“No. Russell’s already offered.”
“Good enough. I’ll be in touch if I learn anything. Watch your back.” Brand rang off.
Smith pulled up to the USAMRIID entrance, waved at the guard, parked his car, and used his keycard to enter the secure lab facility. He removed his tie and shoved it into his pocket as he headed to his office at the end of the hall. As he did he rolled his shoulders to release some tension and inhaled. He wasn’t too keen on going home just yet. He’d wait a bit to give everyone he’d called some time to get their calls out. He had several pressing matters that required immediate attention and he decided that as long as he was at the office he may as well dig into them.
As a senior researcher, he had a larger office than most, but it was decorated in a spare, utilitarian manner that Smith thought of as army basic. The majority of the work done at USAMRIID was conducted in the new high-security Biosafety Level 3 and 4 labs. Researchers simply uploaded their results from laptops situated in a large room partitioned by cubicles with walls on wheels that could be moved and repositioned. The laptops were protected by encoded passwords stored on an encrypted server. Only senior researchers had private offices.
Smith’s rectangular desk sat in the middle, with two chairs facing it. To the right and against the wall stood a tall cabinet; a low credenza to his left held books and a couple of framed commendations that he’d received over the years. There were no pictures of family; Smith had none, girlfriend likewise, nor even a dog. If Smith dropped off the face of the earth tomorrow a new researcher could occupy the office with a minimum of effort. A window on the far wall looked onto a parking lot. Smith kept the blinds closed against the harsh glare of the lot’s many light posts.
He dropped his keycard on his desk, draped his suit jacket over the back of the chair, grabbed his favorite coffee mug, and went down the hall to the break room, where he punched the button on the coffeemaker that promised a double-shot espresso. He topped that off with regular coffee, added some cream, and headed back to his office.
When he reached the door he glanced at the desk and paused. His keycard was gone; in its place was a manila envelope and what appeared to be one of his own reports. He took a slow step closer and glanced around. When he was sure no one was there he went to the desk, set his coffee down, and checked his suit pocket for his wallet. Whoever had taken his card had left the wallet alone. While he was concerned about his identification and cash there, he was even more concerned about his second keycard, which was necessary to access the secure labs. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that both the second keycard and all his identification and cash were undisturbed.
He slid open the side drawer. The gun that he kept there also had not been taken. He was relieved because guns weren’t generally allowed in federal facilities, but after the last mass shooting on an army base, he’d asked for and received an exception to the rule. Next to the gun he kept a box of medical gloves. He pulled two out, slipped them over his hands, and picked up the envelope. It was sealed, and the name “Lt. Col. Jon Smith” and a series of numbers that looked like a date were scrawled across the front in blue crayon. Next to it was a copy of his own final draft of a report that gave his findings on the viability of an aerosolized version of the Ebola virus.
He sat down, opened the flap on the envelope, and slid out what appeared to be a research paper by one of his colleagues, Dr. Laura Taylor, titled The Effects of Protein Synthesis Blockage on Long-Term Potentiation and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Smith hadn’t seen Taylor in quite some time, since long before her transfer to a mental health facility. Only thirty-five years old, she’d been hailed as one of the leading scientists in neuroscience and memory research. Her future had been bright until almost a year ago, when she began to have moments of increasing paranoia.
He flipped through the paper, scanning pages that were filled with graphs and charts that documented her findings. It appeared as though she was working on a drug but was having trouble minimizing a long list of side effects that it created.
A door slammed somewhere out of sight and Smith heard the sound of men talking in soft voices. He slid open the desk drawer and tossed the envelope inside before stripping off the gloves. USAMRIID served as the Department of Defense’s lead laboratory for medical and biological defense research. The vials of anthrax used in the anthrax attacks in 2001 had indeed been developed and stored here, as were several types of virulent and deadly bacteria and viruses, Ebola being only one example. An entire department was attempting to aerosolize several pathogens and viruses, and the new building had been constructed with a specialized ventilation system that would scrub any errant pathogen before it reached the outside. The population around USAMRIID had protested the construction of the new BSL-3 and -4 labs, but work was allowed to continue once assurances were given that the catastrophic pathogens housed in the facility would be locked down tight. Access to the facility was restricted to prescreened personnel with high-level security clearances only. That someone made it deep enough into the interior to be able to steal his keycard was strange. If the men in the hall were responsible for the theft, he wanted to be prepared. He removed the gun while he reached for the phone to call security. As he did, two men stepped into the open doorway.
Both wore dark pants and windbreakers. One was bald, with a thick neck, small ears, and a solid body of average height. The other sported a full head of black hair and was thin and wiry. Both carried with them an air of menace. Every survival instinct that Smith had screamed to life.
6
They had temporary security passes stuck to their jackets. The bald one spread his arms wide and smiled a crocodile smile filled with uneven teeth at Smith.
“I’m Dr. Westcore and this is Dr. Denon. You must be Dr. Smith.” He indicated the nameplate on the desk.
Smith nodded. “I am.” He didn’t rise to acknowledge the offer of a handshake. If Westcore noted the rude behavior, he didn’t give any indication.
“You always point a gun at people while you’re working?” Westcore said.
“I just discovered that someone’s been in my office without my permission. I thought it best to be prepared for whatever may occur. Who are you?” Smith asked.
“We’re from the mental health facility nearby. One of our patients has gone missing. Dr. Laura Taylor. She’s a colleague of yours. Have you seen her recently?”
“I have not,” Smith said. He’d kept the phone in his hand, prepared to punch the speed dial to the security desk, but the temporary passes allayed some of his concerns about the men and he hung it back up.
Denon leveled a glare at Smith. “We think she ran onto this floor not ten minutes ago. You sure you didn’t see her?” Denon’s voice was filled with suspicion. The accusatory tone irritated Smith.
“Before I answer that, why don’t you show me some identification,” he said.
“Of course.” Westcore reached his hand into the windbreaker and for the second time that evening Smith’s instincts told him that something wasn’t right.
“Stop,” he said.
Westcore looked at the weapon and raised an eyebrow. “You said you wanted our credentials. They’re in my pocket.”
“Remove them slowly, please.”
Westcore slowed his motion and Smith could see from the shape that the nylon took on that he was removing a square item, not a gun. He relaxed a bit. After five seconds his hand reappeared holding a black wallet. Through it all his companion remained silent.
Smith stood and reached out. “Toss it to me.”
“Of course,” Westcore said. He lobbed the wallet at Smith, who caught it and flipped it open. “The hospital identification is in the first card slot.”
One side of the wallet consisted of a windowed section with a driver’s license and Westcore’s photo stamped on it. The other side held several cards in slots. Smith removed the card in the first one. On it was the same name as the license, another photo, and the words “U.S. Depa
rtment of Veterans Affairs.”
“Since when do doctors track down errant patients? Don’t you have security to handle that?”
Westcore nodded. “We are security, but hold PhDs as well. We’re from Stanton Reese, which I’m sure you know provides contract personnel for government positions.”
“Hired by the Department of Defense,” Smith said.
“Exactly. Then you know us.”
Not only did Smith know of them, but he was aware that they were under congressional investigation for some of their actions worldwide. Smith handed the wallet back without comment.
“You sticking with the story that you didn’t see her?” Westcore asked again.
Smith nodded. “I am, because it’s true.”
Denon took one step closer. “You’d better tell us the truth…” he began. Westcore waved him to silence.
“If she is here, she knows this facility well, so I don’t think you’ll find her.”
“It’s really important that we do. Our jobs are on the line. She climbed out a window and it looks bad for us. We’ll just take a look around.”
Smith stepped closer to the two. “No, you won’t.” He noted the flash of irritation that ran across Westcore’s face. “USAMRIID is a high-security lab. Lots of viruses and bacteria that are outside the norm and quite dangerous. Some weapons-grade. I’m not sure what you told security to obtain those temporary passes, but they don’t grant you access to the secure labs and I’m sure that security never meant for you both to get this deep. You’ll have to leave out of the door that you entered.”
“They gave us clearance to find her. That’s all we need,” Westcore said.
Smith shook his head. “Not enough. I’ll arrange for a guard to come escort you both.” He picked the phone back up.
Denon shot Westcore an alarmed look, confirming what Smith had assumed. They both knew that they were beyond their clearance. He waited, and moved his finger back to the gun’s trigger, more to intimidate them than use it. The last thing he wanted to do was fire on a DOD employee with a security pass, albeit limited and temporary, attached to his jacket. But despite all their outward credentials he still felt there was something off about the two. Westcore glanced down, noted the small movement, and took a step back.
“If you see her you’ll inform us immediately?”
Not a chance, Smith thought. “If I see her I’ll follow protocol and inform security,” he said.
Westcore threw a final glance around the room, then turned and left. Denon trailed behind and both disappeared from sight. Smith put the phone and gun down and went around the desk to follow them.
They stood fifteen feet down the hall at a lab door. Westcore placed a hand on the knob and tried to turn it; nothing happened.
“Read the sign,” Smith said. “That’s not the door you came through. That’s a BSL-3 lab. It’s locked.” Westcore and Denon exchanged glances. Westcore reached into his pocket, removed a white keycard, and placed it on the reader. Nothing happened.
“You don’t have access,” Smith said.
“Maybe we use your card.” Denon’s voice was harsh.
Smith shook his head. “Can’t.”
“Why not?” Westcore shot back.
“You’ll need all kinds of prescreening to go in there. Screening that you don’t have. I would never give you my lab pass, and my general pass is missing.”
“Since when?” Westcore said.
“Since ten minutes ago.”
Westcore looked outraged. “I’m standing here asking you about Taylor and you don’t tell me that your keycard’s been missing? What the hell is this? Deliberate obstruction?”
“I was calling security when you appeared. USAMRIID security, which is the proper channel to handle any possible breaches in this facility, and a protocol that I’m bound to follow.”
“If it’s determined that you’ve deliberately helped her then that’s a criminal act. You know that, right?”
“The only people that I’ve seen on this floor are you two. I haven’t seen her.”
“She could have taken your card and collected some bacteria to take with her. If it’s found on the outside, then the consequences will fall on you.”
Smith shook his head. “The card only allows access to the entrance and general hallways. It won’t allow access to the storage equipment or the higher-security labs. The pathogens are locked.”
“I suggest you find another card and open this door immediately.”
Smith shook his head. “Absolutely not. You’ll need personal protective equipment and clearance to get in there. Clearly you don’t have either.”
“You let her through,” Denon said. “And we were only minutes behind her, so she didn’t have time to put on a suit.”
“Like I said, I never saw her and I suggest that you quit claiming that I did.”
Westcore stormed up to Smith and stopped only inches from him. Smith could see five o’clock stubble forming on his chin.
“Quit dicking around and let us in.”
Smith held his ground. “No.”
Westcore vibrated with anger and from the corner of his eye Smith saw Denon moving at a forty-five-degree angle to Smith. The thought flicked through Smith’s mind that if Denon had a gun he was in a perfect position to get a clear shot. Smith wondered how far the two would go. He wished he’d brought the gun from the desk with him.
He decided to let the two know that they were being watched on closed-circuit television. He gave Denon a pointed I-see-what-you’re-up-to glance and then looked at the corner where the CCTV LED light glowed. Westcore caught the movement and turned to look behind him. The lens swiveled a bit as if to follow Westcore’s movement. Smith knew that the device wasn’t actively tracking them, it swiveled in a timed sequence, but neither Westcore nor Denon would realize that. Westcore took a step back.
“I’m watching you. Next time you won’t be so lucky.” He stepped around Smith and marched down the hall. Denon followed at a more leisurely pace and walked straight toward Smith to play a ridiculous game of chicken. Smith stayed put and Denon’s shoulder bumped into him, knocking him back one step.
Smith held his tongue as Denon and Westcore disappeared through the main hall doors.
7
Smith’s cell phone began ringing and he ducked back into his office. He retrieved it from his suit pocket.
“What the heck is going on now?” Russell’s voice streamed through the phone. “I just had enough time to take a shower and get a cup of coffee and I learn that you’re in trouble again.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Smith said. “And where are you?”
“I’m in central Europe. The guys tell me you picked up the car that we sent you.”
Smith held the phone against his shoulder as he angled one arm into his suit coat. “I did, thanks. It’s here at USAMRIID.”
“I know it is. It’s a company car and has a tracking device on it. It also has an onboard hidden camera that’s activated by movement and it just sent a silent alarm to the central office. They said two guys in suits jimmied the door and they’re ripping through every nook and cranny in the vehicle.”
Smith bolted to the window, with half his suit coat hanging down, and opened the blinds. The car sat at the far end of the parking lot under a tree. The doors hung open and from inside came the shadow of someone working through the vehicle. One of the men pulled back and out of the car’s front seat. It was Denon.
“I see them,” Smith said. “They’re from the Department of Veterans Affairs. Well, actually they’re Stanton Reese guys hired by the VA. They’re chasing down a scientist from the facility that skipped out of the psych ward and came here.”
“So why are they breaking into your car?”
“They claim that the scientist came to my office. I guess they think they’ll find something to help them locate her.”
“Are these the same guys who followed you from the party?”
“No.
Can you back them off? Does the car have a defense system?”
“What, like its own weapon? It’s a Toyota Camry, not a Bond car.”
Smith smiled and shifted the phone to his other shoulder while he finished putting on his jacket.
“You know what I mean. Disable it.”
“That’s been done already. How did they find the one car that’s yours in a lot full of cars?”
“My parking space is designated with my name.”
“A reserved parking spot. I’m impressed.”
“As well you should be,” Smith said. He heard Russell’s soft laugh over the phone. He reached to the desk, picked up the Ebola report to refile it, and pulled the manila envelope out of the drawer. “The scientist they’re chasing gave me something. Hold tight and I’ll snap a picture.” Smith focused his phone’s camera on the envelope, snapped a shot, and sent it.
“Got it,” Russell said. “Is that scrawl in crayon?”
“Blue crayon to be exact. If they’re right and Taylor was in here, I presume that she left it for me. I suppose they don’t hand out pens or pencils in the psych ward. Too easily used as a weapon.”
“What’s inside?”
He opened the envelope and slid out Taylor’s report, snapped a picture of the title, and sent it to Russell.
“Looks like a research paper that she was working on before her breakdown,” he said.
“Now I can see why the VA is involved. PTSD is a huge issue in the military right now, isn’t it?”
“Yes. The suicide rate for returning vets is exploding. But that doesn’t explain why they’re chasing Taylor or why she thought I should see this report.”
Smith shoved the report back into the envelope and returned to the window to check on the car. He was relieved to see Denon and Westcore deep in conversation with the soldier in charge of the security station at the entrance. The soldier was shaking his head and motioning the two back toward the exit.
“Looks like security has taken over the situation. USAMRIID security, not contract mercenaries. Should I go back to the car?”
The Geneva Strategy Page 3