Biowar

78

Walking up the steps to the Syrian day school, Dean wondered what effect all these guards might have had on his own education. Besides a pair of policemen at the gate, there were several knots of supposedly private guards in nondescript uniforms posted along the driveway and in the infield of the small circle in front of the steps to the main building. Dean saw at least two men on the roof. The rifles the men had were AK-47s, old but in excellent repair, their wooden stocks gleaming. The driveway had obstructions so no vehicle could get close to the building, and Rockman told him as a “point of information” that there were mines implanted in the roadway and at least one antitank weapon trained on the approach. The security was not considered excessive — in the Middle East, Western children were always potential targets for extremists — but Desk Three had already determined that the private security force wasn’t private at all but rather a special unit of the Ba’ath Party’s own army.

A large wooden table, its top inlaid with dark and light wood, served as the reception desk in the open vestibule just beyond the doors. A large cupola behind the desk made the secretary’s words echo as she addressed Dean in English, welcoming him to the school. A man in his early twenties stood nearby, apparently Dean’s tour guide.

Dean adjusted his glasses — they had a video transmission set in them — and gave the little prattle he’d rehearsed about how great an opportunity he had before him if the educational aspects for his two children (stepchildren, adopted, second marriage, great kids) could be worked out.

The secretary waxed eloquent in response, telling him about the quality of the professors, who in any other country would be teaching at top universities. The amenities included a tennis court, swimming pool, and around-the-clock guards.

Dean smiled and nodded, nodded and smiled. After a few minutes he interrupted the woman, taking out a small inhaler.

“Asthma,” he said apologetically. “This climate is supposed to be good for it.”

The secretary smiled sympathetically and went on with her spiel. Finally, she called over Ahmed, a graduate of the school originally from Egypt. Dean knew that to be false — the man was a low-ranking Syrian intelligence officer — but nonetheless played up the concerned parent angle as they moved through the building. Athletics appeared to be the school’s Achilles’ heel; the soccer team had finished no higher than third in the national association contests over the past decade, a fact that made the guide hang his head in shame.

As Dean continued his tour, the sniffers in his coat were sending data back to the Art Room. Every so often he stopped and slipped a small black dot from his pocket onto the wall. The dot, of course, was a fly, sending audio back to the Art Room.

“You want to look at that music room more carefully,” said Rockman. “It accesses the east wing. We need you to get inside.”

Dean followed as his guide took him upstairs past a series of classrooms where the students were learning math. The east wing was perhaps 200 yards away.

“Is the music teacher available?” he asked as they walked down the hall toward the auditorium. “My oldest — my wife’s oldest really — is very interested in music. He plays the violin and piano.”

“I’m afraid the teachers are on holiday.” Ahmed smiled at him. “As I explained earlier. Our semester doesn’t begin for two weeks.”

“Oh yeah, sorry. Can we look at the music labs again, at least? I’ll check out the piano, that sort of thing.”

Ahmed smirked at him but then nodded. They continued to the end of the hall, then back down the stairs. Dean started for the room on the right.

“No, it’s this way,” said Ahmed, gesturing to the left.

“Oh, I thought it was right.”

“You are mistaken, Mr. Dean,” said the guide, pulling a pistol from his pocket.