Cold Frame (28 page)

“Correct,” he said. “Why do you say ‘gave him'?”

“Mandeville had dinner with Logan an hour or so before he did the zombie-walk into traffic.”

“Hmmm,” Hiram said. “Then here's what I would suggest, Special Agent: focus on Mister Strang and the nature of his relationship with Mister Mandeville, and possibly the USAMRIID. And, secondly, test Mister Logan's cellular remains for chlorophyll.”

“Chlorophyll? Seriously?”

“Yes. It's basically all an alga does—turn sunlight into ‘stuff,' using chlorophyll, like just about all plants. It does not belong in human cells, but a saxitoxin can put it there. In the meantime, I need to do some research of my own.”

“Would these substances be something you could keep, say, at home in your refrigerator?”

“No,” he said. “What I gave them was the individual toxin and the instructions on how to maintain it. That would take a biolab of some size and complexity.”

“Like USAMRIID?”

“Yes, that would be perfect. And, of course, your Mister Mandeville would probably have access to the scientists at Fort Detrick. I'm not saying they're making bioweapons out there, Special Agent. It's just that the process of developing a defense against chemical and biological weapons is to, first, reproduce or at least model the weapon. See?”

She nodded as Thomas appeared on the porch, which she realized was her cue to leave. She thanked him for the tour, lunch, and the frightening education.

He smiled that rueful smile. “We'll probably be in touch, Special Agent,” he said, not getting up. “And please understand something: if someone at the rank and position of a Carl Mandeville has gained access to things like an aconitine aerosol, he can do a lot more damage than one man at a time, okay? Watch yourself.”

*   *   *

After his afternoon nap, Hiram went back to the library and reread the
Washington Post
article about the assistant secretary of the treasury's bizarre accident. He was still tired after his day with the pretty special agent. Yesterday, he'd spent the entire day trying to figure out why a very special crossbred specimen had simply “up and died,” as his greenhouse helpers quaintly phrased it. He was wondering if another one of his weeds had killed it. They did that, from time to time, as if to remind him that there was a lot he didn't know. It often gave him the sense that they were watching him about as much as he was watching them.

The article reported that the police were still investigating, of course, and that there was a possibility that alcohol may have been a factor. Revealingly, the driver of the Mercedes had not been charged and nor had the cabdriver. The latter had testified that his passenger had asked him to stop the cab, then opened the door, got out of the cab, and then walked directly into traffic. Then he'd added two interesting details—that the victim was walking like “some kind of robot” and that he appeared to be grinning dramatically as he got out of the cab. Confirmation of what the pretty FBI agent had told him.

The article also mentioned that Logan was the second senior Washington bureaucrat to die in the past week under strange circumstances, the other victim being one Francis X. McGavin, who had collapsed in a restaurant from what was rumored to be poisoning, according to the District's medical examiner. The problem was that he had not eaten anything. He'd had a single sip of white wine while waiting for his lunch partner, but that had come from a bottle that had served two other people. The medical examiner's office so far had not identified the suspected poison, nor was it even confirming that poison had been involved.

Hiram put the paper down on the side table and rubbed the small bones in his aching face. No lack of eager-leakers at the Metro PD or the medical examiner's office, was there, he thought. That wasn't what was worrying him. In 2011 he'd consented to share a few of the Phaedo Botanical Society's more exotic botanical extracts with the Department of Homeland Security, supposedly in support of the DMX counterterrorism project. He'd talked to the other members before going ahead and everyone had been onboard. He'd given the spooks access to three plants, two from his own breeding program and one from Ozawa's research, and that one, a variant of algae, produced symptoms bearing a remarkable similarity to those of the Treasury man, nuchal rigidity and a prominent rictus.

Logan had also walked into a busy stream of traffic, which might indicate tunnel vision, yet another symptom involving a saxitoxin. He didn't have enough details about the McGavin case, so there were no conclusions to be drawn there. Yet. On the other hand, two of the plants he'd given the counterterrorism people could drop a human like a stone from just a passing contact with some of their volatiles. He shuddered to think about what this Mandeville fellow was contemplating. He realized he needed to talk to his colleagues in the society. He asked Thomas to set up a call that would catch most of them in daylight hours, or at least, early evening. Thomas named the time.

“It's a good thing Ozawa still has insomnia,” Hiram remarked. “Thank you, Thomas.”

At the appointed time he went to the communications room, located just behind a discreet door in the library. He sat down in front of a Polycom total room immersion display, consisting of an eighteen-foot wraparound media wall, with three eighty-four-inch thin-bezel HD color displays. After the initial round of greetings and the usual inquiries about health and home, Hiram got down to business.

“Gentlemen, we may have a problem, and it's one in which I may have had a hand. Do you remember the request from the U.S. government four years ago for some of our botanical toxins?”

Nods all around. “Has something gone astray?” Tennyson asked.

“It's possible,” Hiram said. “I'm waiting for some medical examiner's reports to see if there's any possible match. I've heard of one incident that seems to have involved aconitine in a vapor state. The other one I haven't seen, but based on the victim's appearance, it may have been related to a cardiac glycoside from an oleander derivative, or a saxitoxin.”

“Veec-tims?” Giancomo de Farnese asked. “'Ees accident?”

“I'm afraid not, Giancomo,” Hiram said. “I think one of the Borgias is back.”

“Santa Maria,” Giancomo said.

Ozawa finally spoke up. “You give compounds to government, or plants?”

“Compounds, Hideki,” Hiram said. “To my knowledge the U.S. does not have any programs to develop toxins. They stopped their biological warfare program years ago. They do defensive work, but no developmental work.”

“Who died, then?” Tennyson asked.

Hiram told them. Ozawa hissed and de Farnese rolled his eyes.

“Do they know about us?” Tennyson asked.

“As of at least four years ago they did,” Hiram said. “They knew about the Phaedo Society
before
coming to ask for help, but I think that was because I'd been helping our intelligence and federal law enforcement authorities with some perplexing poisoning cases. What I gave them was supposed to be used in covert operations against the terrorist world.”

“So now someone's using them in Washington?” Tennyson asked.

“Yes, I think that's the case,” Hiram said. “Two senior government officials have died under very strange circumstances. It was probably a mistake to ever let some of our materials loose in the government.”

“Yes,” Ozawa said. “Mistake.”

Hiram was a bit stung. “Does the Japanese government know about you and your work, Hideki-san?”

Ozawa sat back and blinked. Then he nodded forcefully, once.
“Hai.”

“Giancomo?”

“What
governo
?” De Farnese asked. “Italia has no
governo.
Only clowns.”

Smiles. Tennyson spoke up. “Her Majesty's government has used my services in much the same way yours has, Hiram,” he said. “And even some of your own rather marvelous creations. What's going to happen now, do you suppose?”

Hiram hesitated. He didn't want to scare his brethren. “There are people investigating what has happened. The killer may find out about that. He may even attempt to neutralize the source of his killing agents. He may even come here.”

Ozawa's face broke into an evil grin. “He comes, you make video, yes?”

“Hideki, you're a bloodthirsty bastard, aren't you?” Tennyson said.

Ozawa put on what he thought was a face of total innocence. “In interest of science,” he said. “Only science.”

“Hideki-san has a point, Hiram,” Tennyson said. “You've gone much further along the mutation road than we have. I, myself, would be terribly interested in what happens if someone attempts to breach Whitestone.”

“Very well, gentlemen,” Hiram said. “I will report when it's over, assuming I'm still able to report.”

“Have no fear, Hiram,” Tennyson said. “Did that snake pool experiment succeed?”

“It's possible,” Hiram said. The connection was supposedly secure, but still … one had to be careful.

“Must make video,” Ozawa said. “For science.”

Hiram snorted and signed off the net.

 

SEVENTEEN

Carl Mandeville was in the office bright and early Saturday morning. Many of the staff were in as well: a posting to the National Security Council staff meant that Sundays were yours, at least some of the time. Otherwise, you came in, too often with the word “Divorce!” ringing in your ears.

Mandeville picked up his secure phone and dialed a number. When the ringing stopped and the tone sounded, he said one word: “Beacon.” Then he hung up and sent for coffee. Thirty minutes later his phone rang. The caller ID on the secure phone said, simply: Beacon.

He picked up. “New orders,” he said. “I have your current subject under rendition at Petersburg. Maintain a watch there. I'll be going down there soon to talk to him, see if I can turn him. If I can't, I'll need to ramp it up a little. Actually, a lot.”

Then he hung up. There was something to be said for an operator who couldn't speak.

Then he placed a call to the commanding officer at the United States Army Research Institute for Infectious Diseases at Fort Detrick, Maryland, on the secure link.

“Colonel Kreckich speaking, sir,” a voice answered.

Mandeville confirmed his identity and then told the CO that he would need some of the special materials in the near future.

“Which specific materials, sir?”

“Aerosol of belladonna sap,” he said. “We have an opportunity to take out a high-level meeting of AQ in Syria. I need a single canister. No, two. I want them delivered to my office suite in the EEOB for further transport to JSOC. Armed forces courier, with hand-delivery to me, personally. I have the DMX code ready.”

“I'm ready to write.”

“DMX 17454312. Authentication is venom 7789.”

“Stand by.”

Mandeville waited while the CO verified the authentication code from the daily tables.

“Authentication accepted. We will advise delivery.”

Mandeville hung up. The commanding officer of USAMRIID knew his business. Mandeville had been fascinated to learn that the CO was a veterinarian, but that actually made sense. Their research involved a whole host of primates, whom they subjected to the entire spectrum of horrible diseases that enemies of the state might choose to weaponize.

The two canisters being brought to him were early-warning devices used by the army to warn of chemical attack, which the soldiers nicknamed “sniffers.” In practice, the canisters sat in a receptacle on top of a large detection-and-analysis device that monitored the air around it. If the device sensed any one of a dozen chemical agents, it fired the canisters, which blew out a mist of strongly scented mint. The rule was, smell mint, MOPP-up immediately. Get your mask on, then get your suit on. The neat part was that if the canister on the actual analyzer let go, it sent out an order by closed-loop cell phone to other canisters placed around the area being protected. Like house smoke detectors, if one went, they all went. It was that satellite spray system that Mandeville's planted biochemist had converted to an actual weapon. One cell phone call, and the sprayer would fire, but it wouldn't be mint this time.

He wondered if that weird genius out in Great Falls had any idea of what the government was doing with some of his magic potions. The canisters represented what some of the more self-important senators up on Capitol Hill liked to call the nuclear option. He had no qualms about killing off the entire DMX and starting over. He'd have to figure out how
he
was going to survive this catastrophe, and then how to pin it on someone in the terrorist world. Maybe he'd set it up so that he could arrive at the meeting room only to find everyone dead. A precursor string—that's what he needed. Gen up an intel report of a threat to the DMX, itself. Something that they could officially ignore because of weak provenance, and then, regrettably, say: oh shit, we should have paid more attention to that.

He nodded to himself. That was definitely the way to do it. If he could turn the bothersome Metro cop, then maybe this escalation wouldn't be necessary, but the cop was clearly a potential liability. The traitors on the DMX would just love to get him in front of a Senate committee to bolster their case against the DMX. Talk about a media firestorm.

He shook his head. No. He couldn't risk it. He needed to wipe the slate clean, along with the cop, then pin it on someone on the Kill List. Or maybe blame that Walker guy. He smiled at that thought.

 

EIGHTEEN

On Saturday, his first day in detention, Av had experienced the surreal environment of the master sergeant's Benedictine rule. He went to breakfast with about thirty of the other inmates, being careful not to make too much eye contact or inadvertently pop out with a “good morning” to anyone. The food wasn't bad—standard hotel buffet stuff in steaming Sterno-heated trays. The rest of the inmates looked to be a pretty bland bunch—middle-aged, all white, nothing extreme. A few shaved heads, but, for the most part, they all looked entirely normal. It was unsettling to be eating breakfast in total silence, watched by four guards who seemed to be bored but who were definitely watching.