Robert Smith - The Planner

“Can I have a copy too?” said Bates red-cheeked.

Nicholas fixed him with a stare, “No problem,” he said, although clearly it was.

* * * *

The following Monday, Planner did not fly to New York. He picked up Bates and Turq mid-morning from CIA HQ at Langley and drove 50 minutes to Fort Detrick, a giant military establishment, the headquarters of U.S. Army Medical Research And Materiel Command 61. Within the gatehouse, with the motto “Protect, Project and Sustain” was prominently displayed. They lined up to pass through security under the watchful gaze of two fully armed guards.

Planner received a text on his cell phone. It said, “I had a great time last week. Are you free this evening? The jerks may be giving me time off again. Katherine.”

The first guard barked brusquely, “Sir, all cell phones are to be switched off and put into lockers.”

“Right, of course,” said Planner.

Planner, Bates and Turquoise turned to see a row of lockers and put their bags and cell phones into them.

Finally it was their turn to pass through the arch of the metal detector. Turq pointed to her case, “I’ll need to take this.” The case was successfully passed through a metal detector.

They approached the desk where the burly receptionist had just finished dealing with other visitors. The receptionist was as broad as he was high, he could have been a retired Police Officer; he certainly had the manner of man used to dealing with crowds. “Can I just get you to sign in, Sir?” he said in a deep, gravelly voice.

The receptionist offered a logbook to sign but Planner handed him a letter. With just a glance at the letter, the receptionist hastily pulled the logbook away, unsigned. In a loud whisper, he said “Ah. Yes, Sir. We’re expecting you. Um, could you wear these badges, perhaps, Sir?” He pushed over three “Unescorted Visitor” passes and waved at the second guard. “Guard,” he boomed again. “Please show these gentlemen to Block 5.”

The guard saluted and kindly offered the door to exit gatehouse.

* * * *

In Block 5, they met Malcolm, a microbiologist in his late fifties with a short, gray beard, wearing a tieless, short-sleeved shirt and slacks. He welcomed Planner, Bates and Turq into a clean, bare office. They shook hands and sat around a bare metal table.

“It is good for you to see us at such notice, Malcolm,” said Planner.

Malcolm laughed. “Well, I didn’t really have much choice about that. The chief cleared my diary and said I needed to be here.”

“I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you too much,” said Planner.

“Just a flight re-arrangement, no problem really. I think I was just surprised. It’s a bit of a sleepy hollow around here. We’re not used to Executive Directives,” he continued jovially.

“I assume you have only been informed verbally?” Planner asked.

“Um, yes, just from my boss,” confirmed Malcolm.

“Good,” said Planner, “Because this visit and this discussion is Top Secret Strap-3. The codeword is Bald Eagle.”

Turq took a document from her briefcase. “This is just a formality, could you sign here, please?”

Malcolm took the document and quickly scanned it. “This is just a standard non-disclosure agreement,” he said. “What am I not to disclose?”

“After you sign, we can tell you,” smiled Turq.

Malcolm returned Turq’s gaze while taking out a pen from his jacket. He scanned the paper again and then signed. Turq took back the document.

“Thank you, Malcolm. Sorry for the formality but you’ll understand our caution shortly,” soothed Planner. “What we discuss here must not be repeated to anyone. Refer any inquiries to this number.” Planner wrote down a number in his filofax and tore off the sheet to give to Malcolm.

“Ok,” said Malcolm looking at the number uncertainly.

“We’re here to secure material for an urgent operational requirement. It is a matter of National Security,” said Planner.

“I assumed as much. By material, you mean a biological agent, right?” said Malcolm.

“Yes,” said Planner reluctantly.

“What kind?”

“Anthrax,” Planner said.

The scientist shook his head and sighed. “Really?”

“Yes. That’s our orders,” said Planner calmly.

Malcolm squirmed again before settling into a reluctant professional attitude. “Well, I guess that’s what we’re here for,” he said deliberately.

“Well, we signed up for this sort of stuff, right?” Planner said.

“Perhaps you can describe the mission a bit,” Malcolm said with a sigh. “Anthrax, as you are probably aware, is a particularly nasty biological weapon but it can be delivered in a number of ways; it can be tuned for different objectives. Can you describe the mission to me in general terms?”

“Delivery by letter. It doesn’t have to be effective. Just recognisable as anthrax for a scare campaign,” said Planner.

Malcolm exhaled and appeared physically relieved. “How many letters?” he asked.

“Between 5 and 10,” said Planner.

“Ok. When do you want it?”

“Two months time. But sooner, if possible.”

Malcolm performed some mental calculations, “Hmm, I have a presentation I made up last fall for the Pentagon brass which might aid our discussion…”

Ten minutes later, Malcolm was projecting a set of powerpoint slides inside the darkened room. Malcolm was explaining the modification of anthrax with magnified images of spores. “We can weaponized the material in various ways for different delivery mechanisms and levels of lethality. We can mix various coatings onto the anthrax spores. Silica, for example, make the spores airborne so more likely to inhale and so can infect a large number of people. Other times you may want the spores to attach to just a single person and it can be personalised by various chemical attractants. Others chemicals provide a catalyst to aid absorption to effect its lethality. We can add a chemical to speed the absorption through the lungs, which pretty much guarantees death within two days. However that is not fast enough for some objectives so there are other chemicals that promote absorption through other areas, the nasal lining, for instance. That kills much more rapidly. So you can see there is quite a few variations. Do you have a preference?”

“Not really. We will not require the most lethal variant but can you mix it up?” said Planner.

“Sure. We can provide, say, 10 separate sachets with handling and disposal instructions 62,” said Malcolm.

“Can you provide the instructions verbally? We do not want any written document, no requisition forms, no delivery notes, no instruction notes. We don’t want anything to track back to us,” Planner said.

Malcolm switched the lights on and sighed. “Ah. That may be a problem. Not on the writing side, that’s easy enough. But as for traceability, there may be a problem. You see, each Anthrax spore has a unique DNA signature. All the US controlled anthrax can be traced back to one or other of the labs. Sometimes down to individual batches.”

Planner looked from side to side, to Turq and Bates.

“What would we need to do make the spores untraceable?” mused Bates.

“We could destroy the batch records… um… take the sample from a known strain and then destroy all details of the records”, pondered the scientist. “For example, we have a library of anthrax spores over at the CDC at Iowa State University. We could use one of their strains and then lose the records 63.”

“Would that do it?” asked Bates.

“Possibly. You’ve may have moved it into plausible deniability. You wouldn’t be able to fool an expert in the matter, though.”

“This must be a pretty narrow field of expertise,” observed Planner.