Quantico

by Greg Bear

  As he had guessed long months ago.

  Some called it a controlled burn to prevent much of the world from going up in flames.

  Even the Chinese and Indians had secretly signed on, in hopes of maintaining the fuel supplies they desperately needed to keep their white-hot economies growing. The Russians alone, after initial tacit support, had growled back into their caves, angered by this finesse on their plans to marginalize the European Union and the United States.

  But the ultimate truth of it was, Muslims were killing Muslims with weapons supplied chiefly by non-Muslims. With the direct aid of Egypt and Turkey—both of whom had once controlled access to Mecca—and to some extent Jordan, a Provisional Hijaz authority was being established in Saudi Arabia, consisting largely of troops from Yemen, Oman, and—fulfilling perhaps the greatest irony of this unpromising century—Iraq.

  What Fouad had learned in the last ten days had the effect of both enlightening and corroding him. Muslims were not in charge of their own destinies. They had lost that option centuries ago, really.

  In Iran, Muslim rulers still had a modicum of dignity and control but that meant little: Iran was a nation certifiably going insane, with clerics ordaining the shootings and bombings of thousands of protestors, mostly young students; defying international pressure; and moving their few nuclear weapons into positions where they could be launched against Israeli, Turkish, or European targets.

  The West’s best and last hope: that most of those weapons were a bluff, and that the single working nuclear weapon in their possession had somehow been triggered at Shahabad Kord within Fouad’s own sight.

  The madness that had begun in last century was coming to a head and he was at that head, sitting on an erupting boil of foulness beyond anything even his father or grandfather had conceived of.

  ‘Here come the boys,’ said the British colonel on Fouad’s left, and smiled assurance. ‘Your best and brightest, I’d say.’

  ‘The boys’ walked in four ranks of five down the hall with rhythmic step and young, stern faces. They were the first of what some were calling—offensively, in Fouad’s opinion—the Janissaries, after the Balkan Christian children who had been raised to serve Turkish masters under the Ottoman empire. All had been selected by BuDark case officers from an original roster of one hundred candidates. When Fouad had heard of the program that had brought these former orphans to the United States, he had not believed such things possible; now he knew their inevitability.

  The ranks of handsome and beardless brown faces approached to within ten feet, then paused with something less than military precision and mimicked the officers before them. Like him, they were officers in BuDark, ostensibly a non-military operation. They stood at parade rest. A few Adam’s apples bobbed. Eyes flicked.

  Fouad smiled briefly, then held a frozen expression he hoped conveyed neutral dignity. These men, he was told, would look up to him. He had seen combat; they had not. He spoke many languages. They knew two or at most three. He was blooded. He had killed. They had not. But their combat training exceeded his own. When they realized this, they would be tough to command, and Fouad was not looking forward to such a challenge, but there was no choice.

  The die was cast.

  Each of these young men had been brought from Iraq or Afghanistan during the Coalition War. They had been handselected from orphans found in various cities and in the countryside, adopted by serving military officers into their own families, and raised in special circumstances. They had been educated in schools in Virginia, Georgia, and California. They had earned the equivalent of high school diplomas and then bachelor degrees in many fields, but they had also received training at Fort Benning, with emphasis on special ops.

  An even more select few were still in training at elite Strategic Support bases in Turkey and when they were fielded one of them would likely replace Fouad. But for now, for the next five or six months, this team was his to work with. All part of a grand experiment.

  Fouad surmised they had an even chance of being sited in Iran to gather HUMINT, human intelligence. But they had an equal chance of being placed in one or two key positions in or around Mecca. He had already been briefed about that option.

  The young Muslim men darted their eyes across the line of solemn white faces and then—as predicted—focused on Fouad.

  ‘Welcome to Jordan,’ Fouad said. They nodded as one but did not express emotion, though their feelings must have been running high. This was the first time they had been close to their homelands in ten years or more. Then, in Arabic, Fouad added—equally for the benefit of the officers around him—’It is our duty to preserve and further the splendid and blessed culture of Islam in a time of cruel trial. God is great.’

  The young men echoed Allahu Akhbar.

  ‘Ultimately we serve no master but God and God willing, Islam will flourish in our modern world and with our help come to new order and power and achieve new heights. Our re-birth has begun.’

  This had been taught to them all in the foreign schools—that the greatest glory of Islam was imminent, that the West was not an enemy but an ally. These young men, these anti-Janissaries, did not blink or show any signs that they lacked conviction.

  The words tasted like gall in Fouad’s mouth. But he knew, as his father had known, that this was the only way.

  The rigid pale men at his sides who instructed and watched and judged were aware of the fragility. But their time had come, and these experimental weapons in the great cultural war had to be tested to prepare the way for later and even more important operations. Mistakes would be made. Let them be made now, that later they would not.

  Fouad Al-Husam finally knew the real names of BuDark.

  They were Savior.

  And Betrayer.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Private Home Maryland

  White House Chief of Staff Kelly Schein was a plump, homely woman in her late forties with goggling eyes and no chin and an abrupt way of speaking that rubbed much of the fur in the capital the wrong way. That did not matter much in the grand scheme. At the moment she was the second most powerful human being in the world, and still she was not happy.

  She walked up the brick steps to the long porch of the Buckler mansion and glanced over her shoulder at a procession of three very serious and alert Secret Service agents, followed by Hiram Newsome and Rebecca Rose, who joined her at the beautiful antique cherry front door. They were among the first to arrive to this peculiar and unexpected soirée.

  ‘I’m sure you’d all rather be at the White House,’ Schein said. ‘Unfortunately, it’s full of sneaky little bugs. We just found them last week. Nobody’s confessed to planting them, big surprise. They’re in the paint, for Christ’s sake—tiny little flat transducers. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Someone with a debriefer hidden in a magazine could walk in and collect a week’s worth of conversation. It’s playing hell with the President’s schedule.’ She looked up at Newsome. ‘I sure hope you didn’t know anything about this. Even for a giggle.’

  Some at headquarters had pointed to Schein as the most serious opponent in the White House to Hiram Newsome’s appointment.

  Newsome shook his head. ‘No ma’am. I don’t have much time to read paperbacks any more.’

  Schein gave him a second, dubious glance. ‘National Security Director is coming with the President. Your cast will assemble before the President gets here. You have half an hour.’ Schein slipped the key into the large door. ‘We move randomly from house to house in Georgetown for our most secure meetings. Isn’t partisan spirit grand?’

  ‘You’re blaming the previous administration?’ Newsome asked, his chin developing a few stubborn companions.

  Schein smiled, showing large, even teeth, and put on round glasses. ‘I doubt they were smart enough to know what was happening. Look at all the other messes they left behind for us to clean up.’

  Rebecca followed Newsome into the spacious living room. The house was quiet and a little chilly. Sh
e had pictured a meeting with the President in more formal, glamorous terms: the Oval Office or the Situation Room, stern generals burdened with tons of egg salad—or was it fruit salad? Decorations and campaign medals, anyway—a huge threat board—not a deserted mansion on a ten-acre estate, furnished with exquisite antiques.

  A large, striking painting in earth-tones, blues and greens, and gold—an original, she guessed—hung in the foyer above the stairs leading to the second floor. To Rebecca, the emaciated and thoroughly naked woman in the painting resembled a concentration camp victim. She looked at the artist’s signature in the corner, Klimt, and turned away with a shudder.

  Schein removed her coat and draped it over a high-backed chair. ‘I have five reservations for your party at this clambake,’ she said. ‘Besides you two. Four agents and one civilian, I understand.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Newsome said.

  ‘From all over the country,’ Schein said. ‘Some young, some old. I assume they’ve all pieced together bits of the puzzle.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Is that what FBI does best, put together puzzles?’ Schein asked with a straight face.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Newsome replied, his eyes heavy-lidded.

  ‘Why did the former director fire you, News?’ Schein asked as she tried out a large leather chair. She moved up and down and around as if establishing the height and comfort zone of someone taller. Newsome remained standing with his coat on, as if he might be asked to leave. He did not like her use of his nickname.

  ‘Last minute attempt to lighten the lifeboat, I presume,’ he answered.

  Schein smiled again, this time with genuine humor. ‘The President figured the most self-serving would quickly dump the most useful and dedicated. It looks as if she was right. You’re originally a Boston boy, but you moved to Virginia when you were thirteen, correct?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Schein looked at Rebecca. ‘You’re assigned to bioterror at Headquarters in Washington, DC, but you’ve spent a lot of time as an instructor at the Q, haven’t you?’

  ‘I have,’ Rebecca said. Outside, a big helicopter was landing on the lawn.

  ‘Did you know I wanted to be an agent, long ago?’ Schein asked.

  Rebecca raised her eyebrows. ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Washed out early. Bad eyes. And I can’t do a pull-up to save my life,’ Schein said. ‘Just wanted you to know, Agent Rose, that Senator Josephson doesn’t speak for all of us.’

  More Secret Service agents poured in through the front door. ‘Estate perimeter is secure,’ announced a tall fellow in a long black coat. He glanced at Rebecca. ‘Marine One is on the ground. Mrs. Schein, we’ve finished vetting the guest list. The others are waiting in the kitchen.’

  ‘Thank you, Ernest. Let’s get them in here and seated before the President arrives.’

  Folding chairs were spaced around the living room in a tight circle. Schein rose from the large leather chair and stood beside it.

  Through the back hallway marched Jane Rowland, Frank Chao, and a tall, gray, cadaverously thin gentleman Rebecca had not yet met in person. She assumed this was William’s contact, the world’s premier expert on yeast, Dr. Daniel Wheatstone, flown in yesterday from Oregon. William himself was still in Ohio, waiting for a flight out through stormy Cincinatti.

  They were guided to their chairs and followed Schein’s example, standing behind them. All looked nervous. Rowland was actually shivering. There had been no time to rehearse. They were going into this Agatha Christie moment absolutely cold.

  Ernest tapped his ear and turned to announce, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.’

  In person, Eve Carol Larsen was shorter than Rebecca had thought, but well-proportioned for her height of five-nine. She wore gray, as always, with a red blouse and a black opal pin, its stone mined, as she had told interviewers many times, by a wayward grandfather in Australia before World War 2. In the early eighties, Larsen had served for six years in the Air Force flying support aircraft, then had gone on to law school. After eight years working as counsel to various state agencies, she had been elected Attorney General for the state of Wisconsin, from which role she had moved on to become an effective governor. In politics, she had played extreme conservatives—mostly religious zealots—off against extreme liberals—mostly easy-target academic naïves—with razor wit and a manner of answering questions that Lou Dobbs had once described as ‘A look-’em-in-the-eye smile accompanied by a punch in the gut.’

  Rebecca had not voted for her but was now wondering why—the room was positively energized by her presence. Only after a few seconds did Rebecca see National Security Director Chuck Parsons and the director of Homeland Security, Walter Graham, both younger men—in their early forties.

  The President shook hands around the room, then paused before Hiram Newsome and pressed his hand between both of hers. ‘We need to find time for a heart-to-heart,’ she said, sharp gray eyes burrowing into his.

  ‘I look forward to that, Madam President,’ Hiram said.

  The President turned to Rebecca. ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘I hear the FBI has caught the bastard who mailed anthrax back in 2001. Your case, I understand.’

  ‘I wasn’t there, but my fellow agents are generously sharing credit,’ Rebecca said. ‘And it was Director Newsome’s initiative that kept us going.’

  ‘That’s part of our presentation today, Madam President,’ Hiram added. ‘We believe his activities continued until just recently.’

  Larsen took the large leather seat Schein had vacated. The rest of them sat in a circle around the President.

  ‘They’ve booted me out of my house. Isn’t that a bitch?’ the President said. ‘Let’s get started with Who. Then we’ll go to What, When, and Where. Special Agent Rose, you seem to be at the center. I’d like you to direct this show. Begin.’

  ‘Thank you, Madam President,’ Rebecca said. ‘Here’s the best information we have about our suspect. Agent Frank Chao is a chief analyst at the FBI Academy Crime Lab.’

  Chao bowed his head briefly. Larsen sized him up, then returned her gaze to Rebecca, unimpressed. Rebecca had testified before female prosecutors many times and recognized The Look.

  Chao began, ‘Madam President, blood evidence and saliva left behind in Arizona at the scene of a patrol officer’s murder—’

  ‘Hundreds of inkjet printers spilled all over the highway, right?’ the President asked.

  Chao nodded and folded his hands in his lap. ‘DNA taken from saliva on a glove, and additional DNA from a speck of blood, seemed to point to two male individuals, half-brothers with the same mother. I found no matches in CODIS-compliant files in any national criminal database, including NDIS-3—and so I searched DNA records obtained from truck drivers seeking permits to haul hazardous materials, as well as international customs records—and still, nothing. National insurance and medical databases provided to the agency after 10-4 also produced no matches.’

  Rebecca watched the President closely. Her face had taken on a stony look and she was drumming the fingers of one hand on the arm of the leather chair. Such violations of personal privacy had been a strong part of her campaign.

  ‘I had reached the end of my familiar resources,’ Chao said, ‘so I took a stab in the dark and scored an unusual hit—a marker profile in a statistical database used to speed matches for victims of mass terror. That database, of course, would not be usable in obtaining warrants or subpoenas, so we requested access to the actual 9-11 Memorial Park DNA records…’

  ‘Goddamn it,’ the President said. ‘Did they give them to you without a subpoena?’

  Chao looked thunderstruck. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Go on,’ the President said, leaning back in the leather chair.

  ‘We were refused, perhaps rightly,’ Chao said. ‘However, I found duplicates of the Memorial Park records retained by a company that had once analyzed DNA for the New York medical examiner. That company had sin
ce gone bankrupt. All of its assets, including these records, were in the process of being acquired—in a secret deal—by the Church of Latter Day Saints, and as it happened, were kept on a server that was less than secure. We gained access on a federal warrant and found the actual DNA analysis of the relative’s donated sample. This record was still not quite a match—but it was obvious we had a blood relation of someone who had died in that tragedy. Following one of Agent Rose’s excellent hunches, we then compared the crime scene DNA and the 9-11 donated record with DNA already on file with the FBI—from police departments, military service medical histories, and so on.’

  The President had stopped drumming her fingers.

  Chao put on a stubborn look. ‘It is our job to find dangerous criminals. Would you have it any other way?’

  ‘Move on, Frank,’ Hiram said.

  ‘Law enforcement officers donate tissue samples that we use to rule out contamination of crime scenes—typically, buccal cells—cheek cells. Through patient search of FBI internal records, we found a match—logically, to the halfbrother of an FBI agent named Lawrence Winter.’

  ‘So you questioned Winter,’ Schein said.

  ‘Special Agent Winter has been missing for almost five years,’ Chao said. ‘He vanished while working undercover in the Pacific northwest. Telomere, viral RT, and epigenetic analysis told us that Winter’s half-brother would have to be the same age as he is—a difficulty, since there are no records of his having had a brother and since, in theory, half-brothers cannot be twins. They cannot be born to the same mother at the same time.’

  The President and Schein looked lost, trying to work through the implications.

  ‘Tragically, Special Agent Winter had suffered a loss in the September 11 attacks. His wife and his daughter had apparently been killed by falling debris outside the World Trade Center. Their remains were never found. Winter did have a sister. Her name was Connie Winter Richards and she was an employee of the state of Washington. She and her father—Winter’s father—were murdered on 10-4, along with twenty-two hundred others, as they were riding a ferry in Puget Sound. Their bodies were identified by the mother, who died the next year from an overdose of sleeping pills.’