Biowar

12

Both Desk Three ops were so far underground that they weren’t shown on the locator map. Rubens stepped back from the consoles, considering Johnny Bib’s earlier question regarding plants.

A substitution code?

Surely not. The fact that they were all Asian was surely significant.

Plant-eating bacteria, perhaps? Or a virus that lived within a plant host?

He might talk to one of the biology people on the off-chance.

Except there were none.

“Where the hell are our biology experts?” he snapped at Telach.

“It’s a little early.”

“You’re here. I’m here. What happened to the CDC people? Lester promised around-the-clock coverage.”

“They still haven’t passed all the lie detector tests,” said Telach. “The conference isn’t for another two days.”

“Get them here now,” said Rubens.

“But procedure requires—”

“Get them down here. Blindfold them if you have to, but get them now.”

Telach touched the phone on her belt and turned away to talk.

This was how things screwed up down the line, Rubens realized. A small slipup that escalated. Not even a slip — just slavish adherence to standard operating procedure.

He had invented Desk Three to avoid the tangle of standard operating procedure, and here he was, ambushed by it.

Did he have to attend to everything himself?

“They’re on their way,” Telach said. “I’m sorry. I messed up.”

“Yes.”

Telach frowned. Rubens frowned back.

On the right side of the room, Sandy Chafetz was keeping tabs on Tommy Karr, who had caught a military flight en route to Japan, where he would transfer to a civilian airliner for the final leg to Thailand.

“We’re still trying to get resources lined up,” Chafetz told him. “Satellite allocation is getting stingy because of the situation in Cambodia. There’s been some skirmishing now with the Thai military, and they’re asking for support. Meanwhile, Special Forces Command locked up the visual satellites for a campaign in Malaysia against the insurgency that starts in another eight hours.”

Rubens folded his arms. They were dealing here with a situation of far greater import than a minor border conflict. It wasn’t Telach’s fault, of course — she was merely the messenger.

“Do we have leads on Kegan or Pound yet?” he asked.

“No. We have a hotel where Kegan stayed in the past. But nothing definitive. It may be that Pound went into the country under a different name. We’re trying to run down some of the possibilities, eliminate them before Tommy gets there.”

“Johnny Bib found a list of various plants that Kegan was checking on,” said Rubens. “Could they be a link?”

“Plants?”

“Check on the disk contents. You’ll see the pages.”

Chafetz turned back to her computer console and brought up the information, looking at the Web pages that had been found. “Pretty basic stuff. You sure he didn’t have a garden or something?”

“I’m not sure, actually,” admitted Rubens.

“Did he work with plants?”

“Admittedly, it does appear a red herring,” conceded Rubens. “But keep it in mind, in case there are any intersections.”

Chafetz nodded. “I’d like to be able to call on some military assets if things get tight.”

“Tight?”

“They’re practically at war with Cambodia. We don’t know where this is going.”

“What exactly do we need?” he asked.

“I won’t know until I know.”

“Talk with USSOCOM,” he said, referring to the military’s Special Forces Command, which oversaw special operations personnel and missions.

“I have.”

“And?”

“That’s why I’m talking to you.”

Rubens frowned. “Have Marie allocate assets from Space Command,” he told her.

“I already have a platform,” she said. “I’d like an RS-93, some—”

The RS-93 was a remote-controlled space plane that could provide stationary surveillance over any spot on the globe. But it was enormously expensive to operate and required a large support team. Even if he could justify it, it would never be ready in time. Besides, he might need it later on.

“No,” said Rubens. “Not at this stage.”

“The CIA has a Huron under contract. It’s in-country already.”

The Huron was a turboprop aircraft dressed to look like a civilian but equipped with high-resolution digital still and video cameras as well as a side-looking ground-imaging radar. Tasked to work with the Thai military in patrolling the border area, the Huron mostly sat around at Chiang Mai International Airport. But using it meant talking to Collins, the Deputy Director of Operations at the CIA.

She’d be only too happy to help, of course.

“Boss?” said Chafetz.

“All right. I will get the Huron,” grumbled Rubens.

“And for fire support—”

“What fire are we supporting?”

“If we need it, how about F-47Cs? Or a Puff?”

The F-47s were robot fighter-bombers. Puff was the nickname for the A-230, an unmanned gunship that was like a downsized AC-130.

“Why are we going to need assets like that?” asked Rubens.

“Do you want me to be prepared or not? As it is I’m running him with just embassy backup.”

“We don’t need the CIA’s help.”

“Except for the Huron.”

“Except for the Huron.”

“There are a few Marines and a freelancer we can call on.”

“Very well.” Rubens sighed. “If we have the need, we can have the A-230.”

“I have to have it flown in from Manila.”

“Position it,” Rubens told her. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks, boss.”

He feigned interest in something on one of the systems’ tech screens. The systems technicians — two sat in the row immediately behind the runners — were jacks-of-all-trades who spent most of their time breaking into various computer systems during the operation and providing data to the runners.

“Something’s up,” said Rockman.

Rubens went down and joined her at Rockman’s console, looking over her shoulder at the large flat panel displays. The one on his left showed the ops’ positions against a grid map. Both were purple, indicating that they hadn’t been updated in at least ten minutes. Suddenly one of the markers went green, appearing in the next grid. Rockman pressed his headset to his ear.

“It’s Lia,” said Rockman. “She lost him in the Tube.”

Rubens bent over the screen, trying to correlate the grid to the city. The Thames ran along the bottom edge of the map; Lia had gone one stop to the left of where she had gotten on, emerging aboveground in Leicester Square. The radioactive isotope system they used to track their field ops was undetectable by monitoring devices, but it had its limits — roughly six meters belowground, a distance exceeded by the London Tube.

“Cursing up a storm,” said Rockman.

“Just tell her to relax,” said Rubens. He looked at Telach, whose bottom lip had curled in on itself.

“They did show a gun,” said Rockman. “That’s the part I don’t get.”

Rubens straightened, reminding himself of advice a yoga master had given him many years before: There were long moments in life when chaos threatened to intrude, and at those times one must tap energy from the kundalini, a point somewhere near the lower spine that the master believed was the center of Rubens’ personal, transcendent soul.

Rubens held his breath for a moment, then exhaled silently, summoning and exuding calm for the rest of them.

“Here we go,” said Rockman, pointing to the screen. Dean had surfaced at Bank Street near the Thames on the eastern side of the city. Rockman worked his keyboard as he updated Lia, trying to see if there were any obvious destinations in the area. Dean was still in the terminal above the subway level; Rockman told the op not to move yet, since it wasn’t clear where he was going.

“I’m not getting any audio,” said Rockman. He backed the grid map out one level, getting a larger view of the city. The subway and rail lines as well as the streets were marked. “Maybe he took his glasses off.”

“They’re definitely doing something in the station,” said Telach. “There’s another rail line here, Docklands. They may be taking that.”

“Get Lia over there,” said Rubens. “She can pick up the trail from there.”

Telach glared at him as Rockman gave the order. It wasn’t that she disagreed — she would have said so — it was that the direction should have come from her.

Not a time to be temperamental.

The green diamond showing Dean began to move to the left of the screen, following the ghosted gray map of the Docklands light-rail line. Rockman brought up a screen showing the line’s path, looking for a place where Lia might be able to get on. She was too far away to get to the rail line quickly enough to take the same train; she’d have to follow along as best she could.

“Get back on the Tube,” Telach said, giving her directions to the line. “Call us when you get to Monument.”

“Dean’s audio’s back,” announced Rockman.

“Conference it,” said Rubens.

The sound of machinery flooded through the speakers, then faded.

“I don’t think so,” said Dean, his voice muffled slightly.

“Oh yes,” said someone with a light German accent. “You will or you will be killed.”

There was a muffled sound, and then the audio died again.