by John Whitman
“You think they’re meeting at Tuman’s house? That wouldn’t make sense,” Tony pointed out. “Too public, too small, too insecure.”
Jack turned to Henderson. “We need to give them our information. Even if they won’t tell us what’s going on, they can at least change their plans; maybe that’ll stop al-Libbi.”
Henderson nodded in approval. Sometimes the best way to thwart a terrorist plan was the simplest: change a date, a time, a route. Denial of information was a primary part of counterintelligence, and counterintelligence was a foundational tool in any anti-terrorist organization. “I’ll ask Chappelle. But he might be in a mood.”
Jessi was standing back from the conversation, but she had continued to study the screen. “You know who else’s schedule matches up,” she said. “President Novartov from Russia. Remember, the contact I made was Russian, and the information on the Tuman connection was Russian.”
4:29 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Jessi knew what they were going to ask the minute they spoke up. Henderson put the phone in her hand, and she dialed the number. A moment later she was listening to Anastasia Odolova’s melodramatic voice say, “My Jessi, what can I do for you now?”
Jessi felt extremely self-conscious with four experienced field agents all staring at her. “Anastasia, thanks again for helping before. If you have a minute, I could use a little more guidance.”
There was a pause, during which the analyst was sure she could feel Odolova smiling on the other end of the line. “First things first, Jessi. Call me Anna. Now, what else can I do for you?”
Jessi looked at Bauer and the others, who were studying her closely. Bauer, especially, made her nervous. The intensity in his eyes, in his movements, always shocked her in contrast to his boyish good looks. She knew how good he was at his job, but she hoped that he never had to turn that steely focus on her. “I’m digging into this Marcus Lee situation,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Everywhere I look, Russia keeps popping up. I thought you might be able to tell me a little more about what Tuman, or Lee, or whatever he’s called, might be up to.”
“Well, I always have an idea or two in my head,” Odolova replied. “But theories are sometimes misunderstood. It might be best if I were to tell you in person.”
Not me, Jessi thought immediately. I’m no field agent. “I could send someone to meet you.”
“No, no,” Odolova said gently, but firmly. “You are Kelly’s friend. I’m happy to meet with you, but no one else. And, if my idea is correct, we should meet soon. I can be at the Cat & Fiddle on Sunset in thirty minutes. I’ll be wearing white.” With these final words, the Russian’s voice had quickened to a short, terse tone, informing Jessi that this was her only offer.
“Okay,” she said weakly. Odolova hung up.
Jessi relayed the conversation to the group.
“She’s not a field agent,” Tony said, voicing her thoughts.
“She should go,” Jack insisted. “We’re missing pieces here, and if this Odolova woman can give us some, we need them. Come on.”
He grabbed Jessi by the wrist and started to guide her to the stairs when the phone rang. Henderson picked it up and said it was for Bauer.
Jessi was relieved. Now she would have time to a phone call of her own before they left.
4:33 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
“Bauer,” Jack said.
“Agent Bauer, this is Ken Diebold with National Health Services. You sent us over a blood sample to examine.”
Jack’s attention narrowed suddenly to a laserlike focus. “Yes. What can you tell me?”
“The blood sample contains a virus…a sort of virus we haven’t seen before. Are you familiar with Ebola or Mar-burg?”
Jack felt as though a hand had clenched around his heart. “Yes.”
“They are hemorrhagic fevers. So is this one. We don’t know much about it, yet, but we’re using Marburg as a model. This subject is the second case we’re studying.”
“Wait,” Bauer said. “My colleagues should hear this.” He switched to the speakerphone and motioned for Nina to close the door.
Diebold continued. “If our information is accurate, this subject will be contagious about twenty-four hours after exposure, and will die a few hours after that.” Diebold paused. “I have some knowledge of your agency’s activities, Agent Bauer. Do you have the subject in custody? Do you know when he was exposed?”
Jack felt the hand try to tear his heart from his chest. “Yes,” he said quietly. He checked his watch. “About eight hours ago.”
“He needs to be isolated immediately,” Diebold said. “He’s no danger to anyone yet, but we expect lesions to appear on the skin. Once they break open, the patient is contagious and the virus can spread.”
“Isn’t there anything—?”
“A virus is a difficult thing to kill,” the NHS doctor replied. “There is no cure for Marburg.”
“You said this was the second case…?” Henderson asked.
“The other was reported to us from Brazil, from an area called Minas Gerais. We’re guessing that’s where the virus originates. Was your subject recently there?”
“No,” Jack said. But he was distracted. Tony Almeida’s eyes had widened at the doctor’s words.
“Agent Bauer,” Diebold said. “It’s imperative that we get your subject quarantined as soon as possible. If this virus is half as contagious as Marburg, it could take out half the population of Los Angeles in a matter of days.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Jack said. He hung up. “What?” he said to Tony.
Almeida frowned thoughtfully. “That’s the second time I’ve heard someone mention that place. Minas Gerais, or something like that? Dyson talked about it this morning, right before he tried to kill me. He was talking about coffee. I didn’t think there was any kind of connection.”
Jack felt frustrated anger boil up inside him. His daughter was dying and didn’t even know it, and Almeida was forgetting important information. “Did he say anything else?” he said evenly.
Tony saw the fire in Bauer’s eyes and countered it with cool professionalism. “Not unless you count the babbling he did right before he died. He saw me and mumbled something about a joke I made about monkeys earlier today. He talked about gangs of monkeys.”
Jack’s eyes lit up. Monkey Wrench Gang. He turned to Henderson. “We have to find Mercy Bennet right away.”
4:45 P.M. PST Mountaingate Drive, Los Angeles
The ocean breeze blew across the southern face of the Santa Monica Mountains, cooling Nurmamet Tuman’s grounds, which had turned gold-green in the late afternoon sunlight. Tuman stepped out of the house to enjoy the breeze, leaving behind the two Secret Service agents who were stationed in his living room.
Out in the backyard, his “gardener” was moving equipment and clipping the hedges. He was butchering them, of course, because that’s what Ayman al-Libbi was: a butcher.
Tuman had been anxious ever since the female Federal agent had come to his door. He’d managed to hide his anxiety from her, of that he was sure. He had spent a lifetime concealing his thoughts and desires, even in the face of the most startling surprises. But although he could hide his fear from the woman, he could not hide it from himself. If one division of the government had concerns, they would eventually share it with the Secret Service, and Tuman’s carefully scripted plans could all be exposed in one fell swoop.
And, adding to his nervousness, the People’s Consulate had called him. Oh, they had no idea of his plans, of course. They were as blind as bats. But they had called him, concerned about the inquiries of the American government. What, they wanted to know, was “Marcus Lee” doing to attract so much attention?
Tuman approached al-Libbi and said for the benefit of any Secret Service ears that might be listening: “You’re wrecking my morning glories. Please stop hacking them up!”
Al-Libbi turned toward him, a light sheen of sweat on his face,
his dark eyes gleaming in the sun. He actually seemed to be enjoying this work. He nodded, tipped his cap, and went back to work.
“We have to call it off,” Tuman whispered.
The terrorist stopped his attack on the hedge. “What?”
“First the Federal agent. Now my own consulate is calling me. I don’t like it.”
Al-Libbi jabbed the head of the clippers into the grass and rested his hands on the two extended handles. “For a man who worked as a double agent inside China for twenty years, you are very jumpy.”
“I listen to my instincts,” Tuman replied. “I convinced them for years that I had left my ethnic loyalties behind, that I was a party member first, a Uygur second. I could always sense when someone didn’t believe me and I have that sense now. Someone out there knows that I’ve helped ETIM, and sooner or later that person is going to tell them!”
“Don’t worry about them,” al-Libbi said. He leaned over the handles of his clippers. “Listen, my friend, it is too late to stop this.”
“It is not too late,” Tuman insisted. “We’ll refund your money.”
“Really?” al-Libbi replied in his perfect American tones. “Did you really think I was going through all this for two million dollars?” He smiled. “I took this job because it will put me back where I belong.”
“At the top of the most wanted list?”
The small smile widened across his face. “Two lists: most wanted by Western governments, most wanted by Middle Eastern employers.”
“It can’t happen now.” Tuman stepped around so that his body blocked any view from the living room. A small semiautomatic had appeared in his hand.
11. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5 P.M. AND 6 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
5:00 P.M. PST UCLA Medical Center
Mercy drove away from UCLA Medical Center in her borrowed Crown Vic, her arm still stinging and stiff where they’d drawn the blood. As soon as the coroner and more officers had arrived at the house on Fourteenth Street, Mercy had evacuated herself to the hospital. Few of the words Copeland had spoken made sense to her, but the word virus rattling out of his bloody mouth nearly stopped her heart. She remembered the way he and his gang had reacted when she crashed into those vials in the other house. They hadn’t run from her, they’d run from the accident. She had inadvertently released some kind of virus. She’d stopped by UCLA and asked them to run some tests. They could find nothing wrong with her immediately and released her, promising to call her as soon as they had any information.
She had to get back to her desk and regroup. Her original case had been the investigation of Gordon Gleed’s death. Her intuition now told her that Copeland wasn’t responsible for his murder, at least not directly. Frankie Michaelmas had done it. She seemed to have a fetish for bludgeoning people to death, and, following her practice of instant impressions, Mercy sensed that Michaelmas was far more violent in her heart than Copeland was. Frankie was her target, but Frankie had proved elusive.
Mercy stepped on the accelerator.
5:04 P.M. Mountaingate Drive, Los Angeles
Ayman al-Libbi smiled at the gun as though it might have been a bouquet of flowers or a borrowed book. “Are you going to shoot me?” he said calmly. “That will expose you as much as any rocket attack.”
“I’m a hero,” said Tuman, who had thought of this option long ago. “I stopped a wanted terrorist who had somehow slipped past the Federal agents.”
“You waved me through the door,” al-Libbi said. “You told them I was all right. Don’t you think they’ll ask about that?”
Tuman continued to spin his story. “You killed the agents first. I managed to get you while you were focused on them.”
The terrorist nodded appreciatively. “So you’ll kill them and frame me after I’m dead. It’s a good story. It will work. And here’s your opportunity.” Al-Libbi’s eyes lifted up to look over Tuman’s shoulder.
Tuman didn’t go for the bluff. Not really. But his eyes flicked to their corners for just a fraction of a second. That was all the time al-Libbi needed. His left hand grabbed the gun while his right hand struck at Tuman’s face, the fingers stabbing into his eyes. Before the Uygur could even squeal, al-Libbi was holding the gun. But he couldn’t use it without alerting the guards inside. As Tuman staggered back, holding his eyes, the terrorist pocketed the gun and picked up clippers. They stabbed like a snake’s head. The first blow sliced the Uygur’s hands, which were covering his face. Tuman recoiled from them instinctively, exposing his throat. The killer stabbed again.
Al-Libbi left Nurmamet Tuman gurgling on the grass, his throat frothing blood, and walked calmly inside to deal with the Secret Service agents.
5:09 P.M. Cat & Fiddle Pub, Los Angeles
Jack’s agency SUV rolled up to a parking space a block from the Cat & Fiddle.
“Wait,” he said, pressing his hand over Jessi’s forearm. His eyes flicked from the rearview mirror to the side view and back. He watched cars roll past them.
“What?” Jessi asked. She was already nervous. Bauer’s silent company during their drive had raised her tension even more.
The red Camaro Jack was watching rolled past with a single driver inside. He’d seen it twice during their drive, or at least he’d seen two Camaros that looked the same. Camaros were popular with a certain type, but Jack didn’t like seeing two of them. The first time he’d seen them there’d been a driver and a passenger. Classic surveillance procedures involved two or more automobiles that alternated the pursuit.
Either Jack had seen two very similar vehicles, or he was being followed by a team that had cycled through too quickly.
“Nothing,” he said at last. “I’ll go in first. Wait a few minutes, then come in. You’ll do fine.”
He waited for her to nod, then exited the car and hurried up to the Cat & Fiddle’s door. Inside it was dark and cool, and would have been smoke-filled in the days when California allowed smoking. The Cat & Fiddle had a blue-collar feel that appealed to its upscale crowd. Jack hunched his shoulders a bit as he entered, being someone who’d had a hard day at the office. He didn’t bother to look around, even though he caught a flash of white at the bar. There would be time for that. He knew immediately which booth he wanted — a corner table with a view of all the ins and outs, and near the emergency exit, but it was taken by a man in a blue T-shirt. There were many other empty booths, so he took one in the corner near the bar. ESPN was playing on both televisions. A waitress in her forties gave him a menu, but he ordered a beer and watched MLS soccer. Watching television gave him an excuse to keep his chin up and his eyes looking out across the room. He saw the woman in white now, and he decided it was safe to stare for a while. He couldn’t see her face, but he could see the Japanese tattoo on the small of her back where it peeked over the top of her low-slung white skirt. She was blond, with narrow shoulders and long arms. It would have been a giveaway if he didn’t stare at her.
Jack forced his mind into the present. This had to happen before the next thing, like firing a weapon: first load, then acquire, then fire, then assess. The virus was in Kim. They had no cure, but someone did, and he was going to find them. The way to find them was to focus on this…
Jessi walked in. She turned a few heads as she walked to the bar. One of those heads belonged to the man in a blue T-shirt and a buzz cut. He went right back to sipping his beer, but his eyes had lingered on Jessi a little too long, and Jack knew that Anastasia Odolova had a babysitter.
5:25 P.M. Cat & Fiddle Pub, Los Angeles
Odolova’s appearance matched her voice. Her limbs were long, lean, and toned, and she moved them in slow, dramatic flourishes when she spoke, as though she were used to holding something like a cigarette in her hand. Her face was angular and pretty, framed by straight blond hair. Oddly, she wore heavy black mascara under her blue eyes. Set against the stark white of her outfit and skin, the heavy eye makeup looked disturbing and hypnotic.
“You’re Jessi, of cou
rse,” Anna said. “What will you drink?”
“Nothing, thanks,” Jessi said.
Anna leaned forward, catching Jessi with her mesmerizing eyes. “Of course you will, my Jessi. What else are we here for?”
Right. Appearances, Jessi thought. “Newcastle, please,” she said to the passing bartender.
“You know what you like, don’t you?” Odolova said, seeming genuinely pleased. “Now, what is it I can help you with?” Her voice was breezy, nothing that stood out.
Jessi did not have her skill, and did not pretend to. “Is Novartov having a classified meeting with us and the Chinese tonight? Is that Tuman’s target?” she asked softly.
Odolova flicked her wrist as though tapping away the ashes of an imaginary cigarette. “See, you can tell a lot about a person from the way they order a drink. You, for instance, are very straightforward. Strong. You’d make a good Russian.” She smiled lightly, and continued. “Obviously, I can’t discuss scheduling matters with you. But you may be on the right track. Would you like to know more about Nurmamet Tuman?”
“Sure,” Jessi said.
Odolova spoke in long, dramatic sentences, but the story she told was this: Nurmamet Tuman had been a Chinese espionage agent for more than twenty years. Although he was an ethnic Uygur, he had lost his parents and been taken to an orphanage, where he was indoctrinated first as a Maoist and then as a member of the newer, more “progressive” Communist Party. He had climbed the ranks of the People’s Army and proved to be adept at intelligence. But during a purge a few years earlier, superiors who disliked and mistrusted his Uygur heritage retired him. He was dumped in the United States with a new name and a faked dossier, where he started and ran a small software company. The Chinese government kept in contact, and even used him now and then, but for all intents and purposes he was in exile.
What Beijing did not know was that Marcus Lee had never stopped being Nurmamet Tuman, never stopped being a Uygur. Even while deep inside Chinese intelligence, he continued to work secretly for the independence of Eastern Turkistan. The Russians were sure that he had saved ETIM members from capture at least twice in his career. Once he was in the United States, he had a much easier time strengthening his contacts with ETIM until he became their largest backer. His native Uygur loyalties were bolstered by bitterness over his removal from the espionage community.