Pandora's Legion

32

SSI’s braintrust was summoned to an emergency meeting less than an hour before closing. When Joe Wolf shut the door on the secure room, Derringer got straight to the point.

“Nobody in this room is going home this evening. We have to find two more human bombs.”

Sandy Carmichael was the first to react. “You mean, our team didn’t get all the Marburg plotters after all?”

Derringer raised his hands, palms up. “Oh, we think we got all the big fish, or at least we know who they are. It’s the last two little fish. Evidently Frank’s guys missed them by a few hours.”

Wolf did not bother to sit down. “I’ve already talked to the applicable agencies.” He ticked them off with his fingertips: “DHS, FBI, NIS, HHS, DoT and FAA, a lot of the federal alphabet. Evidently some word leaked out of Pakistan because Defense and Health and Human Services already had an idea that something was headed our way. Now it’s a matter of coordinating all the players.”

Derringer shook his head. “Never happen, Joe. Not on so short a notice.”

Wolf slid into a chair. “Yeah, I know, Mike. I know.” He rubbed his graying temples.

Carmichael was mentally cataloging the growing list of tasks before her, including a call to a neighbor to check on the girls. “Admiral, just what do we know right now? And what do we have to assume?”

“Good questions, Sandy.” Derringer raised himself from his seat and paced to the whiteboard beside the conference table. He flipped back a cloth covering his briefing points and went down the list. “Frank and Omar are convinced that their Pakistani liaison officer and General Hardesty are being forthright. Once the field interrogations revealed that two infected men had left the farm we raided, our embassy was immediately notified. The Pakistanis ‘interviewed’ the prisoners at Quetta and found similar enough stories to believe them. Hardesty has confirmed the basics: two men in their twenties, one who may have a fatal disease. We do not know their names but according to the interrogators, they’re known as Maqsad and Badlah. I’m told those are Urdu words for ‘purpose’ and ‘revenge.’”

Sandy looked at her boss. “That’s it?”

“Pretty much. As you asked, the rest we have to assume.” He tapped the whiteboard again. “We assume they’re Pakistanis, but we don’t know if they’re traveling on Pakistani passports. That seems unlikely, considering they must know we’d be suspicious. We assume they have something between hours and days before they develop full-blown Marburg. We must assume they’re headed here, but it could be any place from Philadelphia to LA. It’s unlikely they’re traveling together.”

Wolf sat up straight. “Mike, what are the chances of getting Islamabad to cancel all flights out of the country? Maybe just for a couple of days. They could say, truthfully, that there’s concern of communicable diseases.”

“Hardesty and the embassy people are supposed to be working that angle. Same with bus and rail, but I doubt anything will come of it. The kamikazes have a head start, and they may be driving to another country before flying here. The best we can hope for is that all ports of entry will screen all Muslim males under thirty or so.”

“Damn!” Wolf’s mild expletive was uncharacteristic. “The minute INS or anybody else tries to do that, the civil libertarians will shut down the whole scheme with a discrimination suit. All it takes is one huggy-feely judge.”

Derringer smiled for the first time — a small, ephemeral smile, but a smile nonetheless. “That’s right, Joe. No profiling allowed — no doubt about it. But I, ah, wouldn’t be surprised if the government has written appeals ready to file within minutes. Depending on specifics, all that’s required is the necessary signatures.”

“Whose signatures?” Carmichael asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of my college friends.”

“You mean Secretary Burridge?”

Derringer leaned forward, hands on the table. “It’s already gone from President Quincannon to Justice and Homeland Security.”

Wolf’s grin was in fact wolfish. “The ACLU will go spastic.”

“I suspect you are correct. But even if the appeals are denied, at least there’ll be time to look for the suiciders while the lawyers haggle it out.”

As usual, Carmichael was thinking ahead of the game. “Admiral, if the government is dealing with all this, what’s our role?”

Derringer sat down again, drumming his long fingers on the tabletop. Paradiddle paradiddle, tap-tap-tap. “Basically, we’re backup. Remember how we got into this job in the first place? Plausible deniability! No U.S. military personnel were involved in hunting down the Marburg cell in a foreign country. Same thing applies right here. In case there are legal or operational problems, our people can step in and do what needs doing. The feds are welcome to the credit, if in fact there’s any credit to be taken. So far everybody in the executive and judicial branches would be happy as hell if there’s nothing to report, and therefore nothing to deny.”

Carmichael was scribbling notes to herself. “Admiral, with our primary teams in Pakistan and secondary crews in Iraq and Afghanistan and Central America, we’re going to be hard pressed to field many more operatives.”

Wolf interjected. “Sandy’s right. We can’t get Frank’s people back here in less than two days, and this is likely to be over by then.”

Derringer made a point of loosening his Annapolis tie. “Actually, Omar is coming back tonight — he’ll be badly jetlagged by the time he hits Dulles tomorrow, but he can be the most use, especially with his language skills. As for the rest of us, well, it’s like I said. Nobody’s going home this evening.”

During a coffee break Sandy Carmichael and Sallie Kline got together for a bit of female bonding. Sallie confided, “You know, I don’t tell many people, but some of the Patriot Act makes me nervous.”

“What parts?”

“Basically, the whole attitude that American citizens are just as suspect as foreigners from hostile nations.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sandy replied. “I’ve had this discussion with David. He agrees with you, and he’s active duty. But what’s the alternative?”

“How about common sense? I mean, grandmothers taken aside for searches! My best friend had her wedding gown spread out on a table in Phoenix. I’ve even seen mothers with babies made to unload their bags with diapers and things. That’s done because the government’s terrified of being accused of profiling.” She shook her head. “Damn it, Sandy, the threat is Muslim males — not people like you and me.”

“Girlfriend, I spent over twenty years in the army. Don’t hold your breath waiting for common sense.”

Sallie Ann’s empathic powers tickled her emotional sensors. David Main: Sandy hasn’t mentioned him lately. She sipped her coffee and modulated her voice into a casual tone. “Speaking of Colonel Main, have you seen him since…?”

“Since the attack? Just once, and a couple of phone calls.”

After an awkward silence, Sallie risked another question. “How’s he doing? I mean, he seems like a really nice man, but he must have some issues, coming that close to being killed.”

Sandy bit her lip and lowered her gaze. When she raised her eyes again, they were misting over. “He’s a wonderful man, Sallie. My god, he loves me enough to risk his life for me. But he also loves his wife.” She shook her head. “Nothing’s simple, is it?”

“Sandy, I think that love is simple. It’s the purest thing there is. But romance can be a real bitch.”

Wolf convened the meeting. “Okay, people. What do we know? I mean, what do we really know?”

Omar Mohammed gulped more coffee to stay awake. He looked almost as bad as he felt — he had never been able to sleep on airplanes. “Here’s my interrogation notes from the Pakistanis. Major Khan was present and he thinks the information is accurate.”

Wolf spread his hands. “Go ahead, Omar.”

“Two young men, about twenty. There’s complete agreement on that. They seem to be related, but just how is uncertain. Brothers, cousins, whatever. One apparently speaks some English, but we don’t know about the other.

“Names?”

“They received code names, apparently from Sharif before he was killed.” Wolf made a mental note. Omar’s really tired. Of course Sharif gave them names before he was killed! “The Urdu words are maqsad, or purpose, and badlah, which is revenge. Obviously, that indicates a depth of commitment consistent with suicide bombers. As before, the real trouble is lack of evidence. If they’re carrying the virus — and we must assume they are — it’s undetectable. They will probably have minimal luggage.” He looked around the room. “They won’t plan on living very long.”

The former FBI man absorbed that information. “Okay. What else?”

Mohammed plopped his notepad on the polished tabletop. “That’s it. At least for now.”

Carmichael emitted a low, pensive whistle. Wolf bit his lip, staring at an ornamental ashtray that would never be used. Finally he said, “Is there any chance this could be disinformation? We need to consider all the angles.”

“I don’t think so, Joe. As I said, Khan was present, and I learned I can trust him. After all, his family has suffered from terrorists. There’s also the political aspect. Whatever many Pakistanis think of us, the government does not want to have some of its citizens spreading deadly diseases in the U.S.” Mohammed knew that the reasons were tacitly obvious, mainly spelled with dollar signs.

Mohammed rubbed his eyes, then added, “There’s one other thing. Pakistani security forces brought in another suspect shortly before I left. Khan felt he’s potentially a good source, but evidently he’s a hard case. It may take some time to break him down.”

“My god, Omar. We don’t even know how much time we have! They need to lean on this guy, now!”

“Well, the embassy is aware of him. Or at least General Hardesty is, which amounts to the same thing. I believe he’s monitoring things as closely as he dares.”

Carmichael cleared her throat, casting sideways glances at both men. She knew the implications: the interrogation methods were unlikely to withstand congressional scrutiny, so Hardesty would keep his distance. “Ah, gentlemen…”

Wolf nodded. “Yes, Sandy.”

“Couldn’t some of our people… you know… provide technical assistance?” She etched quote marks in the air around “technical.”

“I suppose so…”

Mohammed interjected. “You’re suggesting drugs, Sandy?”

“Sure. It’s the quickest way, isn’t it?”

Mohammed replied, “Sodium pentothal has been erratic. The evidence I’ve seen indicates that stronger means are needed. Maybe psychoactives or hallucinogens.”

Wolf looked back to Mohammed. “Do you know who the prisoner is?”

“No. Only that he’s a foreigner. Khan said they caught him by accident, a little after our raid on Sharif’s hideout.”

“Well, as you all know, it is not SSI policy to use or advocate illegal methods, even overseas. But right now we’re looking at a hell of a big job. Either we get a break or we try to coordinate with several agencies in identifying and tracking every young Muslim male who enters this country for the next month or so.”

Sandy said, “That’s the admiral’s call, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. I’ll give him the info as soon as he returns from meeting with Burridge.”

The government limousine turned off the road between Chain Bridge and Langley, entering the park within two minutes of the appointed time. Michael Derringer exited his Jaguar and walked the short distance to the Cadillac.

Homeland Security Secretary Burridge opened the rear door. “Hi, Mike.”

The former classmates shook hands, then Derringer asked, “Inside or out?”

Burridge extended his basketball player’s legs and eased himself from the seat. “It’s good to get out of the office. Let’s take a walk.”

After pacing through the blowing leaves, the friends stood at the perimeter, watching the Potomac flowing 275 feet below them. Derringer, who usually read history when he had time to himself, recalled that New York and Pennsylvania artillerymen had enjoyed the same view from 1862 onward.

Burridge got to the point. “Mike, I understand your concern over security. But we do have secure comm at DHS, you know.”

“You still log most calls, though, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah. Most of them. Why?”

Derringer turned ninety degrees to face his friend. “Bruce, what I have to say is not anything that you want known on the Hill — by your friends or enemies.”

The DHS czar nodded solemnly. “Okay. Fire away.”

Derringer inhaled, then expelled his breath. “The Pakistanis have a valuable asset. They nabbed him a couple of nights ago, and there’s every reason to believe he knows about the last Marburg kamikazes. Or, at least what we think is the last. The doctor who injected the volunteers is dead.”

“Yeah, I got that word. But what about this other asset?”

“He’s a Syrian called Kassim. That may or may not be his real name, but he’s been positively ID’d as one of Sharif’s men. Apparently he lost a foot fighting the Russians in Afghanistan, and he’s been in more or less continuous combat since then. Our contact says that a couple of the interrogators openly admire the guy.”

“What’s he know about the volunteers?”

“It looks as if he escorted them to their point of departure from the border. Evidently he was returning to Sharif when he ran into a Paki patrol. There was a brief shootout and he was captured.” Derringer did not bother mentioning that the veteran fighter had killed one Pakistani and wounded another.

“So we missed the two guys by just…”

“Probably a few hours.”

“Then,” Burridge concluded, “this Syrian knows what they look like and probably knows their names.”

“That’s right. Although they could travel on forged papers.”

“And Hardesty at the embassy knows all this?”

“Check.”

“So, what do you need from me, Mike?”

Derringer glanced around to ensure no one overheard. “The Syrian hasn’t said much yet — and believe me, that means he’s hardcore.”

Burridge began to understand. He did not ask for details about third-world interrogation techniques but he knew the figures: three to five percent of al Qaeda prisoners would die rather than reveal information they held dear. “You’re asking me to make a back-channel request via our embassy to use — ahem — extraordinary measures to interrogate a third-party national deemed a major security risk.”

“You got it, shipmate.”

Burridge turned back toward the river. He had seldom been to the park, and only knew of its recent history. I wonder where they found Vince Foster’s body, he mused. He recalled the news report: the Park Service spokesman had actually declared, “It’s a suicide because we say it’s a suicide.”

“The locals aren’t going to use extraordinary means unless we request it?”

“That’s the word from our Pakistani liaison and General Hardesty. As I said, some of the interrogators admire the Syrian.”

DHS nodded slowly, staring at the Potomac. “Well, it’s my potato and I can’t toss it up the line. The president needs to maintain deniability.”

Derringer nudged his friend with an elbow. “Hey, that’s why we get the big bucks.”

Burridge did not smile. “Alright. I’ll pass the word immediately.” He looked closely at Derringer. “What do you think they’ll do?”

“My guess is drugs. Something a lot better than pentothal.”

The secretary turned to walk back to his limo. “You know, Mike, if this works out and we grab the couriers, probably nobody will ever know. On the other hand, if we don’t get them in time, and a lot of people die, the public will demand to know why we didn’t do more. But if…”

“If they die on us and word leaks about the interrogation, we’re the bastards who torture prisoners in other countries.”

Burridge stopped a few paces from his vehicle. “Hell of a business we’re in, shipmate.” He shook hands again. “I’ll call our people right away. What’s the time difference?”

Derringer thought. “Oh, nine, ten hours. Plays hell with coordination, doesn’t it?”

“Until we ID those two guys, I don’t think that time is going to matter very damn much.”

Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith opened her violet eyes. She had trouble focusing and did not recognize anything, but her nose told her more than her vision. The antiseptic aromas spoke clearly to her: Hospital. Judging by the near absence of sound, she thought she was in a private room, perhaps in a private clinic.

Padgett-Smith felt the clammy texture of her skin and cataloged the other symptoms: a rash, temperature, nausea and vomiting, plus the onset of diarrhea.

Early stage two. I have the virus.

Without dissecting that knowledge, she placed her emotions in a separate mental file for the moment. A glance at the wall revealed no windows. That was useful intelligence. It led to another conclusion. If she had contracted Marburg, which seemed almost certain, then she was in no ordinary facility. They moved me to an isolation ward. They must have done. But… when?

What day is it?

What’s the last thing I remember?

Charles. Where is Charles?

Something turned over behind her navel: a liquid urgency. Oh, god, no. She reached her left hand from beneath the covers and grasped the call button clipped to her pillow. She pressed the button once, twice. It was surprisingly difficult to do. How can I be so weak?

In less than one minute a nursing sister arrived. She wore a disposable outer garment and a mask with gloves. Her clothing did nothing to inspire confidence in the patient, but CPS was grateful for the attention. “I need the WC, now!”

The nurse — a short, confident angel named Sister Beatrice— flipped back the covers and, with deceptive strength, pulled Dr. Padgett-Smith to her feet. Supported by the good sister, CPS managed the seven steps to the water closet and slid onto the toilet.

When finished, Padgett-Smith examined her gown. Like all hospital attire, it was calculated entirely for function. It was tied only at the neck and mid back, with elbow-length arms. While steadying herself at the basin, the immunologist allowed herself to dwell upon small things. Will I ever wear a bra and panties again? Right now I should be glad for hiking shorts and boots.

Tucked up in bed again, she accepted some water and ordered her thoughts.

“Sister, how long have I been here? What do you know about my husband?”

Beatrice patted the doctor’s arm. Despite the latex between them, the human gesture was reassuring. “You’ve been here two days, my dear. You collapsed at home and your husband brought you here directly. He only left a few hours ago.”

“Oh, yes…” Some of the last forty-eight hours fell into place. There had been a row about staying at home. Charles had insisted that Carolyn enter a special care facility but she resisted, noting that no symptoms had yet emerged and the test results were pending. She felt the onset of potentially massive guilt. Charles was exposed to her nearly every hour of the day: he was at risk, but she had been so self-absorbed that she only wanted to remain in familiar surroundings. I was such a twit— I felt that if I were at home then I must be healthy. I knew better. Truly I did.

Charles, I’m so sorry.

“When can I see him?”

“I don’t know, love. But the charge nurse will ring him to let him know that you’re awake. After that, it’s up to the doctor.”

CPS rubbed her forehead, as if forcing memories to the front. “I can’t remember very much before… what? Day before yesterday?” She turned her focused stare back to Sister Beatrice. “I must have slept most of the time.”

“You were sedated for several hours. You had a bad dream or two, apparently.”

Padgett-Smith shook off the grim memories, knowing they would return. For the present, she had more urgent concerns. She asked, “Did we hear from Dr. Keene?”

The sister checked the chart. “I don’t see that name here. Is he a consultant?”

“She’s a leading researcher in homeopathic medicine. Margaret prepared some Crotalus horridus for me, but I only took a couple of doses before… coming here.”

“What is crotalus… horribilus?”

“Horridus. Rattlesnake venom.”