The Annihilation Protocol

by Laurence, Michael

  “Negative,” Gunnar said. “He’s gone dark.”

  “Then we’re counting on you to locate him.”

  “I don’t know where he is now,” Gunnar said, “but I can tell you where he was.”

  64

  The squeal of the SUV’s tires echoed from the parking garage as Ramses ascended the ramp and pulled out onto Park Avenue, heading southeast toward Lower Manhattan. They needed to find Marchment and there was really only one way to do so. It was too risky for all of them to go to the federal building, so they’d agreed that Mason would go alone. If he was right, he had a pretty good idea of how he could get Algren to divulge the deputy secretary’s location.

  “Back up and start over,” Layne said. “I thought Marchment and Mikkelson were at Edgewood in 1975.”

  “They were,” Gunnar said. “With the exception of a short period of time in September. Records show that on August sixteenth, 1975, Andreas Mikkelson purchased four tickets on a commercial plane bound for Japan, by way of San Francisco and Honolulu, from an expense account established by Royal Nautilus Petroleum. Private Second Class Randall Marchment’s passport was stamped three weeks later in Tokyo, alongside one belonging to a gentleman named Dr. Ichiro Nakamura, who promptly exited the airport and dropped off the face of the Earth.”

  “What do you mean?” Mason asked.

  “Exactly what I said. His trail ends right there, but the trail of a man named Masao Matsuda picks up where his left off. This picture’s from his obituary.”

  Gunnar swiveled his laptop so Mason could see the screen, a simple task made considerably more difficult by the stop-and-go traffic.

  The picture was in black and white and appeared to have been scanned from a newspaper. The subject had a gray beard, thinning hair, and deep wrinkles around his eyes. He wore glasses with thick black rims and even thicker lenses. Mason stared at it for several seconds before determining that it was the same man he’d seen in the photographs at Edgewood.

  “I would never have found him if I hadn’t run his picture through age-progression software,” Gunnar said, “and even then I only found a handful of images. This is the best one.”

  Layne turned around in the passenger seat and leaned as far back as she could. Gunner tilted the screen so she could see.

  “Do you think someone tried to scrub him from the Internet?” she asked.

  “I think he was a man who did everything in his power to avoid being captured on film.”

  “That would explain why he wasn’t in any of the staff photos,” Mason said.

  “And for good reason,” Ramses said. “If anyone made the connection between him and Unit 731, the Chinese and Russians would have been fighting over who got the first crack at him and we would have had an international incident on our hands.”

  “What do we know about the Matsuda identity?” Mason asked.

  “Born 1913 in Tokyo, where he died in 1995. Earned his medical degree from Tokyo Imperial University in 1937. A prominent pediatric surgeon, he was commissioned as a lieutenant in the Japanese Imperial Army in 1940. Assigned to the Epidemic Prevention and Water Purification Department of the Kwantung Army in Manchuria, where he served under Dr. Shirō Ishii in Unit 731. There he performed invasive human experimentation resulting in the deaths of thousands of civilians and prisoners of war, most of them Chinese. Pardoned of charges of crimes against humanity in 1945. General Douglas MacArthur himself negotiated the deal exonerating Ishii, Matsuda, and a handful of others, in exchange for exclusive access to their research, which included amputations and vivisections, deliberate exposure to viral and bacterial warfare agents, and experimentation with lethal poisons and nerve agents. All on men, women, and even children.”

  Mason realized how much gaining access to that kind of medical knowledge, which would have been impossible to re-create under anything remotely resembling humane conditions, while simultaneously denying it to an adversary like the Soviet Union, would have been worth to the military, not to mention the field of medicine.

  “Once I had his real name,” Gunnar said, “I was able to find pictures facial recognition couldn’t acquire.”

  He brought up a grainy black-and-white photo of a man wearing a surgical mask and smock and elbow-length gloves standing over a body whose abdomen had been opened from navel to sternum and its contents disgorged. In another, a man in a gas mask, raincoat, and rubber boots was hosing down a screaming girl with what looked like an industrial sprayer. One photo showed him in a surgical mask and butcher’s apron, posing beside a pallet covered with human remains in various states of dismemberment. In the next, he was carrying a toddler by the front of his pants, the child’s body folded limply backward.

  There were more, but Mason couldn’t bring himself to look. He’d seen enough to know what kind of savage this man had been, how he’d used Marchment to help conduct experimentation so sadistic, it had turned a little boy into a monster like the Scarecrow, and how Marchment had been able to use what he’d done to advance his career. Were it not for the fact that the Novichok was still out there, he would have been more than content to leave all of these wretched people to their own devices. As was always the case, though, it was innocents who ultimately suffered most at the hands of evil men.

  “How did Matsuda end up at Edgewood?” he asked.

  “According to an official release from the Department of Justice, a team of army scientists was sent from Camp Detrick to Manchuria in 1945 to authenticate the results of experimentation conducted by a group of Japanese medical professionals, who were offering the totality of their research in exchange for their freedom. This envoy concluded that American scientists could never independently amass such a comprehensive database of human medical knowledge because they had—and I quote—‘scruples.’ As Japanese physicians obviously didn’t, the means by which they acquired this treasure trove of information was determined to be unethical rather than criminal, a semantic distinction that allowed the powers that be to feel good about cutting the deal, as not only did they reap the benefits; they were able to twist the knife in the back of the Soviets, who wanted blood—knowledge be damned—for the Russian prisoners of war killed by Unit 731.”

  Mason looked into the faces of the people they passed—in their cars, in Union Square Park, eating and drinking at outdoor tables—and wondered how many of them were capable of committing such atrocities. He thought of what he would have done to Matsuda if given the opportunity, and realized he wasn’t a whole lot better.

  “So we offered immunity,” Gunnar said. “In exchange, we received the raw data, notes, and graphic documentation, which we brought back to Maryland. Along with the Japanese doctors themselves. There they served in an advisory capacity to our fledgling bioweapons program, the clinical arm of which was subsequently set up at—”

  “The Edgewood Arsenal,” Layne said.

  “I can’t find any records of how long Matsuda slash Nakamura was there or his role in the experimentation, though. The closest I can come is a peripheral mention of three pardoned Unit 731 members helping to implement testing protocols. There’s no information on either identity between 1952 and 1975. His story picks back up again in 1976, when he founded Kenkō Pharmaceuticals. Takeo Tamiya, another pardoned physician, returned home and became president of the Japan Medical Association. Shirō Ishii, the Imperial Japanese version of Josef Mengele, remained underground until he popped up in South Korea right about the same time North Korea accused the United States of using biological weapons against it.”

  “You think these guys were brought over here as more than mere advisers?” Layne asked. “That they continued their experimentation under government supervision?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Ramses said. “The powers that be don’t give a shit about any of us.”

  “Why do you have such a hard-on for the army?”

  “I find out it’s been in bed with the Langbroeks since the fifties, that a private company like Nautilus was able to use its
power and influence to infiltrate our country’s defense and corrupt it for its own purposes, and you’re asking why that might bother me? I did things for this country that still keep me awake at night. How am I supposed to feel knowing that I could have done so on the orders of the Thirteen?”

  No one spoke for several minutes as cars and pedestrians blurred past beyond the windows.

  “You said something about the emissaries from Camp Detrick drawing an ethical distinction between American and Japanese doctors,” Mason said. “Do you think the same logic could be applied to test subjects?”

  “Do you mean from the perspective that it would be unethical, rather than criminal, to allow experiments to be conducted on Japanese children?” Gunnar asked. “Or for unscrupulous Japanese physicians to experiment on children in general?”

  “Take your pick,” Mason said.

  “You said the DoD bought four seats,” Layne said. “Who occupied the other two?”

  Gunnar was too busy typing to answer.

  Ramses turned right on Leonard and pulled to the curb.

  “You sure this is how you want to play it?” he asked.

  “If you were Marchment, where would you go?”

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong, only that if they really want you sidelined, you’re not coming back out of that building. And if they figure out you found Mikkelson and didn’t call it in…”

  He let the statement hang; the implications were clear.

  “I should go with you,” Layne said.

  “We’ve been over this,” Mason said. “If I’m detained, it’s up to you guys to stop the Scarecrow.”

  He climbed out the rear door and was just about to close it behind him when Layne spoke.

  “But what if we can’t?”

  There was an urgency in her voice.

  “Then Ramses knows what to do from there.”

  Mason closed the door and stepped back from the curb. His old friend nodded his understanding before squeezing back into traffic. If their worst nightmares were realized, he had complete confidence in Ramses to get Gunnar and Layne out of the city or, failing that, to make sure they didn’t suffer.

  He turned to the south, where he could just barely see the top few floors of the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building over the complex across the street, and struck off to meet his fate.

  65

  Mason stopped at the drugstore on the corner, where he bought a cup of coffee, a stick of deodorant, and a Rangers T-shirt and windbreaker. He used the restroom to change and clean himself up and messaged Algren to let her know that he’d made a connection that might help her investigation. She promptly responded that she’d meet with him when he arrived.

  He jogged across the street to the federal building and finished his coffee while waiting in line at security. An agent wearing an FBI lanyard was waiting for him on the other side of the metal detector. She greeted him with a firm handshake and ushered him into an elevator that took him directly to the twenty-third floor. The doors opened on an office far less chaotic than he’d expected. He turned to his left and saw Algren striding straight toward him in the same clothes she’d been wearing when he saw her last. If her eyes were any indication, she hadn’t slept since then, either. Her expression suggested she’d nearly exhausted her limited supply of patience and wasn’t about to waste what little remained on him.

  She beckoned for him to follow her and headed back down the hallway to the tune of clicking heels. They forced their way through throngs of analysts and JTTF officers moving with an extreme sense of purpose on their way to the operations center. A riot of voices and tension spilled into the corridor when she opened the door.

  Rows of massive desks spanned the width of the room, each of them equipped with a dozen stations, all of which had their own computers and networked telephones. Signs had been affixed to the top of the monitors to identify the dedicated operator’s function for ease of identification at a glance. Each served as the central hub of communications for the various contributing parties, such as FEMA, SWAT, NYPD, FBI, DHS, FDNY, and the NJTTF—National Joint Terrorism Task Force—in Washington, D.C., which, presumably, coordinated the efforts here with those in Philadelphia and the District.

  There were a dozen video screens mounted to the wall at the front of the room. All of them displayed different critical functions in real time. There was a map of the five boroughs with the locations of field teams represented by yellow beacons, satellite imagery from various elevations and of different areas, rolling surveillance-camera footage, and both local and national newscasts. Whiteboards had been wheeled in and positioned to either side of the rows of desks, leaving barely enough room to scoot between them. They were covered with photographs, maps, and handwritten notes. Crime-scene images from Colorado, New Jersey, and New York. Detail shots of victims and evidence marked with numbered placards.

  Mason took in everything around him as fast as he could. They already had pictures of Mikkelson’s body—including close-ups of the bruising from the ligature, the wasps, and the dark-rimmed holes where the venom had eaten through his flesh—on the board beside the photographs of Charles Raymond’s body. They were only now beginning to put together the Nautilus connection. While they had a long way to go to catch up with him, they’d learned something that he hadn’t. The majority of the executive committee was in town and at the top of the list of proposed interviews, along with Mikkelson’s doorman, neighbors, and local business associates. A forensics team was already inside his penthouse, as evidenced by the live feed playing out on its liaison’s screen.

  He didn’t see anything even peripherally related to the Rocky Mountain or Edgewood arsenals.

  Algren’s desk was at the front, beneath the central column of monitors, facing the madness. There were binders stacked on one side, notebooks on the other. Every line on her phone was flashing. She practically collapsed into her chair and looked up at him with raised eyebrows.

  “You said you’d figured out something that might help us?” she said.

  Mason glanced at the pictures of the Colorado crime scenes. He was looking for one in particular.

  “Tell me you’re not trying to use the promise of information to leverage your way back into the investigation,” she said. “Because if you are, I swear to God—”

  “Nothing like that,” he said. “I was kind of hoping you’d offer, but I don’t have any ulterior motives. I was just sitting around my hotel room, trying to keep my mind occupied, when I figured out the message in the cornfield.”

  She inclined her head to her right, toward where an aerial view of the Cavanaugh acreage was affixed to a different dry-erase board than he’d expected. He peeled it off and set it on her desk. The dead men on the crossbars stood apart from the corn. The angle wasn’t quite right, so he turned it about fifteen degrees so the posts lined up for her. He grabbed a pen and drew a vertical line down the middle and a horizontal line intersecting it, connecting the top three victims to form the upper portion of a cross.

  “Behavioral was right about the number of points, but not about the design,” he said. “It was already complete when we arrived.”

  He drew the diagonal lines from what he considered the feet through the center of the circle and connected them to the crossbar.

  “What’s that supposed to be?” she asked.

  “It’s a scarecrow.”

  Algren picked up the photo and held it closer to her face.

  “If you look at any number of points long enough, you’ll eventually see a pattern.”

  She tossed the picture back onto her desk, but he could tell he’d set the hook.

  “Sorry to have wasted your time,” he said.

  “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I truly appreciate the effort. If you think of anything else that might be useful, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  “I’m sure you have more than enough on your plate, what with this being New Year’s Eve and everyone in town preparing to hit the str
eets.”

  “And a mayor who won’t even entertain the notion of canceling the festivities.”

  “Can’t you make him?”

  “Even the DHS and JTTF are subject to politics. There’ve been credible threats on New Year’s Eve before, none of which have come to pass. After the ISIS threat in 2015, they upgraded their security measures and claim you couldn’t sneak a pocketknife into Times Square, let alone an explosive device. He insists they have the situation contained. The entire area’s barricaded with sand trucks and concrete barriers. They have security checkpoints at every entrance, hundreds of camera drones overhead, thousands of uniformed and plainclothes officers on the ground, and fifty bomb-sniffing canine units.”

  “None of which will do them any good against the release of a chemical weapon.”

  “My point exactly, but you try convincing him.”

  “What about the subways?”

  “Locked down tight. No one’s getting on or off one of those trains without being subjected to facial-recognition software and passing through our security net.”

  “And the other cities?”

  “They’ve raised the terrorism threat level to orange and are taking every conceivable precaution, but with the Scarecrow showing off his handiwork in Central Park, we have to figure we’re sitting at ground zero here.”

  “You know I can help, right?”

  “That’s not my call, Special Agent Mason. Believe it or not, I actually did go to bat for you and your partner, but I agree with Deputy Secretary Marchment’s assessment that our local assets are better trained and equipped to handle things here.”

  “Where’s Marchment now?”

  “In the field, conducting a sensitive interview. Like I said, there’s always politics. Even at a time like this. As I’m sure you probably know that better than most.”