Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4)

by Miller, Melissa F.

  The subtext was unmistakable: you used to be one of us, but you aren’t anymore.

  “Of course. I know you’re busy, so thanks for taking the time to meet with us. Serumceutical asked me to reach out to the General Accounting Office because of an issue we uncovered with regard to our fulfillment of the killer flu vaccine stockpile. When I called a friend at GAO, he suggested this group would be interested in hearing what I have to say. I’m here with the approval of Serumceutical’s Board of Directors,” Leo said, slipping into his role as an officer of a private corporation with no outward reaction to Richardson’s pronouncement.

  “Before you get started, do you mind telling us why you have counsel with you? Are you looking for immunity or cooperation credit?” The question came from within the sea of navy blue suit-wearing men.

  Sasha checked her chart. Devin Bardman, attorney with the CIA’s Office of General Counsel. He was asking if the company was coming in to self-report a crime in the hopes it would qualify for leniency.

  Connelly said, “I think I’ll let Ms. McCandless field that one.”

  Sasha swept her eyes across the knot of attorneys across the table before settling on Bardman. “Serumceutical does not believe it’s broken any law or federal regulation, so, from our perspective, leniency’s not at issue. I’m here because the company does have civil claims against a third party arising out of the vaccine contract and there is an issue of performance under the contract. So, that said, when we meet with the GAO to work out the contract issue, we would certainly hope that our meeting with you would be taken into consideration as a show of good faith and an attempt to mitigate any damages. But again, no laws were broken. At least, not by my client.”

  A few small nods greeted her answer.

  “Fair enough,” Bardman said. “So, what’s the issue? Breach of contract?”

  Connelly leaned forward, ready to answer, but Sasha put her hand on his forearm to stop him.

  “Yes. We have reason to believe that the first shipment of vaccines to Fort Meade was missing approximately eight hundred doses,” Sasha said.

  The expectant faces around the table fell, deflated. Apparently they were expecting something juicier.

  “You think you shorted the shipment? That’s it?” Bardman asked.

  “We believe an employee planted by a competitor—ViraGene—stole the vaccines as part of a corporate espionage strategy. We’ve confirmed that more than seventeen hundred doses were taken from pallets prepared by that employee and awaiting shipment to Fort Meade; we suspect she also took doses from the pallets that already shipped,” Sasha said.

  Bardman snorted. “You called this meeting over a rounding error?”

  Richardson interjected, “Your theory is ViraGene wants to force the government’s hand to stockpile the AviEx antiviral, is that it?”

  “Yes,” Sasha said, ignoring the CIA attorney and turning to address Richardson. “Well, it was our theory, and it still makes sense except that the employee who stole the vaccines is in the wind and…” She trailed off and looked at Connelly, unsure of how much she should say about the preppers.

  “The employee appears to be a member of a Pennsylvania-based prepper cell. And, in addition to being missing, we have a report that she is very sick, possibly with a flu-like illness,” Connelly said.

  That information recharged the group.

  “That’s serious. How good is your source?” Vince Drummond, the ATF agent, asked.

  It was Connelly’s turn to look at Sasha. Gavin was her contact, not his. If someone was going to vouch for him, it should be Sasha.

  “He’s former law enforcement, and he’s trustworthy,” Sasha said.

  “But going to remain anonymous, I take it?” Drummond said.

  “For now,” she answered.

  She could tell they were bursting with unasked questions, desperate to pepper her and Connelly with specific inquiries, but they were waiting for a cue from Richardson. They almost certainly assumed she and Connelly were in the dark as to the theft of the virus and would be hesitant to ask any questions that might hint at the possibility of a coming pandemic.

  The Project Shield agent who’d tipped off Connelly had broken several laws by sharing that information, so they couldn’t let on that they knew.

  As a result, the government agents just stared at them, and Sasha and Connelly stared back. Everyone was unwilling to show their cards.

  Finally Richardson spoke. “Leo, although I’m sure the bean counters at GAO will be hopping mad that you all screwed them out of some bottles of vaccine, I can state with authority that we can make that a no-harm, no-foul situation. But, we’re gonna need your help identifying these preppers and locating them. Now, I hate to do this, but I have to run your name up the flagpole and see how much I can tell you.”

  Connelly nodded.

  Sasha cleared her throat and said, “While Serumceutical appreciates the assurance that the shipment isn’t going to cause a problem with GAO and, of course, will provide replacement vials, I want to be clear that the Board of Directors instructed me to file a temporary restraining order against ViraGene. This prepper business aside, they have serious concerns about a competitor playing dirty pool.”

  The attorney contingent nodded in unison, with the sole exception of Bardman, who was scribbling rapidly on his legal pad.

  Anthony Washington, whose card identified him as an attorney with the Executive Office of the United States Attorney General’s Office, Communications and Law Enforcement Coordination Division, spoke up. “If your client intends to rely on its contract with Congress as an exhibit in any civil litigation, you will, of course, have to file it under seal. Portions of that contract have national security implications.”

  “Of course. We’ve actually already filed, and the contract was submitted under seal. But I don’t think the contract specifics will come into play in any way. ViraGene seems to have placed a mole in the organization; we’d have a viable claim even absent the theft of the vaccines,” Sasha assured him.

  Maybe, she added silently. If Celia Gerig even had anything to do with ViraGene, which was becoming less clear as the picture developed.

  Washington must have been thinking along the same lines, because he shot her a skeptical look but merely nodded. Bardman kept scrawling notes.

  “You already filed?” Bardman asked without looking up.

  “Yes, we filed electronically yesterday in the District of Columbia District Court,” she confirmed.

  Washington leaned over and whispered in Bardman’s ear.

  Richardson stood. “I’ll be in touch,” he said to Leo.

  The meeting was adjourned.

  CHAPTER 23

  Colton peered at the Salvadoran’s blank face. “You understand?” he repeated.

  The man, who claimed to be named Tito, nodded. “Yes, yes. Mr. Leo, he is your friend. You want to surprise him. Put the gift in his top desk drawer tonight when I’m cleaning. I understand.”

  Tito waved the box to punctuate his understanding. Colton tried not wince at the thought of the box crashing to the ground with the vial inside.

  “What else, Tito?” Colton pressed. He wished this idiot would talk faster. It was cold, not to mention unseemly, lurking around the dumpster in an alley behind a restaurant in some godforsaken corner of Northwest D.C. The wind swirled stinging snow in his face.

  Tito thought. “Ah, don’t open the box?”

  “Correct! Do not, under any circumstances open the box,” Colton said with an encouraging nod.

  He reached into his overcoat pocket and felt around until he located the bills he’d removed from his wallet before entering the Metro station. There was no need to pull out his wallet and get robbed. He pressed the thick wad of green into Tito’s gloved hand.

  The shorter man thumbed it but didn’t count it, then he shoved it into his pants pocket. Colton imagined he wasn’t interested in being robbed, either.

  “Gracias. Thank you, Mr. Jefferson,” h
e said.

  “That’s payment in full. I don’t want to see you again, ever,” Colton told the man.

  “Si, si,” Tito smiled and pointed toward the back of the dingy concrete block building. “You like huevos? This taqueria has the best huevos. I will buy you breakfast.”

  Colton refrained from wrinkling his nose in disgust. “No. Thank you. I need to go before the storm comes. You should, too, Tito.”

  He didn’t want to pique the man’s curiosity about the beribboned package in his hand, but he also didn’t want some oaf to elbow it off a table inside the restaurant and waste a perfectly good vial of the virus on a room full of inconsequential immigrants.

  Tito waved a hand, dismissing the threatened blizzard. “A man’s gotta eat.”

  “Suit yourself,” Colton said, turning on his heel and bowing his head against the wind.

  In the end, it made no real difference to him if Tito and his fellow egg lovers died a miserable, painful death. He had one more vial; if need be, he could find another janitor.

  CHAPTER 24

  The door to the cabin swung open, and Gavin blinked as sunlight flooded his tired eyes. He swung his legs over the side of the too-short bed and pulled his sweater over his head.

  Rollins stood in the doorway, his ever-present weapon at his side.

  “Good morning, Mr. Russell. How’d you sleep?” Rollins asked in the mild, uninterested manner of a hotel clerk. His voice was muffled by a blue paper surgical mask.

  Gavin just grunted at him in response. He’d slept poorly—uncomfortable in his clothes, worried about Celia, not trusting Lydia or some other overzealous prepper to burst into the cabin during the middle of the night in a hail of bullets.

  “C’mon. Captain wants to see you,” Rollins said.

  Gavin bent and slid his feet into the shoes at his bedside. As he knotted the laces, he calculated his odds of taking Rollins down. He could lower his shoulder and run at the armed man, just pretend he was back in high school on the football team. Gavin figured he had forty pounds on Rollins. And he’d have the element of surprise on his side. His chances against Rollins were decent.

  But the rifle was a complicating factor. And, assuming he did overpower Rollins and get his firearm—then what? Was he going to shoot his way out of the compound? They’d confiscated his keys, wallet, and cell phone before they’d locked him in the cabin for the night. He wouldn’t get far on foot.

  Reluctantly, Gavin decided attacking Rollins was suicidal. He straightened and grabbed his coat. “Take me to your leader,” he cracked.

  Rollins didn’t laugh or respond. Instead he slid a mask over Gavin’s mouth and snapped the band against his head.

  Then he waved Gavin through the open door and, like Lydia had the night before, walked behind him, with the rifle pointed at Gavin’s back.

  Gavin walked a few feet and then slowed his pace and looked around. Off in the distance a group of kids played in a snowy field. Rollins gave him a little nudge with the muzzle of the rifle.

  “Let’s go,” Rollins said. “We’re going to the recreation center. Captain Bricker’s office.”

  As they passed the clearing, Gavin took a closer look at the kids.

  A half-dozen boys and girls were playing a game of freeze tag, whooping and hollering as they dashed around. He wasn’t great with children’s ages, but he guessed the group ranged from three or four to fourteen or fifteen years old. They were siblings or maybe cousins: they all had the same pale skin, straight brown hair, and big, round eyes. The littlest girl still had the round cheeks of a toddler, but the others were all lanky, thin and angular.

  Kids. He hadn’t expected kids. He was suddenly very aware of the gun pressed into his back.

  “Keep moving,” Rollins instructed.

  Gavin shuffled his feet but kept his head toward the knot of kids, who had stopped mid-game to stare at him and Rollins as they approached.

  The tallest of the girls spoke first.

  “Are you lost, mister?” she asked as she twisted her long ponytail around a gloved finger. She stared up at him with a mix of curiosity and concern for him. She showed no fear.

  Gavin hesitated, unsure whether to answer. Rollins seemed equally unsure. Gavin reasoned Rollins wouldn’t shoot him in the back in front of a group of kids, so he opened his mouth to speak.

  As he did, the tallest boy ran across the field. He came to an abrupt stop between Gavin and the girl. He took in the masks they wore, and his eyes flashed anger and fear. He clenched his hands into fists.

  “This is private property, sir. You need to leave.” The boy tried to say the words in a firm tone, but his voice cracked.

  Rollins interjected, “It’s okay, son. I’m taking the prisoner to see your father. The situation is under control.”

  Gavin ignored Rollins, looked around Bricker’s son, and addressed the girl. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. Maybe you’ve seen her? Her name is Celia, and she has dark, curly hair about—”

  The girl burst into tears.

  “Celia’s dead,” she cried.

  The boy jutted his chin forward, “Shh, Bethany. Don’t.”

  Celia was dead? Gavin’s mind reeled, and he tried to work through the news.

  The boy led Bethany back to their game, with a backward glance at Rollins. The other kids clustered around the crying girl with hugs and soothing pats.

  “Celia’s dead?” Gavin asked Rollins.

  “I’m getting tired of telling you to keep moving, Russell. You can talk about it with Captain Bricker. Now let’s go.”

  This time, Rollins’ shove was less gentle. The gun hit Gavin’s spine with a thud.

  Gavin stepped it up and strode across the frozen path to the recreation center.

  Inside, the scene was very different from the previous night. The room bustled with activity, shouted instructions and laughter rang out. Men and women dressed in hunting jackets, ski coats, and an array of various camouflage patterns, ranging from desert to forest to tundra, unpacked boxes, trotted back and forth with pots and bowls, and handed out bedding. In the far back corner of the room, a teenage girl led a group of small children in a game of Simon Says. A cluster of slightly older children camped out at one end of one of the tables with paper and crayons.

  Rollins and Gavin started down the hallway to the office where they’d met the night before. From behind, the boy from the field darted past them and rapped on the door.

  “Dad,” the boy called as he knocked.

  “Come in,” a baritone voice rumbled from the other side.

  With a backward glance at Gavin, the boy rushed through the door.

  Rollins and Gavin followed.

  A tall, fit man with a salt-and-pepper buzz cut and piercing blue eyes rose from behind a metal desk. He gave Gavin and the Magnum-toting Rollins a short nod, then turned to his son.

  “Clay, what’s going on?”

  “The man with George says he’s a friend of Celia’s. I thought you might need some help—” the boy began.

  Bricker responded in a measured tone. “Clay, this isn’t your concern. Go back outside. You shouldn’t have left your brothers and sisters alone. If you aren’t going to supervise them, they need to come inside.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said, clearly disappointed at being dismissed. Gavin half-expected him to argue but he immediately turned and walked out of the office, leaving the door open behind them.

  “Sir—” Rollins began.

  Bricker cut him off. “That’ll be all, Sergeant Rollins. Thank you for escorting Mr. Russell to my office. You’re dismissed.”

  Gavin snuck a glance at him. Rollins’ face crumpled, but like Bricker’s son, he didn’t argue.

  “Yes, sir,” Rollins said. He shouldered his weapon and headed for the open door.

  “Shut that behind you,” Bricker ordered.

  The door closed with a soft thump.

  Bricker stared at Gavin, studying the portion of his face that was visible above the m
ask. Gavin stared back at him for a long moment.

  “So, Mr. Russell, it seems we have a problem,” Bricker finally said.

  “What are you the captain of?” Gavin said by way of answer.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your people call you ‘Captain Bricker.’ What are you the captain of?” he repeated.

  Bricker squinted hard at him, measuring his response. After a moment, he jerked his head toward the metal chair in front of Gavin. “Have a seat, Mr. Russell, and I’ll tell you a story.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Gavin said.

  He eased himself on the hard, cold chair and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. Bricker returned to his seat, pushed aside a sheaf of papers, and leaned forward on his elbows.

  “In 1999, I was working in the banking industry. My wife, Anna, was home with Clay, our oldest, who was just a baby. She was pregnant with our second child. The bank, of course, was very worried about Y2K. We’d been working on contingency plans for years, trying to prevent any interruptions to our service and making arrangements to deal with snafus if they did happen, but no one knew exactly what would happen when the calendar rolled over. Now, Americans look back on that time as a joke. All the panic and preparation were for nothing. But, as I sat praying with Anna on New Year’s Eve, waiting for the clock to strike twelve, I had a vision.”

  Bricker paused. Gavin assumed it was for dramatic effect.

  “A vision, huh?” Gavin asked.

  “That’s right, Mr. Russell. A vivid vision of a post-disaster America, where the government ceased to function and neighbor turned on neighbor for a sack of flour or a glass of potable water. Where the unprepared and untrained starved or froze to death. An America where the strong survived and the weak were slaughtered. Where the dead rotted in fields and city streets, and orphaned children roamed the countryside. And I saw a new civilization rise up. Built by hearty people in good physical condition, who had prepared for this eventuality. People who could start a fire, raise vegetables, hunt, and sew. People who did for themselves instead of relying on the government to do for them. And this new community needed a leader. It needed me.”