by Greg Bear
‘We could move elsewhere,’ Hiram suggested.
‘Wouldn’t think of it. Sitting here helps you understand our problems better than anything. We so much wanted to be movie stars. Pretty soon, if we don’t do something, and fast, we’ll just be extras without any lines. Rebecca, don’t get all choked up by the glitz.’
‘I gave my files to the data logger, sir. They should be coming up shortly.’
‘And here they are,’ Cahill said. ‘My last chance to control the vertical, control the horizontal. News, here you go—the Magic Wand is easy to learn.’ He raised a small silver remote.
‘No, sir,’ Hiram said. ‘It’s Rebecca’s show.’
‘So it is,’ Cahill said. ‘Begin.’
‘Amerithrax was a punk, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘Compared to what we’re facing now, what he did to this country was trivial.’
On video and slides, sheep, cows, baboons, monkeys, and chimpanzees died awful deaths. She discussed the creation of antibiotics-resistant anthrax in the FSU—the Former Soviet Union—and showed downwind casualty charts from the accidental 1979 outflow of powder-fine anthrax at Sverdlovsk. Next, she flashed the files of U.S. weapons experts who had been the target of FBI suspicions in the years following Amerithrax. She concluded this segment by saying, ‘Compared to the thousands of tons created in Russia and shipped off to Resurrection Island, the five letters mailed in 2001 were no worse than a mosquito bite on an elephant. But the elephant flinched and it got pretty damned expensive. So Amerithrax was an extremely effective punk, and we never caught him. Now, we think he—or someone with his knowledge and expertise—has surfaced again. We think he and his partners are trying to sell genetically modified anthrax to antagonists in the Middle East. Not necessarily to use against us—though that’s a possibility, of course. But to use against each other. The Israelis have recently arrested and sequestered a group equipped with crude but effective bioweapons apparently shipped from the United States—fireworks shells that match the description of those that could have been produced at the farm of Robert Chambers, the Patriarch.
‘Our new Amerithrax may be using a particularly seductive lure. He claims that these anthrax shells carry germs modified to attack only Jews. Apparently, he’s managed to convince a number of Muslim extremists. They’ve tested his germs in Iraq at two locations, Baghdad and Kifri. Just off the BuDark wire service,’ Rebecca added, looking up. ‘One of our agents, Fouad Al-Husam, was rescued after being shot down in northern Iraq. He delivered autopsy samples to an army assessment unit in Turkey. They came from the bodies of Kurdish Jews exposed to anthrax spores. Weaponized and genetically modified Ames-type Anthrax has been confirmed as their cause of death. We believe the victims were detained and dosed by Sunnis operating in the area, militants connected to a string-puller and money guy named Ibrahim Al-Hitti.’
Cahill nodded. ‘Up-to-the-minute. Continue, Agent Rose.’
‘While no expert believes it is possible to manufacture a germ that uniquely targets an ethnic group, we can’t discount the possibility that the anthrax has somehow been modified to be selective. We’ve charted a genome from the samples obtained in Kifri.’
The diagrammatic ghost of a spiraling and twisted circle of DNA, with two smaller satellite circles, floated to the right and center of Rebecca’s position. ‘In both samples, Baghdad 1 and Kifri 2, they found genes artificially inserted in one of two small circular plasmids—genes that code for bioluminescence. They are triggered by the activation of toxin genes on both plasmids. Our experts say this would have made the lesions on the Baghdad victims glow in the dark—red, then green, just before they died. Oddly, the same genes in the Kifri specimens are not activated. In the Kifri anthrax, a modified Ames strain, there are other, unfamiliar genes inserted in the main chromosome. They may be dummies meant to fool Al-Hitti’s scientists, or they may in fact serve a real and destructive purpose. We just don’t know—yet.’
‘Have we got any of these samples, to do our own workup?’ Cahill asked.
‘No,’ Rebecca said. ‘The Baghdad samples are currently being analyzed in Europe. The Kifri samples are in Turkey. The Israeli samples…well, relations are icy at the moment, and not just because of Shahabad Kord.’ She looked up.
‘There are many reasons for Israel to be angry,’ Cahill said. ‘Their intelligence failures are the equal of our own. Go on, Agent Rose.’
‘Our prime suspect may have been involved in the murder of a state trooper in Arizona. He left behind DNA evidence, blood, saliva, sweat, and skin cells. We have a description of a tall blond American with one blue eye and one green eye, in both the Patriarch case and the Israeli attempt. Apparently, our suspect fathered a child on one of the Patriarch’s wives.’
Cahill humphed and buried his chin in one hand.
‘We haven’t finished our search against available DNA databases to establish his identity.’ She wasn’t about to mention the mismatch between the skin cell DNA and the blood, much less the 9-11 connection, until it was all much more solid.
‘How old do we think your suspect is?’ Cahill asked.
‘Best guess, somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five years old,’ Rebecca said.
‘Experienced sort of fellow,’ Cahill mused. ‘Able to move around the Middle East, sell a bill of goods, which means speaka da lingo, Arabic at the very least…the gift of bad gab, in Baghdad. That doesn’t fit any FBI profile of Amerithrax I’ve ever read.’ He sat up and leaned forward. ‘Hell, if you find him, recruit him. News, what do you want me to do?’
‘Give Rebecca the authority to re-open the investigation I authorized in April. The international connection makes this a major hot potato.’
‘We’re a sizzling steak surrounded by hot potatoes. Some are hotter than others. Agent Rose, pardon me for being blunt, but your puzzle pieces are too far apart. They don’t join up. Israel doesn’t have any evidence for an American connection, other than hearsay from suspects “under duress”. I’ve never relied on confessions under torture. I’ll go along with evidence of anthrax in Iraq, but hell, maybe someone found Saddam’s old stockpiles.’
‘Saddam never used the Ames strain,’ Rebecca said.
Cahill shrugged. ‘We don’t even have proof the Israelis have found anthrax in their fireworks shells. No anthrax was detected in Washington state, and none in Arizona. So where’s the connection to Amerithrax? If fresh product is being made here, why can’t we find even a trace? And how is it being delivered through the tightest security in modern times?’
Now it was Hiram’s turn to weigh in. ‘Diplomatic Security and others are already making a big push overseas, through BuDark. We have agents in the thick of it. FBI headquarters can provide support here. Charles, re-opening this investigation puts us in a good position if BuDark delivers. And BuDark is working on the President’s nickel, after both DS and the CIA started tracking anthrax reports in the Middle East. FBI should be seen supporting her initiative. We should be forward thinking.’
Cahill was wearing his best poker face, but Rebecca’s hopes fell. He wasn’t even gumming the hook.
‘We’re talking inkjet printers, right?’ He shook his head. ‘Even before I was director, I never put much credence in that theory. Last spring, I let Hiram play out his cards and watched you get shot down all over again. Anthrax is bad news in more ways than one, no pun intended, Hiram.’
He stood and walked around the circle of seats, then down the short flight of steps, stopping in front of Rebecca. ‘I worked Amerithrax. I was with the team that bird-dogged Hatfill. I even flew to Zimbabwe in 2003 to investigate a twenty-five-year-old anthrax outbreak. Ten thousand infections, almost two hundred deaths, and the Rhodesian government—Project Coast—might have been involved, but after all that time, we couldn’t tell. Hatfill was a cowboy with African connections, a big ego, and a padded résumé. We couldn’t hang Amerithrax on him or anyone else—but that doesn’t mean we were wrong. Ultimately, it was a heart-breaker.’ Cahill looked up at R
ebecca in the spotlight. ‘I’ll admit, this does sound like something from Project Coast—modifying germs and developing poisons to kill opponents of apartheid, to selectively target blacks or reduce their fertility, to eliminate the black man’s food supply. That’s still my bet for Amerithrax—some crazy weapons master with South African or Rhodesian training. I’d love to make Hiram happy—maybe he’ll increase my retirement. But frankly, I still don’t see it. Push the pieces closer together. Find some domestic anthrax. When News comes aboard, formally, he can take all the risk he wants. For now, though, it’s still my call. And I say: not proven.’
Hiram escorted Rebecca to the parking garage. ‘Maybe Senator Josephson is right. Maybe we’re caught in the same loopy thinking that makes us screw up over and over again.’
‘What if we don’t have a few weeks or a month?’ Rebecca fumed. She reached into her purse and switched on her slate, in case Frank called, or anyone else who was still brave enough to work with her.
Hiram slid into the limo and made room for her. ‘We’re not done,’ he said. He stared at the seat backs. ‘I’ll be betting everything on one roll of the dice. My career, this case, everything.’
Rebecca did not feel the need to speak up and add to Hiram’s burden. He knew the stakes as well as she did.
‘What we know is like a thick fog, but it’s real.’ He leaned forward and told the driver, ‘Get me Kelly Schein at the White House. Chief of Staff to the President.’
The two agents ran to join them in the limo but Hiram waved them aside. ‘We’ll be fine,’ he announced, and levered the heavy door shut. The agents stood outside, angry and dismayed, visible through the phonebook-thick bulletproof glass.
The limo pulled away.
‘I don’t think anybody here trusts me, Rebecca,’ Hiram said. ‘The President picked me to replace Cahill. They’re asking, why? Maybe the droolers on talk radio are right and I’m a traitor.’
Rebecca’s slate chimed. She swore under her breath and pulled it out.
‘What are you, bad news central?’ Hiram asked.
She had two messages. The first header said she had a message from Frank Chao at the Academy. Pretty wild, Frank had typed in the subject line. Call ASAP.
She scanned the second, a voice/text message from William Griffin with accompanying graphic. The text message listed twelve names. She recognized eight—all of them agents and other law enforcement personnel that had been on the Patriarch’s farm before or when the barn blew, including Erwin Griffin and Cap Benson. Below the list: Long-term recall. Some dementia. Exposure at farm.
The graphic showed what looked like dispersal patterns laid over a town map—of Silesia, Ohio. She arrowed through the entire graphic. Within a grayed parabolic plume almost six miles long and extending outside the town lay hundreds of red dots. Around the plume spread dozens more purple dots. No labels.
‘It’s from Griff’s son,’ she told Hiram, and showed him the graphic and the list. Then she played back the message.
‘Rebecca, it isn’t anthrax. That’s just a ploy,’ William said, his voice hoarse. ‘It’s potentially a lot worse. Whoever he is, he doesn’t want to kill. He may not be a terrorist—he probably doesn’t even care about the terror.
‘He’s targeting our memories. He wants us to forget.’
The driver interrupted over the intercom. ‘I have Kelly Schein, sir.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The Hajj Road, ten kilometers from Mecca
Three Volvo trucks pulled up at a so-called Hijaz Liberation Force checkpoint. The twelve-lane highway behind the small convoy was almost empty. Ahead, a tight roiling knot of armed and restive humanity patrolled the road.
Within a week, the highway would be packed with shuttle buses, taxis, pickups filled to overflowing with pilgrims. The invaders were trying desperately to be prepared for this flood in a time of war. They were, after all, likely to be the new masters of the Hajj. Just the week before, the last of the Saudi royal family had flown out of Riyadh to Paris. King Abdullah had died on the flight…of old age, insiders said; others, of a broken heart.
Ragged troops wearing everything from jungle camouflage to modern desert battle gear lined up to witness the inspection, some carrying single-shot rifles or waving pistols, a few bearded men hefting late-model, two-part launcher-assault weapons that must have cost thousands of dollars. All were making at least the pretense of limiting access to the areas they claimed to control: a potential nightmare for pilgrims.
Sam looked at himself in the sunshade mirror. His hair was black with hints of gray. He had tanned his skin with Coppertone Plus and eyelids and cheeks with walnut juice. This gave him a convincing two-tone look. Should they pull him out and thoroughly inspect him—not uncommon in this land of war and fear—they would find him circumcised, and not in a hospital, but cut down with a razor to the sheath, the technique of es-selkh or flaying leaving no prepuce whatsoever and a naked rod straining like a serpent when erect, something no non-Muslim would ever want or tolerate. He had done this to himself years before. It had gotten him through several tough inspections in circumstances just like this, when he had been employed by NGOs in Iraq, before joining the FBI.
His eyes stung from bits of fine dust that had crept under his contact lenses. He adjusted his gutra and loose robes and lounged back in the seat. Let the Israelis handle this. Their Arabic was better than his.
Five guards broke from the rabble and approached, young and tense but displaying big toothy smiles. From the second truck, Sam listened to the irritated, loud exchanges. Soon, the exchanges became friendlier. He had chosen well from among the settlers’ children. Who could tell a Sephardic Jew from an Arab, ultimately?
The driver of the lead truck produced the papers Sam had given them all in Tel Aviv, proving association with the Yemeni and Iraqi wings of the rebellion. Ibrahim Al-Hitti had provided those papers over a year ago, for another operation entirely. For a moment, the way the five soldiers passed the papers around and smiled, he wondered if perhaps the passes and permissions were overkill. The soldiers were too impressed, excited even, curious as to who these important travelers might be.
Sam closed his eyes, just listening. Yes, we are carrying celebratory and medicinal goods for Mecca, thanks be to God for his mercy and bounty. As well, no weapons. We are peaceful supporters of Hijaz Liberation. The guards appeared to lose some of their respect. He heard the English word ancillaries used a few times. The guards asked if these men had ever carried weapons in support of the cause. Sheepishly, humbly, the lead driver answered no. This reduced the excitement even more. As these travelers were not warriors, no exceptional respect need be shown. Arms were waved, hands waggled. Then, the guards moved to the second truck and peered through the lowered window at Sam and his three companions.
Sam wore a pale gray thobe, lightly soiled, over loose cotton trousers, sirwal. The men with him wore white thobes covered with dark cotton bishts, and all wore red and white or pure white gutras over their tagiyah caps, draped around their necks and secured with simple black agals. They might be contract workers or laborers, who could know or care; they were not soldiers. At this point nothing was said.
The men got out. All truck compartments were searched. No weapons. Only celebratory fireworks, safely and neatly packed. Men leaped into the backs and squeezed between the plastic-wrapped bundles on their steel pallets, checking the occasional box with a knife, peeling plastic and cardboard to peer inside. They were asked if they had any alcohol. Only medicinal and rubbing alcohol, not drinkable. No, they did not carry narcotics or strong pain relievers. These would come in other shipments. Drinkable alcohol was being confiscated by the insurrectionists, and drugs as well; the fighting was hard and the men needed relaxation.
And what about qat?
The Yemenis among the crowd that now surrounded the trucks pressed forward but were disappointed. No, the travelers did not have qat or tobacco.
After the inspections, which took an hou
r, the guards turned them over to three Iraqis, neatly uniformed Sunnis who argued and vacillated for another ten minutes. Of course, the travelers had high authority—but so did the leaders at this checkpoint. Still, ultimate victory was near. All would share in the honor.
Perhaps now was a good time to be magnanimous, even to multinational Muslim aid workers such as these, the first they had seen in weeks. There would be many wounded and sick, and with the Hajj beginning soon, much need for medicines and supplies.
The guards settled their differences in time for sunset prayers. The passengers and drivers joined them, laying prayer rugs in the sand and gravel beside the highway. Sam felt a twinge as he went through the motions. They’re trying to talk to God.
As the horizon covered the sun, they returned to the trucks and were waved on. Campfires were being lit. Cooking kits were lifted out of red plastic bags.
The mob parted, drew aside the makeshift wooden barricades and empty steel drums, and the convoy passed through on the last leg of the road to Mecca.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Temecula, California
Special Agent Brian Botnik caught a ride with a division chief from the Riverside County Fire Department. The slipstream through a crack in the truck window speckled the chief’s hair with flakes of gray. ‘This is more like early summer weather,’ he was saying. ‘Big fires put thousands of tons of particulates in the air. We could get more lightning strikes this evening. Damned weird.’
Brilliant white clouds towered tens of thousands of feet over the east as the day approached maximum warming. White ash blew off the incinerated land and coated the truck’s windshield until they could barely see. A squirt of fluid and the wipers turned it all into a streaked mess. The sky was orange from ash and dust blowing off the hills.