The Annihilation Protocol

by Laurence, Michael

  “You’re just jealous.”

  “There are very few things that inspire jealousy in me,” Gunnar said. “Your relationship with your father is not one of them.”

  “What do you say we get this over with, then.”

  50

  Mason wasn’t so self-involved that he imagined his father sitting by the phone, waiting for him to call, or peeking through the curtains every few minutes on the off chance he might drop by. They’d both known the chances of his actually accepting his father’s invitation to join him for New Year’s. As it turned out, he’d never once thought about what his father did when he wasn’t physically present. Mason recognized that he was a United States senator and had a better idea than most of what that job entailed, but he hadn’t really understood that the job was what he did and not who he was. When it came right down to it, Mason saw the job as his father the same way. It was what his old man did—sometimes better than others—not who he was. In fact, he knew absolutely nothing about who his father was when he wasn’t wearing either hat. Surely he wasn’t the first adult child to suddenly realize that his youth, while it had been everything to him, was just a phase in his father’s life that had come and gone and that if he wanted to have an actual relationship with him now, it would be on different terms, ones that had yet to be clearly defined.

  All of those thoughts ran through his head in the time it took for his father to open the front door and for him to barge right past him.

  “Look, Dad. I—” His father held a glass of wine. The clatter of heels echoed from down the hallway. His cheeks were flushed, but not nearly to the same degree as his son’s. “I … forgot you had company.”

  Mason knew that his father had seen other women after his mother died, but he’d never brought them home. Truthfully, he’d only brought Mason home for the rare holiday here or there, and he was the old man’s flesh and blood, which surely meant that whoever she was, she was special to him in a way that however many others hadn’t been.

  “James, my boy. Do come in. And Gunnar, eh? I think the last time I saw you was, oh … long enough ago that you still had pimples. Not here to wrest my company from my grasp, are you? Then again, maybe that wouldn’t be such a terrible thing after all.”

  He proffered his hand to Gunnar, who shook it with a crooked half smile on his face.

  “Senator. It’s kind of disorienting seeing you in person instead of on the news. I was starting to wonder if you didn’t just play a character on TV.”

  “Touché.”

  He clapped Gunnar on the shoulder, gave Mason a fairly awkward hug, and guided them both into a hallway paneled with rough-hewn wood with a coat of lacquer so thick, it looked like wax.

  “I still can’t help but think of this as more of a hotel room than as a place that I own.”

  “We must stay in different hotels, Dad.”

  The living room was massive, and even then it hardly seemed to contain the white overstuffed suede furniture that looked like it had been made from giant marshmallows. There was a two-sided fireplace built into the wall straight ahead, through which he could see the dining room on the other side. To the right was an enormous saltwater aquarium filled with coral and fish of all sizes and colors. A small shark swished through a mountain of live rock before another shape passed across the glass from the opposite side of the tank. And with a click of heels, she emerged from the dining room, holding a crystal wineglass by the stem.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me, J.R.?”

  She was a stunning woman. Tall and slender. Tight charcoal skirt. Long legs. Snow-white skin. High heels. A silk blouse with a patterned scarf. Shoulder-length blond hair that partially concealed her right eye. White-blue eyes. Almost clear, like those of a wolf. Full lips the color of the flesh around a cherry pit.

  “It would be my pleasure,” the senator said. He took her by the hand with an almost playful twinkle in his eye and led her to where Mason stood. “Boys, may I introduce Ariana Levine, who has graciously consented to ring in the New Year with me. Ariana, this is my son, James, and his childhood friend Gunnar Backstrom.”

  “I’ve heard so much about you.” She transferred her glass to her left hand and extended her right in such a way that Mason wasn’t entirely sure if he was supposed to kiss it, shake it, or admire her French tips. “The way your father talks about you, I imagined you to be seven feet tall and surrounded by a golden aura.”

  He’d initially thought she was way too young for his father, but up close the signs of age showed through. Or, more accurately, the signs where her age had been surgically erased showed through. Her skin was maybe a little too tight around her eyes, her forehead, and her jawline. Her neck was a slightly darker shade than her face, and the cleavage that bloomed from her blouse had that telltale look of skin stretched over time by the weight of her implants. Or maybe he was just looking as hard as he could to find her flaws.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand. She radiated wealth and class in a way he generally only associated with his father at campaign time. “I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you.”

  He’d meant for it to sound a lot more flippant than it came out.

  Her laughter was like the tinkle of wind chimes.

  “Ms. Levine sits on the board of numerous corporations, trusts, and charitable organizations,” Gunnar said. “She’s responsible for the creation of the Foster Foundation, which funds research for Parkinson’s disease. It was Parkinson’s that claimed her husband, Milton Foster, who served as CEO of First Continental Bank throughout the latter half of the eighties and the nineties.”

  “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Backstrom.” She again offered her hand and he kissed it. Mason had never seen his old friend in his element before, nor had he imagined how effortlessly he could shift between worlds. “You’ve done fabulous work for several acquaintances of mine.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you in person, Ms. Levine.”

  “We were just about to open another bottle, if you boys would care to join us,” the senator said.

  He whisked in and deftly took Ariana’s hand from Gunnar’s.

  “Thanks for the offer, but we’re actually just swinging by,” Mason said. “I was really hoping you’d be able to help us answer a couple of quick questions, and then we’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Just swinging by the capital?” His father raised an eyebrow. “I’d question if this was actually a social call if I didn’t already know that your task force had been disbanded.”

  “I know my cue to leave,” Ariana said. “I am pleased to have finally met you, James. And you as well, Gunnar. Perhaps our paths will cross again soon.”

  And with a swish of her hips, she rounded the wall and vanished into the dining room.

  “Why, Senator, I had no idea—”

  “Stow it, Gunnar.” Mason’s father turned to face him. “I was hoping to do that under different circumstances, but I’m way too old to hide a woman from my grown son.”

  “Does she make you happy?” Mason asked.

  His father looked at him curiously for a moment.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “She makes me happy.”

  “Then that’s all I need to know.”

  His smile when he clapped Mason on the back was genuine, the kind he used when there were no cameras around. He almost appeared relieved. It was strange. Mason couldn’t remember a time when he felt as though his father had actually cared what he thought.

  “So this is a business call?”

  “And, unfortunately, we’re pressed for time. I need to know why Victor was in Bern last year, and I really need you not to ask any questions.”

  “If this has anything to do with my company, then I have a right to know.”

  “Gunnar just needs a few minutes in your system. That’s all.”

  “I hear rumors of chemical weapons and counterterrorism exercises in Central Park and now my son, the federal agent, shows up unannounce
d at my door. How worried should I be?”

  “Everything’s under control.”

  The senator looked him squarely in the eyes for several seconds before reluctantly nodding. They might not have ever had the closest relationship, but his father had always been able to tell when he was lying.

  51

  The guest bedroom faced the rear of the row house and looked out upon the slate-tiled courtyard; or rather, it would have had the windows not been blacked out with tinted film and covered with drapes heavy enough to make the rod bow. While the senator’s computer setup was the kind hackers used in movies, with half a dozen monitors and glowing components stacked to either side and bolted to the walls, it was all for show. Mason knew his father had simply paid for whatever top-of-the-line package the cybersecurity firm recommended for powerful people who didn’t know any better. He undoubtedly just used it for videoconferencing and accessing AgrInitiative’s system, which was accomplished by clicking an icon on his home page. The user name and password autofilled, eliciting a groan from Gunnar, who sat in the high-backed leather chair at the keyboard like the captain of a spacecraft.

  Mason rolled a second chair across the small room and took a seat beside him. He couldn’t help but think of his wife as Gunnar typed commands, breezed through directories, and scrolled through data formerly belonging to the Thornton empire. His father waited until they were networked to the corporate mainframe before adjourning to the living room, from which they heard the occasional clinking of glasses and snapping of knots in the fire.

  “Whoever’s managing your dad’s affairs has already made significant strides in distancing AgrInitiative from the mess AgrAmerica made of its holdings, not to mention its reputation,” Gunnar said. “Its portfolio’s been purged of anything that could possibly be perceived as tainted and most of its less wieldy subsidiaries have been sold, closed, or are in the process of being dismantled. We’re talking wholesale slaughter, corporate-style.”

  “I take it that’s a good thing,” Mason said. “Or are you trying to tell me you might not be able to find the information we need?”

  “You have to understand that the finances of a company of this size essentially have a life of their own. They’re in a constant state of fluctuation and at any given time provide little more than a snapshot of the larger picture, like a photograph taken through the window of a moving car. Liquid assets, by definition, are fluid. Cash flow can be manipulated, the value of investments varies from one day to the next, physical assets are depreciated on seemingly arbitrary schedules, and mergers and acquisitions are never simple transactions. They’re often complex arrangements that involve combinations of stocks and cash and subsidiaries and board seats and trade secrets and intellectual properties and any number of intangibles whose worth is dictated not by the market but by their value to the buyer.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “But it does explain how Victor was able to weasel his way into the biotechnology game. Your brother-in-law couldn’t simply cut a check for millions of dollars to buy an existing business without tipping off the competition to his aspirations, so he acquired one piecemeal.”

  “You found it.”

  “Was there ever any doubt?”

  “So what do we know?”

  Gunnar populated all six of the monitors with information and glanced from one to the next as he spoke.

  “We’re dealing with a Swiss company by the name of Aebischer Pharma AG. Certainly not a juggernaut in the world of pharmaceuticals like Novartis or Roche, although it does have an interesting history. It launched in 1996 with the stated mission of producing cutting-edge medical-grade pharmaceuticals using a unique fusion of man-made and natural sources, but it was woefully unprepared for the continual assault of environmental interests, which forced it to develop synthetic versions of the naturally occurring components. Not only was that contrary to its own stated mission; it ended up being significantly more expensive, so by 1999, it was actually worth less than its physical assets. Fortunately, its facilities were state of the art, its location outside of Bern was ideal, and the Swiss were notorious for their lack of governmental regulation, which made it the perfect European outpost for an American pharmaceutical research group that received its start-up capital from the Richter Foundation.”

  “The charitable entity of the very same dead man who conspired with my wife’s great-grandfather to develop a deadly strain of influenza on a hog farm,” Mason said. “We should have known his name would pop up at some point.”

  “It gets better. That company was called Advanced Medical Defense Solutions and the group that launched it was composed of medical research scientists who all served in the U.S. Army Chemical Corps and passed through Fort Detrick at some point. While technically a limited partnership under the Aebischer name, the deal was a whole lot more complicated than that. The original Aebischer ownership group retained a thirty-two-percent share, which it subsequently sold to chemical giant Bayer. For its initial investment in AMDS, the Richter Foundation was rewarded with a full third of Aebischer, which it converted into private shares and sold to several different international corporations, which then sold those shares to even more international corporations. By the time all was said and done, the ownership of the company was like a jigsaw puzzle that could only be assembled by picking up the pieces, one by one, and fitting them back together, which was how Victor, over the span of a decade, patiently accumulated controlling interest in a firm headed by former Defense Department scientists who, in addition to manufacturing a solid and reputable line of generic antibiotics, vaccines, and prescription drugs, expanded into the arena of agricultural insecticides and fungicides.”

  “Definitely the kind of place where guys like Chenhav and Mosche, a microbiologist and a biochemist with ties to the World Health Organization, the United Nations, and the World Medical Association, might be sent in the aftermath of nine/eleven,” Mason said.

  “Especially considering that in the wake of the merger, Aebischer became the exclusive production facility for Bayer’s proprietary drug ciprofloxacin, a second-generation fluoroquinolone antibiotic used to treat inflammatory conditions of the urinary, gastrointestinal, and respiratory tracts. Not to mention anthrax. In fact, once the CDC and WHO recommended that it be prescribed prophylactically to everyone who might potentially come into contact with respiratory anthrax, it sold its existing stockpile—one point two billion pills—directly to the U.S. Department of Defense on the day after Senate Majority Leader Tom Daschle received a letter filled with spores. At a profit of close to three billion dollars.”

  Mason suddenly understood exactly why his brother-in-law had acquired Aebischer.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “They also just happened to be sitting on an inoculation against the swine flu.”

  “Aebischer has an entire R and D department devoted to the production of vaccines and prophylactic treatments with defense applications, so if it didn’t already have one, it was definitely the kind of place that would be able to produce one.”

  With Victor controlling both the release of the Hoyl’s virus and access to the cure, he could have staged a pharmaceutical revolution that very well could have made him as powerful as any of the Thirteen, which was quite possibly why they’d had him killed. Or maybe he’d never been in control of his own hostile takeover of his family’s agricultural empire and the Thirteen had been manipulating him from the very start.

  “What kind of damage could Aebischer do to my father if anyone found out about its potential involvement?” Mason asked.

  “None that I can see,” Gunnar said. “At least not on paper. I don’t have access to sensitive projects, and the lack of governmental oversight means no one outside of the company really knows what they’re developing beyond what’s been publicly reported. For all we know, whatever plans Victor had for it never reached the execution phase. Then again, if he were truly looking for a legitimate foothold in the Eastern European pha
rmaceuticals market like he claimed, this would have been the perfect way to go about it. As far as the world’s concerned, Aebischer is just the most recent casualty of a boom-or-bust industry.”

  “Casualty?”

  “Your old man’s transition team at AgrInitiative began divesting him within a week of taking over. AMDS, now a minority partner, needed to distance itself from its association with Aebischer, too. Neither party could afford to simply walk away, and with its reputation having sustained significant damage, there was no chance of selling the company outright, so between them they reached a deal to divide the company into two units, equal in value to their ownership percentages, with the intention of marketing the assets to companies interested in investing in the intellectual properties and developmental potential, not the Aebischer name. AMDS held on to all properties specifically related to defense, which it turned around and sold directly to the U.S. government. AgrInitiative retained the biomedical and chemical units and had an offer on the table within two weeks. Looks like the sale will be finalized any day now.”

  “That was quick.”

  “Your dad’s team must have received an offer they couldn’t refuse. Either that or they took whatever they could get just to wash their hands of it.”

  “Who’s the buyer?”

  Mason realized he knew the answer before he even finished asking the question. Every aspect of the investigation had been leading to this revelation. And if he was right, not only did he know who’d hired the Scarecrow; he had his first concrete lead on a contemporary member of the Thirteen.

  “Aegis Asset Management.” Judging by the tone of Gunnar’s voice, he wasn’t surprised in the slightest, either. “A subsidiary of Royal Nautilus Petroleum.”

  “The same company that owns the apartment registered to Charles Raymond, the man who was killed in Central Park.”

  “If Nautilus is really a player here, why would it commission the murder of one of its own high-level executives?”