The Dark Hour (43 page)
Authors: Robin Burcell
“Thanks,” McNiel said, taking the paperwork. “We’re just starting the debriefing if you want to stay.”
“Actually, I came to apologize. To Marc,” he said. “For compromising your safety. I should have been there as ordered.”
“Had it been Lisette,” Marc said, clasping him on the shoulder. “I would have done the same.”
The two shook hands, and then Griffin left. And how could she blame him? To sit there during the remainder of the session, hearing after the fact that Becca
was
a hero? That everyone had been wrong about her? The recovered flash drive contained everything she’d claimed and more, crippling LockeStarr completely. As disappointed as Sydney was that Griffin did leave—primarily because she had no idea when,
if
, she’d see him again—she couldn’t blame him. That, she thought, as she left the meeting, was too much to ask of any man.
She rode the elevator down with Tex and Carillo to the lobby, and when the door opened, Griffin was there waiting.
For her, she realized.
She walked up, and he said, “I was wondering if we could talk a few minutes?”
“Yeah, sure,” she said, just as Thorndike walked in the lobby door.
He seemed taken aback at the sight of Griffin. “I’m, uh, sorry about Becca. About everything . . .”
Griffin tensed beside her. It was several seconds before he responded, and she had the feeling he was mentally counting to ten, before he finally asked, “Who did you bury in her grave two years ago?”
“No one,” Thorndike said. “The casket was empty.”
Griffin stood there, his jaw clenched. And then he took a breath, as though trying to calm himself. “I wanted to kill Luc. Go back there and put a bullet through his head, your investigation be damned.”
Thorndike nodded. “I’m glad you didn’t. Becca was a hero. She would’ve—”
Griffin slammed his fist into Thorndike’s face.
Thorndike staggered back, falling into the row of chairs against the lobby wall. Everyone froze, staring as Thorndike sat there, stunned, reaching up to run his hand across his jaw. And then Carillo made a show of examining his watch. “Geez. Look at the time . . .” he said, heading toward the door. “Late for a meeting . . .”
“Yeah,” Tex said, hurrying out after him. “Forgot all about that.”
And Thorndike picked himself up, crossed the lobby, keeping a wide berth around Griffin as he walked to the elevator and got on.
Sydney looked at Griffin, who took a breath, as though some weight had been lifted from his shoulder. Finally, she asked, “So what did you want to talk about?”
“Nothing in particular.” They stepped outside, the sun shining on the dirty, melting snow. “Just wanted to talk.”
“Nice hook, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
Talking, she thought as they walked down the sidewalk, was a good thing.
T
he Cold War may have ended decades ago, but the lethal remnants from that era remain a very real and present danger to all mankind should they fall into the wrong hands. Perhaps one of the most frightening aspects is that one of these threats, a potential bioweapon, can’t be seen with the naked eye, and by the time anyone recognizes it, it’s too late.
What is it? Smallpox.
Back in the day, children were vaccinated against smallpox, not because of any bioweapons concerns, but because, like many other diseases, it sometimes happened in the natural course of life. But this is one case of man versus nature where the scientists fought it and won.
Like many readers, I bear a small, unusual scar from the smallpox vaccination on my upper arm that looks like someone branded me with the round tip and pins from a computer accessory plug. My children, however, do not have such a scar. Smallpox was eradicated because of the successful vaccination program, and the last known naturally occurring case of the disease was in Somalia in 1977.
Fast forward to the present day and the fact that no one—not even those who were once vaccinated—is immune to smallpox, a disease which carries the distinction of being the single biggest killer in human history. Should it somehow rear its ugly head, perhaps find its way out of the freezers in Russia or the U.S.—where the only
known
laboratory stocks are held—and into the hands of terrorists, the devastation to human life is unimaginable.
There isn’t enough vaccine to go around.
My mind started spinning with the basis of a plot, and I worried about the smallpox stockpiles that somehow ended up being unaccounted for. The world’s scientists decided
not
to destroy the remaining viruses, because there was still that nasty but less lethal monkey pox floating around that could mutate into a deadlier form. They needed to keep those stockpiles handy for studying, just in case. But in this world we now live in with the very real threat of terrorism, what would happen if one of those missing and unaccounted for smallpox strains ended up in the wrong hands? What if someone combined it with another virus, perhaps an even deadlier virus, thereby rendering any existing vaccination ineffective? Would anyone be foolish enough to release such a virus on the world? More important, would anyone be foolish enough to
create
such a virus?
The answer to that last question is yes. In fact, it has already been done, at least according to Ken Alibek, a former Vector scientist from Russia. Around 1990, Russian scientists from a bioweapons program known as Biopreparat worked to turn the already extremely deadly smallpox virus into a more lethal and virulent form by altering the DNA or the RNA from that virus and another deadly virus, then splicing them together to create a recombinant chimera virus. (“Chimera” derives from Greek mythology, a monster with a lion’s head, a goat’s body, and a serpent’s tail.) Since smallpox happens to be a virus that is amenable to genetic engineering, it was a natural choice. The other virus, it seems, was chosen simply for its fear factor: Ebola. Although this has been denied by other Vector scientists, Alibek reports that this Ebola-smallpox chimera, known as blackpox, or hemorrhagic smallpox, was created for use as a bioweapon.
Of course the biggest problem with bioweapons happens to be the dispersal method, since heat (especially if disbursed by missile) and exposure to the sun (unless one ensures it is disbursed at night) actually degrades the bioweapon, often rendering the biological agents ineffective. Add to that the deadliness of throwing this new blackpox out there in the wild—how does one stop the unstoppable?—thereby endangering the entire human race, well, it probably isn’t the first choice of those countries capable of creating such a weapon. (Heaven forbid any current or genetically-altered diseases make it into the hands of radical terrorists.)
Clearly there needed to be a genetic alteration to the genetic alterations to make sure this new deadlier virus can be controlled. Or, in the case of those who hope to make a heartier weapons-grade virus, an alteration to allow it to withstand the high temperature should it be dispersed via missile. But where does one find such a virus that can be manipulated so readily?
Enter the (fairly) new theory that life may not have begun with a big bang in space, but at the opening of the world’s deepest hydrothermal sea vents, which are teeming with newly discovered viruses and bacteria that thrive in temperatures exceeding 600 degrees Fahrenheit. One need only to splice them into the chimera viruses, altering them even further, whether to allow the weaponized viruses to live at such extreme temperatures or to eradicate themselves after a certain time period to render them ineffective. Maybe it hasn’t
yet
been done, but the science is there, and the point is, it
can
be done. There are numerous scientific articles on hydrothermal vents and the new life found there, each one fascinating. For further reading on genetically altering viruses for bioweapons, I recommend
Biohazard
:
The Chilling True Story of the Largest Covert Biological Weapons Program in the World—Told from Inside by the Man Who Ran It
by Ken Alibek and Stephen Handelman. And for more information on smallpox, delve into
The Demon in the Freezer: A True Story
by Richard Preston.
Happy reading.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at
Robin Burcell’s
the next suspenseful thriller featuring
FBI Special Agent Sydney Fitzpatrick,
coming January 2013
F
BI Special Agent Tony Carillo tossed his keys on the table in the entryway of his condo, dropped his coat over the back of the sofa, then walked into the kitchen. It had been one of those days, the sort where what could go wrong, did go wrong, starting with the arrest of the bank robbery suspect, who decided to run at the last minute—right into an oncoming SUV.
Carillo opened the fridge, anticipating the leftover Christmas turkey dinner that his neighbor Mrs. Williams sent over, when he heard a rustling noise coming from the spare bedroom he used as his office. He quietly closed the refrigerator door, drew his gun, then stepped into the hallway, careful to avoid the one spot in the hardwood floor that creaked as he made his way to the back of the house. He paused just outside the office door to listen.
There it was again. The sound of rustling papers.
Finger against the trigger guard, he swung into the room.
His wife looked up, saw the gun, her eyes going wide as she dropped a book. “Tony . . .”
“What the hell are you doing here, Sheila?” he asked, holstering his weapon.
“I—I was just looking for something to read.”
He saw the envelope addressed to his former partner, Sydney Fitzpatrick, still sealed, thank God. Sheila wasn’t exactly known for keeping out of things that didn’t belong to her. “I mean what are you doing here. In my house.”
“It’s
our
house.”
“Until your lawyer finishes sucking me dry,” he replied, casually straightening the papers, making sure the envelope was covered. “You need anything else to help him accomplish that? Blood type? DNA sample?”
“This isn’t easy for me, Tony.” She tucked a long strand of blond hair behind her ear, her hand still shaking, probably from seeing him pull a gun on her. “I’d like to speed things along, especially now that I’m getting married.”
“Word to the wise, Sheila,” Carillo said, walking out of the room, trying to keep his temper in check, as she followed him out. “Wait for the divorce to be final before you tie the knot. Less problems that way.”
“You’re such an ass.”
“What are you really doing here?” He entered the kitchen, stopped in front of the refrigerator, then looked back at her.
She turned away, unable to meet his gaze.
“I need a place to stay until Trip gets out of jail.” Jefferson Colby III, or Trip, as Sheila called him, was her current boyfriend. A real piece of work, this one, having been arrested for allegedly embezzling money from his employer, a charity no less.
Carillo eyed the six-pack of Sierra Nevada on the shelf, figuring it wasn’t nearly enough. He grabbed a bottle, closed the door, then faced her. “No.”
“Aren’t you going to offer me a beer?”
“No, because you’re leaving.”
“I can’t. There are people after Trip. They might come after me.”
“So Trip
is
guilty of stealing money from his employer?”
“No. Of course not. But you don’t understand.”
“You’re right. So fill me in.”
“The charity he works for. He thinks it might be a front for some criminal thing.”
“A criminal thing? Really, Sheila? Something beyond the fact Trip was skimming money from it?”
“It’s like I’m talking to a brick wall! Why do I even bother? They set him up.”
“Of course they did.”
“At least talk to his friend in Washington, D.C., Dorian Rose.”
“What is that? The name of a ship?”
“His friend who got him the job.”
He took a long drink, wondering where she was going with this.
“I’m serious.”
“Dorian Rose. Washington, D.C. Anything else?”
Sheila narrowed her gaze, took a frustrated breath, and said, “Dorian Rose works for a sister charity in Washington. One of his and Trip’s friends was killed in a car accident after he found some discrepancy in the books and reported it. I mean, it was a real accident, so they don’t know, but before he died, he told Dorian to have Trip call his brother-in-law in England and have him see if the same thing was going on there.”
“What thing?”
“I have no idea. Whatever it was, Trip thinks it’s going on here. And now Trip’s brother-in-law won’t call him back, and then Trip was arrested, and I think I’m being followed.”
Carillo stared at her a full second as what she was saying sunk in. “And you, of course, decided to keep all this from me because . . . ?”
“Trip told me I couldn’t tell anyone. He said it was too dangerous.”
“What the hell do I look like? A Boy Scout? That’s my job, Sheila. And it helps when people tell us
exactly
what is going on so we don’t
goddamned get ourselves killed.
”
“You’re yelling at me.”
“Yes, I’m yelling at you! What the hell were you thinking?”
“That maybe Trip would tell you?”
“Jesus,” he said. “He’s in friggin’ jail, so I think the likelihood of him mentioning it to me is about nil. Which is not to say I believe you.”
“Does that mean I can stay?”
He took a deep breath, then looked at his wife, wondering how it was he’d stayed married to her as long as he had. He’d loved her once. Hell, he still loved her, even though she’d slept her way through half of his friends over the years and, after the most recent round of counseling failed, he knew when it was time to let go. Past time. “You can sleep on the couch.”
She rushed forward and hugged him. “Thank you, Tony.”
