The First Horseman

by John Case

  Frank drummed his fingers on his desk. Detrick. Kolp. And Mellowes. The Compass Trust. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Kopervik expedition was spooked up. And Annie – what about her? Did she know? How could she not? The expedition was her baby. It was her idea in the first place.

  He clicked on the Print button and waited for the stories to kick out.

  It was just a hunch – he couldn’t prove anything, really – but he knew enough about this kind of thing to suspect that the Compass Trust was a conduit, a funding mechanism for projects that the Pentagon and the CIA wanted to run ‘off the books.’

  The question was: why this expedition? And why now? Why would the Pentagon secretly fund a project to recover a long lost – and very dangerous – virus from under the permafrost? The answer seemed obvious: because the project was illegal, or in violation of a treaty, like the one that prohibited germ-warfare research.

  As he shut down the computer he noticed for the first time that it had begun to rain, and that he was sitting in what amounted to near darkness. Sitting back in his chair, he heaved a sigh and reflected that the darkness suited the mood that was upon him.

  Jesus, he thought. Annie! How couldja, babe?

  13

  HE WAS SITTING on her stoop when she came up the walk.

  She wore a blue suit with the skirt to the knee, red shoes, and a matching red purse. She was holding a folded-up copy of the Post and taking small, shuffling steps so that she wouldn’t have to look where she was going.

  He’d seen her in one of these outfits before, the first day they’d met, at her office at the NIH. She’d taken off her lab coat to reveal an outfit much like this one – a suburban matron’s getup, anonymous and boring. Professional and at ease in her white lab clothes, her attempts at power-dressing failed her. The truth was, she gave the touching but unmistakable impression of a little girl playing dress-up.

  ‘Frank!’ she said when she finally noticed him. Big wide smile. ‘Hiiiiii.’

  He stood up. ‘Hey . . .’

  His voice told her something was wrong. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  He thought about it. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s complicated.’

  They sat down together on the stoop, surrounded by the spring. Annie folded the paper in her lap and looked at him.

  ‘I filed some FOIA requests,’ Frank said. ‘About the expedition.’

  Annie groaned and rolled her eyes. ‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about that.’

  ‘I got some stuff back. I think you ought to take a look at it.’

  She looked away, annoyed by his breach of their agreement.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Frank said, ‘but I really think you oughta hear me out. I really do.’

  With a sigh and a look of exasperated indulgence, she turned back to him. ‘Go ahead,’ she said, her voice as even as it was empty.

  He showed her the letter with the B(1) exemption (So what? I don’t know what that’s about), and the next one, from the Compass Trust. (Let me see that . . . who’s Lloyd Kolp?) He told her who Kolp was, and explained about Mellowes. She was interested now – upset, even. Doctor K said we had funding from the NSF – he didn’t say anything about this Compass thing.

  When Frank was done, he put the papers back in his briefcase. ‘You didn’t know about any of this, did you?’

  Her lips were pressed together, as if she might cry. She shook her head no.

  ‘So . . .’ He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away and sat with her elbows on her knees, and her face buried in her hands. ‘I was hoping we could talk – about what happened in Kopervik. About Neal Gleason. All that.’

  She kept the heels of her palms pressed into her eyes and wagged her head back and forth. He saw dark splotches on her skirt and knew that she was crying. Finally, she said, ‘Who’s Neal Gleason?’

  ‘He took you off the boat in Hammerfest. He shoved you in the car. He’s an FBI agent.’

  She took a deep breath and started to get up. ‘I have to go in,’ she said.

  Frank reached out to stop her, but she pulled away. ‘Annie –’

  ‘I can’t talk about it.’

  ‘Look, Annie, this is a news story – and it’s a big story. The kind of story people need to know about. It won’t go away.’

  She paused in front of the door. ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘Then why –’

  ‘It isn’t what you think it is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have to go in.’

  ‘No, wait a minute. What are you talking about? The expedition was spooked up. Anyone can see that. It’s obvious. And it isn’t hard to figure out. When the NSF turned down your application –’

  Annie was shaking her head.

  ‘– Kicklighter went to the spooks.’

  ‘No. He didn’t. It didn’t happen that way.’

  ‘Okay, so the spooks came to you! What’s the difference? The point is: it’s bioweapons research – and it’s illegal. I can’t believe you’d be a party to it.’

  ‘I’m not. And it isn’t. It isn’t what you think.’

  ‘Oh c’mon, Annie – they used you. I know that – but that’s not the way it’s going to look. Talk to me!’

  She wagged her head sadly and swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I can’t . . .’ Taking a key from her handbag, she opened the door and started to go inside. Suddenly, her shoulders sagged and she turned to look at him. ‘I really had a great time at dinner the other night,’ she said. Then she burst into tears, stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

  He sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on the wood, and tried to think about it logically, but the mystery that lay behind Annie’s reticence had no shape for him. What else could he do? After half an hour he looked up at the to-do list on the screen in front of him. It was a very short list:

  Call Kolp

  Check manifests

  The first task was an exercise in defensive journalism. Calling Kolp wouldn’t get him anywhere. The guy almost certainly wouldn’t talk. But he had to ask, or the lawyers would be all over him when the time came to publish. You didn’t call the guy? You just assumed he wouldn’t talk?

  So he put in the call to Kolp, and it went about as he’d expected. The general is away from his desk just now. Can you tell me what it’s about?

  Like any good gatekeeper, Kolp’s secretary pumped him for information even as she shielded her boss. It’s Frank Daly. From the Post. Well, actually: I’m on leave to a foundation . . . Right, I know, it’s complicated, so – just tell him it’s about Kopervik.

  Then he hung up, and turned to the second task on his list:

  Check manifests.

  He wanted to know what happened to the miners’ bodies – where they went, and how they got there. The NSF had turned down Kicklighter’s grant because it was concerned about appearances, and in particular, the appearance of risk. Because Frank had been interested in the precautions that Annie had taken, he recalled her description of what was to happen on Kopervik.

  To begin with, the cadavers were to be handled by scientists wearing Level-4 biocontainment suits. Removed from their coffins, the bodies would be wrapped in formalin-soaked sheets and placed in hermetically sealed, body-transfer cases. A helicopter would carry the transfer cases to science freezers in the hold of the Rex Mundi, specifically to the Cold Room, where the temperature was maintained at four degrees Fahrenheit. On arrival in Hammerfest, the transfer cases would be taken by helicopter to the Tromso military airfield. There, the expedition would be met by a C-131 military transport, deadheading back to the U.S. from Bosnia. Equipped with a science freezer of its own, the C-131 was to take Annie, Kicklighter, and the transfer cases to Dover Air Force Base, Once the bodies had been escorted through Customs, the Graves Registration Unit at Dover would drive the bodies to the NIH in a freezer-equipped truck.

  That’s what was supposed to happen, or what Frank was told woul
d happen. But had it? Or had the bodies been taken elsewhere – to Fort Detrick, for example?

  Frank went into his address book and came up with the number for the Public Information Office at the Pentagon. The officer he spoke with – Captain Marcia Devlin – was crisp and efficient. She said she’d call back within an hour, and she did.

  ‘I have the information you’re looking for,’ she said.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘C-131 . . . took off from Tuzla at 0600, March twenty-eight, landed Tromso, 1425, same day. Took five passengers on board, March twenty-nine. Departed Tromso at 0500, arrived Andrews eight hours later. That’s March twenty-nine.’

  ‘You said Andrews. You mean Dover, right?’

  ‘No, sir. I mean just what I said. They got into Andrews at 1300 hours.’

  Frank thought about it. ‘So they changed their minds,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I said, they must have changed their minds. They were going to Dover,’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. All I can tell you is: they landed at Andrews.’

  Frank sighed. ‘Well, I appreciate this. Now, if you’ll just give me the passengers’ names –’

  ‘Can’t do that.’

  Frank pretended surprise. ‘Oh? And why not?’

  ‘There’s a Privacy Act.’

  ‘You mean the information’s secret.’

  ‘No, sir. I mean it’s private.’

  Frank thanked her for her help, hung up, and thought about what he’d been told. There were five passengers – Kicklighter, Adair, Gleason, and . . . who?

  He pulled the telephone directory out of his desk drawer and called the number for Andrews Air Force Base. The switchboard routed him to the press officer, Sergeant Raymond Garcia.

  Frank told him who he was and said, ‘Captain Devlin said I should give you a call. She’s in the PIO office at the Pentagon?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Well, I’m doing this story for the Post,’ he lied, ‘and . . . uh, Marcia – I mean, Captain Devlin – thought you could help.’

  ‘Well, if I can –’

  ‘It’s about the way Customs works with the military. . . .’

  ‘And you’re interested in Andrews Air Force Base?’ Garcia’s voice was wary.

  ‘Not really. I mean, it’s close to home – so it’s a lot easier for me to work with you than someplace in Alaska.’

  ‘And what is it you want to do?’

  ‘Look at some manifests.’

  ‘Which manifests?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know – it doesn’t matter, really. Last month’s would be okay. So long as it’s typical. Was last month pretty typical?’

  ‘You mean, for overseas flights?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess so. Probably.’

  ‘Well, then, March would be great.’

  ‘But . . . what is it you’re looking for?’ It occurred to Frank that Sergeant Garcia’s voice seemed to have only two tones: puzzlement and wariness.

  ‘I just want to see the level of traffic, and maybe get some idea of the kinds of things that military people bring through Customs – and how it’s handled. I mean, there’s going to be weapons and medical supplies – but there’s bound to be personal things, too.’

  ‘And that’s the story?’ The sergeant sounded skeptical.

  ‘Yeah,’ Frank said. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Huh! Sounds kind of dull.’

  Great, Frank thought. I’ve got a journalism critic on the line. ‘I’ll use a lot of quotes.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘But what I need to know is: does every military aircraft maintain a cargo manifest?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And are these available to Customs?’

  ‘Of course.

  ‘And what about the public? For instance: if I wanted to look at the March manifests, could I do that?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Frank said.

  ‘Unless it’s a classified flight. We get a few of those.’

  ‘But you could separate those from the rest, right?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then I guess what I’d like to do is set something up. All I need to look at is a single month. March would be fine.’

  It took three days, but in the end Sergeant Garcia could find no reason to deny him, and so he made the arrangements. In the meantime, Frank was sure that the PIO had gone through the month’s manifests, looking for anything that might cause embarrassment: a congressman returning from Peru with pre-Columbian art, a general with a taste for Danish pornography, a CIA flight that didn’t go through Customs at all.

  As he drove out to Andrews on Allentown Road, Frank considered the possibilities of what he’d find: if the manifest was there, he’d see who brought the bodies through Customs and where they were going. He’d also learn the identities of Passenger Four and Passenger Five. And if the manifest wasn’t there . . . well, that, too, would tell him something. It would mean it had been segregated from the others because the flight was classified, or otherwise sensitive.

  At the Andrews main gate, a uniformed man handed him a pass, a parking tag, and a map, then waved him through in the direction of the headquarters building.

  Sergeant Raymond Garcia turned out to be a short man with a portfolio of facial expressions so studied that Daly was sure he’d practiced them in front of a mirror. Seeing Frank, he put his hands behind his back, compressed his lips, and made his pitch, rocking back and forth on the heels of his well-polished shoes. ‘I’m sure you understand that the army is cognizant of the possibility of abuse of the military transport system. But I can assure you that the incidence of such abuse is minimal. We cooperate completely with the Customs Service.’ Head tilt. Meaningful glance.

  This was so well-rehearsed that under different circumstances Frank might have looked for the story that had prompted the disclaimer. But at the moment he just wanted to put Garcia’s mind at ease.

  ‘I’m not looking for any skeletons, Sergeant. This is a very general piece – and it’s not so much about the Army as it is about Customs, and the magnitude of their task.’

  In the end he was escorted to a small, fluorescent-lit room where a table and chair awaited him. There was a sheaf of manifests on the table, and a jar of Coffee-mate with a plastic spoon.

  ‘Coffee?’ Garcia asked.

  Frank signaled his assent, and soon afterward the sergeant returned to the room with a plastic cup. ‘Happy hunting,’ he said as he handed him the cup. Then, turning on his heel, he closed the door behind him.

  Frank spent the next five minutes pretending to go through the manifests. But he knew what he wanted. The files were arranged in chronological order, and it didn’t even take him a minute to find what he was looking for.

  Flight 1251, out of Tuzla, bound for Tromso on March 28. Then Tromso to Andrews the next day. A notation indicated that the flight had touched down at 1313.

  Frank’s eyes went to the column under Passengers.

  There were five names, and they were in alphabetical order:

  Adair, Anne

  Fitch, Taylor

  Gleason, Neal

  Karalekis, Dr. George

  Kicklighter, Dr. Benton

  He wrote down the names he didn’t recognize. Karalekis was probably a doctor at NIH. Fitch could be anyone. FBI. CIA . . .

  He turned to the second page of the manifest, where the cargo was listed, and for a moment he thought there had been a mistake.

  The hold was empty, except for some computer equipment and the personal belongings of the crew and their passengers.

  Frank took a long sip of coffee and looked again. There was nothing about body-transfer cases, or the remains of miners. Page 2 of 2, it said.

  He checked the other manifests to see if there was another flight from Tromso, either that day or the next, or the one after that. But there was nothing. No body-transfer cases anywhere.

 
; He loved the way the Saab held the road (when it wasn’t in the repair shop). It cornered beautifully, and if he hadn’t had eight points on his license, he’d have opened it up on the way back to Washington.

  But he didn’t. He kept the speedometer smack on sixty, which was just as well, because he was in a daze. No bodies. What did that mean?

  Almost anything, really. Maybe the transfer cases were on a different flight. Maybe they’d been delayed by Norwegian Customs and hadn’t left for the States until April. Maybe the bodies had decomposed in some great, unheard-of thaw. Maybe there’d been an Eskimo Summer on Edgeoya.

  Or bears. Annie had told him about the bears, and how the mining community used dynamite to excavate burial sites, making them deep enough to keep the bears from getting at them. Maybe they hadn’t gone deep enough. And there was a kind of frost-heave peculiar to the Arctic, where objects worked their way to the surface. He remembered Annie telling him about it, and how, when the objects were bodies, the bodies were called ‘floaters.’

  He passed RFK Stadium, and headed into the mess around the Capitol.

  It was one of the things Annie had said they’d test for in situ – melt-and-thaw cycles in the permafrost. If the bodies had thawed at any time during the past eighty years, the virus would be unrecoverable, and there would be no point in bringing the bodies to the U.S. But if that was what had happened, why hadn’t Annie said as much? Why all the secrecy?

  And there was another possibility as well. Instead of taking the cadavers in their entirety, Annie and Kicklighter might have settled for core samples. She’d even told him how it could be done, using what amounted to a hole saw to obtain cylindrical sections from the lungs and the major organs.

  The trouble with this explanation was that there was nothing on the passenger manifest about ‘tissues’ or medical supplies or anything like it. And the trouble with all the other explanations was that they did not explain Neal Gleason’s presence, the Compass Trust’s involvement, or the way they’d stonewalled him in Hammerfest and after.