Douglas Preston - Gideon's Corpse

“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.”

Gaining 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?”