Biowar

62

“They’re in a small village about seventy kilometers from the border,” said Sandy Chafetz. “One group of guerrillas seems to be following their trail, but it’s not clear.”

Rubens pressed his arms together in front of his chest. “Let’s get them out of there,” said Rubens.

Chafetz looked up at Telach, who was leaning against the runner’s consoles. The Art Room supervisor looked spent, as tired as Rubens had ever seen her.

“I’m working on it, chief,” said Telach. “The Army has all the resources over in the other end of the country.”

“What other resources are available?” asked Rubens, knowing the inevitable answer.

“CIA has some contract people. But I have to talk to Deputy Director Collins.”

The one thing that Rubens hated more than having to draw on CIA assets was having to go through Collins to get them. Collins, who headed the Operations Directorate, had been in the running to head Deep Black and still felt she should have had the job — and that the organization should have been part of the CIA.

“Boss?”

“Yes, of course, go ahead.”

“I have the Puff/1 en route. It’ll keep an eye on them until we can get in there.”

“How long?”

“Few hours maybe. I’ll know soon.”

“It’ll be nightfall.”

Telach pursed her lips.

“Why isn’t his radio working anyway?” Rubens asked.

“Most likely the battery died. The charge isn’t indefinite and he didn’t have a place to recharge in camp. Obviously, we’ll have to look into it.”

“Oh, very well,” said Rubens. “I have to go upstairs. Keep me informed.”

“Yes, boss.”

Rubens ignored her tone and left the Art Room, passing through the elaborate security chamber and the manned checkpoints to return to his office. While Desk Three operations tended to consume a major portion of his time, Rubens had a large number of other responsibilities as the number-two man in the agency. Nearly two dozen phone messages and twice as many E-mails were waiting for him on the secure systems. Several had to do with meetings he’d had to blow off and there were a fair number of useless updates on projects that were going nowhere, but nonetheless it took time to wade through them all.

One of Rubens’ administrative assistants, meanwhile, had organized a queue of reports in his secure computer system — urgent, more urgent, and ridiculously urgent. Rubens was just starting to take a look at the items in the last category when his outside phone buzzed. He picked it up and heard Sandra Marshall tell him things had gone well with the media.

“A home run,” she said.

“That’s very good,” said Rubens.

“Are you going to make the working group meeting in the morning?”

“It looks tight,” he answered. He’d already decided he’d rather try getting some sleep downstairs than sit through the session, but he was suddenly feeling as if he didn’t want to disappoint her.

“We are going to be preparing a final report on the Internet DNA,” she said. “Are you still opposed?”

It truly did pain him to have to disagree. This was, of course, uncharacteristic. Rubens examined the emotion — partly it was because, politically, it was never a good idea to step on someone’s pet project, which this obviously had become. But partly—good God—he was having actual feelings for her.

A very dangerous area.

Why should he oppose the report? The President liked the idea; it would be floated out to Congress whatever William Rubens said. All the committee wanted to do was authorize a study, after all. Why draw a line in the sand on something that surely would die eventually on its own?

Because it was the right thing to do?

“I was thinking maybe we would have dinner,” she suggested. “And I could explain my position.”

Rubens started to object.

“I had in mind my place later this evening, if that is convenient,” said Marshall. Her tone was formal, but then she added, in a voice that seemed to come from someone else, “Please?”

A strange weakness came over him. Fatigue? Misplaced lust or, worse, sympathy? Interest?

“What time should I be there?” he asked.