Cold Frame

SEVENTEEN

Carl Mandeville was in the office bright and early Saturday morning. Many of the staff were in as well: a posting to the National Security Council staff meant that Sundays were yours, at least some of the time. Otherwise, you came in, too often with the word “Divorce!” ringing in your ears.

Mandeville picked up his secure phone and dialed a number. When the ringing stopped and the tone sounded, he said one word: “Beacon.” Then he hung up and sent for coffee. Thirty minutes later his phone rang. The caller ID on the secure phone said, simply: Beacon.

He picked up. “New orders,” he said. “I have your current subject under rendition at Petersburg. Maintain a watch there. I’ll be going down there soon to talk to him, see if I can turn him. If I can’t, I’ll need to ramp it up a little. Actually, a lot.”

Then he hung up. There was something to be said for an operator who couldn’t speak.

Then he placed a call to the commanding officer at the United States Army Research Institute for Infectious Diseases at Fort Detrick, Maryland, on the secure link.

“Colonel Kreckich speaking, sir,” a voice answered.

Mandeville confirmed his identity and then told the CO that he would need some of the special materials in the near future.

“Which specific materials, sir?”

“Aerosol of belladonna sap,” he said. “We have an opportunity to take out a high-level meeting of AQ in Syria. I need a single canister. No, two. I want them delivered to my office suite in the EEOB for further transport to JSOC. Armed forces courier, with hand-delivery to me, personally. I have the DMX code ready.”

“I’m ready to write.”

“DMX 17454312. Authentication is venom 7789.”

“Stand by.”

Mandeville waited while the CO verified the authentication code from the daily tables.

“Authentication accepted. We will advise delivery.”

Mandeville hung up. The commanding officer of USAMRIID knew his business. Mandeville had been fascinated to learn that the CO was a veterinarian, but that actually made sense. Their research involved a whole host of primates, whom they subjected to the entire spectrum of horrible diseases that enemies of the state might choose to weaponize.

The two canisters being brought to him were early-warning devices used by the army to warn of chemical attack, which the soldiers nicknamed “sniffers.” In practice, the canisters sat in a receptacle on top of a large detection-and-analysis device that monitored the air around it. If the device sensed any one of a dozen chemical agents, it fired the canisters, which blew out a mist of strongly scented mint. The rule was, smell mint, MOPP-up immediately. Get your mask on, then get your suit on. The neat part was that if the canister on the actual analyzer let go, it sent out an order by closed-loop cell phone to other canisters placed around the area being protected. Like house smoke detectors, if one went, they all went. It was that satellite spray system that Mandeville’s planted biochemist had converted to an actual weapon. One cell phone call, and the sprayer would fire, but it wouldn’t be mint this time.

He wondered if that weird genius out in Great Falls had any idea of what the government was doing with some of his magic potions. The canisters represented what some of the more self-important senators up on Capitol Hill liked to call the nuclear option. He had no qualms about killing off the entire DMX and starting over. He’d have to figure out how he was going to survive this catastrophe, and then how to pin it on someone in the terrorist world. Maybe he’d set it up so that he could arrive at the meeting room only to find everyone dead. A precursor string — that’s what he needed. Gen up an intel report of a threat to the DMX, itself. Something that they could officially ignore because of weak provenance, and then, regrettably, say: oh shit, we should have paid more attention to that.

He nodded to himself. That was definitely the way to do it. If he could turn the bothersome Metro cop, then maybe this escalation wouldn’t be necessary, but the cop was clearly a potential liability. The traitors on the DMX would just love to get him in front of a Senate committee to bolster their case against the DMX. Talk about a media firestorm.

He shook his head. No. He couldn’t risk it. He needed to wipe the slate clean, along with the cop, then pin it on someone on the Kill List. Or maybe blame that Walker guy. He smiled at that thought.