Authors: Douglas Preston
“The proof’s on the computer.”
“In a Microsoft Word file that could easily have been created or altered by us.”
“…But the DES encryption!”
“Big deal. The
file
wasn’t encrypted—just the computer. Stone, think: this investigation is way too invested in the jihadist plot theory. There’s simply too much momentum for it to turn on a dime.”
“It doesn’t
have
to turn on a dime. All Dart has to do is redeploy a dozen armed soldiers to guard that smallpox vault. It’s what any prudent investigator would do.”
Gideon shook his head. “While Dart isn’t stupid, he’s a prisoner of the book. He’s not the kind who thinks outside the box. You call Dart now and we’ll be arrested as soon as we show up with this computer. They’ll want to analyze the computer, make sure it isn’t a plant of some kind. They’ll debrief us at length…and meanwhile the smallpox will be stolen. Only then, when it’s too late, will they believe us.”
“Yes, but I know the FBI, and I’m telling you they’ll cover their asses by instantly deploying at least a few troops to guard USAMRIID.”
“This isn’t just the FBI now, or even NEST. It’s a monstrous, hydra-headed, out-of-control investigation that’s no longer acting in a rational manner. They’re drowning in false leads, red herrings, and conspiracy theories. We come in at the eleventh hour, babbling some out-of-left-field talk of smallpox… Think about it. Dart isn’t going to respond in time, and the bad guys will get the virus. You call Dart and they win. Game over.”
Fordyce slammed his fist on the dashboard. “Damn you, so what do you propose instead?”
“Simple. We go into Fort Detrick—I’m pretty sure we can talk our way in, especially with that shield of yours—and ambush the bastards when they come out with the smallpox. Catch them in the act. Then we take away the smallpox at gunpoint, hold them, and call the cavalry.”
“Why not stop them
before
they get the smallpox?”
“Because we need to catch them
with
it. If we just stop them at the door, there might be a scuffle, and then we’ll be arrested and they’ll go free—free to execute their plot. We need proof that the crime was committed.”
Fordyce laughed mirthlessly. “So, what—now you’ve got a hero complex? What if they show up with ten guys armed to the teeth?”
“They’re not going to do that. Think about it. This plan is all about
quiet
. Draw off the security and go in and out quietly.”
“I say we call Dart.”
Gideon felt a surge of anger. “I
know
Dart. He was director of the lab my first year at Los Alamos. Sure, he’s smart, but he’s also stubborn, defensive, and rigid. He’s
not
going to believe you, he will
not
put guards on the smallpox, he’ll arrest us both and dick around until it’s too late. Once they drive off with the smallpox, it’s over. Because all they have to do is toss one of those petri dishes out the window and the United States is fucked. We’re all freaked out about a loose nuke. Well, here’s a news flash for you: that smallpox is
worse
than a nuke. A lot worse.”
A long silence. Gideon shot a covert glance at the FBI agent. Fordyce’s face was red with anger, but he said nothing. Gideon seemed to have gotten through.
“We will
not
take this to Dart,” Gideon said. “We’re going to do this ourselves. Otherwise, I’m out.”
“Have it your way,” said Fordyce, his lips tightening.
There was a long silence.
“You want to hear my plan?” Gideon asked.
After a moment, Fordyce nodded.
“We socially engineer our way in. You stake out the lobby. I go to the Level Four lab where the smallpox is kept. I’ll put on a biosafety suit, unrecognizable. You call me when Blaine arrives, I ambush him in the lab after he opens the biosafe, and I hold him at gunpoint while you call in the cavalry. It’ll all take place in Level Four, so even if the smallpox does escape, it’ll be contained.”
“What if they’re armed?”
“I doubt it. That would be risky. Like I said: this whole plan is all about subterfuge and misdirection, not force. But if they are armed, I’ll have the drop on them. And believe me, I’ll shoot to kill if need be.” Even as he said it, he wondered just what it would mean if he killed Alida’s father. He pushed that unsettling thought out of his mind.
“That would work,” said Fordyce slowly, after a moment. “Yes. I think that might work well.”
G
AINING ENTRANCE TO
Fort Detrick was a piece of cake: Gideon pretended to be Fordyce’s driver and Fordyce did his thing, waving his FBI shield around and explaining they were on a routine assignment, just checking out one of many undoubtedly false leads related to the nuke alarm. He was careful to say nothing about smallpox. The lone man in the security station helpfully directed them to the USAMRIID complex, drawing their route on a photocopied map of the base, which Gideon examined then stuffed in his pocket. The man waved them through, the base’s single main road winding around a golf course before heading for the main section of the compound.
At three thirty in the afternoon on a weekday, Fort Detrick was eerily deserted. Its green, extensive grounds, covering over a thousand acres, had an almost post-apocalyptic feel: parking lots were empty, buildings vacant. The only sound was that of birds, chirping in the spreading oaks.
They cruised slowly through the leafy base. It was surprisingly attractive. In addition to the golf course, it had baseball diamonds, several suburban neighborhoods of neat bungalows or trailers, a small airfield with hangars and aircraft, a fire station, and a recreational center. USAMRIID was at the far end of the base, next to the base’s large motor pool—bristling with military vehicles, but apparently devoid of humanity save for a single mechanic. USAMRIID itself was a sprawling, 1970s-style building with a welcome sign on the approaching drive: The United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases. The large, wraparound parking lot was, like the others, mostly empty. There was an air of desuetude, even abandonment.
“Blaine called it right,” said Fordyce, looking around. “Everyone’s in DC. Let’s hope we beat him here.”
“Not cool if Blaine sees his own Jeep parked in the lot,” Gideon said. He drove past the building to the lot of an unrelated complex, parking the Jeep behind a van. He shrugged into a new disguise, and they cut across the lawn, approaching the entrance.
As they’d discussed the plan, Fordyce had used the laptop’s broadband card to access USAMRIID’s website. In the process, they had learned quite a lot about the facility: that its name was pronounced
You-Sam-Rid
; that it had once been the hub of the country’s biological warfare program; that it now served as the main center for biodefense research in the country, its primary mission to protect the United States from potential bioweapon attacks.
And it was one of two repositories of smallpox left in the world. The virus, the website helpfully mentioned, was kept in a high-security vault in USAMRIID’s Biosafety Level 4 laboratory complex, located in the basement of the building.
They entered the lobby. There was a security guard at a locked entrance door at the rear, seated behind a small window of what appeared to be bulletproof glass. Fordyce was going in as himself; Gideon, on the other hand, had sorted through his arsenal of clothes, hairpieces, and accessories in order to create a new persona. He didn’t have a lab coat, but he deemed that overkill anyway. Instead, he went for the tweedy, somewhat disheveled absentminded professor look. “A cliché to be sure,” he’d told Fordyce, “but clichés often work when it comes to disguises. People like to have their prejudices confirmed.”
Fordyce approached the guard, ID in one hand, shield in the other. “Stone Fordyce, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said, his aggressive tone almost implying the guard himself was a suspect. “And this is Dr. John Martino of the Centers for Disease Control. He doesn’t have any ID at present, but I can vouch for him.”
This statement hung in the air. Fordyce did not offer an explanation for why Gideon had no ID, and after a hesitation the guard seemed disinclined to ask for one.
“Do you have an appointment?” the guard asked.
“No,” said Fordyce almost before the guard had finished asking the question.
“Um, the purpose of your visit?” he asked.
“Routine law enforcement activity,” said Fordyce, his tone now becoming impatient.
The man nodded, pulled out a clipboard, slid it through a slit in the glass. “Fill this out, please. Both of you. And sign.”
Fordyce filled out a line, passed it to Gideon, who used a suitably quasi-illegible hand. They passed it back.
“Stand in front of the camera,” the guard directed.
They each stood before the camera. A minute later, newly issued clip badges were slipped through the slot. A moment later, the steel entrance door buzzed and they were let in.
Fordyce motioned the guard over. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.” Again, his tone implied suspicion.
“Yes, sir?” the guard, already intimidated, stood almost at attention.
“Has a Mr. Simon Blaine signed in?”
The guard hesitated, again decided to go with the flow, and checked his clipboard. “No, sir.”
“How about a Mr. Novak?”
“No.”
“Does either of them have an appointment in the building today?”
Another check. “Not on my sheet, sir.”
“All right. Dr. Martino needs to gain access to the Level Four lab. How can he do that?”
“It’s on keypad security, you have to get clearance and an escort.”
“Who’s in charge?”
A hesitation. “He should contact Dr. Glick, the director.”
“His location?”
“Third floor, Room Three Forty-six. Shall I call him—?”
“
Absolutely not
,” said Fordyce forcefully. He glanced at the man’s ID badge. “Mr. Bridge, here’s what’s going to happen. I will need your help, so please listen carefully.”
He paused.
“I’m going to move into the waiting room, there, mostly out of sight, and wait for Mr. Blaine to arrive. You will not indicate my presence or acknowledge that an FBI agent is on the premises.”
At this the guard swallowed and seemed to grow flustered. “Is there something wrong? I mean, maybe I should call my boss, the head of security—”
Fordyce interrupted him. “Do not call
anyone
. If you’re concerned about this, and
really feel
you need to check up on me, you can speak to
my
supervisor, Special Agent in Charge Mike Bocca, of the DC field office.” He took out his cell phone and looked poised to dial, his expression one of extreme annoyance.
“No, no,” said the guard, “that’s not necessary.”
“Good. You will please continue working as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Fordyce, his voice suddenly warmer, giving the man a handshake. “Good man.”
The guard retreated behind his counter. Gideon watched Fordyce cross the lobby and take a seat in a small waiting area, in the corner, where he could see but not readily be seen.
He’s learning
, Gideon thought to himself. Then he continued on into the guts of the building, following the helpful signs directing him toward Level 4.
A
LMOST AS SOON
as Gideon had disappeared down the hall, Stone Fordyce took out his cell phone and dialed Myron Dart’s telephone number. Fordyce had to intimidate his way through several subordinates before getting Dart himself on the phone.
The man came on, sounding tense. “Fordyce? What the hell is this all about? I thought you were, ah, taking time off.”
Fordyce took a deep breath. He had been going over this conversation in his mind for a while, thinking of the best way to approach it.
“I’m in Maryland…” He took a deep breath. “With Gideon Crew.”
This was met with a sudden silence. “Maryland?
With
Crew?” A freezing silence. “You’d better explain yourself.”
“We’re here following a bombshell lead. And I mean
bombshell
. You’ve got to listen to what I have to tell you.”
Another long silence, then a faint, muffled conversation. Fordyce wondered if Dart was initiating a triangulation on his cell signal. It’s what he would do, if he were in Dart’s place.
When Dart finally spoke again, his voice was like black ice. “I want to know exactly where you are and what you are doing.”
Fordyce plowed ahead. “I’ve got a laptop computer belonging to a certain individual, and on this computer is a document dated six years ago that spells out the entire terrorist plan, from beginning to end. It explains
everything
.”
Another long silence. “The name of this individual?”
“I’ll get to that in a moment.”
“You’ll tell me right now.”
Again Fordyce moved ahead. “I’ve got the computer with me, and if you’ll give me your email address I’ll send you the document.”
“You are insubordinate, Fordyce. I want you to take Crew into custody and come in right now, with Crew in handcuffs and leg irons, or I’ll have you arrested as an accomplice.”
“Give me your email address and I’ll send you this document.” Fordyce kept his voice steady, neutral. This wasn’t a good start. God, he hoped Gideon hadn’t been right about Dart. He had to get the man to
see
the document.
After a long, ticking silence, Dart finally gave him the address. Fordyce typed it into the computer and mailed off the document.
He continued holding the line. They must have located his position by now. It was the chance he had to take—whatever Gideon thought, this was too big for the two of them to handle. Either Dart would believe him or not.
A minute ticked by. Two minutes.
“Did you get it?” he asked.
“Just a moment,” Dart replied. His voice sounded thick, distracted. Another minute passed. Fordyce could hear Dart’s breathing. When he came back on, his voice had changed. It was steadier, calm. “Where did you get this?”