The Messenger (17 page)

Naturally, there is no way in except by a truck rigged with plastic explosives, and really, there is no time to waste. Plus the danger is off the scale. She is on the run now and the smart thing to do is give up on Fort Detrick.

Scott will come by later to make sure she’s gone. He’ll see the thank-you note she left. He might wonder about it, but he will discover and accept the twenty-dollar bill, and the big rolling suitcase she has so generously left for Tina. The place will be neat and clean.
When she returns, Tina will marvel at how responsible he’s been and forgive him for all his sins. He’ll put today’s junk mail in the box, and when he sees Aaron again he’ll really give it to him about missing out on that foxy girl because of Uncle Sam.

Driving out of town she pulls off at the Frederick Towne Mall, which, she learns, is proudly situated on something called the Golden Mile. It is, in essence, a parking lot surrounded by stores the size of airplane hangars. She is nerved up and trying to make a getaway, but this might be her last good chance to strike at Satan …

So she makes herself walk through the huge displays, fondling everything, refusing the assistance of the clerks, and passes right through to the next store in line. If she is still infectious it will eventually get to the soldiers, their wives, their families.

Using Tina’s name and address, she applies for a discount card at something called the Bon-Ton, goes into a changing room, tries on and rejects a few little tops, and then leaves. She’s calmer now, just walking.

She discovers an Internet café in a run-down little muffin bar with a cowboy theme. They claim to sell espresso there, and there are two computers she can buy time on.

On the
New York Times
site there’s more about the lockdown of both Atlanta and Washington, D.C., and a list of high-profile government officials who have been taken to Walter Reed Army Medical Center for treatment against the anthrax spores they have inhaled. There is a photograph of blue-plastic-suited technicians carrying what looks like a vacuum cleaner up the steps of the Capitol building.

Maybe she has a fever or maybe she’s paranoid, but it seems the clerk is looking at her suspiciously—well, it’s a little early for shoppers. She shuts down her account. She’s not worried about someone tracing the search. “Anthrax” is probably getting ten million hits per minute right now.

The corridor opens out onto a mostly deserted food court. She finds the bathroom and goes in. Her face is hot. She splashes water on her face over and over again, and then looks at her hands. It is as if she can see the bones right through her flesh.

The door behind her opens. Two women in green smocks come in. One has a spray bottle that she uses to clean the door handles, while the other uses the last stall. Daria is too nervous to stay there washing her face and looking at herself, so she leaves. She finds an exit and pushes her way out the big glass doors and onto the mammoth sheet of asphalt.

She has to search for the unfamiliar Nissan—practically invisible since it looks like every other car in the lot—finally finds it, and drives away thinking she has done as much as she can. Now it’s time to put some distance between her and the security forces ruthlessly locking down Fort Detrick, because Tété is talking, and if they don’t have her name already, soon they will. And soon her photograph will be retrieved from every surveillance camera from Baltimore to Berlin.

And soon that will be it.

But she will not just roll over and surrender. She might be a woman, but she is also a warrior. She has pledged her life to God, indeed she has already given it, and regardless of what happens to her, regardless of her skin falling off … she will fight. She will resist them. With the last drop of her diseased blood. Forever.

Shaken, absorbed in her thoughts, her mouth hardened in a tight line, she grips the steering wheel and drives along the so-called Golden Mile (the pathetic delusions of these Americans will never cease to amaze …), and when she gets to the junction of the highway, she makes a decision and swerves onto I-70.

West.

The biggest thing wrong with FBI agents, Sam Watterman thinks, is that they seem to be constitutionally unable to hold the slightest conversation without making it seem like a grilling. Behind the smiles and the offered bottles of water and cups of coffee, what they really want is an exact account of every moment he had ever spent with Khan. Where did you meet? Where did you stay? Any correspondence? Phone calls? Exchange of bodily fluids?

“I told you. It’s all on the record. I saw him, I
glimpsed
him across a crowded room, maybe … four or five times. Said hello, shook his hand a time or two. I met him lots of times, but I spent time with him only once. A conference in São Paulo. He wasn’t giving a paper. In fact I don’t think he ever gave more than one or two. You could check it. He was born in Egypt, but his parents immigrated to Cairo during the Second World War. Maybe they were Lebanese? You’ll have to look it up. He was, even then, one of the guys on the horizon. We all keep track of them, you know.”

“Actually, we keep track of them …”

“Then you should be able to follow his movements better than I.” Sam Watterman feels a flicker of pride in his grammar.

“Just take us through it, Doc.”

For a moment he looks around at their young faces. Everybody in the room has crossed the line. They are all riding the thrill-wave of biowarfare. He’s seen that look before and it doesn’t get any prettier.

“You have to remember, a guy like Saleem Khan, he’s a manipulator. Guys like that don’t play by your rules. He wants what he wants because he wants it. I don’t think you would describe Saleem as ‘motivated by feelings of patriotism.’ ”

“You said he worked for Iraq.”

“Sure, the UN published that. Lots of people worked for Iraq at one time or another. And he worked for Pakistan.
You
told me that. I know he consulted … to lots of places. He’s got to make a living, after all.”

“He’s a freelancer. Have syringe, will travel.”

“Yeah, he is, essentially. And a guy like Saleem, he’s slick. You must be following the money, right?”

“We have some financials. He has a lot of accounts.”

“I’m sure he’s got a lot of everything. So, what does he care? A few million nameless people here or there … for an asshole like Khan …” For a moment the man’s youthful face floated in front of him. Always smiling, always laughing. Always dressed to the nines. Hollow.

Yes, of course, they had known each other by reputation. As for their dramatic meeting in São Paulo, there was precisely one round of drinks in the hotel bar before Khan dashed off to a dinner date with a handsome couple who’d come to pick him up.

“What did you talk about, Sam?”

“Retroviruses. We talked about retroviruses,” he says quietly, remembering. “That’s what everybody was talking about.”

HIV was brand-new then. No one knew how to stop it and everyone was afraid of it mutating. Its stealthy approach and its dramatic fatality were attention grabbers. That night, among the revolving knot of microbiologists, epidemiologists, and bio-spooks at their table, speculation began that HIV had been manufactured. That it was tweaked and targeted. Could such a thing be done? The South Africans had a prolific biowarfare program; were they behind it?

But, no … it was foolish. Crazy. And you couldn’t really use a weapon like that unless you had a defense in place. So, did the South Africans have a cure for AIDS that they were keeping secret? That was a defining precondition; there was no utility in having a biowarfare capability unless there was a way to immunize your high command, your military, and ideally your whole population. It was the classic problem of targeting—stopping the germs from blowing back and killing your own people.

Khan’s friends had come in to get him. A young couple. Nice clothes. The woman quite attractive and wearing jewels.

Khan had stood up, lifted his farewell glass. “It’s like drinking,” he’d told them. “The strength of a bioweapon cocktail is undeniable.” (Sip.) “But the hangover is hell.” (
Another sip
.) “The only thing that will save you is the vaccine.” (
Drain glass, exit to applause
.)

“He was very charming …” Watterman says. “But you have to remember that ultimately, biowarfare is unthinkable. Actually … it’s a fascination. Like how some little boys are in love with cars or airplanes, or the uniforms of football players, or their mother’s lingerie … it’s a fetish. The devil’s dream.”

“Okay.” Barrigar nods.

“When we set up our projects, maybe something like
BACCHUS
, the whole purpose of that was—”

“This is not about your involvement in
BACCHUS
, Doctor.”

“Oh, yes it is! That’s exactly what it’s about. It’s about discerning the absolute boundaries of the threat. How cheap could someone build a credible biological weapon? Could you make it using off-the-shelf components? Could you put it in a trailer, could you put it in a toaster oven? So,
we did it
. We wanted to measure it. If we could measure it, then we could budget for it. Administration. Administration of death. You tell yourself you’re being realistic, that you’re fighting fire with fire. You give yourself permission and now it’s gloves off. No rules in this kind of fight. You know what I mean, don’t you? Black ops, wet work. I’m not ashamed of it. I was a patriot. I did it. I got paid. It’s what we do. It’s who we are.”

“If it’s so unthinkable, why is Khan involved?”

“Because it’s not unthinkable if you have a cure.”

Barrigar had been doing the questioning, and Chamai was keeping notes. The door opened and Lansing came in. Barrigar got up and they took it out into the corridor.

When they closed the door, Chamai put down his notebook. “Say, Doc, were you around when Kennedy got shot?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Sure. I was in high school. We were rehearsing for the talent show. There were some girls down by the piano listening to a … to a transistor radio?” Watterman held his hand up to represent the size of the antiquated device to Chamai, who was a total digital geek and the slobbiest FBI agent he’d ever seen.

“We could see the girls were crying, and everybody went down to the lip of the stage. They shot him in Dallas. Sure. I remember that. I remember every detail. Cuban missile crisis. I remember that. We went home from school that weekend not knowing if we’d ever come back, yeah.”

“Whoa,” Chamai said. “Did you know David Kelly, head of the British germ warfare thing?”

“Of course. It’s a small world.”

“You think he was murdered?”

“I have absolutely no comment.”

“What about the thing in South Africa,
PROJECT COAST
?”

“It’s all in the record.”

“Did you know Frank Olson?”

“I was six years old when he fell. Or was pushed. He was on LSD, right?”

“That’s the story. What about the mysterious deaths of government-employed microbiologists over the last forty years?”

“Whatever you’ve been smoking, please, I’d like to buy some off you.”

“I’m just asking, Doc.”

“Look …” Watterman said, leaning closer to the young man. Their voices had fallen to whispers. “There’s not always fire wherever there’s smoke, okay? Not
everything
is a conspiracy. People just fuck up. Shit happens.”

“A lot of shit in a perfectly straight line, I don’t know, Doc.”

“This is what’s wrong with the Internet. Sloppy verification.”

Lansing and Barrigar came back. The door was open. Barrigar didn’t bother to sit down. Behind him, a Marine captain waited in the hall. Barrigar stood at the end of the table, stared down at it, shook his head. He looked gray. He took a sudden breath, and tapped the top of the table with his fingertips like a pianist testing the action.

“Just got a report of a
smallpox
case,” he said.

Sam realized he was holding his breath.

“Just one case. But … probably more. In Germany. A hotel worker in Berlin.” Barrigar’s voice sounded tired, papery. “We’re going to be moving.”

Barrigar helped Watterman up and Lansing took him by the elbow as they left the room and headed out of the building. There’s a list of vectors, Sam remembered.
His
list.
Schools, hospitals, subways, theaters, sports venues, airplanes, business hotels …

Walking, trying not to break into a run as they headed en masse down the corridor. When they got to the elevators, there were too many of them to get into the same car. Lansing held him back
and Sam stared into Barrigar’s stricken eyes as the doors closed him in.

This is the
DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER HIGHWAY
, signs proclaim every few miles. Stretches of it have been adopted by various civic groups or corporations. There are regularly spaced green and white signs spanning the highway, but she does not recognize the names—
HAGERSTOWN, CHAMBERSBURG, MARTINSBURG
—they mean nothing to Daria.

There is something peaceful in the endless hay farms, poultry farms, and even the great depots for the long-haul trailers that are planted around the landscape. Incongruous housing tracts drape themselves across the foothills, edging right up to swatches of preserved woodland as the highway curves across the low mountains. A river loops along below, keeping her company.

She is traveling along a great artery; the highway is not unlike similar
autostrade
in Italy, or the great banked autobahns in Germany, only not as smooth and with much reduced speeds. Even the little Nissan is easily capable of doing the speed limit.

It wouldn’t do to get stopped and have to hand over her identification, so she lets other motorists pass. Commuters who ply the highway daily, gigantic tanker trailers carrying canola oil, hoppers full of oats, stacks of caged chickens, rolls of steel, new automobiles—everything imaginable.