by C. G. Cooper
The president held up his hand. “Make sure you have the clause in there about throwing him in Guantanamo Bay if he screws up.”
Stilted laughter—from the two cabinet members.
Stone signed where he was instructed and handed the binder back to Umberland, who took it and flipped it closed with a thick sound.
“We’ll have some documents delivered to you in the next couple of days. All the need-to-know stuff, a timeline, etcetera.” Umberland held out his hand. “Great to have you aboard, Professor. Thank you.”
“Thank you for coming, Professor,” said President Teller. “By the way, your predecessor, Jeremy Sholes? Helluva guy. You got some big shoes to fill there. But I know you can do it.”
The three men rose from the couch.
“Mrs. Warren will show you out,” said Teller.
Stone turned and saw the kindly secretary waiting for him by the door. He hadn’t heard her enter.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Stone said. “It was an honor to meet you.”
It was another phrase from his lifelong script. Not exactly in the context he’d imagined.
3
Knight sat in the interview room with his hands clasped on the table in front of him. He saw his reflection in the large one-way glass window; rough, unshaved, and unwashed. He’d been sitting alone for hours. A young police officer had brought him a paper cup of water what seemed like an hour ago. The cup was dry, he had to pee, and not a soul had entered since he was delivered to this room.
Until now, when Special Agent Childs entered with a uniformed police officer and sat down in the chair opposite Knight. The uniformed officer remained standing at the door.
Childs interlocked his fingers and leaned against his elbows on the table. “First of all, before we begin, is there anything we can get you? Water? Soda?”
“I would like to use the restroom.”
Childs nodded to the officer at the door. “We can arrange for someone to escort you.”
The officer opened the door and mumbled something to the guard outside.
Knight swung around, then back to Childs. “He can’t do it?”
Childs smiled amiably. “He’s my guy. Someone will be around in a second. So, what’s going on?”
“You tell me.”
“I think you know what’s going on. You’ve been read your rights. That doesn’t mean you’re guilty. It’s just informing you of your rights.”
“But you think I’m guilty.”
“It’s not a question of what I think. It’s what the evidence shows me. And I’m seeing a guy maybe caught up in something that he had no control over.”
Knight sat back in the chair and smiled. Childs was fishing. As far as Knight was concerned, this was a straight road to checkmate.
Childs returned the grin. “What are you smiling about?”
“Call it an inside joke.”
“I’d like to talk to you for a little bit, though. OK?”
Knight continued to smile, enjoying the verbal cat and mouse.
“OK,” Childs said calmly, staring him directly in the eyes. “First, however, I want you to listen for a second. Now, based on your highly sensitive work--and I think you and I both know what that means—it should come as no surprise that you were being monitored.”
The words twisted Knight’s stomach.
“There was a girl who lived with you. Kristin?”
Knight’s mouth went dry.
“She told us quite a tale. And of course, the official charter for your laboratory states that you are engaged in cell protein research. The problem is, Alex, we couldn’t find any information connected with that sort of work anywhere in your laboratory. And that’s an issue.”
Childs’s voice turned sympathetic in a way that made Knight’s skin crawl. “Now, I realize that a guy like you, young, motivated, isolated by his work, misunderstood by his peers—a guy like that, any guy in that situation might find himself in a position to test his authority. Maybe overstep it a little bit. I get that. I happen to be a special agent, but I have superiors who boss me around. Sometimes I wish I could just go ahead and make my own rules. You know? Flip them the bird,” he said, miming the gesture, “and say, ‘Listen, guys, I can do what I want around here. I can do a job that I know I’m worth doing, rather than doing the job you need me to do just because you have the power to control my life.’ You know what I’m sayin’?”
“Sure,” Knight said coolly.
“We have guys who are pretty well-versed in what you do. They tell me there is some seriously good encryption on that server you’re using. And they also tell me it’s a very well-equipped lab. In fact, they say it’s probably a bit too well-equipped, you know what I mean?” His eyes bore into Knight. “You see, Alex, we have guys who are expert cryptographers. These are the best guys in the country. I’m gonna go ahead and make the leap and say they’re the best in the world. Now, I could go ahead and get a warrant to search your computer, but something tells me you wouldn’t want that. So, we can talk about what’s on that server now, and save us a little time.”
Knight weighed his options. Maybe if he came clean now, told Childs all about the stem cell work, the cloning process, he could make a bargain, minimize the jail time he’d get from a judge, or avoid jail altogether. Maybe he could walk away from the whole mess and get a new job, something petty in a real hospital.
But then there was the work he had been doing.
It was worth the ulcer he was getting, the paranoia and the secrecy, and all the urgency of not getting caught. It was all worth it.
And there wasn’t much of a choice, at least in his book.
“I’d like a lawyer,” he said.
“Then we’re done here,” Childs said flatly, the sympathetic, friendly facade melting like snow on fire.
4
Wilhelmina Jones hated her name. No one in her cyber group called her that. Online she was just Mina. She’d been given the name by her main collaborator in tech skullduggery, Benji Johar, who was a Dracula fan, had named her after the novel’s female protagonist. Like her namesake, Mina Jones was a level-headed huntress, fierce and unyielding.
She’d met Benji in the forums. The two had exchanged barbs over a slight disagreement over the methods used in a recent DDoS another user had bragged about. Soon after, she hacked into the Mumbai telephone company and increased Benji’s phone bill by several hundred thousand rupees. It had been a playful prank, which Mina apologized for by removing Benji Johar from the billing system altogether. He hadn’t received a bill from the telephone company in almost two years. For this, he gave her a nickname as well as his undying allegiance in all things hacking. It was a relationship based on mutually-assured destruction: each possessed the same level of skill and knowledge in computer systems and networks as well as the same outlandish, mischievous nature. They were firm friends sharing a rudimentary and perverted form of trust, one that only hackers of their caliber—and heads of nuclear nations—could understand fully.
She sat on a park bench in the Californian sunshine, her laptop tapped into a nearby Wi-Fi signal. She was waiting for her friend to log on. Benji was late as usual.
Finally, the video chat box popped open. Benji’s youthful features appeared, smiling.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she said. “Nice!”
She was referring to his new glasses—round-rimmed in the John Lennon style. He beamed back at her. He had a charming smile.
“So, did you hear the news?” He could barely contain himself.
“What news?”
“The FBI raided that lab,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “I had a data crawler out and it came back to me the moment the FBI frequencies mentioned the raid. So I hacked the security cameras and watched the whole thing live. You want a copy?”
He gave her a virtual high-five. “I didn’t expect them to act so quickly.”
Mina shrugged. “Me neither. I didn’t think the FBI was
that interested in illegal stem cell research. So, what do you want to do today? Find anything interesting?”
“I thought maybe we could find a nuclear waste repository and send their data to Greenpeace.”
She leaned forward in a mischievous laugh. “Perfect! Hang on.” Her fingers danced over the keyboard. “Here we go. Finland. No one gives a shit about Finland. What do you think of this one?”
“Damn, you’re quick.”
“I have my filter set for whoever has the heaviest encryption. The largest data stores usually get my attention.”
“There probably isn’t anything interesting hidden behind all that security,” he said.
“Oh, not at all,” she agreed, sending the links to him.
“Is that how you found the stem cell lab?”
“Yup. That idiot locked everything down so tight, it might as well have had a neon sign on it saying ‘hack me.’”
“You’re too funny,” he said.
“That shit is like a red cape to a bull.”
“And you’re the bull in this case?”
“Yup.”
“And you charged,” he laughed.
She shared his laughter. “Oh, I did.”
They gave each other another cyber high-five.
“So,” she said, “you want to get started on this nuclear thing?”
“It sounds... OK.”
“Just OK?”
“I was just looking over the links you sent me. Why don’t we do a bank or something?”
“Banks are too easy. So many customers, too many ways in. And it makes more of a commotion. I just like stirring shit up, not causing a panic.” Mina leaned in toward the camera, lips twitching into a smirk. “And I love watching them run around trying to cover it up.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “This is why I adore you.”
“You ready?” she asked.
“I’m already in,” he said, looking up and smiling.
“Hey, I didn’t say, ‘One, two, three, go.’” Mina laughed and started attacking a string of security code. Benji was in first. “Damn, Benji, you say I’m fast.”
“You snooze, you lose.”
“Keep going, smartass. We’ll see who grabs the data first.”
Wilhelmina Jones got to work on her latest hack, dodging firewalls and creating wormholes, just for the fun of it. Life was good.
5
Professor Stone dropped his briefcase on the hall table and walked through to the kitchen. He switched on the small television then searched the cedar rack for an appropriate bottle of wine.
The story at the top of the news was the continuing riots in Central America with Costa Rica, specifically San Jose, as the latest flashpoint. People were roaming the cities in seemingly uncoordinated, mindless mobs. The news footage showed bandana-covered vandals throwing bricks through windows and setting fire to cars.
“Savages,” Stone muttered.
The “Panamanian Flu pandemic,” as the media was fond of terming it, was sweeping through Central America, tearing a swathe through the population. Law and order crumbled at the foundation as terrified citizens scrambled for food and medicine. Medical services were the first to fail and then went the police.
But that didn’t mean they had to act like animals.
The reporter spoke in cold tones.
“Chuck, it seems to be utter chaos here. As you can see behind me, shop owners have pulled down their shutters. And people are demanding intervention as the massive death toll from the pandemic continues to rise steadily.”
“Looks terrible, Brian. Tell us, does there seem to be any attempt to control the situation?”
There was a pause from the satellite delay. “I can’t say yet, Chuck. As of now, it seems only the military authority is able to cope. And we have it on good word that this could be absolutely devastating for Costa Rica’s economy. It could be permanently, irrevocably damaged.”
“Well, that certainly is shocking. Brian, keep safe.”
“Thanks, Chuck.”
“And we’ll continue to keep our viewers updated as the story continues to unfold. We’re getting confirmation now that the government of Costa Rica has enacted emergency powers legislation, allowing the military to take over many civilian duties. One of the most time-consuming of these is, of course, the collection and disposal of the dead.” Chuck’s voice remained monotone despite the grisly nature of the news. “Costa Rican military sources are reporting that, due to rioting, the civilian government is, in fact, being relocated, and has now taken refuge behind a wall of soldiers. We’re expecting word from the Costa Rican president, presumably just as soon as he is in place. Right now, authorities are urging citizens to try and remain calm. Coming up,” he previewed, voice turning pleasant, “a surprising tip from our in-house home improvement expert could save you a lot of cash...”
Professor Stone selected a 2003 Chablis. He was exhausted and crestfallen. His first time meeting the president, and what did he get from his meeting? That he was expected to stand up to a hysterical group of loud-mouthed parents with nothing better to do than find conspiracies in stupid places. A six-month study to tell parents that vaccines were safe? They had been told. It was all too ridiculous.
He poured a glass and swirled, sniffed the bouquet, and took a sip, letting the crisp, chilled wine roll over his tongue.
His cell phone rang. A pang in his stomach. He looked at his watch. Eight-thirty: too late to talk shop. He’d done his dirt for the day. He gave the glass another swirl.
The cell phone stopped ringing, but only momentarily. It started up again and he sighed, placing his glass carefully on the counter.
“Yes?”
“More bad news,” said Rita, his secretary.
“Oh, goody.”
“The FBI called.”
“Really?”
“They wanted to inform you that a lab in the metro area was raided today and shut down. For illegal stem cell research.”
“And I suppose Brubacher wants a report.” He winced. Uttering the name of the Secretary of Health near a glass of Chablis was like cursing in church.
“He does. Immediately.”
Stone sighed. “Goody again.”
“They want you to issue a media response. The team has one already drafted, but they need your sign-off... and they need you to deliver it on camera. And they might need you to assist the police.” Rita sounded like she was delivering bad news to a mafia don. “A car’s on its way. Please don’t hate me?”
As if on cue, there came a knock at the door.
Stone looked at the television and sighed. All he wanted to do was put his feet up and watch mindless television as he polished off a good bottle of wine.
Another knock at the door.
He picked up his glass and held it up to the light. A beautiful, pale straw color. A terrific vintage. He brought the glass to his nose and sampled the aroma again, inhaling deeply.
A third knock
“I’m coming,” Stone said, placing the glass down next to the open bottle. He resealed the bottle with an airtight lock and placed it back in the chiller.
Ruining a date with a bottle of Chablis was a crime against humanity.
He switched off the television and walked out, lifting his briefcase from the hall table on his way to the door. He opened it and was assaulted by a flood of white from the car’s headlights. Shielding his eyes with his elbow, he could see a driver standing next to a black Lincoln staff car, the back door open.
So much for a peaceful night.
At the head offices of the NIH, only an occasional security guard or cleaning staffer haunted halls that usually bustled with health department administrators and academics. Stone took the elevator up to his office, the glass-sided elevator car giving him a view across the darkened and deserted reception area that took up the entire ground floor of the modern building.
The message light on his desk phone flashed. He sat on the desk, pulled the phone to him,
picked it up, and listened to the message.
“Professor Stone, Armand Heller, Secretary of Health and Human Services calling. There is an urgent matter we need to discuss. Please call me back immediately.”
Stone’s finger hovered over the speed dial button. No doubt, this was about that guy busted over the stem cell thing. They were going to make an example out of the poor schmuck.
This was politics at its sharpest. David Stone was good at politics.
He was also good at saving his own ass.
If he could throw this wayward scientist to the dogs and save himself, he would, without hesitation or remorse. He liked his job and his position. The work was fulfilling. Life was comfortable. He’d worked his ass off to get to a position where he could attend meetings and dinners, be the big man at the table, and then go home to enjoy a good bottle of wine when he cared to.
He dropped the receiver back into its cradle, then went to his chair and unlocked the bottom drawer in his desk. He took out an old cell phone, nothing but a keypad and small screen. He typed a number in. It rang once.
“Yes.”
“A laboratory closed by the FBI,” Stone said into the phone. “Have you heard about it?”
There was a pause on the line and the sound of breathing. “Dr. Alex Knight.”
“Right.”
Another pause. “Need him decommissioned?”
These euphemisms always made him smile ironically. He clicked his tongue in his cheek and thought of the manner in which this gifted doctor might wind up dead. But he despised waste; he might have a use for this Dr. Knight. He had nothing against stem cell research personally.
“No,” he said after a moment. “I want you to clean up the lab.” He relaxed into his large executive chair. “The doctor is going to be released, I assure you. Leave him to me.”
The cell phone went dead. Stone leaned back in his chair for a moment, his fingers tented before him, his job security ensured by the terse conversation. He leaned forward against the desk and snapped the cell phone open, removing the card from inside. He pressed it against the side of the desk, using a little force on either end to snap it. The broken pieces went into his pocket to dispose of—far away from here. He dropped the cell phone back into the drawer and slid the drawer shut. It locked automatically with a snap.