an officer scouting for drug use in the park found fragments of fireworks tubes on the top of that very same comfort facility.’ Matty pointed through a breeze-whipped gap in the tent at the brick restrooms. ‘All together, we’ve recovered the remains of ten tubes, scattered from the comfort station to the parking lot of a church just beyond the park.’