Bannerman's Ghosts

by John R. Maxim

  Clew waited again. Several long minutes passed. Impatient, he opened a window to search for a source that could advise General Tubbs. World Health in Geneva was the logical choice, but he’d never get them to keep this quiet. South Africa, however, had a major facility that might be more inclined to be discreet. The National Institute of Virology, Johannesburg. Clew composed an additional message.

  “I think you must also confirm that it’s Marburg. You have only the word of a smuggler, now deceased. The jar must be retrieved; it must be examined. Your virologist must know how to handle it safely. If he doesn’t, he must enlist someone who does. Have him call Johannesburg now.”

  Clew waited for a good fifteen minutes this time. He hoped that the general was taking his advice. He hoped that the general wasn’t on another phone dispatching a Liberian bomber to that freighter. The icon flashed. Roger Clew bit his lip.

  The message read, “The major agrees with your suggestion of quarantine. He hopes to live to see his wife and baby. True, we only have the smuggler’s word that it is Marburg but the major thinks he knows what he is talking about. The smuggler recognized the jar because he’d seen others like it when they were in Bobik’s possession. But he swore he didn’t know one was part of the shipment until he found it himself while he was stealing. He said that Bobik would never sell these to Mobote because Mobote had no means to disperse them. One cannot simply spill them into the wind and hope that the wind doesn’t swirl. Is Bobik’s man right? Is he truthful? We don’t know. But why were they going to Mobote?”

  The message, a long one, continued.

  “A part of the problem has been solved,” wrote the general. “Those held at the stern were the Captain and crew. I am informed by Major Scar that they are no longer aboard. He says that they have chosen to sacrifice themselves by leaping into the ocean. This happened only minutes ago. He says that his men are now hosing down the deck. Some must have started bleeding already.”

  Bleeding already? Not this soon, thought Clew. More likely, they had just been machine-gunned. Way to go, Major Scar. You’re a good one.

  “Major Scar,” it continued, “will remain near the stern until serious symptoms appear. Any others who begin to experience symptoms will join him and stay with him there. If they become sick, they too will go swimming. I am assured that Marburg cannot survive after passing through the belly of a shark.”

  Clew took a breath. That did seem the way to bet. But assured? Assured by whom? Had they placed that call to Johannesburg yet? Clew hit the scroll button. He read further.

  “Our government does not wish to consult with Johannesburg. Their white scientists once made similar poisons to use against opponents of apartheid. Even now, we would not trust Johannesburg. However, we are seeking advice from Angola. Our virologist is contacting the Angolan firm whose name is on the container in question. Major Scar gives the name of that company as VaalChem. Our government will also be interested to hear why they have developed such a terrible substance and why it was going to Mobote.”

  As Clew read this he said, “Fuck.” And then louder, “Fucking Bourne.” You own VaalChem, don’t you, you son of a bitch? Your own government is damned well going to ask those same questions.

  Clew entered his reply. “I want that container. I want it as evidence. I believe that if you pack a virus in ice it is dormant and cannot seek a host. Ask your virologist; I believe he’ll confirm. Then order Major Scar to find a larger container - an oil drum should do - put that one inside and surround it with ice. Have him seal the drum, place the drum in a lifeboat. Lower it and tow it with the longest line he has. I’ll need a few hours to arrange a pick-up by a reliable vessel.”

  He hit “send” and sat back and waited.

  Clew was shooting from the hip and he knew it. The ice part was right. The freighter would have ice. But he was not at all sure what that vessel would be or how he could handle this quietly. The U.S. Embassy in Monrovia was bound to have a chopper. Sure, it does, he decided. They all do over there. They’re kept on alert and ready to evacuate for whenever the next civil war breaks out. The trick will be to get them to pick up that drum without telling them what is in it.

  He was also itching to pick up the phone and start shitting all over Bourne. He muttered. “I’ve got you, you arrogant bastard. If that’s Marburg, you’re definitely going to prison. Especially if it’s weapons-grade Marburg.”

  The general’s reply came more quickly than expected. It was also very brief and to the point. “Ice idea is correct. Lifeboat is sensible. But the jar is evidence. We will retain possession. Evidence has been known to become lost in such cases. And this freighter, as payment, is no longer sufficient. After seven days have passed, you and I will renegotiate. You might have many families to compensate.”

  Clew cursed, but he wasn’t really surprised. The freighter could still end up being sunk. Liberia was already out of pocket on the raid and would probably suffer more losses. Clew hoped that twenty children would not be among them. Bourne was right about that. It would make for bad press. And he hoped that Major Scar would not be among them. He seemed to be an excellent officer. General Tubbs, either way was going to ask for the moon. If Clew knew General Abednego Tubbs, the general already had a pen in his hand and was putting his wish list together.

  Clew sipped his PDA into its cradle. He downloaded all of the decrypted messages. He transferred the originals to a graphics program and then he deleted that program. Not impossible to restore but very difficult. His “doodlings” box was still on the screen. His notes about Stride and where she’d probably been seen. And that photo: “Almost certainly Stride.” He had a lot more than Stride on his mind at the moment. He almost erased it along with his doodles. He had that photo in his files at home and at two other backup locations. His finger, however, paused over the key.

  Stride and Bourne, he thought. Bourne wants to find Stride. And now suddenly here’s Bourne popping up once again in a context that seems unconnected. Coincidence?

  Maybe. But it does make one wonder.

  Clew downloaded his notes and the photo as well. As before, he erased what remained. He went back into Search and typed in the word, Marburg. He’d do an hour or so of homework on tropical virology. After that, he’d scan some foreign intelligence files to see how much he could learn about VaalChem. Normally he’d try the FBI and CIA, but he’d bet that those services would be a dry hole. They seemed a little too cozy with Bourne. By lunchtime, he’d be ready to get into his car and do something that was probably unwise. But what’s the good of being a political untouchable if you can’t have a little satisfaction now and then?

  He reached into his desk and found Bourne’s invitation to the brunch that had been aborted. He opened the envelope and withdrew the little map that contained the directions to Briarwood. He was going to take a ride to the Shenandoah country. He was going to drop in on Bourne unannounced.

  He was going to make Artemus Bourne sweat.

  SIXTEEN

  Artemus Bourne had been neglecting his bees. The past week had produced some unnerving distractions, but that certainly wasn’t the fault of the bees. He should not have left his hives unattended.

  He suited up in his Chilly veil and gloves and proceeded to the area in back of the stables where he kept a neat row of ten hives. They weren’t ordinary hives; he’d had them specially designed. Their architecture matched the scheme of his house. Rustic looking, mostly wood, with wide overhanging eaves to protect the actual hive inside.

  Nor, in fact, were they ordinary bees. These were African bees, better known as killer bees. Extremely aggressive in defense of the hive. Especially the females; they’re the ones with the stingers. The early Romans used to raise them. They would keep them on their war ships. They would catapult the hives at enemy ships with the aim of distracting the oarsmen and the archers. All that flapping and swatting as the Romans closed in. It must have been a sight to behold.

  Half an hour earlier, he’d received a cal
l warning him that he might have a visitor. The caller could not be certain of it. All he knew was that Clew had left his office at State after being heard to mutter, “Fucking Bourne.” His caller had added, “I’m not sure about this either, but I think he’s confirmed that Stride is alive. And I think he might know where she is.”

  “Excellent,” said Bourne. “But I need you to be certain.”

  “I’ve got someone at his computer right now. Nothing yet. He’s built in some blind alleys.”

  “If Clew’s coming here, you have several hours. Exceed yourself this time. Get it done.”

  Bourne wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased or annoyed when a guard at the main gate announced Clew’s arrival. He said that both Clew and his driver were armed, but they wouldn’t check their weapons at the gate. Bourne said, “I doubt that he’s planning a drive-by. Al the same, lead them up here and stay close.”

  There seemed no end of Mr. Clew’s bad manners. Clew had twice ignored his invitations to brunch. Now he shows up unbidden, unfrisked and in a snit, contemptuous of the house rules. Nor has he arrived in especially good humor if his “Fucking Bourne” is any indication. However, thought Bourne, this intrusion will be tolerable provided that he’s kept his end of the bargain and has in fact located Stride. If the news is as promised, all will be forgiven.

  Well, not all. But at least this interruption.

  Bourne glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past two. Chester could be showing up here any time, his business in Houston completed. We don’t need any further unpleasantness, thought Bourne. Bees do best in a tranquil environment. Of course Chester, by himself, still upsets the bees, having traumatized them in the past. In any case, thought Bourne, we’d best keep this meeting brief. A response, an address, then off you go.

  Bourne watched as Clew stepped out of his Lincoln. Clew had not bothered to make himself presentable. Shirtsleeves, no jacket, no necktie. The guard who had escorted him gestured toward Clew’s lower back and mimed the location of his weapon. Bourne nodded to show that he understood. He said to the guard, “Wait by your car.”

  Roger Clew’s driver had also stepped out, but he stayed at the door of the vehicle. The driver was an older man, jowly, thick-set. That would be Mr. Rakowsky, no doubt. Something less than a genius, he’d been told. He looked as if he wished he were elsewhere. For all of that, however, he did seem alert. His eyes moved constantly, attentive to his duty, and he’d left his engine running at the ready.

  Clew’s own eyes were locked on the object of his visit. He hesitated, not expecting the bee garb, or, for that matter the hundred or so bees that had alighted on Bourne’s head and shoulders.

  Clew kept his distance. “Is that you under there?”

  Bourne sighed. No greeting. No addressing him by name. Clew seemed even less civil than the last time they spoke. Bourne answered, “Move slowly, and you needn’t not fear the bees. I gather you know nothing about bees.”

  “I know that they’re bugs. And bugs are right up your alley.”

  Bourne didn’t quite know what to make of that comment. It had the sound of a double-entendre, but perhaps Clew was mocking his hobby.

  “If you knew the first thing, you would not call them bugs. They are a fascinating species, highly specialized, efficient. They are the perfect model of a communist Utopia. Lenin kept bees. Did you know that?”

  Clew said, “I didn’t come here to talk about bees.”

  “The organism, you see, is the hive, not the bee. The bee has no independent existence. By itself, you’d be correct; it’s a bug, just a bug. It’s only the big picture that matters.”

  Clew’s hands went to his hips. “Are you through?”

  “Very well. Let’s have it. I’ll just stand here in silence. That way I won’t worry

  about being recorded.”

  “I’m not wired,” said Clew. “I don’t need to be wired. We can both strip down naked if you like.”

  “I…um, think that I’d rather be recorded,” said Bourne as he gently brushed the bees from his body. “But I accept you at your word. You seem upset. Is there a problem?”

  Clew nodded. He said, “Yes. I think you could say that. It came in a red and white cooler.”

  That response startled Bourne. Could Clew mean those heads? How could he possibly know about the heads? He was glad that he hadn’t yet removed his hooded veil, lest Clew see that he was at a disadvantage.

  Clew said to him, “Weapons-grade Marburg, Mr. Bourne. In a VaalChem container. In that shipment of arms. Why are you producing weapons-grade Marburg?”

  Bourne was now doubly startled. Even aghast. His expression, he realized, must be one of confusion. And of ignorance, innocence, total surprise. So why waste it, he decided. He took off his hood.

  He said, “I’ve not the foggiest. What the devil do you mean?

  “I need to say it again? We have the evidence, Bourne. Most of that freighter’s crew is already dead. It will probably kill everyone on board.”

  “Everyone being…?”

  “The raiding party and those girls, those kidnapped children just for openers. And God knows how many if that ship should reach land. The Liberians are going to be after your ass, but they’re going to need to stand in line.”

  Bourne raised a staying hand. He said, “I wish you’d go slowly. With more grace, if possible, but more slowly; I can’t follow. I take it that the freighter has been intercepted by some sort of force from Liberia.”

  “It was. Why weapons-grade Marburg?”

  “No, no,” said Bourne. “More slowly than that. Was that shipment destroyed or was it not?”

  “The shipment went down, Mobote’s men with it. It went down except for a VaalChem container that had held a lab flask full of Marburg. Bobik’s man on board stole it along with some drugs and along with the VaalChem container it came in. It’s your bad luck that Bobik’s man is a thief. Without him we might never have known.”

  Bourne affected a pained, yet patient expression. “Known what, for heaven’s sake. Exactly what are you asking?”

  Clew showed his teeth. “I have to say it again? I think you’re producing weapons-grade Marburg. If you’re making it, it follows that you’re selling it.”

  “Mr. Clew,” he said calmly. “It’s quite clear that you dislike me. But you must try to keep that from coloring your judgement. First of all, that shipment was Bobik’s, not mine. I promise you I’ve never met the man. As for selling it; to whom? Do you think to Mobote? Why then would I have urged you to sink it?”

  “Because it was evidence. You wanted it destroyed.”

  Bourne threw up his hands in a show of dismay. He said, “Very well. Let’s take these things in order.” But he stopped himself when another thought struck him. He said, “I’ve just been threatened with the wrath of Liberia. Did I understand you correctly?”

  “You did.”

  “Liberia, Mr. Clew, is not a world power. Its government is barely a Liberian power. You might as well tell me that I’m in disfavor with some gang from the South Bronx or Watts.” He raised his hand again. “But I digress.”

  Bourne said, “Let’s take this box. This VaalChem container. Those containers are shipped all over the world. They’re containers, you see. They are shipping containers. Most are discarded when they’re served that purpose. Some, I don’t doubt, end up being reused. I wouldn’t be surprised if people pack their lunches in them even though they sometimes carry human organs. The container that you speak of could have come from nearly anywhere. It has no evidentiary value.”

  Clew started to speak. Bourne said, “No, hear me out.”

  He said, “VaalChem, as you know, is a biotech firm specializing in tropical virology. They make vaccines, Mr. Clew. Vaccines of all kinds. Although my grasp of that process is limited, I know that one cannot develop a vaccine without studying the virus that one hopes to defeat. Does VaalChem have Marburg? I would assume that they do. I would assume that they have cultures of smallpox as well. And E
bola, Lassa fever, HIV…the whole spectrum.”

  Clew blinked. “You said smallpox? Where would you get smallpox?”

  “I think you know that it’s readily acquired.”

  Clew shook his head. “Not legally, it isn’t.”

  “In that case, I must be mistaken.”

  Bourne snorted inwardly. Not legally, he says. Clew was just being annoying. The popular notion is that no one has smallpox. No one except the CDC in Atlanta and a similar facility in Russia. Small samples, kept frozen, entirely safe. In truth, that story is a comfortable fiction. The Defense Department knows perfectly well that at least six other countries have it. As for the Russian supply, their so-called “small samples,” they’ve actually made twenty tons of the stuff. They’ve tested it repeatedly in ICBM warheads. They’ve tested it in special refrigerated warheads to keep the heat of reentry from cooking it.

  “This ‘whole spectrum,’” asked Clew. “Is it all weapons-grade?”

  “You’ve used that term. I haven’t. Who says its weapons-grade?”

  “I told you,” Clew answered. “Bobik’s man had some. He’d seen it before. A Liberian virologist confirmed it.”

  “This virologist was on board?”

  “He was in radio contact. He confirmed it based on its physical description.”

  Bourne smiled almost gently. He shook his head slowly. He said, “Now I wish you’d recorded all this. That way you’d be able to play it back later and hear just how ludicrous it sounds. Confirmed? By radio? By a Liberian virologist? Next you’ll tell me that he’s the top man in his field. His field has how many in Liberia? Two? I know that sounds elitist, if not racist, but so be it.”

  Bourne went on.

  He said, “Your other expert witness is some pig-like Nigerian who’s not only a smuggler, but you say he’s a thief. That’s Bobik’s man, correct? Some clown named Moshood? And yes, I knew that this man would be on board. I didn’t mention him among the particulars I gave you because he should not have been significant. If you want to get to the bottom of this, I suggest that track down Bobik himself. Ask him your questions. I’m sure you’ll get better answers. You might find that he has a better head on his shoulders than the errand boy he sent with that shipment.”