by Tom Clancy
He’d then reversed his course, climbing back through the fissure and then up the crevice and hiked back to the Highlander, where he’d called Grimsdottir and had her conference in Lambert.
“Remember Peter’s words, ‘Red . . . tri . . . my . . . cota’?” Fisher asked.
“I remember,” Lambert said.
“It’s just a gut feeling on my part, but I think it’s a biological reference. A fungus of some kind, I’m guessing.” He explained what he’d found in the cave. “And I’m willing to bet this stuff—whatever it is—is what’s inside the canister I found aboard Wondrash’s plane.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Grimsdottir said. Fisher could hear her tapping her keyboard. “We’ve got a compiled biological database here somewhere . . .” she muttered. “Yeah, here it is . . . Okay, I’m doing a fuzzy search using those key words. Hang on . . .” Thirty seconds later she was back. “Whoa, give that man a gold star.”
“What?” Lambert asked.
“It’s called Chytridiomycota—tri . . . my . . . cota. Peter was close; he had most of it, right down to the color, with just a few letters transposed. Chytridiomycota is a kind of fungus. Comes from the Greek chytridion, which means ‘little pot’—or a structure that contains dormant spores. Approximately a thousand species in a hundred twenty or so genera, distributed among—”
“Bottom line it, Grim,” Lambert said. “What is it?”
“A fungus. A motile, spore-producing fungus.”
“And it does what?”
“Specifically? I don’t know. That’s over my head,” Grimsdottir replied. “According to what’s in front of me, there are about seventy thousand known species of fungi in the world, but that’s estimated to be only about five percent of what’s likely out there. So, we’re talking about maybe two million species of fungi—most of which we haven’t even found.”
“Give me a comparison,” Fisher said.
“Birds: five thousand species in the world. Insects: There are about nine hundred thousand different types. Compared to those, they know nothing—absolutely nothing—about fungi or what they can do. In fact, I just read a CDC report last month: Fungal-based diseases are on the rise, and a lot of the medical community think it’s the next big, bad epidemiological nightmare.”
“Christ,” said Lambert.
The scourge of Manas, Fisher thought.
THE second half of the meeting picked up where it had left off: an argument between the biologists over what exactly Chytridiomycota was, its classification, its cellular makeup, and so on. Fisher noticed one of the biologists, a woman named Shirley Russo from the CMLS, wasn’t partaking in the debate but rather jotting notes, grimacing, and shaking her head.
As had most of Washington’s elite, Fisher had heard of Russo. The sole heiress to an old-money Connecticut family fortune, Russo had broken the mold and instead of letting herself ease into the role of überrich benefactor-socialite, had at the age of fifty gotten her Ph.D. in biology. Rumor had it she donated every penny of her salary to the International Dragon Boat League, which sponsored fund-raising dragon boat races for breast cancer survivors. Looking at her slim frame, Fisher guessed Russo had spent a fair amount of time at the oars herself.
He caught Lambert’s gaze and gestured with his eyes toward Russo.
Lambert broke in. “Dr. Russo, you look like you have something to say.”
Russo looked up from her pad and cleared her throat. “I have a theory,” she said.
“A fringe theory,” one of her fellow biologists said.
The DCI gave him a hard stare. “Why don’t you let us worry about that. Dr. Russo.”
She hesitated, then said, “One of the areas I study is called petro-parasitology. I think this fungus you—or whoever—found is a petro-parasitic organism. I agree with the others: I think it belongs to Chytridiomycota, but that’s like saying birds and bees are alike because they both have wings.”
“Petro-parasitic,” Lambert said. “I assume that means what I think it means?”
Russo nodded. “That it eats petroleum-based substances? Yes, that’s exactly what it does.”
Fisher and Lambert exchanged worried looks.
The other biologists began talking, arguing back and forth across the table. Russo simply folded her hands on her legal pad and waited. The DCI brought the meeting back under control and then said to Russo, “Go on, Doctor.”
“The problem is,” she said, “that we’ve never seen a fungi that does this. Technically, there’s no reason why it couldn’t exist. There are enzymes we use to clean up oil spills all the time. They feed on the oil, neutralize it, then die and degrade and become part of the food chain.”
“But you’re not talking about that, are you?” said Lambert.
“No. I’m talking about a self-sustaining organism that feeds on petroleum-based substances—from crude oil, to kerosene, to the gas we put in our cars—then replicates and spreads, just like a fungal colony would. See, the thing about fungus is that it’s hearty, tenacious stuff. It’s hard to kill and harder still to make sure you’ve killed it all. It can lie dormant for years—for millennia—then just flip itself back on and pick up where it left off.”
“Okay,” the DCI said, “clearly the rest of you have concerns about Dr. Russo’s theory. Am I correct?” There were emphatic nods around the table. “But let me ask you this—and I want to hear it straight—is her theory plausible? Could there be something to it?”
No one responded.
“Goddamn it,” the DCI barked. “I don’t care about your egos, or your funding woes, or whether a theory is mainstream or fringe. If anyone at this table either doesn’t believe Dr. Russo’s theory is plausible or has a better theory, speak up right now, or I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your careers counting fly turds.”
Again, none of the scientists responded. Some looked at their hands; others shifted nervously in their seats. The DCI looked at each one in turn. “No? No one?” He turned to Russo again. “Doctor, I assume you have some ideas how we can confirm or refute whether this stuff is . . . What did you call it?”
“Petro-parasitic.”
“Right.”
Russo thought for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll have an answer for you in the morning.”
THE DCI thanked and excused the group, save Fisher, Lambert, the DOE undersecretary, and the scientist from the High Energy Physics division, a tall, balding man with thick, wiry eyebrows named Weldon Shoals.
“There’s another component to this issue we need to discuss,” the DCI said. “I know everyone here has top secret and above clearance, but I’ll remind you that whatever we discuss stays here.”
The undersecretary and Shoals nodded.
The DCI turned to Lambert. “Irv, if you would.”
Lambert spent the next ten minutes outlining what they knew and what they suspected about PuH-19. He left out any mention of Peter, Calvin Stewart, Bolot Omurbai, or the North Koreans. Top secret clearances or not, these men didn’t have the need to know.
“The question we have,” the DCI said, “is what could someone with technical know-how do with this fungus, some PuH-19, and a linear particle accelerator?”
“You mean, could they create a giant fungus monster, or some kind of cancer supercure?” Shoals said, straight-faced.
Fisher chuckled. The DCI, hiding his own smile, replied, “No, what I’m asking is could the fungus’s characteristics be enhanced—altered.”
“In other words, mutated?” Shoals asked.
“Yes.”
“Absolutely. Mutation has gotten a bad rap. Hollywood horror directors have made it a boogie word, but mutation is just another way of saying ‘change.’
“But if I understand you correctly, what you want to know is, could someone, using PuH-19, a linear accelerator, and some high-energy physics principles, turn Dr. Russo’s strain of Chytridiomycota—a theory I believe has real credibility, by the way—into something worse than it might otherwise b
e? Something that not only eats oil but uses it for fuel, then replicates and spreads like a plague?”
The DCI nodded.
“The answer is yes. Without a doubt. See, the trick is, you don’t shoot radioactive junk at something and it suddenly mutates into whatever you want it to be. It’s not alchemy. It would take years of trial and error to find the right balance—the right recipe that gives you what you want.
“Most man-made mutations—both bad and good—are discovered by accident. So, back to the essence of your question: Could these notional someones you’re talking about have come up with the right combination of ingredients to create a weaponized, petro-parasitic fungus? Again, I’m sorry to say, the answer is yes.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Lambert said.
“And it gets worse,” Shoals said. “If in fact something like this überfungus existed, the only sure way to kill it or stop it would be to have access to the process that created it. Without that, you’re just stumbling around in the dark, hoping you find the right recipe to shut the thing off. And, if by some miracle, you found it, would it be too late?”
35
THIRD ECHELON SITUATION ROOM
“AND I tell you, as surely as Allah’s will binds us all, the modern world and the disease of technology cleaves us from all that is holy. It is a pervasive evil, one that infects every person and every culture it touches. Above all others, this is the greatest danger to Islam—”
Fisher pressed the remote’s REWIND button and watched for the third time Bolot Omurbai’s latest speech. He paused it, Omurbai’s face filling the screen.
“That’s what you’ve got in mind, don’t you?” Fisher murmured.
Unable to sleep, he’d driven to Fort Meade at three a.m., signed in with the duty officer, and then gone to the situation room and made coffee. Two hours and four cups later, he’d reviewed all the speeches Omurbai had given since beginning his second reign as Kyrgyzstan’s president.
“Technology cleaves us from all that is holy . . .”
“A pervasive evil . . .”
“Infects every person and every culture . . .”
Omurbai was insane, that much seemed clear, but however irrational his thoughts, his reasoning was well-ordered: The modern world is evil; technology is an infectious agent—it is the greatest enemy of Islam.
And what, Fisher thought, is the essence of the modern world? Of technology? What is the engine behind it all? Answer: oil, and everything that flows from it. A plus B equals C. Oil is the enemy of Islam; oil itself must be destroyed.
The scourge of Manas.
And where better to launch the opening salvo in his war but beneath his own country, which shares one of the world’s greatest untapped reservoirs of oil? Conservatively, the fields beneath Central Asia were estimated to contain 300 billion barrels—a third of a trillion—of recoverable oil.
It was a mind-boggling number, Fisher admitted, and without the Chytridiomycota (or, as Fisher and Lambert had started calling it, Manas), Omurbai would have as much luck destroying the fields as he would trying to knock the air from the sky. But now . . .
He laid the remote aside, sat back, and rubbed his temples. How had all this started? With one man, his brother, dead. It seemed surreal, the twisting course he’d followed to this point, and somewhere along the way Peter’s death had been pushed into the background. Despite what his instincts had told him, Fisher had hoped, in some small part of his mind, that Peter’s death would turn out to be a simple—if that word could be used—murder. Faced with that, Fisher would have simply tracked down those responsible and seen them either dead or locked up. Done. But it had turned out to be anything but a simple, thoughtless murder, hadn’t it?
Instead, here he was, sitting alone in the dark and staring at the face of a madman who planned to let loose a plague that could in one fell swoop turn the planet back to the Stone Age.
FISHER awoke to a hand shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw Lambert standing beside his chair. “Morning,” Lambert said. “How long have you been here?”
“What time is it?”
“Six.”
“A few hours. Couldn’t sleep.”
“Join the club.” Lambert nodded at Omurbai’s frozen face on the screen. “Not a good image to have in your head when trying to nod off.”
Fisher took a sip from his coffee cup; it was cold. “You know what he’s got planned, don’t you, Lamb?”
Lambert nodded and sat down in the next chair. “There are still a lot of ifs. We don’t even know if that stuff is what we think it is. Or if they’ve managed to enhance it. That’s what they needed Stewart for. Something wasn’t working, something they couldn’t get right. The question is, did they fix it?”
“Good question. I’ve also been thinking about Carmen Hayes,” Fisher said. “She’s gotten lost in all this.”
“And Peter.”
“Him, too. But at least now we know why they grabbed her in the first place.”
The biggest hurdle Omurbai and the North Koreans would have with Manas was deployment: how to introduce it where it would have the biggest impact and spread the quickest. Fisher assumed they’d long ago broken Carmen down and that she’d been cooperating. She’d been gone four months—plenty of time to study the subterranean rivers and streams beneath Kyrgyzstan and its neighboring countries, then map the points where they intersected the oil fields and tell Omurbai exactly where to drop Manas.
Like a virus in the bloodstream, Fisher thought.
“You have any thoughts on the North Koreans?” he asked Lambert.
“I do. There are three reasons for them getting involved, I think: one, a sword to hang over our heads; two, a preemptive move for an invasion of South Korea.”
“And the third?”
“Kim Jong-il is nuts, and he just feels like wreaking havoc.”
“I’ve got a fourth scenario,” Fisher said. “It’s a little bit out there, but it may fit.”
“Tell me.”
“North Korea’s found its own oil reserves, but as long as they’re a pariah, they’ve got no chance to exploit them. Then along comes Omurbai. Somehow, somewhere, he’s gotten ahold of this very interesting fungus that does a very interesting thing: It eats oil, which just happens to be the devil’s own invention. He wants to use the fungus, but as long as he’s an outcast from his homeland, he can’t.
“So the North Koreans help him retake Kyrgyzstan, which happens to sit smack-dab on top of one of the world’s greatest deposits, then sit back and watch as Omurbai releases Manas and destroys three hundred billion barrels of untapped oil. The world panics. North Korea announces it just happens to have found its own reserves.”
Lambert considered this for a few moments, then said with a grim smile, “Any other country or leader, and I’d say that’s an exceedingly implausible scenario. Well, since we’re playing doom-and-gloom, try this: North Korea watches Omurbai release Manas in Central Asia, then they secretly do the same elsewhere—in the Middle East, in Africa, in Russia—but North Korea’s fields remain untouched. Omurbai gets the blame, and suddenly they’ve got the only surviving oil source on the planet.”
Fisher caught on, finishing the scenario. “Because, while they were working on Manas, they also found a neutralizing agent for it.”
“You got it.”
Fisher squeezed the bridge of his nose between his index finger and his thumb. “And right now, we’ve got nothing. No leads, no clues, no idea where Manas is—nothing.”
Lambert gave him a weary smile, then stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sam, we’ve had less than that before and still come through the other side.”
REDDING arrived twenty minutes later, poured himself a cup of coffee, and joined them at the table. “Who wants to know how Omurbai probably found out about Chytridiomycota?”
Fisher raised a weary finger.
“Remember Oziri, Wondrash’s man Friday?”
Fisher and Lam
bert nodded.
“Well, Grim asked me to do a little genealogy detective work. Here’s the short version: Oziri was the grandfather of Samet, Omurbai’s right-hand man and second-in-command of the KRLA. My guess, Oziri knew what Wondrash was looking for and had bragged or blabbed to a family member before they headed to Africa.”
“Which means Wondrash had had some inkling of what Chytridiomycota was capable of even before he found the source,” Fisher said.
Redding nodded. “That’s part two. Quantico was able to restore most of Wondrash’s journal you found aboard the Sunstar. He doesn’t describe how they found the cave in the first place, or how he got onto the trail of the fungus in the first place, but he talks about the night they spent inside there. Evidently, some of the stuff must have rubbed off on their gear. The next morning they woke up, and everything made of rubber or plastic had dissolved.”
A few minutes later, Lambert’s cell phone trilled. He picked it up, listened for a moment, said thanks, and disconnected. He walked to the nearest computer workstation, tapped a few keys, and one of the monitors glowed to life. The DCI’s face filled the screen.
“Morning,” he said. “I’ve got Dr. Russo’s report in front of me. She’s confident that Chytridiomycota is a type of petro-parasite.”
Lambert told the DCI about Wondrash’s journal and Omurbai’s link to Oziri.
“Then I’d say that’s proof enough,” the DCI replied. “Russo also sent along a computer simulation. Worst-case scenario. I asked her to make some assumptions—namely that Manas has been enhanced for longevity and reproduction. Take a look.”