After the Fall (29 page)

Jake was finding it hard to make sense of what he'd just
heard. What could the FBI want with Addie? Could she be in some kind of trouble? Is that why she wants to return to Iraq?

“I have to say, Jake,” Sloan went on, “I'm shocked by your affair with the Replica doctor. And your sudden marriage to her? Does your son know about this?” Sloan did know Karolee left all her money to Mark. Jake had confided that during a weak moment.

Now Jake was up and at the door. “No, Mark does not know, and I don't intend to tell him. After he screwed me over with Karolee's money, I don't need him or his miserly wife.”

Without a good-bye to Sloan, Jake left. He needed Addie, wanted to hold her in his arms, to help her if she was in some kind of trouble. What was all that about the FBI? Plus, he would tell her the confidential news: Immunone would be approved tomorrow.

W
EDNESDAY
, M
ARCH
4

“The name Badur Hammadi mean anything to you two? NSA Deputy Director Mack Long asked his two direct reports in the NSA's Information Assurance Directorate—IAD.”

Long ran stubby fingers through his steely-gray, close-cropped hair. A Stanford-trained, mathematical-computer genius, Long had served his country in the navy as a vice admiral. Now, he headed up the domestic arm of NSA's surveillance—eavesdropping—and supercomputer mission. He found it suited him. More pressure, maybe, but of a more intellectual nature. Following his daily briefing at the Pentagon, he'd called to his office his two closest aides.

He watched as their two heads—one blond, the other black—shook in unison. These two not only fascinated him, they'd won his respect: the lanky, former special service agent, Tommy Mintner, and Paula Sharkey, the African-American microbiologist from USAMRIID. Long's brownish skin reflected his own biracial genes, and he did all he could to promote racial diversity in the agency.

“Should we?” Mintner asked, perplexed.

“CIA's had an interest in him for a while,” Long said, drawing a photo out of a manila folder. Both heads shook again as they scrutinized the photo of a young, tan-skinned man in stylish Western garb.

“Iraqi?” Sharkey guessed.

“Yep, and seen recently in the vicinity of an Iraqi scientist, Dr. Jamail Abdul. Abdul has close ties with—”

“I know Dr. Abdul by reputation,” interrupted Sharkey. “Saddam Hussein. His name comes up in scans for anthrax-related intel as well as other organisms with mass destruction potential. What's the connection?”

“Turns out Abdul's daughter has been in the States right under our noses for twelve years. She got here via the University of Michigan. Got a PhD and went to a start-up drug company in Bethesda. The one in the news lately with a new drug for transplant patients that's about to hit the market.”

“So, she's been under surveillance,” Mintner said, “by what agency?”

“Negative. Best not to make assumptions when it comes to the silos of our intel systems. Abdul's daughter has avoided NSA radar. She's used her own name, filed all the necessary paperwork, the connection just never surfaced.”

“Why now?” Sharkey asked, twisting a black curl in her hand.

“Four hits just yesterday,” Long reported. “Random pickups. One, Abdul's daughter, was questioned by the Rockville cops about a murder that occurred a week or so ago. She needed an alibi, as the dead woman turned out to be her boyfriend's wife. She gave Badur Hammadi as her alibi. His name crossed our links, got flagged. From the same Rockville cop report, we intercepted her father's name. When the cop asked for her father's name, she readily gave it up.”

“Strange,” Sharkey said. “It's like she has nothing to hide?”

“You said four hits,” Mintner prompted, anxious for the meeting to end, the action to begin.

“When we intensified the cyber web over the DC corridor, we found a marriage license application for Adawia Abdul, the daughter, and Jake Harter, an FDA employee, the boyfriend whose wife was murdered. And we found an airline ticket issued for Adawia Abdul from DC to London for this Friday.”

“So she's going to Europe? A honeymoon?” Sharkey suggested. “That FDA guy traveling with her?”

“Back to Badur Hammadi. Last week, satellite surveillance picked him up in Baghdad at the entrance to one of the palaces where Qusay Hussein and Hussein Kamel are holed up, presumably masterminding weapons of mass destruction beyond the reach of the UN inspectors.”

“Airline evidence of travel?” Sharkey asked.

“No record of Hammadi leaving the country. Must have an alias,” Long said. “Sharkey, what do you know about Dr. Jamail Abdul? Rumor has it, he's being treated for severe heart failure.”

“He's a respected scientist. Heavily into the genetics of microbiology. Rumored to deal with organisms such as anthrax and botulism. I'd half expected the UN inspection teams on the ground in Iraq to unearth sites of materials he's bioengineered.”

“What's our role versus the FBI at this point?” Mintner asked the prickly question. NSA was a super-spy agency. The FBI, the enforcer—within the boundaries of the USA.

“We are consultants to our FBI brethren, but let me make this clear. The president, our commander in chief, wants those WMDs found. We're into the tenth round of IAEA inspections and, so far, zilch. Reputations and national credibility are on the line. These connections were made solely by our intel, but I'll have to brief the FBI. Meantime, you two get to the bottom of Badur Hammadi's relationship with Saddam's regime, and find out whether there's any connection to what the Abdul woman is doing in the US and her father's role in Baghdad.”

Mack Long didn't linger for his agents' reactions. They wouldn't be pleased about working with FBI agents, considered them infinitely inferior in both intelligence and patriotism. Reaching for two packets in an accordion file, he handed one to Mintner and one to Sharkey.

Long stood. “Update here first thing tomorrow.”

W
EDNESDAY
, M
ARCH
4

Fighting tears, Addie walked out the front door of Replica, heading for the FDA. She had to tell Jake she'd been denied a leave of absence, she would not be getting the $7.5 million Replica owed her. How would Jake react? In her own mind, she still hadn't decided if she'd be better off arriving in Iraq married to Jake or as a single woman, the earmarked bride of Gabir Rahman.

She felt a jab of reality as she approached her car. Would she ever drive again? Not a privilege enjoyed by Iraqi women. A key to independence, an independence she'd come to cherish. She needed to relish Western culture during her last few days here. As she pulled out her keys to the sleek black Audi, she noticed a tall, striking-looking black woman in a chic burgundy-colored suit. The woman seemed to be looking directly at her. Beside the woman, a white man in a dark business suit was speaking into a walkie-talkie.

Addie with her dark skin, black hair, and black eyes often attracted curious looks. More frequently now after the Gulf War—or the American War as they called it in her country. In America now, all signs of Middle Eastern roots attracted the silent scrutiny and covert mistrust of a populace obsessed with weapons of mass destruction. For the first time, she realized these suspicions may not be so misplaced. What would she be doing when she returned to Iraq? She had to remind herself that she looked no different. You are just Dr. Abdul, a scientist, not a
terrorist. Not yet. What had Jake always said about those glances, if not outright stares? “People think you are exotic—and the most beautiful woman they've ever seen.” She gave the couple no more thought, climbed into her Audi, and headed for the FDA.

The outdoor parking lot for the FDA at the Parklawn Building in Rockville was situated across the street from the massive structure. An elderly security guard sat in a small, controlled-access booth. When Addie pulled up, she stated she had a meeting with Jake Harter. The guard found Jake's name on a computer and motioned her to enter. She'd expected him to call to confirm that meeting, but he had not.

As Addie walked toward the crosswalk, she again saw the black woman and white man pair she'd seen in the Replica parking lot. How could this be a coincidence?

“Dr. Abdul?” A woman's voice made Addie turn, taking her eyes off the suspicious pair.

She recognized the blond woman stepping away from a man in a pin-striped suit. “Dr. Nelson?”

Addie hiked up her shoulder bag and held out her hand to Dr. Nelson before she noticed the woman's right hand was in some kind of bandaged cast.

“Call me Laura,” Dr. Nelson said, offering her left hand. “I know you've been trying to get hold of me. I've been out of the office a lot.”

Addie couldn't help but stare at the woman's right hand, the bulky bandage. “I heard about your injury and I'm so sorry. And will you please call me Adawia—or even better, Addie.”

“Okay, now we're on a first-name basis. You know, Addie, I so much appreciate what you've been able to accomplish with Immunone. As the lead clinical investigator, I have first-hand knowledge of its promise for transplant patients, but it wasn't until I took over as Keystone research VP that I realized just how innovative your early research was. Replica and Keystone, and an endless number of transplant patients, owe you so much.”

“Thank you.” Addie was touched by Laura's genuine
gratitude. Had Replica shared this sentiment, they'd have let her keep her job. But, no, greed had taken over. This was America, after all.

“Once we get the approval, I'd like to organize a joint celebration, some of us from Keystone and your colleagues at Replica. And how about connections from the University of Michigan? Isn't that where you began your research on the Immunone class? One of my sons went to U of M. Kevin graduated in 1989, but you would have been long gone from Ann Arbor by then. He loved the university. ‘Go Blue!'”

“Yes, ‘Go Blue!'” Addie smiled, recalling with a thrill the game Dru had taken her to in the Big House. The roar of the crowd when the Wolverines scored against their enemy, Notre Dame. The acrobatic cheerleaders, the University of Michigan Marching Band. Not that she understood the game, but the excitement had been intoxicating. “I loved Ann Arbor.” All this Michigan talk reminded her of Dru. Where was Dru? Addie's elation faded to fear when she thought of the Rockville police visit to her apartment.

Then she remembered the suspicious couple following her. Trying to look nonchalant, she checked her surroundings. Right by the security booth at the parking lot entrance, and their attention was openly directed toward her.

As Addie focused on the lingering couple, Laura turned to her companion. “I'll just be a minute,” she called. The man nodded, and Laura gave her attention to Addie.

“I'm sorry to keep you,” Addie said. As anxious as she was to talk to Jake, she wanted to avoid walking by the suspicious couple if she could.

“No problem,” Laura said. “My colleague's anxious to get back to Keystone. We have very good news. News that you will be—” Laura stopped midsentence as an olive-green Jeep careened around a row of parked cars, heading for the exit.

“Jake,” Addie yelled. “Excuse me, Dr. Nelson—Laura—I
need to see Jake Harter. That's his car. Darn. Looks like he's leaving.”

“That's Jake Harter's car?” Addie saw Laura's eyes widen as they followed the Jeep out of the parking lot. “That greenish Jeep? Are you sure?”

“Yes, and I need to talk to him and—”

“I think I've seen that Jeep before,” Laura said, her cheery mood changing. “How well do you know Jake Harter?”

What to say? Addie attributed much of her success to instinct. And on instinct she trusted Laura Nelson. Maybe it was the straightforward way she'd presented the Immunone data. When the committee threw out tough, challenging questions, Laura had answered directly, honestly, not hesitating.

“Maybe I shouldn't say this, I hope it does not jeopardize Immunone's approval, but I know Jake well. He and I are…” Addie hesitated, knowing that if her skin tone were lighter, she'd be a bright red. “…lovers.”

Laura—now she thought of the older woman as Laura—turned back to her companion, calling, “I'll be a few more minutes.” Facing Addie, she said, “Did you know that's considered a conflict of interest?”

“Jake told me we had to keep it a secret, but if we get married, then it'll be okay?”

“Look, I'm new to this industry. And since the approval of Immunone is imminent, I'd hate to be the one to blow the whistle. Does the FDA know?”

Imminent? Blow the whistle? Addie slumped against the nearest vehicle, a red pickup truck.

“Addie, are you okay?” Laura stepped up, steadied her with her left hand. “Maybe we should go inside, sit down.”

“No, I have to find Jake.” Her glance followed the Jeep out of the lot—in the direction of Replica. Addie managed to stand almost upright, and withdrew her hand. “What did you mean by ‘imminent'?”

“Well, Addie, I think you're going to like this. It's not yet
public knowledge, and, if you promise not to run to the press or to your bosses at Replica…”

Like she'd be talking to “the press,” and she'd no longer have bosses at Replica. But will I have a husband? So preoccupied by her primary dilemma, she hardly listened to what Dr. Nelson was saying about Immunone.

Addie risked a glance at her observers. They'd eased up closer. But within hearing range? She didn't think so. Who were these two people?

Laura's companion waved back at her, respectful. Here men treated women as equals. When she returned home, things would be different. Could she adjust? She'd been homesick for so long when she'd arrived in America, but now…

Laura waited for the answer, but Addie was so distracted, she struggled to remember Laura's question. Oh, yes, she wouldn't…