Deadly Additive

by Donn Taylor

  “No one ever explained it. The bleeding sounds like Ebola virus, but that wasn’t around in the seventies. Besides, it isn’t quick enough. Whatever the Soviets used was almost instant.”

  “You said this happened in other places, too?”

  “In the sixties in Yemen and the eighties in Afghanistan. The stories were similar.”

  “Then why haven’t people heard about it?”

  “As a journalist, you ought to know. Things certain people don’t want to hear don’t get reported. At best, they get reported once and dropped.”

  “That’s a cynical thing to say.”

  Sledge shrugged. “It happens to be true. If a fact doesn’t fit someone’s idea of what ought to be true, it doesn’t exist. Remember what you said about Chozadolor? The reporters assumed the paramilitaries were guilty, so they didn’t ask. What I’m leading up to is that we have to show these photos to the CIA. They’re too important to hold back.”

  Kristin met his gaze. “I’m not giving up my story, and I’m not letting go of my pictures. The First Amendment—”

  Sledge rolled his eyes. “OK, you have constitutional rights. Now answer me this: What are you going to do about the factory we saw?”

  “Someone will do something about it when I publish my story.” Even to herself she didn’t sound convincing.

  Sledge leaned against the table, his hands grasping and re-grasping its edges. “When you publish your story, everything in that factory will disappear within two days. Investigators will find an empty building. You’ll have a story that can’t be confirmed. Your word and mine won’t convince anyone. Without corroborating evidence about the factory, everything else will be called into question.”

  “But the photographs—”

  “Prove that someone killed twenty men with something that looks like chemical agents. Everything else hangs on your word and mine.”

  The hard, hot brick took residence in Kristin’s stomach again. This time it felt like the cornerstone to the Washington Monument. She remembered the trouble she’d had convincing her editors about small, non-controversial details. She was still a junior reporter, and she’d received this chance only because Steve Spinner pressured her editors. They didn’t expect her to come up with much, and what she’d found directly contradicted the “conventional wisdom” about Chozadolor. At best, then, she was facing an uphill battle.

  She met Sledge’s gaze. “I’m not giving up my story, but I’m willing to listen.”

  “No one can keep you from printing your story,” he said. “Hang on to your memory card and get your magazine behind you.”

  “What else? You said something about the factory.”

  “It has to be investigated and taken out. You and I can’t do that. I doubt that even the Colombian army has the capability. They’d need chemical suits, special equipment, and special training. Otherwise, they’d wind up like those bodies in the field. So we have to get our information and copies of your photos—hard-copy prints—to the CIA.”

  Kristin said nothing, and Sledge continued. “We saw a planeload of that stuff go out to heaven knows where. We don’t know how many loads have gone before, and we don’t know who’s behind the operation. It’s certain that Diego Contreras couldn’t have put this thing together on his own. We also don’t know why Contreras decided to use his product on his own countrymen. There’s too much we don’t know. That means we’d better put our information in the hands of experts.”

  Kristin gave in with a sigh. “So we go to the American embassy and ask for the CIA?”

  “They’d give us the routine treatment for walk-ins—have us screened by a junior State Department type. If we convinced him, he’d have to convince the CIA Chief of Station that we’re worth fooling with. Then they’d assign us to a case officer, and we’d have to convince him. We could get tied up for a week.”

  “Do you know a better way?”

  “Go in at the top level where someone can make a decision. The man who can do that is a retired CIA agent named Roger Brinkman. He’s old as the Andes and must know half the people in the world. What’s more, he gets favors from them. Steve Spinner paid for your rescue, but Brinkman’s contacts made it possible. When he phones the CIA, the director listens. If he doesn’t, a dozen senators will call him to ask why.”

  “How do we contact Brinkman?”

  “We start with a phone call. Then we’ll use encrypted e-mail for a bare-bones report, but we won’t e-mail the photos. The Internet is too open for that. Brinkman will cut through the bureaucracy and get us to the right people—probably soon after we arrive in the States. We’ll need a set of prints for that meeting and one to express-mail to Brinkman.”

  Kristin felt gloom settling in. “Then I can kiss my story good-bye.”

  “You’ll still have your story. The most they can ask is to delay publication until they take action against the factory. Then you’ll have an even bigger story.”

  Kristin’s gloom dissipated like fog on a clear summer’s day. “I’d better get started on those prints.”

  Sledge pushed away from the table. “First, let’s see if Ramón will lend us his communications.”

  They found Ramón sitting with Elena in the outer office. “...running off to Chozadolor,” he was saying. “Dear one, do you have no sense at all?”

  She showed him a charming smile. “Absolutely none. That’s why I married you, mi corazon.”

  Thus bested, Ramón seemed happy to withdraw and help Sledge contact Roger Brinkman. Kristin hoped the older man was as good as Sledge claimed.

  She sat beside Elena. “I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

  Elena giggled. “Don’t tell my husband, but I was scared out of my wits the whole time we were gone. Now I am going to be very domestic for a very long time.”

  They fell silent. Elena closed her eyes and appeared to sleep, while Kristin brooded over her upcoming encounter with Roger Brinkman and the CIA. She’d be entering a strange world where she didn’t know who to trust. Afterwards, she had to face her own skeptical editors.

  But more deeply, questions had begun stirring within her again—questions she thought she’d consigned to the trash heap long ago. She’d believed modern people were smart enough and strong enough not to need an authoritarian God. That sounded well enough in the hothouse environment of the university and among her sophisticated peers in the newsroom. But these past three weeks had shown her greater depths of evil than she’d ever thought possible.

  To face that evil, she’d need the strength her parents found through faith in their God. But she had no such faith. Without it, she must face the world’s evil alone.

  16

  Denver, Colorado

  “All right, Brian,” Roger Brinkman said to the guest in his apartment. “The things we’ve discussed don’t merit another visit this soon. What’s bugging you?”

  Novak turned a saturnine gaze on his host. “The rumor mill. A glimmer of gossip says the Octopus may have grown another tentacle. And maybe some of the old issues aren’t as settled as we thought. You remember Project Coast?”

  “The South African chemical and biological weapons program? That was years ago. They shut it down in 1993. International inspectors confirmed it.”

  Novak nodded. “The post-Apartheid government’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission also held hearings. Everyone concluded Project Coast was dead and its materials destroyed.”

  “What’s bringing it up again?”

  “Rumors of stuff on the international black market. You’d expect the Russian mafia to peddle leftover stocks from the old Soviet Union, but the new stuff that’s rumored doesn’t come from there—at least, as far as we can find out.”

  “Where does it come from?”

  “We don’t know. We aren’t sure that it really exists, but we’d like to find out before some terrorist group gets in the act.”

  “Why did you mention South Africa?”

  “Desperation. I drew negatives e
verywhere else. So I called up our files on the South Africa business. While they were shutting the program down, one lab was destroyed by arson—a terrorist attack, everyone thought. They found the right number of bodies inside—all three badly shot up before they were burned. Dental records identified a lab assistant and a secretary. The third was decapitated and the head was never found. It was presumed to be the chief researcher, a fellow named Wevers Koenraad. But the ID wasn’t positive.”

  “That’s not much to build a theory upon.”

  “A couple of other odd things. Several researchers on Project Coast ran a racket on the side, mainly cocaine and Ecstasy. Koenraad was known to be one of those and was thought to have a trunk full of Ecstasy just before the fire. The trunk was never found. Koenraad had a degree from Cambridge, but he was a bad actor—considered himself superior to everyone around him. His coworkers were afraid he might eventually go off the deep end.”

  “He hasn’t turned up anywhere ,then?”

  “The South African government put out notices about him—covertly, of course—but no information ever came. Oh, a couple of lowlifes got murdered in Johannesburg shortly after that. Nothing special about them except that both specialized in forging passports. Quite a coincidence.”

  Brinkman tented his fingers. “You obviously think there’s something substantive behind all of this, or you wouldn’t mention it. What are you looking for?”

  “I wish I knew. Anything to suggest traffic in chemical or biological weapons.”

  “Not very definite.”

  Novak turned his palms upward. “It’s the best I can do. I don’t expect you to spend money on it, but I’d be interested if you hear anything.”

  “I’ll keep my ears open.” Brinkman checked his watch. “Dinner time. There’s a new restaurant here that specializes in Chateaubriand—”

  The telephone rang. Brinkman listened, then said, “I’ll get on it,” and hung up.

  “Well, Brian,” he said, “that South Africa business may or may not have any substance. But the report I just received from Colombia is concrete and specific. You’re interested in chemical weapons? You and I are going to have some lively after-dinner conversation.”

  ****

  Bogotá, Colombia

  When Sledge finished his phone call to Roger Brinkman, responsibility descended upon him with the weight of an Abrams tank. Things had looked so simple before—corral the brat, watch her with Argus eyes until he delivered her to Steve Spinner, and his mission was accomplished. But the photographs and the factory saddled him with another onerous task. Now he’d have to suffer at least one interview with some CIA bureaucrat who’d try to prove Sledge and Kristin were liars so he wouldn’t have to take action. Win or lose, that wouldn’t be pleasant.

  He thought again of his dream: struggling through a dangerous valley to reach his goal on the hilltop, only to face another valley and another hill. He’d fought through one such valley to effect the rescue, then through a second to recapture the brat and her precious photographs. And now, having mounted that hill, he found that yet another lay before him.

  Could the dream be prophetic? How many high-risk valleys and hilltops must he suffer through before beginning life as New Sledge?

  ****

  Sledge’s somber mood of the night before continued as he escorted Kristin to Bogotá’s El Dorado Airport for their homeward flight. Her mood matched his, and neither had much to say. In contrast, Ramón and Elena kept up a constant chatter. Well they might, for their part of the operation was nearly over. Sledge hoped his was, too. All he had to do now was deliver Kristin, in her guise as Jocelyn, to Steve Spinner in New Orleans.

  It was the hidden chemical weapons factory that governed his dark mood. It posed a dangerous threat to Colombia. To other nations as well. That C-47 headed north had to be delivering the weapons somewhere. And all he could do was report what he knew. Roger Brinkman had arranged for someone—Sledge didn’t know who—to debrief him and Kristin in Miami between flights. His responsibility should end there, for only the U.S. government had the resources to deal with the factory. But he had a nagging suspicion it wouldn’t be that simple. His dream of successive hills to climb still haunted him.

  “It’s great to be going home.” Kristin’s voice called him from his brooding as their foursome entered the terminal. “There were times when I wondered if I’d ever see home again.”

  Ramón showed his inevitable grin. “I wish you both bon voyages.”

  He ought to be euphoric, Sledge reflected. Ramón’s part of the operation had worked to perfection, and the payment he’d receive would keep him in the money for years.

  Sledge ought to be euphoric, too, but he couldn’t manage it. His bleak mood held as he and his companions worked their way through the other travelers in the terminal concourse.

  Then Kristin stopped cold, her eyes focused on the crowd lined up for a direct flight to Houston. Sledge would have preferred that flight, but the later Miami flight had better connections to New Orleans.

  “Sledge,” Kristin said, her voice almost a gasp. “That man near the head of the line—the one with the short blond hair. Didn’t we see him yesterday at...at you know where?”

  Sledge followed her gaze. Though they had seen the man only through binoculars, there was no mistaking him. It wasn’t just the blond hair or even his size, though he was taller and heavier than Sledge. It was his swagger and the hauteur of the way he held his head.

  Those were enough to arouse anyone’s hackles, but now at close range Sledge saw a cold ruthlessness in the eyes that he could not see through binoculars. He hoped he’d never have to meet that man one-on-one. Yet the man’s presence required some kind of action.

  Kristin gripped Sledge’s arm. “We can’t just stand here and do nothing.”

  “Don’t stare.” Sledge drew her into a huddle with Ramón and Elena. “If you can find out who he is, Ramón, maybe Roger Brinkman can put a tail on him after he lands.”

  Ramón’s eyes sparkled. “Elena, it is time for you your stuff to be doing.” He strolled idly toward the check-in counter, where the attendant was gathering up the flight’s documentation. Elena moved quickly down the line of passengers as if she were afraid of missing her place at the head of the line. As she came abreast of the hulking blond, her purse fell to the floor. The big man never moved, but four men on either side scrambled to retrieve it for her. She rewarded them with the brightest of smiles, then turned on the blond one. Hands on hips, she poured forth a stream of rapid Spanish, which Sledge was glad enough not to understand.

  The object of her wrath took a step back, apparently not understanding a word. One of Elena’s four helpers stepped forward as translator. The discussion continued, with the dumfounded hulk seeming to apologize for an offense he clearly did not comprehend.

  Sledge enjoyed the show so much that he forgot to watch Ramón until the latter materialized at his elbow with another self-satisfied grin.

  “It has cost Señor Spinner another fifty dollars,” he said. “The man travels under the name Erich Staab. He carries an American passport, though he speaks with a heavy accent—German, the clerk thinks. He is booked on the direct flight to Houston and has asked about connecting flights to the west, but he did not say where. Here is his picture.”

  Ramón held up his cell phone, which showed a clear likeness of Elena’s target. That target showed the incredulous expression of a person who has no idea why he is being attacked. Sledge could almost feel sorry for the brute.

  “When you have boarded your flight,” Ramón continued, “I will phone this information to Señor Brinkman in two shakes of a sheepish tale, and I will send him this photo.” He took Sledge and Kristin by the elbow and eased them along the concourse toward their gate.

  “That’s fine, Ramón,” Sledge said, “but how will we get Elena out of that situation?”

  Ramon beamed. “She has four gallant courtiers to do her bidding, and Señor Staab will be most glad to be ri
d of her.”

  They had not gone far when a smiling Elena appeared beside them.

  “Well done, mi vida,” murmured Ramón. “Remind me to buy you a special dinner at your favorite restaurant.”

  Elena’s hands again flew to her hips, and she cocked her head to one side. “One dinner? Pah! You must buy me a new hat and a bottle of my favorite perfume. No more of that stinking cologne this time, you cheapskate. Perfume!”

  Ramón made no reply to Elena’s onslaught, and Sledge and Kristin could not talk because it took full effort to keep from laughing. After thanking Ramón and Elena again, they boarded their flight.

  As the aircraft lifted off, Sledge’s amusement turned again to solemn thought. He didn’t relish the debriefing that lay ahead in Miami, and he didn’t look forward to another encounter with Steve Spinner. But more than that, something told him that neither interview would provide a clean break with the grim realities he’d found in Colombia.

  17

  Sledge breathed easier when their aircraft became airborne. Kristin sat tight-lipped in the aisle seat beside him in the first-class section. Strange that she’d flinched and demurred when he offered her the window seat. She gripped her laptop and the briefcase containing her photographs as desperately as a drowning man would clutch a piece of driftwood.

  Worried about convincing her editor or about the CIA appointment in Miami? More likely afraid of going through customs with a forged passport.

  “Relax,” he said as they reached cruising altitude. “It won’t be as bad as all that.”

  She gave a nervous laugh. “I didn’t realize it showed. We’ve been through so much. I can’t believe we’re almost finished.”

  Images from Sledge’s dream of struggling up successive hills flickered before his eyes. But he said, hopefully, “Our debriefing shouldn’t be too much trouble. Then on to New Orleans.”

  She turned toward him. “I’d like to ask something while we have time. I saw your passport when we processed in Bogotá. Is your name really Jabez E. Sledge?”