Greg Bear - Quantico

Cahill nodded. ‘Up-to-the-minute. Continue, Agent Rose.’

‘While no expert believes it is possible to manufacture a germ that uniquely targets an ethnic group, we can’t discount the possibility that the anthrax has somehow been modified to be selective. We’ve charted a genome from the samples obtained in Kifri.’

The diagrammatic ghost of a spiraling and twisted circle of DNA, with two smaller satellite circles, floated to the right and center of Rebecca’s position. ‘In both samples, Baghdad 1 and Kifri 2, they found genes artificially inserted in one of two small circular plasmids-genes that code for bioluminescence. They are triggered by the activation of toxin genes on both plasmids. Our experts say this would have made the lesions on the Baghdad victims glow in the dark-red, then green, just before they died. Oddly, the same genes in the Kifri specimens are not activated. In the Kifri anthrax, a modified Ames strain, there are other, unfamiliar genes inserted in the main chromosome. They may be dummies meant to fool Al-Hitti’s scientists, or they may in fact serve a real and destructive purpose. We just don’t know-yet.’

‘Have we got any of these samples, to do our own workup?’ Cahill asked.

‘No,’ Rebecca said. ‘The Baghdad samples are currently being analyzed in Europe. The Kifri samples are in Turkey. The Israeli samples…well, relations are icy at the moment, and not just because of Shahabad Kord.’ She looked up.

‘There are many reasons for Israel to be angry,’ Cahill said. ‘Their intelligence failures are the equal of our own. Go on, Agent Rose.’

‘Our prime suspect may have been involved in the murder of a state trooper in Arizona. He left behind DNA evidence, blood, saliva, sweat, and skin cells. We have a description of a tall blond American with one blue eye and one green eye, in both the Patriarch case and the Israeli attempt. Apparently, our suspect fathered a child on one of the Patriarch’s wives.’

Cahill humphed and buried his chin in one hand.

‘We haven’t finished our search against available DNA databases to establish his identity.’ She wasn’t about to mention the mismatch between the skin cell DNA and the blood, much less the 9-11 connection, until it was all much more solid.

‘How old do we think your suspect is?’ Cahill asked.

‘Best guess, somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five years old,’ Rebecca said.

‘Experienced sort of fellow,’ Cahill mused. ‘Able to move around the Middle East, sell a bill of goods, which means speaka da lingo, Arabic at the very least…the gift of bad gab, in Baghdad. That doesn’t fit any FBI profile of Amerithrax I’ve ever read.’ He sat up and leaned forward. ‘Hell, if you find him, recruit him. News, what do you want me to do?’

‘Give Rebecca the authority to re-open the investigation I authorized in April. The international connection makes this a major hot potato.’

‘We’re a sizzling steak surrounded by hot potatoes. Some are hotter than others. Agent Rose, pardon me for being blunt, but your puzzle pieces are too far apart. They don’t join up. Israel doesn’t have any evidence for an American connection, other than hearsay from suspects “under duress”. I’ve never relied on confessions under torture. I’ll go along with evidence of anthrax in Iraq, but hell, maybe someone found Saddam’s old stockpiles.’

‘Saddam never used the Ames strain,’ Rebecca said.

Cahill shrugged. ‘We don’t even have proof the Israelis have found anthrax in their fireworks shells. No anthrax was detected in Washington state, and none in Arizona. So where’s the connection to Amerithrax? If fresh product is being made here, why can’t we find even a trace? And how is it being delivered through the tightest security in modern times?’

Now it was Hiram’s turn to weigh in. ‘Diplomatic Security and others are already making a big push overseas, through BuDark. We have agents in the thick of it. FBI headquarters can provide support here. Charles, re-opening this investigation puts us in a good position if BuDark delivers. And BuDark is working on the President’s nickel, after both DS and the CIA started tracking anthrax reports in the Middle East. FBI should be seen supporting her initiative. We should be forward thinking.’

Cahill was wearing his best poker face, but Rebecca’s hopes fell. He wasn’t even gumming the hook.

‘We’re talking inkjet printers, right?’ He shook his head. ‘Even before I was director, I never put much credence in that theory. Last spring, I let Hiram play out his cards and watched you get shot down all over again. Anthrax is bad news in more ways than one, no pun intended, Hiram.’

He stood and walked around the circle of seats, then down the short flight of steps, stopping in front of Rebecca. ‘I worked Amerithrax. I was with the team that bird-dogged Hatfill. I even flew to Zimbabwe in 2003 to investigate a twenty-five-year-old anthrax outbreak. Ten thousand infections, almost two hundred deaths, and the Rhodesian government-Project Coast-might have been involved, but after all that time, we couldn’t tell. Hatfill was a cowboy with African connections, a big ego, and a padded résumé. We couldn’t hang Amerithrax on him or anyone else-but that doesn’t mean we were wrong. Ultimately, it was a heart-breaker.’ Cahill looked up at Rebecca in the spotlight. ‘I’ll admit, this does sound like something from Project Coast-modifying germs and developing poisons to kill opponents of apartheid, to selectively target blacks or reduce their fertility, to eliminate the black man’s food supply. That’s still my bet for Amerithrax-some crazy weapons master with South African or Rhodesian training. I’d love to make Hiram happy-maybe he’ll increase my retirement. But frankly, I still don’t see it. Push the pieces closer together. Find some domestic anthrax. When News comes aboard, formally, he can take all the risk he wants. For now, though, it’s still my call. And I say: not proven.’

Hiram escorted Rebecca to the parking garage. ‘Maybe Senator Josephson is right. Maybe we’re caught in the same loopy thinking that makes us screw up over and over again.’

‘What if we don’t have a few weeks or a month?’ Rebecca fumed. She reached into her purse and switched on her slate, in case Frank called, or anyone else who was still brave enough to work with her.

Hiram slid into the limo and made room for her. ‘We’re not done,’ he said. He stared at the seat backs. ‘I’ll be betting everything on one roll of the dice. My career, this case, everything.’

Rebecca did not feel the need to speak up and add to Hiram’s burden. He knew the stakes as well as she did.

‘What we know is like a thick fog, but it’s real.’ He leaned forward and told the driver, ‘Get me Kelly Schein at the White House. Chief of Staff to the President.’

The two agents ran to join them in the limo but Hiram waved them aside. ‘We’ll be fine,’ he announced, and levered the heavy door shut. The agents stood outside, angry and dismayed, visible through the phonebook-thick bulletproof glass.

The limo pulled away.

‘I don’t think anybody here trusts me, Rebecca,’ Hiram said. ‘The President picked me to replace Cahill. They’re asking, why? Maybe the droolers on talk radio are right and I’m a traitor.’

Rebecca’s slate chimed. She swore under her breath and pulled it out.

‘What are you, bad news central?’ Hiram asked.

She had two messages. The first header said she had a message from Frank Chao at the Academy. Pretty wild, Frank had typed in the subject line. Call ASAP.

She scanned the second, a voice/text message from William Griffin with accompanying graphic. The text message listed twelve names. She recognized eight-all of them agents and other law enforcement personnel that had been on the Patriarch’s farm before or when the barn blew, including Erwin Griffin and Cap Benson. Below the list: Long-term recall. Some dementia. Exposure at farm.