The Devil's Hand

by Carr, Jack

  “All countries that could potentially sell it to a terrorist organization,” Reece said, thinking aloud.

  “Maybe they didn’t sell it to a terrorist organization. Maybe they perpetrated the attack?”

  “Then they’d be culpable,” Reece said.

  “True.”

  “Which means we could retaliate.”

  “Also true.”

  “Haley, do you know what’s on the table as a response to an attack on this country using a weapon of mass destruction? WMD is defined as nuclear, chemical and, you guessed it, biological weapons.”

  “Nuclear response,” Haley correctly guessed.

  “That’s right. By mimicking a respiratory spread of a naturally occurring virus, a country or group could turn us against ourselves.”

  “If they knew about the FAE option,” Haley said.

  “You saw it yourself in Africa. There are very few secrets left in the world. And, if you created the U.S. or USSR bioweapon programs after World War Two, you would have put protocols in place to stop the spread of one of your own weaponized diseases.”

  “Protocols that included destroying your own cities,” Haley said, completing the thought.

  “I think so. We’ve learned we have plans in place to destroy sections of the country to contain a spread. I’m sure the Russians did, too.”

  “Knowing that, who is behind this? Maybe a better question is, what would you do if you were planning this attack?”

  Reece paused and looked out the window.

  “I’d look to the past.”

  “Meaning?”

  “What has the enemy learned by watching us in Iraq and Afghanistan over the past twenty years? What did they learn before that by watching us react to terrorism of the sixties, seventies, eighties, and nineties?”

  “Well?”

  “They learned that proxies work,” Reece said, answering his own question. “Iran has been at war with us for over forty years, longer if you take it back to the CIA coup in 1953. Ali Ansari is from Iran. He mentioned Hafez Qassem before he died. Qassem is the lead Iranian intelligence chief in the United States. I was involved in tracking down what may have been an Iranian terrorist network before the virus hit. I think that’s why Katie and I were targeted.”

  “Slow down, Reece. You are making the case that Iran used a proxy group to release a bio-agent in the U.S. so we would think it was spreading naturally.”

  “That’s right. If we buy that it’s from Angola, there are no Iranian fingerprints. If we buy that it’s homegrown radicalized citizens, then we still have no one to retaliate against but ourselves. Iran remains clean just like they have for the past forty years using Hezbollah and Quds Force operatives to do their dirty work.”

  “Reece, we need to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is a bioweapon and that it is not a respiratory-spread virus.”

  “Can we just look up Marburg Variant U in the gene book or compare a picture or something?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t work that way. Back when the Soviets weaponized Marburg, gene sampling or electronic microscope documentation didn’t exist. We only have samples from more recent outbreaks, and besides, you would have to compare the two physical samples. We need the genome of the sample, not just a photo.”

  “So, we need a live sample of a weaponized Marburg Variant U virus next to a current sample from an infected patient from today?” Reece asked, wrapping his mind around the problem.

  “Exactly. I need a sample of the original virus, the original Marburg variant from Soviet days. We do a side-by-side genomic evaluation. If there is no variance, then we will have established that this is an intentional bioweapon release on U.S. soil. It would also confirm that it had to have been released through aerosolized droplets by a pressure source, like the example of perfume in a mall.”

  “So, we need the original Soviet strain.”

  “Was that a statement or a question?” Haley asked. “Regardless, good luck finding it.”

  “Luck is the residue of preparation,” Reece whispered, his eyes focused past the clouds, beyond the windows.

  “What?”

  “Just something an old commanding officer of mine used to say.” He turned back to Haley. “One more time, who do we know has Marburg Variant U in their arsenals?”

  “Russia for sure, and we suspect China, North Korea, and Iran.”

  “And the United States,” Reece said, working the problem.

  “Never confirmed but, yes, the United States.”

  “We need that Soviet sample,” Reece said, thinking aloud.

  “And how do you suggest we get our hands on a top-secret bioweapon that the U.S. may or may not have developed in violation of several international treaties?”

  “We are going to steal it.”

  “Are you sure you are just drinking water?”

  “Haley, what exactly does your husband do at Fort Detrick?”

  “He studies level-four weaponized pathogens.”

  “Pathogens that the United States officially does not weaponize?”

  “Reece…”

  “How do you think he’d feel about committing treason?”

  CHAPTER 59

  Masada Security Solutions Corporate Office

  McLean, Virginia

  “WHAT CAN I GET for you, Senator?” Sawyer asked.

  They were sitting in Sawyer’s office on the top floor of the Masada corporate building, a short drive from both Langley and the Pentagon.

  “Something expensive, now that it’s finally on your dime.”

  “Fortunately for you, all the selections are expensive, as you put it. How about a martini?”

  “That would be ideal.”

  “Vodka or gin?”

  “Gin, of course. Bombay Sapphire with three olives, if you would be so kind.”

  Sawyer made the drink in a chilled glass at his private office bar. He then poured himself a Hennessy Paradis Imperial and sat down in a leather chair adjacent to the sofa where Senator Thwaite now made himself comfortable opposite an eighty-six-inch flat screen set to a cable news channel.

  “Shouldn’t you be in lockdown in the Capitol Building for briefings from the executive branch?” Sawyer asked.

  Thwaite rolled his eyes.

  “You best be careful, Senator. You know how the media loves catching politicians breaking their own rules. It makes for great content.”

  “That’s why I’m here in this secure building with you and not getting photographed out at the French Laundry or getting my hair done like those jackasses in California.”

  Sawyer stifled a laugh.

  “It’s almost on. Where is the un-mute button on this thing?” the senator asked, examining the remote control in his hand as if it were a foreign object.

  “Let me,” Sawyer said, swiping to his phone’s Savant system application, which bypassed the remote on the coffee table.

  “You know, you should invest in some less depressing art,” Thwaite remarked, looking around the room.

  “Oh, and what would you suggest?”

  “Something a little less morbid would spruce things up in here,” he said, gesturing to the works that dominated the room, one behind the bar and the other between two bookcases on the opposite side of the enormous office. “What are those, anyway?”

  “The one behind the bar was done by an old friend in Ranger Regiment. He was with me in Mogadishu,” Sawyer said, examining the canvas from afar. “It’s called The Mogadishu Mile. It is a reminder of how quickly circumstances can change.”

  “And that one?” Thwaite asked, taking a stiff drink.

  “You don’t recognize it?”

  “Should I?”

  “Remnants of an Army. Painted by Elizabeth Thompson, Lady Butler, in 1879. It depicts the 1842 British retreat from Kabul to Jalalabad. Have you been there, Senator?”

  “Afghanistan? Of course,” the senator said, removing the toothpick with three olives and sliding the first one between his yello
wing teeth.

  “J-Bad? Gardez? Khost? A-Bad?”

  “Erik, you know I visited the troops on base in Bagram in 2004. You provided security. I also spent Thanksgiving in Iraq in 2009. I’m no stranger to war zones.”

  “Fallujah? Ramadi? Najaf?”

  “No, the Green Zone,” Thwaite said, making Sawyer’s point.

  “Ah, yes, I remember the photo op now.”

  “Fuck you, Erik. Some of us are soldiers and some of us are statesmen.”

  “I think you mean politicians.”

  “Don’t say it with such disdain, Erik. Remember who pays for all this,” Thwaite said, devouring his last two olives and gesturing to the grand office with his empty glass.

  “Let me get you another.”

  “Thank you. If you weren’t a hired gun you would make an excellent bartender.”

  Sawyer chuckled and set about making his guest a second drink.

  “What happened to our lone ranger, anyway?” Thwaite asked, nodding back at the famous oil painting.

  “That’s Dr. William Brydon. He was a surgeon. It was rumored that of the sixteen thousand who began the seventy-mile retreat, he, and his horse, were the only survivors.”

  “True?”

  “There were, in fact, other survivors; some straggled in after the good doctor, others had been captured and enslaved, but survived. Regardless, the theme and intent of the painting holds true. The poor horse lay down in a stable in the Jalalabad fort and never got up, he too a casualty of the Afghan plains.”

  “Poetic.”

  “When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains… Go, go, go like a soldier…” Sawyer recited.

  “What’s that?”

  “No matter. The original painting hangs in Somerset, you know.”

  “Somerset?”

  “Yes, the Somerset Military Museum. England. One day the original will hang here.”

  “Bloody depressing,” the senator observed.

  “Just like in Mogadishu, the tide can turn in an instant, Senator, even against an empire. The enemy is always watching, always learning, always adapting.”

  “Dismal, if you ask me.”

  “Have you read The Great Game, Senator?” Sawyer asked, handing the older man his second cocktail.

  “I don’t have time to read, Sawyer. I am busy running a country.”

  “Pity. And, one might argue that the current president is running the country, I’m afraid,” Sawyer said, reminding Thwaite of his loss.

  “Not for long. Turn it up. It’s coming on now,” he said, eagerly consuming all three olives that graced his refreshed drink.

  The “whore of war” turned up the volume through his app and watched as the network led with the caption: “Presidential Assassin Targets Innocent Muslims.”

  “Is it ‘taping’?” Thwaite asked.

  “Yes, the DVR is recording.”

  “Good.”

  The newscaster solemnly lectured his audience:

  “We’ve received disturbing video this evening, video that purportedly shows former Navy SEAL James Reece committing murder. These ‘alleged’ murders are also classified as hate crimes. You will remember Commander Reece from the Capstone Scandal, where, three years ago, he went on a murderous cross-country rampage killing those he believed were responsible for what some say were his own mistakes that led to the ambush of his SEAL Team in the mountains of Afghanistan. Commander Reece was pardoned under dubious circumstances by the previous administration, so he never stood trial for those murders. I want to warn you, this footage may be disturbing to some viewers.”

  A crisp image of whites, grays, and blacks filled the screen. Like an old black-and-white TV updated with twenty-first-century resolution, what was clearly a van parked just ahead of a smaller sedan on the right side of a road filled the screen. A man was leaning against the smaller car, his face and hands white against his darker clothing.

  “White hot,” Sawyer said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a thermal imaging system from one of our surveillance vehicles. The hotter parts glow white. The colder areas are dark.”

  “Oh, yes, I know.”

  The conspirators watched as a man swung his feet over the guardrail and paused to look almost directly into the camera, his face taking on the aura of a ghoul with the light and dark portions re-created by the camera in high-resolution pixelated heat. He stared for what seemed like an eternity before turning to move toward the two vehicles.

  They watched the figure walk along the side of the road and raise his rifle to his shoulder as he approached the sliding door of the van. The audio recorder picked up the shot and the video caught the smoking man dropping to the ground.

  “He indexed off the cigarette,” Sawyer said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s dark. The man he killed was not a professional. Reece must have seen the cigarette in the darkness, which indicated head placement. He sighted on the cigarette and then fired a few inches left, hitting his target in the head.”

  “This is my favorite part,” Thwaite said.

  They had both watched the video multiple times before emailing it anonymously to multiple friendly news outlets with agendas in line with the senator’s. This was the first network to air it.

  With his rifle still shouldered, Reece then turned to the front passenger window of the van and shot the driver through the glass, quickly stepping forward to shoot again.

  “Security round,” Sawyer said, sipping his drink.

  Thwaite grunted.

  The ghost then walked to his first victim and shot him in the head.

  The screen transitioned to video of a man who was clearly James Reece talking to a police officer and firefighter.

  “This footage was obtained by Fox Illinois affiliate 32 News and depicts James Reece in Chicago at the home of Kareem Talib. Talib was a Muslim man who died of a heart attack while James Reece was at the scene. It is worth noting that it is common for serial killers to visit the scenes of their crimes and oftentimes keep mementos from their kills.”

  The screen then switched to local news footage of police tape in a hallway of what looked to be a garden-variety roadside hotel, the correspondent on scene reporting on the tragic death of Sohrab Behzad, a Muslim American man working at a local Atlanta mosque.

  “We have new evidence tonight that puts James Reece on-site at the time of the murder along with statements from a woman who has verified that Commander Reece murdered Behzad before kidnapping her at gunpoint. She later escaped as he was driving her to a remote location.”

  The screen then ran a video of a man pushing a woman down a hotel hallway, a gun clearly visible in his hand. They then displayed a photo of Reece in his dress blues, clean shaven, rows of medals on the chest of his flawless uniform.

  “There are still unanswered questions tonight surrounding why Commander Reece would so deliberately target and kill these Muslim American men after meeting privately with the president at Camp David. The only connection between the deceased is that they are all devout Muslims of Middle Eastern descent. Commander Reece’s behavior indicates a pattern of violence that fits with his murders following his last deployment. It also perpetuates a cycle of violence against those of Middle Eastern ancestry. Did post-traumatic stress or traumatic brain injury play a role in these killings? Is Commander Reece on another murderous rampage, this time connected to President Christensen’s administration? We will continue to update you on what is still a developing story.”

  “I couldn’t have written that better myself,” Thwaite said, clearly pleased with the anchor’s performance.

  “You did write it yourself, Eddie,” Sawyer said, hitting the mute button on his app.

  “That’s right. I did,” the senator said, now even more pleased. “That should give the White House press corps something to pester the president and his press secretary about at Monday’s briefing.”

  “Senator, do you even care what R
eece was doing in Chicago and Atlanta, or who this team was that targeted him in Maryland?”

  “Those particulars are no longer my concern. That’s an FBI issue now. This is politics. We muddy the waters with this tape and the president is forced to do his job, to live up to his responsibilities as commander in chief, to eradicate the virus in Richardson and Aurora before it infects and kills ninety percent of the country. I mean, by God, there are now reported cases in Atlanta. Atlanta! They have isolated the patients thus far but we know it’s outside the containment zones. Can you imagine if he has to bomb Atlanta?”

  Sawyer remained silent and swirled the brown liquid in his glass.

  “We insinuate through our contacts in established media that he bombed Texas and Colorado to divert attention away from his association with Commander Reece,” Thwaite continued. “Like when President Clinton bombed Afghanistan and Sudan when Monica’s blue dress stains were the talk of the town.”

  “Ah yes, wag the dog. And, what if he doesn’t drop?”

  “He has to drop, Erik. The country is finished if he doesn’t, and I mean that literally. I don’t envy him that decision, but we have an airborne virus threatening to destroy the country, possibly the world. Christensen can stop it. In fact, he’s the only one who can stop it. It’s political suicide but it’s his only viable decision. No one in Congress will publicly support him. They know he has to destroy two cities to save the republic. Supporting it only takes them down with him. It simply has to be done. Only the commander in chief can make that call.”

  “And the people of Richardson and Aurora?”

  “It’s truly heartbreaking, Erik. I don’t know what else to say. Their deaths save the United States. Their deaths save the world. We will erect appropriate monuments and give speeches, sincere speeches. We will never forget their sacrifice. Even though it’s the only logical decision, Christensen is finished. His party will forever be known as the party that bombed America.”

  “Yes, bombed America to save it,” Sawyer pointed out.

  “But bombed it nonetheless. There is no recovering.”

  “And you benefit politically from these deaths?”

  “Saul Alinsky said it best: ‘never let a crisis go to waste.’ He was right, you know.”