Chimera

by Sonny Whitelaw

McCabe's eyes took on a cunning look. "Maybe not all of it. Here, take a look at this." He handed her the album.

  There was no label on the photograph, only a date: 1985. Jordan examined the faces of three Iraqis standing in a group that included an older, thicker-set grey haired version of McCabe.

  "These three," he said, pointing to the Iraqis, "are the same men I saw in Tissot's files." He reached across and pulled the photo from its sleeve. "I think I know where the rest of these photos are. And they're all labelled."

  -Chapter 36-

  Washington DC, April 20, 1996

  The Virginia countryside was green and warm with the freshness of spring. The welcome at the McCabe residence-Jordan might have called it a mansion, but it wasn't quite large enough-was a little chillier. Artfully situated in a picturesque setting, complete with grazing horses, manicured lawns and mathematically perfect white picket fences, the stately home was more than well kept, it was pristine. A woman in soft grey jodhpurs and spotless riding boots met them with a curious smile-that froze at the sight of McCabe.

  "Joshua," she said in the well-rehearsed frigid tones of her upbringing. "How lovely to see you. We missed you at Christmas." But then her face and tone softened. "Thank you for the gifts you sent the boys. Josh, we really did hope that you would come." She placed a polite, antiseptic kiss on his cheek, then her eyes turned to Jordan. Her expression said that she was waiting for the Brooklyn drawl.

  Judged and found wanting in her Wal-Mart jeans and oddly cropped blond hair, Jordan smiled.

  "Julia," said McCabe, "this is Dr Jordan Spinner."

  "Nice to meet you," said Jordan, holding out her hand. "It's a beautiful place you have here."

  Julia's expression turned perplexed. Jordan was vaguely amused; McCabe was not going to explain her accent. It seemed his predilection for deliberate obtuseness extended to his family. But then, given what he had told her last night; secrets were an integral part of the family business.

  "Is Ed here?" McCabe asked.

  "You should have called first, Joshua." Julia pouted, showing off an impressive and no doubt expensive set of carefully plumped lips. "He's out riding with the boys." Then her face cleared. "C'mon in and stay for lunch. I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you."

  Julia McCabe's mercurial behaviour intrigued Jordan. An hour later, she understood why. After a round of delighted greetings from ten-year-old Robert and eight-year old Jack, the boys ran upstairs to change for lunch. When the children were out of earshot, Ed McCabe led her and McCabe into the library. Closing the door, Ed turned to his brother and said, "And FBI investigation of me is not exactly what I'd expected by way of a Christmas present, Josh."

  "You heard about Albrecht Tissot?" McCabe shot back.

  Ed's frown deepened. "Yeah. I've been trying to access what they found. Why? What's this about?" He held out his hand in the direction of some comfortable looking leather chairs.

  The contrast between the two men was remarkable. They both carried the same athletic build, and both were tall, but where Josh was lithe, Edward was muscular, almost brawny. Facially, there was some resemblance, but Josh had inherited his mother's fine bones and full lips. He looked more sculptured, while Ed's features were rougher, more like his father's.

  Accepting the faxed photograph that his brother handed him, Ed's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Uncle Albert. Haven't seen him in years, since…" his voice faded as he tried to recall the last occasion.

  "1976, in the Congo," McCabe replied. "That's Albrecht Tissot."

  "You're kidding…" Ed's head shot up, and his eyes widened. "Jesus H. Christ. You're not kidding!" He stared at the photo again and rubbed his hand across his jaw. "I don't believe it!"

  While McCabe's expression didn't alter, Jordan sensed his relief. The older McCabe had visibly paled-his shock was genuine.

  "Now I know why my life's been under a microscope." Ed looked at his brother. "How long have you known, and why didn't you tell me sooner?"

  "I only recently found out."

  "Then why-?"

  "I spent Christmas in quarantine. Because of an 'Ebola-like' organism."

  The furrows across Ed's brow flattened in disbelief. He sat forward in the chair and demanded, " You were on Mathew Island? What the hell were you doing, Josh? You've always hated-"

  The library door opened. "C'mon everyone, lunch is served." Julia was balancing a tray of drinks in one hand. "Outside by the pool."

  Over the smoked salmon mousse, Julia engaged Jordan in polite conversation, trying to extract the maximum information with minimal curiosity. McCabe applied his social face and played the perfect visiting uncle. By the time lunch was over, Jordan had decided that he really did like his nephews; it wasn't a façade.

  Finally, the boys were whisked off to baseball practice, disappointed that their father and uncle couldn't come. When the maid cleared away the dishes and they were alone again, McCabe said, "Dear old Uncle Albert."

  "I'd like to claim you were insane for even thinking it, but…" Ed's voice trailed off, and he again examined the photograph of Albrecht Tissot. "Why the charade? And why deliberately infect you and not me?" He pushed the photograph aside.

  "It was an outdoor experiment," McCabe replied. "You were the control."

  Ed stood and putting his hands in is jodhpur pockets, paced the wooden decking by the pool. His restless energy was a slower, calmer version of his brother's. "Dad never blamed you for Mum's death. You blamed yourself."

  "You weren't there." McCabe's eyes darkened. "You never understood the silent retribution."

  "Have you ever considered that maybe he blamed himself?" Ed pulled his hands free and came to sit back down. "That maybe what you saw as loathing was self -loathing? That you were a…reminder of his failings?"

  "That's exactly what Susan said. Which begs the question. Why did he never tell me-or you-the truth? He knew who Tissot was!"

  "You don't know that!" Ed snapped and leaped up out of the chair again. "We knew him as Albert Kraft!"

  "Hell, everyone knew everyone else back then. It was like a goddamned bunch of Masons in some elitist, secretive club." McCabe's face screwed up in disgust. "Dad had to have known that that son of a bitch infected me. But he hid the truth, and we both know that could be for only one reason. C'mon Ed," he added knowingly. "We both know how seductive it is."

  "Don't try me, little brother." Ed swung to face him. "Save your mind games for your serial killers." But his voice softened as he admitted, "Up until 1972 Dad was part of the weapons' development programme. He was hardly around much when you were little, do you remember? We took all those 'holidays' to Hawaii, and Dad would disappear for days, weeks at a time."

  "Johnson Atoll. I read Tissot's notes. He and Dad compared results."

  Ed nodded. "Dad ran some of the most important tests. They were making remarkable progress. Initial kill rates beyond fifty, even sixty, percent. But the CIA…Josh, I don't know exactly what happened, but somehow they convinced Melvin Laird to arm-wrestle Nixon into shutting down the entire BW programme, right on the eve of some of their most important discoveries."

  "They never shut it down though, did they? They just moved it out of view. And patriot that he was, Dad went right along with it."

  Ed continued to shake his head. "No. Mum was spending so much time in Africa by then, that Dad saw it as an opportunity to-"

  "Bullshit. I might have been a kid, Ed, but I remember that night when Dad came home and accused Melvin Laird of being America's worst enemy."

  Pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, Ed continued to shake his head. "That was a knee-jerk reaction." The look on his face was as unsure as the tone of his voice.

  "You suspected." McCabe withdrew the photo of the three Iraqis with his father. "What about all those postcards we got from Baghdad? Now look at the date-1985."

  Jordan could see the same look of denial in Ed's face that she had herself experienced the night before. He continued to shake his head as he
said, "The line between defensive and offensive research is a hair's breath, Josh. Dad worked for the Defence Department. Naturally there were things he never discussed with me. All I know is that there was a lot of bitterness over at Fort Detrick. People quit, most went across to the CDC or to Europe, to the WHO. Hell Josh, I was in medical school, you were at boarding school; you saw more of Dad than I." He pointed to the photo, "And it's an open secret that, back then, our government supported Hussein. This photograph doesn't prove a damned thing. You can even tell where it was taken!"

  "Tissot kept everything. It substantiates what Meryl Nass speculated happened in Rhodesia. The South Africans had already sourced Ebola, although that's not what they called it, but they weren't sure about it, they needed to experiment with it first. They used an isolated natural outbreak in Zaire in late 1975 as a readymade cover. These men were Iraqis," McCabe took the photo and returned it to the folder. "Because I saw photos of them with Tissot, in Iraq, dated 1984. Hussein wasn't fussy about sources. Even back then he was playing with everyone."

  A note of desperation crept into Ed's voice. "What else did Tissot say about Dad?"

  "It's mostly anecdotal, nothing that would incriminate him after 1972. The only direct evidence is this photo." McCabe tapped the folder. "And that's useless unless I can find out who these men are-or were."

  "Were?" Ed frowned.

  "We think they may have died in the Oklahoma bombing," said Jordan.

  "Is that where you fit in?" Ed's gaze shifted to her.

  "Dad also kept journals, Ed. What happened to them?"

  Hesitating a moment, he said, "As far as I know the Army went through the house at Martha's Vineyard. They took pretty much everything. You saw what was left."

  "He would have expected the Army to do that." McCabe glanced inside the house. "You ever get around to cleaning out the basement?"

  "I've been promising Julia I'd do it, but you know what it's like down there. It's the size of a large apartment and Uncle Dave accumulated an amazing amount of stuff from his postings. I figured I'd make a weekend of it, with the kids, kinda like a treasure hunt. Now, I'm not so sure." His lips thinned, and he added, "But it would make sense that anything Dad was trying to hide, he'd have kept here instead of the Vineyard. Listen, Josh, tomorrow morning we're leaving early, I'm taking the kids fishing. Why don't you come by, say, after 7:00am?" Standing, he reached into his pocket for a set of keys, and handed them to McCabe. "I've just had all new systems installed. The security code for the alarm is Granddad's birth date. We won't be back until after six tomorrow evening. In fact make it later; we'll stop at a restaurant on the way home. I'd say give me a call on your cell phone, but I don't think the reception is too good up there, so let's make it no later than 7:30pm.

  "And Josh," he added, "you find anything that incriminates Dad, I want to see it first."

  When they arrived back at his apartment in DC, Jordan went into the bathroom. Seconds later, she heard McCabe call, " Spinner !"

  Running out, she started to say "Wha…?" But he grabbed her arm painfully and yanked her out the front door.

  "Fire!" he screamed, banging on apartment doors as he ran. "Get out! Everyone out now!"

  "What fire, McCabe?" She tried to stop but he unceremoniously picked her up, slung her over his shoulder and ran down the fire escape. Behind her, she could hear people opening doors, asking each other what was going on.

  "McCabe- Josh !" she demanded, angry now. "Put me down!" She tried to struggle, but he retained a tight grip on her for the entire eight floors, then tossed her onto the grass outside with a bone-jangling thump. "What the hell's gotten into you?" She demanded, sitting up.

  He was already running back to the apartment block. "Run!" he screamed at her over his shoulder. "Bomb!"

  "McCabe…!"

  A bright explosion-Jordan could have sworn she saw the pressure wave-knocked McCabe backwards before the sound reached her ears. Then came the smoke and dust and grit and memories shredding the fabric of her sanity.

  The screams in her ears were hers. She couldn't stop, until she felt McCabe's arms around her, pulling her to her feet, then holding her tight. Her cries dissolved into sobs until finally, she managed to bring herself under control. Lifting her hand to his chest, she touched him. How was it that he was still okay? His scalp was bleeding and he was saying something, but the ringing in her ears wouldn't go away. Then it changed pitch. Sirens.

  McCabe walked her to a park bench opposite the building. Fire poured out of the gaping wound where his apartment had once been. The rest of the building appeared relatively untouched. Shattered glass. Wails. Shouts of confusion, cries of disbelief.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jordan stepped down from the paramedic's truck, nursing a bruised hip where McCabe had thrown her to the ground. That and a few minor facial cuts seemed to be her only injuries. AD Brant was standing at the back of another paramedic's van, talking on his cell phone. The medic was still bandaging McCabe's arm. Glass had sliced through his dark suit, cutting him in several places, but not badly. A dozen other residents of the building were being treated variously for shock and minor injuries. Four had been whisked off to hospital, but no one had been killed or badly injured.

  Determined to take control of herself, Jordan stood, thanked the paramedic, and walked over to the second van.

  Brant stopped talking and looked to her. "Dr Spinner, are you all right?"

  Nodding confidently, she replied, "Yes, sir. McCabe," she demanded. "How did you know?"

  McCabe glanced at the paramedic, who was still working on his forehead. "Meg left a meal in the oven and a note on the door."

  "So?"

  "She always leaves messages on the machine."

  Jordan ran her and across her forehead. "Just once, McCabe, can you cut to the chase?"

  "Her note said that the cable company came, and she didn't want to touch the telephone answering machine because they'd mentioned something about high-speed Internet access and telephone lines."

  "But you already have…oh!"

  He glanced at Brant, who was still talking on his cell phone, and added, "I can't reach my brother."

  "Oh, God!" Jordan's stomach knotted and she reflexively brought her hand to her mouth.

  "County Sheriff's department is sending men out there now," Brant said, snapping the machine shut. "I've already dispatched agents." The phone rang again.

  Jordan saw Brant's face harden. His eyes kept moving around, watching people, looking for…what? Then he turned to McCabe, his jaw grinding in anger.

  "Tell me!" McCabe demanded, pushing the paramedic's hands aside.

  "Your brother's house," replied Brant. "It's on fire. They've called the local brigade-no explanation as to why they weren't alerted sooner-but the sheriff doubts there'll be much left by the time they get there." Before McCabe asked the obvious, Brant added, "Both cars were still in the garage, no sign of the family."

  The world contracted. Jordan wanted to reach out to McCabe, but she was frozen, immobilized by fear and grief. His pain became hers until she could no longer separate the two. The boys, just children, more discarded refuse in this endless insanity.

  Brant grabbed her before she hit the ground, picked her up in his arms and carried her to his car.

  -Chapter 37-

  Washington DC, April 21, 1996

  The odour of charred timber drifted across the paddocks. Those horses that had escaped the stables nervously paced the sodden earth, their eyes white with fear, their heads tossing back and forth in apparent denial. A vet stood over one animal lying on the grass. Four animals had already been put down. As McCabe watched, three men gently coaxed the others to them. SUVs with horse floats waited lined up by the fence.

  So far, firemen had found three bodies, or what remained of them. The heat had been so intense that the men were still speculating on the type of accelerant. It was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to locate the exact source point, they muttered.

&n
bsp; More than twenty dark-jacketed men and women with yellow FBI labels on their backs rummaged through the remains, nimbly avoiding crime scene tape and yellow marker flags. Four more investigators stood around a gaping black hole in the ground. It had once been the basement. Fires burned up, not down, so it seemed likely to have started here, they opined. Paint, gasoline, hell, you know the sort of stuff that people store in these old basements.

  The heat of the blaze was still evident in the smouldering remains, but it was just an echo, weak and stunted compared with the demon raging in McCabe's soul. He could already predict the line of investigation and the outcome. There was nothing more for him here, nothing he could divine from the scene, nothing he could use to find the guilty. He knew the reason, the motive . And he knew the perpetrators. Not those who had lit the match, but the ones who had ordered it. He knew them; he saw them every day. They walked the halls of the FBI and the Pentagon with impunity, their names and faces obscured by lies and deceit and fabrication.

  He turned away.

  "I was wrong in doubting you, McCabe." Brant's jaw worked back and forth in anger. "These…people. There are things happening in the FBI… As of last evening the investigation into the chimera has been taken over entirely by the Department of Defence. I called you… Fuck it !" Brant pounded the railing with a meaty fist. "My call- I -triggered the bomb in your apartment!"

  His jaw moved back and forth for a moment before he added, "Team members on the original chimera investigation are being reassigned as we speak; all files on it are being handed over to the DOD. Most everyone involved is being reassigned, or has disappeared into the woodwork."

  "Susan Broadwater?"

  "She's been sent to a post in Germany. Left early this morning." Brant spun around and strode to the dark car where Assistant Director Reynold stood talking to the fire chief and county sheriff.

  Reynold looked at Brant, and then gestured for Spinner and McCabe to join them.

  "Get in the car," Reynold ordered when they reached him.