Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command (24 page)

Floriana

Washington, D.C.

1800 hrs

Many patrons described Floriana, a restaurant in the Dupont Circle section of Washington, as one of the best kept secrets in town. That was doubtful. But Roarke wanted to have a quiet conversation with Katie, and Floriana seemed perfect.

Floriana was located in an historic red brick row house, converted to a comfortable Italian restaurant with a seasonal menu and a welcoming atmosphere. The reviews called it “casual elegant.” Roarke chose it tonight because the conversation was likely going to go better in the hushed tones of the romantic setting. It could very well go the other way in their apartment, and Roarke needed time for Katie to listen before she reacted. With their voices down they could blend in with the other customers and she’d be less likely to leave in mid sentence. At least that’s what he hoped.

Roarke practiced the conversation on the way over from his office. He prayed he’d be able to stick to his script.

He arrived first, entered the small bar in the basement. That’s where they would meet. For chemical support, something he normally didn’t do, Roarke ordered a glass of Trefethen 2007, a silky Napa Valley Merlot that unleashed the taste of sweet plums and cherry. Roarke was into his second glass when Katie arrived.

“Hello, honey,” she said.

“Hey, darling.”

They kissed, but there was something missing from Roarke. She picked up on it. A seat was open and she took it.

“What are you having?”

“A nice Merlot.”

“May I try?”

He smiled affirmatively.

Katie held the glass up to the light. The wine had a magnificent deep red color. She took in the bouquet and liked what the wine delivered. After a sip she ordered her own.

“So, how was your day?” The rules were never to say much. “Productive?”

“Busy. The trouble with charters, no frequent flier miles,” Roarke joked.

“Bummer,” Katie responded. “Everything else okay?

“It’ll take some time to sort stuff out.” This was their code for
not really.

As an attorney she listened for clues. Suggestive. Descriptive. Revealing. It’s actually what brought the bright, attractive brunette together with a man quite opposite to her in life experience and personality. But opposites surely attracted enough to turn them into a couple. Tonight, however, she felt a distance, a separation, that troubled her.

“Scott, is this about us?”

“Let’s get a table.”

Moscow

The same time

Arkady Gomenko was playing chess over breakfast at Pushkin Café. His opponent was a disheveled Russian whose real name he never learned. The man was, in fact, not a Russian. He was CIA agent Vinnie D’Angelo. And at almost any given point he could checkmate Gomenko, who was too nervous to concentrate on the game. Not that it mattered. The match was simply a cover for a few words passed between long, thoughtful pauses. Thankfully, no one paid attention to people playing chess. It was too boring.

Considered over ninety minutes, Gomenko’s comments provided D’Angelo with a clear background of Red Banner. Insightful information. History, missions, and goals. The CIA needed more.

“Dubroff? How does he figure in?”

“Still researching.” Gomenko told him what he found. He also mentioned his watcher, an old man named Sergie Kleinkorn. “I swear, he must think Khrushchev is still in power the way he hovers. Like a bee over pollen.”

“Did you check him out?”

“No. He feels ancient. Pre-Internet.”

“Do it anyway,” D’Angelo said with a warning tone. “And see if the name Ibrahim Haddad comes up at all.” He spelled it.

“Any hints.”

“Nope. Not a one.”

They played for another thirty minutes before D’Angelo gave in, unnecessarily.

Washington, D.C.

The same time

Roarke led Katie up a short flight of stone stairs into the main dining room at Floriana. Once settled, he ordered a bottle of an Italian Pinot Grigio; a 2009 from Lagaria, Veneto, Italy. This was one of Katie’s current favorites. The smooth, fruit-forward flavor worked perfectly in concert with the toasted ciabatta and vine-ripe tomato bruschetta and the steamed mussels they shared. The conversation, however, wasn’t to her taste.

“I have to talk to you. It’s serious,” Roarke finally said. He had a brusk unemotional businesslike tone.

“What, honey?” Katie asked reaching across the table for his hand. It was there for her, but not with the warmth she expected. Not like the other night at the Mansion on O Street.

“It’s about a woman.”

Katie froze. She pulled her arm back. Their relationship had developed at light speed. Katie and Roarke met under the most trying, yet exciting and sexually explosive of situations. They saved one another, and helped the country. It was dangerous and erotic. Their romance was full-barreled, like the bullets that flew around them.

“Scott.” She couldn’t bring herself to say another word.

They were already off his script. Roarke reached forward to touch her arm. She wasn’t there for him. Katie pushed her chair back and was ready to walk out.

“Katie, wait. I started this wrong. Give me a minute. Please.”

She relaxed into her chair but not into the conversation.

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“I’m not involved with her.”

Was there a
yet
missing? Katie wondered.

“She’s stalking me. I have to find out why.”

Katie gave Roarke the eye contact the comment deserved. She wasn’t comforted, but she was willing to listen. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. But nothing happens in this town without a reason.”

Katie didn’t give in completely. “Where did you meet her?”

“The Y.” Roarke intentionally left out the most provocative elements. “Not my doing, hers. She works on the Hill and has had some dubious relationships. That’s what makes it so suspicious.”

“And what do you want me to do? Let you go off and fuck this twit for the sake of national security?”

“Almost.”

Washington, D.C.

16 January

Roarke had complications to handle. Home and office. He texted the president, requesting an early morning meeting, which was quickly confirmed. Then he dialed a new number he committed to memory. On the third ring, Christine Slocum answered her cell.

“Hello.” Her voice was soft and sexy.

Roarke was nervous. He was sitting at Filter, a coffee shop not far from his apartment.

“Hi,” he said. “This is Scott Roarke, from the gym. The guy you saw a lot of the other day.”

“And hoping to see more,” she replied.

“There’s nothing left you haven’t seen.”

She laughed. “I mean, we ought to get together. I hope that’s why you’re calling.”

“Yes, but I have to admit I’m a little fragile right now.”

“You, fragile? Come now, Mr. Roarke? You must be the least breakable man I’ve ever encountered.”

“I had a fight with my girlfriend,” he blurted out.

“Over?”

Roarke took a deep breath. “Over you.”

“I’m flattered and sorry. We’ve only had a few minutes together.”

“And in that last minute you left an impression on me.”

She paused, and with an enticing smile added, “I guess I did. I was pretty bold. But that’s what you get with me.”

Roarke considered that the understatement of the conversation.

“So are you single, Scott?”

“Meaning?”

“Your breakup?” she offered with no apology.

He sighed. “Probably.”

“You’re not sounding so fragile now.”

“Maybe not.”

She thought about inviting Roarke over, but that would be too quick. Slocum loved the game. It could go on for a while longer.
At least a day.

“Are you exercising tomorrow morning?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“Let’s talk then. Okay? I promise I’ll stay on the girls’ side after we workout.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I’m hoping you’ll hold me to a great deal more,” she offered seductively.

Ciudad del Este

Ibrahim Haddad hadn’t shown much happiness in the years since his wife and daughter were killed. But the reports from rural America made him smile. It was an evil smile in an evil city.

Ciudad del Este, Paraguay’s second largest city and center of the Tri-border region, would be Haddad’s last home. That would be fine, because as his health worsened, so did the health of the United States.

Haddad, of course, was not alone in his conspiring against the West. Ciudad del Este was a haven for Muslim extremists ever since some twenty-five thousand Arabs immigrated to the region from Lebanon after the 1948 Arab-Israeli war and again after the 1985 Lebanese civil war.

A network of thieves, smugglers, and terrorists protected Haddad. Some were members of Hezbollah, others fundamentally capitalists in Muslim garb. They trained young zealots and empowered Hispanic gang members who doled out terror on their own terms in the United States. Ibrahim Haddad had money, followers, and a cause.

Money came from traditional investments, some on the American stock exchange that were beginning to do extremely well. And there would be more. Ciudad del Este was literally sitting on a gold mine.

Just a few more days,
he thought. The smile, born out of revenge, returned. Then he smiled for another reason. The assassin named Cooper was alive. The report came from his mole deep in the FBI; a mole with a serious gambling problem that Haddad learned about years ago and had the means to solve.
Cooper lives
, Haddad thought.
Perhaps I shall see him kill again.

The Centers for Disease Control

Building 21

The first four water samples that Comley ordered up days earlier arrived by courier.

“Howard, I need your help,” she said to a favorite technician.

“What’s cooking, doc?” The twenty-six-year-old lab tech from Atlanta was thinking about going to med school. After five years with the CDC under Comley, he was ready to follow in her footsteps. Comley was a big fan and had already sent in a glowing recommendation for him to the University of Miami.

“Something potentially hot.”

“Then let’s get to work.

They donned full positive-pressure white suits, which had replaced the older glove boxes. Once zipped up, they checked each other’s oxygen tanks and looked for any leaks in the fabric. All was secure. But this was just the first safeguard. Now they stepped into a BSL-4 modular lab, isolated from the rest of the floor through airlocks, showers, and autoclaves. Though they didn’t breathe it, air within the chamber passed through high-efficiency particulate HEPA filters.

The Oval Office

White House

“Are you sure, Scott?” the president asked. He was seriously concerned about what Roarke proposed.

“Yes. I’ve got to do it this way.”

“You’re putting a great deal at risk. Maybe for no reason.”

“I’ll sure as hell find out soon.”

“This is way beyond your job category,” Taylor added.

“I’m not so sure,” Roarke said. He told the president what he had planned. That was enough.

“Your game.” Taylor accepted Roarke’s request. He signaled Louise Swingle to send in General Johnson, Bob Mulligan, and John Bernstein.

The president offered everyone coffee. It was hardly anybody’s first of the day.

“Bob, you start.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. Last night the bureau made what we consider a significant arrest in Lewistown, Montana. Based on intelligence gathered by Mr. Roarke, we apprehended two suspects who had been driven to Montana by the MS-13 gang member currently seeking political asylum. Montana Highway Patrol also arrested two others, believed to be associates of the men in custody, outside of Havre, Montana. They’re being held on one charge of murder and a charge of attempted murder, and we’re waiting to see if we can charge them with conspiracy to commit murder.”

“Waiting?” Bernsie asked.

“They had six cans of undetermined substances in their trunk and maps of local reservoirs, and upon further searching, detailed information on access to water district buildings. The substances will be analyzed at FBI facilities.”

“When will the analysis be complete?” General Johnson asked.

“First level, within four hours. Confirmation will take longer.”

“In your estimation are we looking at a real threat?”

“Very real.”

Roarke interrupted. “If I may, sir?”

“Yes, Scott,” Taylor answered.

“I have no doubt what they were up to. And what others are up to.”

“Others?” Bernsie was the master of one word questions.

“You’re all drinking coffee.”

Nods.

“A few days ago I was in Mayville, North Dakota, maybe only hours behind Richard Cooper. He, of course, is the man quite intent on killing General Johnson.”

“Thank you, Mr. Roarke,” the general offered. “You were right. I was wrong.”

“Just stay put, please.”

“He will,” the president stated. “Trust me. He will. But go on.”

“While I was in Mayville, the price of coffee went up overnight.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Bernsie whispered.

Roarke ignored him. “Nobody raises the cost of coffee overnight. But if a restaurant had to, why would they?”

No response.

“The water. They switched to bottled water because there was concern that people might be getting sick from the local water. From potentially poisoned water. Not that they knew it then. But compare the Mayville samples with what’s in those six cans confiscated in Montana, and I bet they’re going to smell a lot alike.”

Everyone was utterly silent. “And if there are six cans, there could be six hundred cans. Maybe six thousand. Yes,
others
, gentlemen.”

Roarke was the first to say what was certainly becoming a collective thought.

“I believe the United States is under attack.”

17 January

The story hit the Internet while the president was meeting on the subject.

Associated Press, Las Vegas, NV, 0555

Hundreds of tourists at numerous Las Vegas hotels have contracted a serious illness. Area hospitals are treating cases of severe abdominal pain. Health officials have no official comment as to the cause, but waterborne disease is suspected.

The booker for
Coast to Coast AM
did some very fast research. Five minutes later Lois Douville was on the telephone to the CDC in Atlanta. After five redirects, she ended up with a public affairs officer.

“May I help you?” Jim Kaplan asked.

“Yes. I don’t know if you’ve seen the news, but Las Vegas is reporting a major health emergency.”

As she talked, Kaplan typed Las Vegas into Google news. There was definitely a filing dated only minutes earlier. “I have it up now. What’s your question?”

“Questions. What’s going on? Are you on it? What is the cause? And what are you doing about it.”

“Look, Ms. Douville, I appreciate the call. I’m in public affairs. I’m not a doctor, but I’ll be happy to pass the information on. Let me take your number. If we find out anything, I’m sure you’ll get a call back,” Kaplan lied.

“Then you can confirm that it is a crisis?”

“As I said, I can pass the information along. What’s your phone number?”

Douville tried every trick she knew to get something from Kaplan. Nothing succeeded, principally because he couldn’t really help her. The radio booker hung up, convinced she had the lead topic for the night’s show.

Kaplan fired an e-mail over to a friend in Building 21.

The Oval Office

Minutes later

Taylor summoned Homeland Security Department secretary Norman Grigoryan. He joined the others.

“And Louise,” the president said, “get the CDC director on the line.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

The connection was taking longer than he expected. But there was a reason.

“Mr. President, Dr. Snowden was called down to a lab by one of his staff. His assistant has promised to get him for you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Louise. We’ll stand pat.”

Five minutes later Louise had Director Snowden on the line.

“Mr. President, thank you for your patience. To tell you the truth, your timing is uncanny. I was minutes away from trying to reach you. Suffice it to say, it is an honor to talk to you, but I wish the circumstances were different.”

“Thank you, Dr. Snowden. I have you on the squawk box with FBI Chief Robert Mulligan, National Security Advisor General Johnson, and Homeland Security Secretary Norman Grigoryan.” He didn’t mention John Burns or Scott Roarke. “Please speak openly and explain the timing.”

“Well we normally operate on quick turnaround to both validate and to disprove. But there is a special urgency now. Accordingly, joining me on this call is Dr. Bonnie Comley, one of my top team members. With your permission, I would like Bonnie to take over.”

“Certainly.” The president wrote down the doctor’s name. He referred to it now. “Dr. Comley, you have the floor.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” she began nervously.

One sentence into the briefing, Taylor interrupted. “Please repeat what you’ve just said, doctor. Slowly. Don’t be nervous. It’s important we get this.”

“Yes sir, sorry. I believe we are facing a problem of epic proportions. We’re charting catastrophic illnesses across the country.”

Phrases like
epic proportions
and
catastrophic illness
es were guaranteed to get Oval Office attention.

“Dr. Comley, am I correct to understand that you are point on this research?”

“Well, I suppose so, but not by appointment. More through circumstances.”

“Then it is either your good fortune or bad luck. Now you said illnesses. Plural?”

“Yes. Different symptoms, potentially different causes, but all occurring in a short span of time.”

“Dr. Comley, this is Homeland Security secretary Grigoryan. Do you have a theory as to the cause?”

“I personally do, but it is unsupported.”

“Unsupported or not, what is it?”

“I believe water supplies are being intentionally poisoned.”

The president looked at Scott Roarke. His man was right again.

“Dr. Snowden, Dr. Comley, put your top researchers and staff on this immediately and get your butts up here. We’re going to do this in person.”

“Mr. President,” Comley nervously interjected. “I’m running some critical tests that I’d prefer not to turn over. Not just yet. And more samples will be in this afternoon. I’ll have much more to report by tomorrow. Will that be okay?”

“Mid-morning Dr. Comley. No later.” It was not a request. “If you have any difficulty booking seats, call my secretary, Louise. She lives for solving problems like that.”

“Thank you.”

“Noon. My office. I’ll have coffee on.” The president picked up his own cup now and examined the brew. “I have the distinct feeling that time is not on our side.”

Russia

Cult Bar

Arkady Gomenko was sitting with his new best friend. Together they replayed the World Cup heroics and disappointments, the years when steroids ruled the Olympics, and other chatty topics that only required liquor and opinions and no action.

Anyone watching would have seen two men getting drunker by the pour. Anyone listening would have gotten bored at least an hour earlier.

The signal finally came when Vinnie D’Angelo folded his napkin twice. Gomenko moved closer and whispered to his companion. He said it in the softest tones possible. D’Angelo heard it as if it had been shouted.

“Dubroff is alive.”

Despite the impact of the news, the CIA agent did not react. He looked in the mirror to see if anyone took notice. No one had.
Dubroff alive?
D’Angelo had to get to him. He put his hand on Gomenko’s shoulder and pulled him forward the way one drunk might do to another. But D’Angelo was stone cold sober. “Where is he?”

Gomenko fought off the effects of the vodka he had been consuming. “In a secure ward at Burdenko General Military Clinical Hospital.”

D’Angelo was familiar with the facility. In the old Soviet days some certain people were admitted healthy, but came out in a body bag. Dubroff was even suspected of
doctoring
the reports. Now he was there himself.

“Get me inside.”

The same time

It was amazingly easy for Haddad’s men to roam the floors of America’s hospitals. Doctors and nurses from every corner of the world now treated patients who had trouble pronouncing their names. The service staff was increasingly Hispanic; engineers and plumbers largely Eastern European. So why would two more immigrants in drab grey uniforms and well-worn tool belts raise an eyebrow? Ibrahim Haddad believed they’d be virtually invisible.

A little diversion, one quick jab of a syringe through a plastic water cooler, followed by a fast push of the plunger and it was over. The terrorists came with vials of
Chlamydia psittaci
,
Coxiella burnetii
, and
Shigella
, all fiendish once they dissolved into the previously untainted water. Incredibly simple. A few minutes per floor was all it took, and amidst the typical commotion, no one paid any attention.

The targets were patients in their beds and visiting friends and family. These
plumbers,
and others like them, moved from hospital to hospital, city to city, with a variety of deadly toxins in their arsenal. There was an expression in English that Haddad’s men probably never heard, but it described their work today perfectly.

Like shooting fish in a barrel.

FBI Regional Headquarters

Denver, Colorado

“So far one of them is talking,” Shannon Davis told Robert Mulligan, from just outside an interrogation room. “If what he says is true, and I have no reason to believe it’s not, we’re well beyond containment.”