Benson continued. “The last time FMD was detected in the United States was in the 1920s. Canada has been FMD free since the fifties. Mexico finally got rid of FMD within the last decade, after many years and countless slaughtered livestock. I believe that will about do it for general background, gentlemen.”
“What do we know about the infection at Rodney’s farm . . . in Ottawa County . . . ?” I asked. “Do you know when the animals got sick or how they were infected?”
“Based on the observed progress of the pathogen through the herd,” Dr. Dearborn said, “we estimate that the first animals likely contracted the disease between August 6th and August 8th. We tested samples gathered from feed bins, hay bales, protein supplements, and swabs from the farmer’s pickup and home. At Agent Costa’s direction, we also sampled fecal matter and certain surfaces in the chicken coop. All of the samples have tested negative for FMD. At present, we are unsure how the virus reached the subject’s herd.”
I turned to Agent Costa. “Can we speak privately for a second?”
Costa nodded. “Please excuse us for a moment, Doctors,” he said as we both got up and found privacy in the hallway.
“What’s up?” Costa asked.
“Can I talk about the meteor with these guys?” I asked. “Or don’t they have a need to know?”
“Why would you want to . . . ?”
“I want to find out if the meteor could have been the infecting agent,” I said. “I know it’s our only logical source right now. But as long as we’ve got these experts on hand, we might as well learn what we can. Don’t you think?”
Costa cocked his head just a bit to one side, thinking.
“That makes sense,” he said. “Thoroughness is next to godliness, after all.”
“Preparedness,” I said.
“What?”
“Preparedness is next to godliness.”
Costa smiled. “I thought it was actually ‘cleanliness,’” he said.
“I’d take either of ours before ‘cleanliness,’” I replied. “Seriously . . . cleanliness? I mean, really?”
We re-entered the room and took our seats.
“I’ve got a couple questions,” I said, “if you don’t mind?”
“No kidding?” Benson said, more than a hint of irony in his voice. “What can we answer for you?”
“You said the FMD virus was pretty tough, pretty durable in the environment. How would it hold up in high temperatures?”
“It could survive in the highest atmospheric temperatures we experience on Earth, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Benson said.
“I was thinking really hot. Fire hot. I mean, fire kills it, right?”
“That is how we destroy the infected animals,” Benson said. “By burning them.”
“Where is the nearest place someone . . . some would-be terrorist . . . could get a sample of FMD?” I said.
The doctors looked at one another.
“There are a few labs that study the disease for vaccine purposes. Mostly at universities or drug companies,” Dearborn said.
“But the viruses that cause FMD are considered Group 4 pathogens,” Benson added. “They are kept in the same sort of confinement as the Ebola and Marburg viruses. Any release of FMD from containment would be registered and reported. There is no way one person, or even a group of terrorists, could circumvent the isolation protocols without site officials detecting that a release had occurred.”
“Did you say viruses?” I asked. “Not just one FMD virus?”
“That is correct,” Benson said. “There are a number of distinct strains, with certain variants being more common in certain areas of the globe.”
“How about Rodney’s virus?” I asked. “Where does that one come from?”
Doctor Benson shuffled a small pile of documents in front of him.
“Here it is. The virus found in Ottawa County is consistent with strains typically endemic to South Africa.”
“Just South Africa?” I asked. “Nowhere else?”
“Yes. Just South Africa,” Benson acknowledged. “But what possible difference could that make?”
I glanced at Costa, who was looking a bit uncomfortable.
“Just seems weird, I guess,” I said after a few seconds. “How does a South African virus just show up in Minnesota?”
“I am certain we would all like to know the answer to that question, Mr. Becker,” Dr. Benson said. “I don’t suppose you have any theories?”
“Some,” I said. Costa kicked me under the table. “But they are all absolutely outlandish. Not the stuff of science. Some of them involve aliens even.” I smiled.
Benson flashed a smug grin.
“I think we’ve learned what we can today,” Costa said, probably hoping to shut me up before I led the conversation too far astray into Classified areas. “Thank you for your time, Doctors.”
* * *
Costa used a key to halt the elevator on the way down.
“You don’t believe the virus came from the meteor, do you?” He said, stating a fact.
“North Korea has its own problems with FMD,” I said. “I looked it up. So why would they go all the way to South Africa to get the virus for this job?”
“Perhaps to deflect suspicion?” Costa suggested, a note of dismissiveness in his voice.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “North Korea isn’t that subtle. Besides, how do you figure the virus survived the heat of re-entering our atmosphere from space? I looked that up to.”
“Maybe the capsule’s heat shielding protected the virus during flight, then the thing cracked open when it struck earth, allowing the virus inside to escape.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “But the meteor looked to be in one piece when I saw it at Rodney’s exhibit.”
“Perhaps Holton got curious and opened it himself,” Costa said. “That is at least a possibility.”
“I’ll give you that,” I said. “But if you were selling a meteor on Ebay, would you want a big crack in it?”
Costa thought about it.
“So what are you saying exactly? You think the Foot and Mouth outbreak and the meteor both happening at one tiny farm in Minnesota is a coincidence? I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Me neither,” I said. “But I do believe in cause and effect. I think we need to look harder in that direction.”
“Well,” Costa said. “I’m all for looking. But I would love to hear your ideas as to exactly where the hell we start.”
CHAPTER 25
Bloomington, Minnesota is home to the Mall of America. Built in 1992, MOA is America’s largest shopping venue, boasting 4.2 million square feet of enclosed space, including a full-scale theme park, a permanent underground marine life exhibit, and more than 2.5 million square feet of retail stores and restaurants. It also hosts an estimated 40 million visitors each year from all over the world – more than twice as many as Disney World.
From the perspective of a terrorist, MOA presents an almost irresistible target. Why it has not, as yet, been attacked by one terror group or another is a mystery to the Department of Homeland Security, which lists the mall as one of its Top Ten Domestic Terror Targets. DHS continues to warn MOA’s operators of its vulnerabilities on a regular basis, making numerous suggestions for improvements, such as using transparent garbage cans to deter placement of bombs and maintaining armed security on premises. Unfortunately, other than concrete barriers near main entrances, the Mall’s owners and operators have largely ignored DHS warnings, claiming that authorities can point to no credible threat.
Such thinking leaves MOA, and most other indoor malls, vulnerable to attack by truck bombs, suicide vest bombers, or plain old firearms, the latter arguably becoming a greater danger with many malls, including MOA, declaring their premises to be “Gun Free Zones.” A determined jihadi could empty his AK-47 numerous times before armed law enforcement might arrive to rescue any surviving shoppers.
* * *
Yes, the Mal
l of America was what terrorists would call a “target rich environment.” To date, it had been a lucky target rich environment. Its luck was about to change if the North Korean military had anything to say about it.
It hadn’t taken the generals long after discovering the capsule’s landing site to decide on the best target for their assault. The most densely populated tourist destination in the United States lay less than 100 kilometers distant.
Further investigation had revealed that mall security was practically nonexistent, consisting predominantly of untrained private security guards and an aging collection of retired law enforcement officers armed with walkie-talkies, pepper spray, and uniform hats. The foolish Americans were so concerned about civil rights, they would rather risk complete vulnerability to terror rather than face the judgment of their own mass media should some over-zealous Mall Cop inadvertently injure a patron.
The American defenses at the Mall of America were laughable, really. Even an operative with minimal training could deliver Pyongyang’s biological weapon to the mall’s interior in a backpack or bag with no fear of search or seizure.
A cursory examination of the Mall’s design, which was readily available on the internet, made choosing the precise location for the attack easy. All that remained was for the agent to package the biologic for maximum dispersal and to add the explosive – Chinese fireworks known as M-80s would work just fine.
CHAPTER 26
Red Wing, Minnesota.
As I navigated the Pilot home from St. Paul, I rolled our predicament over and over in my mind.
I had sounded so brilliant when I’d told Costa we needed to consider “cause and effect” in the meteor/FMD “coincidence” at Rodney’s farm. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to come up with a single theory where the meteor strike could cause FMD, or FMD could cause a meteor to land at Rodney’s. No theory, that is, other than the meteor being coated with a modified FMD virus that could somehow survive the burning heat of atmospheric re-entry. I’m no biologist, but that scenario seemed impossible.
I would continue to consider cause and effect, though, because I didn’t believe in coincidences any more than Agent Costa did . . . and because, if the virus hadn’t arrived with the meteor, we were dealing with two sources of threat. Not just one. If we failed to extinguish both threats, the terrorists had won . . . and that was simply not an option.
* * *
“Two separate terror attacks on the same farmer?” Beth said as we sat on the red leather couch in our living room. “I don’t know, Babe. That sounds like a stretch.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But stretches seem to be about all we’re left with. Think about it. A meteor strike slash North Korean attack, and the first Foot and Mouth outbreak in a century, both occurring simultaneously . . . and in the middle of nowhere to boot? The whole situation defies logic. Why shouldn’t the solution defy logic as well?”
I could tell Beth was sympathetic. Unfortunately, she wasn’t clairvoyant.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s assume we don’t use logic to find our answers. How do you plan to proceed?”
That was the question I had hoped Beth would answer.
“Fortuity?” I said.
“You’re hoping we’ll get lucky? Okay. You get your rabbit’s foot and start rubbing. I’ll go pluck a four leaf clover.” Beth wasn’t mocking me. She was just pointing out the challenges of a strategy that relied on luck.
“Ha. Ha. Ha,” I said. “Actually, I was planning to pursue the Jeffersonian approach.”
Beth smiled, “The harder I work, the more luck I seem to have?”
“Precisely,” I said.
“Great,” Beth said. “Where would you like me to begin?”
“With a hardy South African virus that somehow found its way to Minnesota. Can you make us some luck in that area?”
“I can definitely do that,” Beth said with a smile. “Maybe not good luck. But I’ll check into it and we’ll soon find out.”
We discussed a few more details. By the time I left, Beth had assumed one of her favorite work postures, sitting on the front porch settee, legs crossed in the lotus position, and laptop exactly where its name said it belonged. Her fingers danced across the computer’s keys while its miniature electronic brain applied itself to our quandary.
CHAPTER 27
Ames, Iowa.
Kent Evans had been scanning and rescanning the web nonstop since he’d sent the email about FMD to the Ottawa County Sheriff. There had to be news of the outbreak in the media soon! They couldn’t possibly misdiagnose Foot and Mouth once they knew what they were looking for.
After a full day and night at the computer, Kent knew two things. His wife was at her wits’ end with his absences from family time, and he needed to do even more to jumpstart his illicit business plan.
He had also come to the conclusion that someone – he didn’t know who – was covering up his FMD attack. He wouldn’t let that happen again. In fact, he had already decided to contact the news media with his next attack.
Regardless of the risks, Kent would make his plan succeed. It was succeed or die. The way he saw it, those were his family’s only two chances for the cash they so desperately needed. He hoped Jeannie wouldn’t have to collect his life insurance benefits. But if that was what it took to get them out of this dark place, he would make it happen.
CHAPTER 28
Red Wing, Minnesota.
I was just returning home from a drive out to Benny Volnscheid’s place. “Squalor” didn’t begin to describe his living conditions.
The entire living area was maybe twelve feet square. In the living room, a threadbare oriental rug lay forlorn over broad pine boards. Open cans that had once contained baked beans and beef stew stood in ranks on the kitchen counter, each with its lid still attached, bent upward at ninety degrees. Outside behind the ramshackle structure, empty whiskey bottles lay in heaps, their testimony echoing through a sea of tin cans – the final resting place, too, no doubt, for the tin soldiers standing at attention inside.
And everywhere, the putrid stench of body odor hung like rotting cabbage in the air.
Benny had greeted me warmly, calling me “Sarge,” offering up a serving of beans and a shot of his best distillate if I had the time. I couldn’t stay, for many reasons. The threat of two biological attacks loomed over our county, for one. Others reasons were personal . . . emotional really . . . an intense sadness at the thought of the circumstances in which this soldier’s country had abandoned him. And concern . . . certainly, concern . . . over this man’s plight, and the probability of a future filled with days as acrid and rotten as the air that filled this place. Days through which Benny would march on silently, shuffling down the dusty road of decline until some disease, or more likely, despair, claimed him.
I couldn’t help but admire the man’s ability to endure. But it was disheartening to think that mere endurance seemed all he could hope for.
I will do what I can, Blastus. Hang in there.
Arriving at 1011 Jefferson Avenue, I resolved to push thoughts of Benny aside for now. I needed my brain to function rationally. Emotions are fine for what they are, but they can also be a soldier’s worst enemy.
* * *
After changing clothes and tossing my Benny attire in the washer, I joined Beth on the front porch, where she again – or maybe, still – sat cross-legged on the wicker settee.
“Hey, Babe,” she said. “I heard you come in, then smelled you all the way out here.”
“Sorry. That’s a story I’d prefer to postpone for now. My clothes are in the wash, though,” I said. Never let it be said I didn’t do the least I could do.
“Props to you, Babe.” Beth smiled then returned her attention to the laptop.
I smiled back.
As I watched her working, a wisp of a breeze tossed a few strands of sandy blond hair across her face. Beth responded by blowing puffs of air from the sides of her mouth until the hair cooperated, flipping up a
nd out of her way. The best things in life truly are free.
I took a seat in one of the large wicker chairs, positioning it at an angle to the settee.
“Any progress with South Africa?” I asked.
“Some,” she said. “Still need some of that luck, though.”
“What have you found so far?” Beth’s talents with anything and everything digital were without equal. If there were clues to be found, she would find them. I had no doubt.
“I’ve discovered I can track passports from the U.S. to Johannesburg and back,” she said. “And I’ve got names and addresses for South African nationals currently in the country on visas.”
“That sounds pretty good,” I said.
“Wait, there’s more,” she said, imitating a late night TV hawker.
We exchanged smiles. Sometimes a smile from the right person provides just enough je ne sais quoi to keep a guy going, you know?
“I’ve also been able to hack into FedEx, UPS, and DHL. So I’ve got their manifests and customer lists involving South African shipments as well.”
“That sounds like a lot of info,” I said. “I’m afraid to ask whether there’s a manageable subset somewhere that brings us closer to at least one of our terrorists?”
“Every step is a step closer, Babe,” Beth said. “It’s much easier to whittle down a long list than to build one up from scratch. Information is the coin of the realm, you know.”
“I do, indeed.” Hadn’t I once said information is power? I guess Beth and I agreed.
“You’ve done very well, my queen . . . so well, in fact, that I’ve brought you a present.” I produced a grungy and tattered spiral notebook from my shirt pocket and presented it to Beth.
She pinched it, somewhat reluctantly and at arm’s length, between two fingers.
“How nice,” she said. “And it has an aroma, too.” Her nose wrinkled.
9 More Killer Thrillers Page 87