Lethal Dose (19 page)

39

The last of the reports were filtering into the Department of Homeland Security on Sunday morning when J. D. Rothery closed his door and addressed the representatives of the other federal agencies. He consulted the latest figures, updated at 0600, twenty minutes earlier.

“Good news and bad news, gentlemen,” he said, setting the paper on his desk.“We have field reports back on twenty-five of the twenty-seven raids, and so far we're batting a thousand. Our teams have penetrated each lab and effectively shut them down. Casualties are minimal so far: three dead and seven wounded. The three dead are all British SAS forces. They were assigned the lab in Beirut and had completed their mission when the vehicle transporting them back to the beach was hit by an RPG.” All men in the room knew what damage a rocketpropelled grenade could do to an unarmored car or SUV “We're still waiting on reports from our teams in Tehran and Cairo.”

“That sounds like the good news, J. D.,” Tony Warner said. “What's the bad news?”

Rothery consulted the sheaf of papers on his desk. “We've got sarin, ricin, cholera, Q fever, and anthrax. But so far we do not have a lab that was producing our virus.”

“Jesus Christ,” Craig Simms said.“I can't begin to tell you how this has hurt our operations, J. D. It's going to take the CIA years to regain these intelligence-gathering points.” His face was deep crimson.

“We knew going in that the operation might not produce the results we wanted. This is not a total surprise. And keep in mind we just shut down two dozen labs that were producing chemical weapons. This is not a bad thing.”

Simms was not easily placated. “The CIA operates under a microscope. Getting these covert teams and agents into place took years. And now the entire operation is shut down. In one day. And without the results we were looking for. If you ask me, this exercise was a total disaster.”

Jim Allenby came to Rothery's defense. “The labs were on line and producing chemicals outlawed under international law. And these guys were ready to use them when the time came. Now the local authorities have the locations of all the labs and they'll shut them down for us. Plus we removed a lot of al-Qaeda operatives in one swoop. Even though we didn't find the source of the virus, this was not a waste of time, Craig.”

“How many al-Qaeda guys did we kill?” Warner asked.

Rothery glanced at one of the columns on the top page. “Eighty-seven.”

“Jim's right, Craig. That's a lot of bad guys out of the way. I don't see this as a total snafu.”

“You didn't spend years putting the network in place,” Simms shot back.

There was a knock on the door, and Rothery's personal assistant entered with two sheets of paper. She walked across the room, handed them to her boss, and left without a word. Rothery perused the printouts, his face darkening as he read the reports.

“The Israelis sent a Mossad team into Cairo. They gained entry and overpowered the enemy operatives inside the building, but they couldn't get out. Last report they radioed out was they were holding off up to one hundred bad guys. Satellite intel shows the building being overrun one hour and eight minutes ago. We've got to assume the entire team is dead.”

“Shit,” Allenby said. “This is not good.”

“There's more,” Rothery said grimly. “One of our teams, Delta Force, was dropped into Tehran. They shut down the lab, wired it with explosives, and blew it. But three of the six team members were killed on extraction. They managed to get their bodies on the chopper, so there's no direct proof we were responsible.”

Silence engulfed the room. The Mossad team in Cairo would have been at least five men. That plus the three British commandos and now the three Delta Force casualties put the total number of dead at eleven. Plus the Egyptians would have no trouble identifying the Mossad team, and that meant they were about to be embroiled in an international incident. The Egyptians were not going to take kindly to Israeli commandos attacking targets in their capital city. What had appeared initially to be a reasonable success now had all the markings of disaster.

“Did either of the teams report back on what the labs were producing?” Tony Warner asked.

Rothery nodded his head slightly. “Shigella and tularemia. No virus.”

“What a mess,” Craig Simms said.

No one disagreed.

40

The valet handed Jennifer Pearce a tag and hustled her car out of the parking lane. She pocketed the number and cruised through the front door of the Jefferson Hotel. She skipped up the thirty-six steps of the grand staircase and spied Gordon Buchanan at one of the tables in Palm Court. He rose to greet her as she arrived.

“How was your night?” she asked. “I can't imagine anyone having a good sleep in a dump like this.”

He grinned. “It's okay, but it's not your place. Nice scenery, but not very intimate.” They sat, and she unhooked her laptop carrying case from her shoulder and let it drop on the seat bench beside her.

“Well, I'll take that as a compliment,” she said, ordering a tea when the waitress came around. “So what's so important that I barely had time for a shower this morning?”

He looked sheepish. “I wasn't exactly truthful with you last night,” he said.“I got some liquid nitrogen from that locksmith I called yesterday and went back to Rousseau's town house last night.”

“You cracked the safe?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“Yeah. It wasn't that hard, actually. It just took a few hours. Patience was the key. Anyway, this is what I found in the safe.” He retrieved the Sony Micro Vault from his pocket and handed it to her.

“We use these all the time to transfer data between BioTech Five and White Oak. It's like a portable hard drive.” She pulled the two ends apart and checked the USB connection. “Do you know what's on it?”

“No. That's why I asked you to bring your laptop,” he said, motioning to the case beside her. “I thought we could have a look together. If it's technical, I wouldn't know what I was looking at anyway.”

“Sure,” she said, unzipping the case and setting the laptop on the table. She powered it up and slipped the tiny solid-state storage unit into one of the USB ports. Windows recognized the new hardware and a screen popped up on her monitor, showing all the files Albert Rousseau had burned on the disc. There were seven in total, and Jennifer began opening them, looking carefully at the contents of each before going on to the next. She sipped her tea, at one point asking for a refill of hot water, and had just about finished the second cup when she closed the last file and sat back in her seat.

“Well, you've got the proof you need to go after Veritas,” she said, allowing a small smile to creep over her face. “It's all there, Gordon.”

“What? What does it say?”

“I'm not going to get technical, but the gist of what's on the disc is that Triaxcion does not react well with people who have A-positive blood. It inhibits the coagulants in the blood. You have the evidence you need. Any researcher with a master's or Ph.D. in pharmacology will be able to decipher what's on there in a court of law.”

“Definitive proof,” he said, his face a mixture of emotions. “So now I know for sure that the bastards killed Billy.” He paused for a minute and contemplated his empty coffee cup. “I'm not sure how that makes me feel. On one side, I'm glad that I know for sure and I'm pleased to have something to take into a court of law. But on the other hand, I feel sick that this whole damn thing was preventable. There was no reason for Billy to die. If he hadn't been taking that medication, he would still be alive.”

“So would Albert Rousseau and Kenga Bakcsi. These guys are murderers, Gordon, and you've got the proof. Just not enough to convict anyone in a court of law.”

Gordon tensed slightly and threw her a worried look. “Put that way, I don't think I'll be sleeping too well for the next little while.”

She thought about what he had said, then nodded. “I see what you mean. Being the only person with the information that could sink them could prove to be quite dangerous.”

“Like you said, they're murderers. I'd feel better if I knew exactly who it was. Right now we're guessing it's the top brass at Veritas.”

“I think it's a pretty good guess,” Jennifer said. They were quiet for a minute, and watched as the waitress refilled Gordon's coffee and brought Jennifer fresh hot water for her tea. Finally, Jennifer said, “What are you going to do now?”

He shrugged. “Get this back to my lawyer in Butte. She'll know what to do with it.”

“I could make a copy if you want. That way if that disc gets corrupted or destroyed, you haven't lost the data.”

He was hesitant. “You mean on your computer?” he asked, and she nodded. “I don't know, Jennifer. If they found those files on your computer, they wouldn't think twice about killing you.”

“How could they possibly find out the files are stored on my laptop? No one ever audits what is on my computer. And I could encode them so only the guys at Crypto-City could open the files.”

“Crypto-City?”

“National Security Agency. NSA. That's what everyone calls their main complex at Fort Meade, midway between Baltimore and Washington. They specialize in cryptology. Don't worry about it. Bad choice of words. Anyway, I'll protect myself.”

He still wasn't convinced. “Is there any other way to save the files?” he asked.

“Lots. We could buy a disk or another one of these things and copy the files over to it. That would give you a backup without having the data on my computer.”

“I'd feel better if we did that, Jennifer. I don't want anything on your system that could link you to Triaxcion. Enough people have already died. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you.”

“I'll take that as a clue that you care about my well-being. Thank you.” She was wearing an ear-to-ear grin. “But look around, Mr. Buchanan. Do you see any sinister types lurking about?”

Gordon scanned the room. A handful of tables were taken, most by businessmen having a late breakfast by themselves. Most were middle-aged white men dressed in business casual. One fellow, younger than most, wore golf clothes and was reading the sports section of the morning newspaper. Two tables were taken by couples, one elderly, the other young and with eyes for nothing but each other.

“It's the newlyweds,” she said to Gordon as he finished looking about the room. “They're evil spies and they're going to report our meeting back to their leader.”

He chuckled at the absurdity. “Okay, I'm just being a little paranoid. But I would be extremely upset if anything happened to you.”

“I feel the same way about you,” she responded, packing her laptop back in its protective case. “I suppose you'll be heading back to Montana soon.”

“I'll see what flights United has available—I'd like to get this to my lawyer as quickly as possible.”

“I understand.”

They sat in an unusual awkward silence for a minute. Gordon asked their server for the bill, and when she returned he charged it to his room. He finished the last of his coffee, ignoring how cold it was, and pushed back his chair. She followed suit. They walked out together, their elbows touching despite the wide staircase.

One of the other morning diners placed his newspaper on the table next to his bacon and eggs and retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. He placed a call to another cell.

“They're leaving the hotel,” he said, and hung up. He immediately dialed another number.

“Hello.” The call connected to Bruce Andrews's private line.

“I'm just having breakfast at the Jefferson Hotel,” the caller said. “And I think you'll be very interested in who I just saw.”

“I'm sure I will be,” Andrews said.

“Let me back up a bit. I had my people enter a search to watch for Gordon Buchanan's name to show up on an airline manifest. I coded it as a low priority so it wouldn't draw any attention. Yesterday, we were advised that Buchanan had flown to Richmond on Thursday, September eighth. I checked with the local hotels and found him registered at the Jefferson. And this morning, I was in the Palm Court when he met someone for breakfast.”

“Who was it?” Andrews asked. He knew this man did not play games. This name was going to mean something to him.

“One of your research scientists. Jennifer Pearce.”

There was a brief moment of dead air. Andrews said, “Are you sure it was Pearce?”

“Absolutely. I remember her face from the ad you ran in the newspaper when you hired her. That was only a few months ago. I'm positive it was Jennifer Pearce.”

It had always been Andrews's policy to run a large ad in the local newspapers when he brought a new, high-profile researcher on board. It showed Wall Street, the competition, and the general public that Veritas was cutting edge.“What did they talk about?”

“No idea, but she had her laptop and they plugged in some sort of portable disk. She spent a few minutes looking at the contents, they had breakfast, and they left. I've got a tail on them.”

“Excellent work,” Andrews said. “Buchanan is becoming a major nuisance. He must be looking for evidence that Triaxcion was responsible for his brother's death. And who knows what he's got on that disk. We've got to do something about him.”

“I think you should leave Buchanan alone. He has a direct tie to your company. I'd be looking at your researcher.”

“Christ, how many employees can die before someone gets suspicious? I don't know. Touching her is risky.”

“She has direct access to your database. Buchanan doesn't. No matter what we do to Buchanan, she'll still have access to whatever information she gave to him this morning.”

“Okay, I'll think about it.”

“We can take care of it,” the voice said. He almost sounded anxious. Eager.

“No,” Andrews said. “If I decide to go that way, I'll do it. I can actually kill two birds with one stone.”

“Have it your way.”

“Let me know what else they do today,” Andrews said.

“I'll call you later.”

Bruce Andrews replaced the phone in its cradle and stared at the green Virginia hills rolling off to the west. Clouds were brewing, dark clouds with the threat of rain. Through thermal convection they mutated from soft, white cumulus clouds into black waves that spilled across the sky threatening to dump cold rain and hail on the verdant countryside. Condensation happening on a massive scale, the moisture inside the clouds rising, then falling until hailstones larger than golf balls finally escaped from the blackness and pounded the crops and acreages that dotted the foothills. Unless the clouds were seeded. Then the hailstones failed to materialize and the precipitation fell as rain or sleet. No damage. Take care of the problem before it pounds you into the ground. That was the answer.

Jennifer Pearce had to die. She had crossed the line between asset and liability. But this time her death had to look like an accident. And no exploding stoves. Evan Ziegler was going to have to sell this one to the authorities. Another suspicious death could prove as fatal as leaving Jennifer Pearce alone with her fingers in the company mainframe. And this may be the opportunity he had been looking for with Evan as well. The man's future with the company was in jeopardy. In fact, the man's life was in jeopardy.

He checked the time and calculated the difference to mountain daylight time. It wasn't too early to call. He picked up the phone and dialed Evan Ziegler's number.

Unfortunately for Jennifer Pearce, she had made a fatal error.