James Tabor - The Deep Zone

He climbed the memorial’s fifty-eight steps—two for Lincoln’s presidential terms, fifty-six for his age when assassinated—and walked to the base of the statue. He moved casually around the memorial’s interior, assuring himself that it was empty. Then he went to the far end of the south chamber and stood a few feet in front and to the left of the towering Gettysburg Address carved into the chamber’s wall. Rathor reached into his right trouser pocket and thumbed the autodial button on his personal, encrypted sat phone. Buying it from the Israelis had cost what most people would consider a fortune, but the Israelis had also provided the locations of three natural “dead zones” secure from even the NSA’s eavesdroppers. It struck Rathor as a kind of ultimate irony that one such zone was right here on the mall, in this south corner of the Lincoln Memorial, surrounded as it was by granite and marble walls several feet thick and screened by the memorial’s massive bronze girders overhead.

In the phone’s almost invisible earbud transceiver, Rathor listened while the connection was made. Then, gazing at the Gettysburg Address, he murmured the long alphanumeric sequence he had memorized. Anyone watching would have assumed he was simply saying the words of the address to himself, as though repeating a prayer. In this particular spot, though, with his back to the surveillance cameras, he was beyond observation.

Several seconds of clicks and hums followed, the voice recognition software and code acquisition programs processing. Then the soft tone of a connection made.

“We have a need,” Rathor said.

“Indeed?” Bernard Adelheid’s voice always made Rathor think of an ice pick at work.

“Barnard told O’Neil the cave team might actually do something.”

“We have planned for that eventuality.”

“Yes, but they have a man named Bowman. Some kind of spook, maybe a former Delta, I don’t know. Very big and dangerous, I believe. Were you aware of that?”

“Of course.” Silence. Then: “I think you should have known that soldiers were using feminine products.”

Rathor’s jaw clenched. He would defend himself. “Who could have imagined that soldiers would be sticking tampons into bullet wounds?”

“ You should have. That failure could be very costly. To the plan. And to you.”

The plan . Rathor knew Adelheid was right. The plan had been to get contaminated Chinese-made tampons into trailer-trash, welfare women. Tampons were the perfect vector. They were sold unsterilized. Knockoff brands were marketed by the big-box discounters millions of such women frequented. In China, they were ridiculously easy to contaminate. The women, well, they would be like lab rats who sickened and, in some cases, died for the cause, useful but without power to make waves. Spreading infection, they would create a voracious market for the ancient antibiotic colistin, stores of which BioChem had been secretly manufacturing and stockpiling for more than a year.

But then the law of unintended consequences intervened. Soldiers using the bacteria-infested tampons began getting sick and dying. That in itself would have been manageable, would in fact have been a good thing, generating even more sales of colistin. But the bacterium killing them was not the standard-issue Acinetobacter baumannii that had been introduced into the tampons. It was some mutated microbial monster that sneered at colistin and ate people alive from the inside out.

“The man Bowman is not the problem,” Adelheid said.

Rathor’s stomach did a little flip. “What else?”

“A man named Lathrop has discovered certain transmissions from BARDA.”

“What? How? ”

Adelheid’s silence suggested his contempt for the stupidity of Rathor’s question. “How indeed. But how is irrelevant now. Something must be done.”

“About the transmissions, you mean.”

“No. Not about the transmissions. They are part of the irreparable past. That is not all.”

Oh, my God , Rathor thought. “What else?”

“One of the laboratories at BARDA has had an unexpected stroke of luck. At this point, full knowledge is restricted to only one individual, a scientist named Casey.”

Rathor’s mind raced and his legs felt weak. Adelheid said, “We will deal with the second issue ourselves. You will deal with Lathrop. We will take care of the unlucky Casey and his lucky discovery.”

“But—”

Adelheid said, “Gray,” and the line went dead. Rathor stood and stared, unseeing. Then he came back. It was always an immense relief to stop talking to Adelheid. And to turn off the sat phone, which, even with all its safeguards, was dangerous. Some risks felt better than others.

Mostly to maintain his ruse, Rathor continued to stand in front of the Gettysburg Address plaque, pretending to read the words of Lincoln’s greatest speech. He wasn’t actually reading, but then the word “government” caught his eye and his brain stuck on it. Nathan Rathor hated the government. Few things could make him feel violated and impotent, but the government was one. He would never forget the public humiliations he’d suffered while testifying as BioChem’s CEO, groveling at the feet—literally, raised as they were, like false little gods, on their dais—of senators whose performances for the news cameras made them, in his opinion anyway, lower than the women and men who opened themselves for the cameras of porn. One of those senators had been David O’Neil.

That was almost four years ago, of course, a century in Washington political time. He and O’Neil had “buried the hatchet” and “come to terms,” as the pandering hacks put it. O’Neil had “recruited him onto the presidential team,” and he had “left private enterprise for the greater good of public service.” Rathor knew full well that O’Neil had not asked him to serve on the cabinet out of any misguided olive-branch waving. He had asked him in observance of an old adage of war: “Friends close, enemies closer.” Rathor understood that there was nothing altruistic in the president’s tactic. And Rathor knew that O’Neil knew what Rathor himself knew. That was how the game was played in Washington, like a gladiator match in which both fighters were aware that success depended on seeing one move further through the whirlwind of blows and feints than their opponent. Or on using a poison-smeared spear point.

“Government of the people, by the people, for the people.” Rathor hawked, spat. The people. What was it H. L. Mencken had said? “No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American people.” Truer words had never been spoken.

Rathor suddenly felt the need to piss. More than the need—an irresistible urgency, as though someone had inserted hot wire into his penis and stabbed his bladder.

Goddamn , he thought. The gin . He had an enlarged prostate and he was old. When he had to go, mild discomfort became searing pain very quickly. So he really needed to piss. But the bathrooms here were locked at this time of night. Going to a convenience store or gas station was unthinkable. He would not make it back to his office; that much, from long experience, he knew with certainty. There was only one thing to do. Take another risk.

He glanced over both shoulders. No one else was in the memorial. He was alone. There were security cameras, but they were aimed toward the great statue, not this remote, little-visited corner of the memorial. Casually, he took his right hand out of his pocket, rubbed his face as though brushing away tears, let it drop in front of him. He lowered his zipper, withdrew himself, relaxed, and sighed with relief. A weak stream of yellow urine spattered the marble wall beneath the Gettysburg Address and pooled on the memorial’s white floor.