Jonathan Maberry - Patient Zero

Grace filled us in on the people we would try and interview. There were six agencies involved in various aspects of security. The two who interested us most were Robert Howell Lee, the director of special operations for an FBI/Homeland joint command; and Linden Brierly, who was the regional director of the Secret Service and the direct link between the Secret Service and its parent department of Homeland Security. More current and proposed DMS personnel had been recommended by them than all of the other agencies put together. Both of them had extensive military connections and had sent candidates from every branch of the service. It seemed to be the best use of time to start with them first. They were also the men most closely involved with security at the Liberty Center event.

Robert Howell Lee and his FBI team were in charge of the facilities security and had oversight for all interjurisdictional arrangements between local, state, and federal law enforcement. He was an indirect descendant of Richard Henry Lee, the man who had ridden from Virginia to the First Continental Congress with the resolution to declare independence from England. He was an ambitious man of fifty who was almost certainly going to be the next director of the Bureau or maybe ever the top dog in Homeland.

The other man, Linden Brierly, was an equally careercentric man who had been involved in some key phases of the service’s transition to Homeland after 9/11. It was Brierly who would be overseeing the personal safety of the First Lady and her party.

They were both powerful men; patriots as well as seasoned field agents and politicians. Move the wrong way with them and we’d not only upset the security applecart but we’d bring down so much heat that maybe even Church’s clout would not save the DMS. This was dicey for a couple of big reasons: the careers of everyone involved with the DMS and the belief—which I now shared—that no other organization within the United States government was as equipped as the DMS to counter threats like the one we’d been facing during the last few days. The wrong word to either of these guys could spin everything out of control.

But, no pressure, right?

“We’re here,” Grace said.

Amirah / The Bunker, Afghanistan

“HE’S COMING!”

Amirah turned away from the big glass cage in the central lab as Abdul hurried into the room. Her only reply to his outburst was a slow smile.

“Did you hear me?” he demanded. He had a Kalashnikov hanging by a strap from his right shoulder and his face was dark with anger.

“I heard you, Abdul,” she said, her voice soft and dreamy.

“Well… what are your orders? Should I have him killed?”

Amirah blinked very slowly, once, twice. “Kill Sebastian?” She abruptly laughed as if it were all a wonderfully funny joke. She covered her laughing mouth like a teenage girl. “Is he alone?”

“He has his assistant with him, and a driver.”

“Good. Let them come.”

“Come? Come here?” he echoed, incredulous. “Amirah… he has to be aware of what we’re doing. He’s coming to shut us down!”

“Shut us down?” She laughed again.

Abdul stared at her. Amirah’s eyes were almost glassy. She looked drugged. Or worse, drunk! But that was unthinkable.

“You certainly don’t want him to come in here. Not now. Not when he knows.”

She shook her head. “How long until he gets here? Into the bunker?”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Assemble the staff in the dining hall, Abdul.”

“For what reason ? ” he demanded, and for a moment the dreamy look on Amirah’s face solidified into something else. Something cold and reptilian that glared out at him through her beautiful eyes. Abdul took an involuntary step backward.

Amirah’s lip curled and she turned away to stare through the glass at the monsters she had made. Four of them, each one clawing at the inside of the reinforced glass walls, their eyes burning like black stars.

“You have your orders, Abdul,” she said without turning.

He backed toward the door, his anger warring with his doubt. He watched Amirah put both her palms on the glass and then lean forward so that her cheek was pressed against the cool surface as the four monsters clustered on the other side, tearing at each other to try and get to her.

Abdul fled.

The Liberty Bell Center / Saturday, July 4; 10:28 A.M.

WE STOOD IN the Liberty Bell Center, which is located on Market Street between Fifth and Sixth Streets in the Old City part of Philly. Because of the task force’s involvement with the event security I’d had a chance to tour the building a few times over the last six months and had a good working knowledge of its layout. The new building had been the centerpiece of a three-hundred-million-dollar makeover of the Independence Mall area, and they’d sunk nearly thirteen million dollars into the center, which opened in October 2003. The place was over thirteen thousand square feet, and was airy, well lighted, and pretty fascinating to any tourist or history buff. The bell itself sits in a glass chamber designed to magnify it so every one of the million-plus yearly visitors has a chance to get a really good look.

I think we all felt somewhat awed by all that it represented. I knew from having taken the tour that this was actually the second bell; the first one was made in the Whitechapel Foundry in England but it cracked shortly after it was cast. A couple of pot-and-pan makers named Pass and Stow recast it from a mixture of copper, tin, and traces of lead, zinc, arsenic, gold, and silver, but the second bell also cracked. That’s the one that we were all looking at. The names Pass and Stow were stamped into the front of the bell. Rudy leaned forward and read the rest of the inscription: “Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof—Lev. XXV, v. x. By order of the Assembly of the Province of Pensylvania for the State House in Philada.”

“They spelled Pennsylvania wrong,” Skip remarked.

I shook my head. “It was one of a couple of acceptable spellings at the time.”

“Darn thing’s broken,” Bunny said with a grin.

Behind us was a second large display platform but this one was draped with a Stars and Stripes tent, inside of which was the new Freedom Bell. Because this bell was intended to ring on special events it hadn’t been encased in magnifying glass. Time would tell if this one would be crackproof.

These bells symbolized everything for which the DMS had fought, suffered, and died. They were emblematic of the unsullied ideals of freedom, democracy, and fairness. Despite their many flaws the Founding Fathers had been mostly well intentioned. Freedom of speech, freedom of religion. The right to live. Even though those same founders had been unable to unite to abolish slavery and extend equal rights to all people of both sexes, they had at least started the ball rolling. Freedom had rung out across the land, and across the oceans, until its promise, at least, was heard in every country around the world. Without that bravery and optimism we wouldn’t be standing together here. Men and women, black and white, foreign and homegrown, united in a single cause: to take a stand against hate and destruction. Despite my years of practiced cynicism I felt a real stirring of good ol’ red, white, and blue patriotism.

From beside me Rudy said, “It’s a genuine perspective check, isn’t it?”

“Hooah,” Top said softly.

“Major Courtland…?” We turned to see a big man in a beautifully tailored lightweight charcoal suit come striding across the floor, hand out, a smile on his tanned face. I recognized him at once from Grace’s description. Linden Brierly, regional director of the Secret Service. We stepped up to meet him by the podium that had been erected between the display cases. It was a three-step affair heavy with red, white, and blue bunting and bristling with microphones, none of which were currently turned on. I’d checked.