The Deep Zone: A Novel (6 page)

That surprised
her
. Hallie wasn’t called “doctor” around here, where people just knew her as a dive instructor and guide.

“Nope,” she said. “Let’s do this tomorrow. Rough day at the office, gentlemen.” She started to walk away, already tasting an ice-cold Corona, then stopped. “In fact, let’s not do this at all. You want to see me, I have a lawyer you can talk to first.” It wasn’t true, but she thought it might get them off her back.

“Dr. Leland,” Fortier’s eyes flicked from side to side. His voice dropped to a whisper.
“This is a matter of national security.”

That did it. She whirled, eyes flashing. “I know exactly what it’s
a matter of. What, BARDA didn’t screw up my life enough already?”

The agents exchanged glances. Then Fortier said, “You’re right. We
are
here because of someone from BARDA.”

“Uh-huh. So you can just—”

“We have a message from Dr. Barnard.”

That stopped her. “Don Barnard?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Donald Barnard had been her boss at the CDC. The only one who had stood with her when her world came crashing down.

“Is Don all right? Why didn’t he just call? Or come down himself? What is—?”

“Dr. Barnard’s presence was required in Washington. He is … very busy.”

Fortier looked truly worried—whether about Barnard or something else, Hallie couldn’t tell.

“So you came all this way to give me a message?”

“Fifteen minutes, Dr. Leland. Please. But not here.”

“I’m the blue Tundra outside. Follow me to my house.”

“Nice place.”

The first time Agent Whittle had spoken and his voice wavered. The oppressive, soggy, boiling heat. He had the fishy, white-lipped look people got before they fainted. Hallie saw it, but she was not feeling charitable.
If he can’t take the heat, screw him
.

“Thanks,” she said. The rented house wasn’t really nice. Some shutters were missing, the faded blue paint was alligatoring, and the small screened porch listed. But inside it was neat and clean, with white-painted floors and walls, and smelled of fresh oranges. There was, however, no air-conditioning.

“
Warm
down here,” Whittle said. He was a sizable man who appeared to be in good shape, but his voice sounded weak and thin. They were sitting in chairs at her chrome-and-Formica kitchen table, original equipment with the house.

“You get used to it. No worse than D.C. in August.”

“It’s February, though. How hot is it, exactly?”

“About ninety in here. Ninety-eight outside. So, not too bad. High humidity today, though.”

“Lord God.” Whittle loosened his blue-and-green tie, unbuttoned his collar. Mopped sweat from his face with a damp handkerchief. “I’m from North Dakota. It doesn’t get like this.”

Hallie was afraid he might actually keel off the chair. If there was one thing she did not need this day, it was a heat-stroked Fed flopping around on her kitchen floor.

“Hold on.” She took a fluted pitcher from the refrigerator and poured three tall glasses of cold, homemade lemonade. Condensation filmed the glasses in a second. She added sprigs of mint from her backyard herb garden and brought the glasses to the table. Hallie sipped hers, studying the agents. Whittle gulped half of his lemonade, then held the glass against his forehead.

“
Thank
you.” There was serious gratitude in his voice.

“About Don?”

“Yes. Just a second.” Fortier put his briefcase on the table and begin working through its three combination locks.

Agent Whittle took another long drink of lemonade, then looked at Hallie in an odd way. “Could I ask you a question, Dr. Leland? It’ll take Agent Fortier a minute here.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, I was wondering what happened to your friend back there.”

“You mean Mary? The shop owner?”

“Yes.”

“She was an Apache pilot in Iraq. Patrolling her sector one day when she monitored a combat patrol screaming for air support. Insurgents had them surrounded. Command denied their request. The fighters were known to have Stingers and the brass probably figured soldiers were easier to replace than choppers. Mary went in anyway. She saved the team, but the bad guys brought her down
with a Stinger. Her copilot was killed. Mary survived the crash but … well, you saw. She should have gotten the Medal of Honor.”

“What medal
did
she get?”

“None. ‘Lieutenant Stilwell is dishonorably discharged for willful disobeyance of orders from a superior officer and wanton disregard for the safety of her copilot, her actions resulting in destruction of Army assets and the death of said copilot,’ is how the court-martial finding read, if I recall right.”

Agent Whittle blinked, looked out the window. “I’m sorry to hear that. You get a feeling sometimes. I lost a son in Iraq.”

The words stung. At least Mary was alive. “I’m sorry, Agent Whittle. I have a soft spot in my heart for soldiers. My father was career Army.” She reached forward and touched his arm, realizing that her eyes had teared up.

“Thank you.” He continued to look out the window. Hallie hadn’t added all her history with Mary, how they had been best friends at Georgetown University and she had gone on to graduate school at Hopkins while Mary abandoned plans for medical school and joined the Army instead. Mary had been chasing her Big Sister the Doctor’s achievements all her life, and going to med school would have been just another step in her shadow. But flying an Apache—
that
would be something. Mary graduated from flight school at Fort Rucker second in her class and asked for the hottest region of operation, which at the time was around Fallujah in Iraq.

Agent Fortier set on the table what looked like an oversized BlackBerry, unfolded two side panels, pressed a button. One soft tone, then a cone of rose-colored light blossomed, and Don Barnard was there on her table. His head and chest, anyway.

The hologram spoke: “Hello, Hallie! Can you see me okay?”

It took her a moment to respond. “I … can see you fine, Don.” The image was unbelievably real. Every hair of his big white mustache was clearly visible, his bushy eyebrows and sharp blue eyes and his weekend sailor’s sunburn.

“I can see you, too. Amazing, isn’t it?”

“This is
you
I’m talking to? Not some CG thing?”

“It’s me. I just couldn’t get away right now.”

She smiled at the sight of him for another moment, then decided it was time to drive the conversation forward.

“What’s going on, Don?”

His smile faded. “We have a problem, Hallie, and time is of the essence. I—
we
—need your help.”

She actually laughed. “My help? Come on, they ran me out of there on a rail.”

“You know how I felt about that. It was a rotten deal.”

“I know that you were the only one in my corner.”

“And I would be there again. Look, Hallie, can you come up here?”

“You mean, like
now
?”

“Yes.”

“In a day or two, I guess. I work for a friend, Don. She’ll need some—”

“Can’t wait, Hallie. We need you now. Someone will speak to Mary.”

“How did you know—Never mind. But you won’t tell me why?”

“
Can’t
. Even these things can be hacked. I’m sure the agents have mentioned national security.”

“Was I supposed to take that seriously?”

“Indeed.”

“This has nothing to do with the other business?”

“No. Nothing. My word on that.”

“Okay.” Hallie believed him, but wanted to be clear. “Those bastards can piss in their hats for all I care.”

“I think we agree on that.”

“I’ll come. What happens now?”

“Agents Fortier and Whittle will take it from here. Thank you, Hallie. We’ll speak soon.”

His image dissolved.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” she asked Whittle, who was drinking the last of his lemonade and looking better.

Her hospitality had softened their official crust. He smiled and shook his head. “For this mission we’re just high-end errand boys, Dr. Leland.”

“Do I have time to pack?”

“They’ll have things for you on the other end.”

“Jesus. Well, then I’m ready when you are, gentlemen.”

They walked out. She locked the door and followed the agents to their black Expedition with tinted windows, where Whittle held a rear door for her. They had left the engine running to keep the air-conditioning on. She got in and it was like sitting down in a meat locker. When he saw that she was settled, he said, “Thank you, Dr. Leland,” before gently closing the door.

This, she had to admit, was more like it.

“HALLIE!”

Donald Barnard, MD, PhD, had started at tight end for the University of Virginia in 1968 and ’69. He was now twenty pounds heavier and decades older, but still solid. He hauled around his desk like a bear rolling out of its den, big hand extended, looking happy and relieved and exhausted all at once. Hallie brushed his proffered hand aside and gave him a long, hard hug, then held him at arm’s length. She frowned.

“You look tired, Don.” It was just after seven in the evening. She knew he started his workdays at six-thirty
A.M
.

“That makes two of us.” He stepped back. “You remember Lew Casey? Lew was Delta Lab supervisor when you were here.”

It was only then that she noticed the two men who had been standing off to one side in Barnard’s large office while he and Hallie
said hello. Dr. Lewis Casey was a short man in his fifties with milky skin, a blizzard of freckles, and hair like curls of rusty wire.

“I remember him very well. It’s good to see you again, Doctor.”

“And I remember
you
, Dr. Leland.” Casey stepped forward, shook her hand. “I always admired your work. Tried to steal you for Delta, in fact.”

She looked at Barnard. “You never told me that.”

“Lew was not the only one, I can assure you.” Barnard appeared, very briefly, sheepish.

“Thank you, Dr. Casey. I’m honored to hear you say that.” Despite herself, Hallie was pleased.

“Lew does fine. And I’ll call you Hallie, if that’s all right with you?”

“Of course.”

Barnard turned to the third man, who, Hallie could tell with a second’s glance, was no scientist. Too neat, too polished, too perfect. Could have stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalog. He was slim and tan, wearing a tailored, three-piece suit of fine brown wool and what looked to be handmade English shoes. His razor-cut brown hair lay tight against his scalp and he sported a meticulously trimmed mustache.
An otter
, Hallie thought.
Sleek and shiny and uncatchable
. CIA was written all over him. His handshake was firm, and when he locked eyes with hers something inside her shuddered. The man had done some things.

“David Lathrop. With Central Intelligence.”

“Hallie Leland. With Deep Enough Dive Shop.”

He got it, laughed. “Don has told us both a great deal about you. His admiration is unbounded.”

She felt herself blushing. “Thank you.”

They settled into red leather chairs at a coffee table across the big office from Barnard’s desk. She hadn’t been sure how it would feel, coming back to BARDA, but here in Don’s office, at least, it was good. Barnard’s time in government entitled him to several rooms with tall windows on the top floor of a building that was, by design,
four utterly unremarkable stories above ground and tucked back in a declining industrial park in Prince George’s County. The office walls could have been those of any senior bureaucrat in Washington, covered with framed citations, pictures of Barnard with his wife, Lucianne, and their two sons, plus photos of Barnard with senators and generals and presidents.

“Florida’s obviously agreeing with you.” Barnard looked pleased.

“Sunnier there. Smells better, too.”

“You deserved a respite, Hallie.”

“It’s good for a while. But I’m already starting to feel …”

“Bored?”

“Unchallenged.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Barnard fiddled with the big meerschaum pipe he had not smoked for fifteen years. “Well, you’re surely wondering why you’re here.”

“You could say that. It’s been a short, strange trip.” Fortier and Whittle had put her on a Bell Jet Ranger helicopter, which had taken her to a government Citation jet at a restricted airfield, which had flown her to Andrews, where another helicopter had brought her here. It was well after dark now.

“The request originated at the highest level.”

“You mean from the OD?” Office of the Director, CDC, of which BARDA was a part. Despite her fatigue, Hallie was sitting up straight, legs crossed, elbows on the chair arms, fingers tented.

“No. The White House.”

“Yeah, right. Don, I came too far for jokes.”

Lathrop broke in: “He’s not joking, Dr. Leland. I can assure you. Shortly before you arrived we were on a videoconference with President O’Neil.” He smiled. “It wasn’t long, but it
was
the president.”

Barnard nodded. “I’ve been briefing the president, Vice President Washinsky, Secretary of Homeland Security Mason, and Secretary of Health and Human Services Rathor every day.”