The Ares Decision

53

President Sam Adams Castilla pushed his titanium glasses up and swiped at his exhausted eyes. “I don’t even understand what you’re saying to me, Fred. That Larry Drake — who I’ve known for years — had one of his analysts killed?”

“Sam, we—”

“Wait, I’m not done. He had one of his analysts killed so that he can help Iran get hold of a horrifying biological weapon that they would then use against America?”

“That’s a little oversimplified,” Klein said.

He hated coming to his old friensd with something this speculative — the president of the United States had more than enough concrete disasters to deal with on any given day. At this point, though, the situation was too dangerous to ignore and impossible to pursue without Castilla’s direct involvement.

“What do you want me to do with this, Fred? Call the FBI director and tell him that a man who spent his entire life serving this country is actually some kind of radical Muslim mole? And then when he asks me for evidence — a murder weapon — I could pull out a spare rib that’s a week past its sell-by date?”

Castilla stood suddenly and began pacing back and forth across the Oval Office.

“Sam, are you all right?”

“Hell no, I’m not all right. If anyone but you came to me with this, I’d fire them and then have them committed. But you’re not just anyone and that means I actually have to take this seriously — I have to start worrying about the loyalty of the man running our intelligence network.”

“If it makes any difference, I doubt Larry’s a radical — at least not a Muslim one. And in his own way, I think he believes he’s still serving the country.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about, Fred? By letting what killed those soldiers loose in the streets?”

“He could be trying to force your hand on Iran.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What would you do if this did get out and he could prove the Iranian government was behind it?”

“I’d knock down everything in their country taller than a fire hydrant,” Castilla replied, slowing and finally coming to a stop. “You’re saying Drake is trying to manipulate me? Trying to get me to authorize a military strike?”

“Based on his feelings about the threat Iran poses, I think it’s worth considering.”

Still unable to bring himself to sit, Castilla went back to pacing, muttering unintelligibly.

“Sam?”

“Okay,” the president said. “Let’s say this is true — and I’m not convinced it is by a long shot — what do you propose we do about it? Drake has a lot of allies — hell, I’m one of them. And taking down a man who’s familiar with every skeleton America has in its closet isn’t exactly trivial.”

Klein nodded and reached for the steaming cup of tea on the table in front of him. “Not trivial at all. But we have someone I trust on the inside—”

“Randi Russell took you up on your offer.”

“Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. But I can tell you that she isn’t buying into Gazenga’s food poisoning and she’s never going to turn her back on Jon Smith.”

“Any word from him?”

Klein shook his head. “And I’m not hopeful there will be. The farm he visited has been burned to the ground and the Ugandan government seems to be bombing the area around his last known position. Reports are that they found Caleb Bahame’s camp.”

“If Bahame’s gone…”

“The threat from the parasite could be too,” Klein said. “But I wouldn’t count on it. It’s a little suspicious that after decades of searching, the Ugandans finally manage to find him this week. More likely the Iranians got what they were after and betrayed him.”

The strength seemed to drain from Castilla and he collapsed into a chair. “I assume you have a recommendation?”

“If Randi will agree to help, I think we have a chance of controlling Drake.”

“If you think he’s guilty, why not just take him down?”

“Because, frankly, I’m not sure I’m right. And because our problems with Drake — if they exist at all — are secondary.”

“The Iranians,” Castilla said, and Klein nodded.

“I’m in the process of inserting a backup team into Uganda, and I’m working through our contacts in Iran to see what we can find out there.”

Castilla leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. “So to sum up: you’re sending a second-string team to deal with something that most likely killed your top operative and you’re trying to learn about a beyond top secret bioweapons program in a country where we can barely figure out what day they pick up the garbage.”

The image of Smith and Howell flashed across Klein’s mind, but he pushed it away. There would be time to mourn later. “And that’s what we need to talk about, Sam. Covert-One’s resources are limited, but yours aren’t. I need your authorization to bring more personnel in on this — CDC, USAMRIID, and some university people. Also, I think it’s time you start considering what we’re going to do in the very likely event that my people fail.”

“You’re talking about a military option.”

Again, Klein nodded. “We have to start preparing for that eventuality, and you need to decide what threshold of intel you need in order to head down that road.”