“The objective of Operation Crossbow,” he started, “is to gain visibility into what military projects this man is working on. His name is Adrian Zhu.”
He drank from a water bottle as the bigwigs in the room got a good look. The snapshot Callahan had taken at the opera showed Zhu with longish black curly hair, a small, angular face and black plastic designer eyeglasses.
“Zhu is considered one of the world’s most brilliant bioengineers,” Carver said. “He was born in Boston to first-generation Chinese immigrants. After dropping out of MIT, he hooked up with a business partner, Spencer Griffin, and started a biotech firm in Boston called LifeEmberz. Who here has heard of them?”
None of the suits raised their hands.
“You wouldn’t have. In the early years, they worked in the shadows using private funds. But let me ask another question. Who here has had their genome decoded in the last year?”
Three out of the five people in the room raised their hands.
“LifeEmberz had a hand in making that possible. Before they tackled it, this was something that only the super-rich could afford to do. It cost about a hundred thousand dollars per person, and even then, the evidence of whether you were really carrying a Parkinson’s gene, or a cancer gene, was pretty iffy. Within four years, LifeEmberz and its partners advanced the technology so much that the basic testing kits were being sold in over the counter.”
“Who funded them?” The voice belonged to Claire Shipmont, the agency’s deputy director. Like most everyone in the room, this was her first exposure to Operation Crossbow. She was a highly regarded career fed who, it was rumored, would soon be tapped to run Homeland Security.
“Good question. They were funded by an anonymous group that was so protective of its privacy that they actually delivered the seed money in cash. God knows what kind of kickback they got when LifeEmberz got bored of the genome business.”
Carver advanced to the next slide, which showed a silent video of Adrian Zhu standing over a mummified body.
“This was taken in Egypt. After LifeEmberz sold their genome decoding technology to a medical testing company, they used the money to do whatever interested them. One project had them utilizing the mitochondrial DNA found within hair samples to do what Zhu called ‘extreme paleo-DNA’ work. He was interested in exhuming dead bodies, preferably of people who had been dead for more than 300 years, and using the DNA within hair samples to find out things about them. For example, eye color, skin pigment, even defects that might have caused their deaths.”
”And people paid them for this?” Shipmont said.
“We don’t know. LifeEmberz never filed another U.S. tax return.”
“They closed down?”
“I’m getting to that.” Carver clicked to the next video clip, which showed Adrian Zhu, wearing a biohazard suit, working in a spotless lab. “Zhu had an idea that if LifeEmberz could exhume the body of one of your ancestors — a grandparent, for example — and extract mitochondrial DNA from it, they might be able to then take your embryonic stem cells and in a lab environment, create fertilized eggs that were just like your ancestors, but genetically superior.”
“And that freaked people out,” another voice said. Julian Speers, the Director of National Intelligence, had slipped into the back of the room. Speers had been the White House chief of staff under the previous administration before current president Eva Hudson offered him the role as her intelligence czar.
The move had been a controversial one. Speers was a superb operational manager, but he had no prior intelligence experience. Although the appointment had raised a lot of eyebrows, Speers was only the latest in a line of White House chiefs to head up a federal agency. Ronald Reagan’s chief of staff, James Baker, had gone on to become secretary of the treasury, and later, secretary of state. Bill Clinton’s chief of staff, Leon Panetta, had been appointed CIA director and later, secretary of defense. The theory was that operational expertise, coupled with a lack of specialty knowledge, could actually be an advantage. They were, by nature, forced to make decisions based on the big picture.
But heading up the ODNI was an enormous job, and one that even Carver didn’t know if his friend was up for. Speers was now a cabinet member with oversight of the entire intelligence community, including the CIA, FBI, NSA, Homeland Security and other agencies.
“Glad you could make it,” Carver said. “And you’re right, of course. LifeEmberz threw themselves into all kinds of controversy. At one point they were getting a couple hundred death threats a week. Mr. Zhu packed his company up and moved their offices to Beijing.”
“Why China?” Shipmont said.
“Besides a hot economy? Forty-two percent of the population is agnostic or atheist, and about 30 percent subscribe to folk religions, like Taoism. That equated to a lot less moral judgment about his research.”
Speers stood in the back of the room, churning his right hand in a circular motion to get Carver to hurry up.
“Fast forward a couple of years,” Carver continued. “The company’s assets in the U.S. were frozen due to tax delinquency, and they needed money. So they accepted a commission from the Chinese government to improve child nutrition in rural areas. They got way more than they bargained for. LifeEmberz created a new breed of supercattle, achieved by leveraging a blend of mitochondrial DNA and nuclear DNA, and using what Zhu calls extreme cloning techniques. In the past week, they’ve told audiences at Oxford, University of Edinburgh and Sapienza University that they’ve reduced the per-animal cloning process to less than a week.”
“Impressive,” Shipmont remarked without enthusiasm. “But from a security standpoint, I still don’t know why we care about this guy.”
Carver dropped his laser pointer. “We think the Chinese government commissioned LifeEmberz to work on military programs. We fear at least one might be a bioweapon. And we think another involves cloning, uh, supersoldiers.”
The room got quiet. The DD chuckled. “As in Attack of the Clones?” she said, referencing the Star Wars storyline.
Speers stepped forward. “That’s right. Supersoldiers. A clone army. Go ahead and laugh, but I know people here in Washington who have discussed it with a straight face.”
“But it’s been difficult to get to Zhu,” Carver said. “So when we heard that LifeEmberz was going on the lecture circuit, we decided to use the opportunity to get close to him.”
The DD leaned forward. “Get close to him?” she said. “Why didn’t we just hack in and plant the malware remotely?”
Oh yeah, Carver thought. For that matter, why didn’t they just take him out with a drone strike? He was so tired of questions like this. Any operation that required an actual human on the ground was automatically questioned, and anything that could be handled via remote control from a secret government facility in the states was automatically applauded. Nobody understood that espionage was still a high-touch business. It was as much about psychology and relationships as it was technology.
Speers scratched his salt-and-pepper goatee. “Blake, I think Claire’s question is a reasonable one. Why did we need an operative on the ground to hack into a phone?”
“Stealth” Carver said quickly. “Every LifeEmberz employee, including Zhu, now uses a device that’s issued by the Chinese government. If we hacked into their network to get control on one or more specific mobile accounts, it’s only a matter of minutes or hours before they detect the intrusion and start looking for us. Our solution is completely local, and allows us to reach one user at a time without the risk of getting past numerous gatekeepers. This way, the malware could theoretically go undetected for as long as he used the phone.”
“Smart,” the DD admitted. “But expensive.”
“We just got some footage of Zhu’s lecture from our contact in Rome,” Carver said. “I think you’ll find one part of the presentation very illuminating.”
The door to the back of the room opened. It was Arunus Roth, and he looked even paler than usual. He drew an
imaginary line across his neck.
“Sorry, everyone,” Carver said. “We’ve gotta cut this short. Thanks for coming. I’ll reach out to each of you to reschedule.”
As the suits filed out of the room, Arunus Roth made his way to the front. “The hit and run victim is Spencer Griffin,” he said.
Carver sat down. “And Zhu?”
Roth shook his head. “Callahan overheard the other LifeEmberz employees saying they can’t get hold of him. They think he might have been kidnapped.”
Carver’s blood ran cold. If Zhu really was working on some sort of supersoldier project, or even an advanced bioweapon, there could be any number of countries that might want the secrets he had locked up inside his head.
“Well, we know where he is, right? Maybe we should go in.”
“Slow down, bro.”
“Don’t call me bro.”
Carver looked up. Speers was standing behind the kid. He had heard the entire thing. “You’re asking for the go ahead to extract Zhu?”
“Think about it. His employees are convinced he’s been kidnapped. If we could find him, we could bring him back to the U.S. for his own safety. And in the process, of course, have a chat or two about the work he’s been doing.”
“I was trying to tell you,” Roth said, “That’s not possible now. The phone, as far as we can tell, traveled very quickly three kilometers away. Zhu either went underground, or into something like an elevator or parking facility, or he pulled the battery out. The GPS just stopped chirping.”
“So we’re completely blind,” Carver snapped.
“Yes.”
“Where the hell was Callahan?”
It wasn’t that the field operative was at fault, Carver knew. He wasn’t even supposed to tail him — the malware in his phone was supposed to keep tabs on him. It was just that Carver wished it had been him there in Rome. He was jealous. This remote operations consulting stuff wasn’t him. He had been born to be out in the wild, not cooped up here, thousands of miles from the action.
Hotel Parking Garage
Rome
During his 15-year career in private security, Lars had purchased virtually every type of made-to-order armored vehicle imaginable. They had all been good. Mercedes Benz especially, which had created a protective car for Japan’s Emperor Hirohito way back in 1930.
But nearly as soon as he had left private practice to follow the Shepherd, he had sensed that the Great Mission would require something special. The Range Rover he drove now had been custom-ordered from a private company in Johannesburg, where the city’s troubled past had given the company plenty of real-world experience. The glass and door paneling had been built to his exact specifications, rated to stop up to four successive 7.62 NATO armor-piercing bullets within a three-inch radius. The tires were airless run-flats, with reinforced steel that would withstand just about anything except a bomb.
Fortunately, they didn’t face such heavy firepower tonight. Lars recognized the typewriter-on-steroids rattle of MP5 submachine gun fire. It sounded like the assailants’ weapons were set to fire in three-round bursts, which they were squeezing off about as fast as they could. They were using 9mm rounds, he thought, instead of the.40 Smith amp; Wesson rounds preferred by the Americans and Canadians. With those guns, the Range Rover could easily take several dozen 9mm rounds into the vehicle’s glass and doors without any ballistic leakage.
He just couldn’t let them reload.
“I can’t die yet!” Zhu shouted.
Wolf had reminded Lars of that very fact just hours ago. Zhu was destined to survive. It was in the Living Scriptures. And when he has gathered all that is necessary to know to bring all that is dark into the light, the One from the East will use her to make me anew, just as I have made you anew.
The way Lars saw it, they had three choices. The first was to try out-driving their attackers. So long as the run-flat tires held, they might have a chance, although the Mini would be faster and more agile in traffic. The second option was to fight back. Lars had a Glock ACP in his ankle holster and, under the seat, a TEK-9 machine pistol, which fired.45 caliber rounds and had been converted to fully automatic. The third option was to use the vehicle as a weapon. It was, after all, built like a tank.
He reached into the floorboard and grasped Zhu by the collar, pulling him up into the seat. “Buckle up.” He put the vehicle in reverse and backed up slowly. He wanted to stay within range of the assailant’s guns. He wanted them to stay where they were. “Brace for impact.”
Now sightless, Zhu trembled as the vehicle took rounds to the right front fender, and then to the grill and windshield. He heard the sound of the brass shell casings bouncing on the cement around the Mini Cooper. The disturbing clamor of the windshield crystalizing into thousands of tiny cracks. The noise of an empty aluminum magazine clanging against the cement as the gunmen reloaded.
The German shifted the vehicle into drive and stepped hard on the accelerator. They’d gotten the drop on him, but they had made one mistake. They’d mounted their attack from within a car that was very fast, but also very small.
There was just enough clear glass left on the windshield to see the gunman’s eyes get big as the SUV raced toward them. The Range Rover T-boned the Mini with a satisfying crunch. Lars’ vision was filled with white nylon as the vehicle’s airbags deployed, enveloping him and Zhu in a warm, if brief, hug. Even as the airbags deflated, he kept the vehicle’s forward momentum. He hadn’t gotten enough speed to completely demolish the car in one fell swoop, but he had enough weight and momentum to push the wreckage up against a cement column.
Lars threw the SUV in reverse. The Mini looked like a crumpled soda can. As he had hoped, the right front wheel was bent hopelessly inward, and the driver’s-side door was crushed against the column. The assailant’s left foot extended out from below the passenger’s side door. He’d put down his weapon and was devoting all his energy to trying to free himself. Lars wasn’t going to let that happen.
He backed the vehicle up further down the empty aisle this time, making sure that he could get enough ramming speed. He was astonished by how small the airbags had become after deployment. They simply rested against the steering wheel and dashboards, scarcely larger than deflated birthday balloons.
Up ahead, he saw that the second gunman was halfway out of the passenger side window. He was crawling out headfirst. “Oh my God,” Lars said as he watched one of the assailants climb over the other one to escape. “Brace yourself. No air bags this time.” Lars stepped on the gas for his second attack.
As the force of the impact breached the Mini’s interior, Lars could have sworn that he heard the sound of the driver’s head being crushed against the Range Rover’s grill. Zhu’s helmeted head was thrown against the side window in the collision, but his seatbelt held. When Lars tried to put the Range Rover in reverse, the engine stalled.
“Are you all right, Mr. Zhu?”
Zhu pulled his helmet off. He looked dazed. “No, I’m not all right. I just wet my pants.”
“A minor inconvenience, all things considered. Let’s go.”
He found his own door jammed shut. Zhu’s was sealed as well. He grabbed his TEK-9, crawled over the back seat and exited via the rear hatch. Then he went around front, getting his legs under him as he surveyed the crash scene.
The driver’s grisly torso and the gunman’s decapitated foot were visible in the hulk of twisted metal. But he could not see the gunman’s head or hands. There was no sense in taking chances. He aimed his weapon at the driver’s side door and pumped four rounds into it. One of the men groaned. Lars shot through the door again. This time, there was no sound.
“Hey!” Zhu called out. “I think I hear sirens!”
Before moving on, Lars needed to know who had attacked them. He stretched his driving gloves tight over his hands, and then gripped the arms of the mangled corpse, dragging it out of the car until it was flat on the cement. He inspected the man’s pockets and found nothing. Mov
ing on to the jacket, he unzipped a long pouch that went diagonally across the man’s chest.
Inside, he found a piece of black fabric — about the size of a cocktail napkin — with red stripes. It was octagon-shaped, and it had obviously been made with high-quality silk. On the flip side, the octagon’s edges were stitched in golden thread, with the phrase ad majorem dei gloriam beneath it. The other side read, Paratus enim dolor et cruciatus, in Dei nomine. He was fluent in German and English, but he had never studied Latin. Dei, he surmised, had to be something having to do with God. The rest was a mystery. He pocketed it. The Shepherd would be able to read it.
Then he slid the tip of the TEK-9 barrel underneath the man’s ski mask. It lifted easily, revealing the face of a man in his late 20s. He was of Mediterranean complexion, possibly Italian.
The dead man’s mouth was formed into an O-shape. As if his last words had been “Oh,” or perhaps, “Wow.” Why was it that the dead always looked so surprised? What was it that they saw as they passed to the other side?
Lars took comfort in this. The Shepherd had once told him that he was destined to martyr himself for the Great Mission. He looked forward to whatever surprises awaited him during his journey.
National Counterterrorsm Center
Speers was waiting for Carver when he returned to his office. It was a shabby, tight little space. No windows, some particle board furniture that had been pilfered from an empty office over at the SBA building. A far cry from the luxe offices he had once occupied over on K Street.
This was supposed to be temporary, a fact he reminded himself of every day. He had avoided personalizing the space in any way for fear of cosmically elongating the time here in his own personal purgatory. Last month, he had finally brought in some lamps to replace the florescent lighting. Most of the pasty people who came into his office were much more attractive by lamplight.
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