The Poseidon Initiative (6 page)

How could he get to them? Waiting for them to strike next would likely produce no better results than last night’s fiasco. By now the halftime show production company breach had been reported, and shadowy photos taken by stadium surveillance cameras of the Hofstad terrorist posing as a production assistant broadcast all over the world. But he was gone. Security video showed him leaving the stadium tunnel in a golf cart, and even showed him getting into a car — a four-door sedan whose license plate was not readable in the video images. Tanner silently agreed with a guest speaker who speculated that the car had likely been ditched almost immediately following the incident. Even so, finding it would be a solid opportunity for clues, and that effort was ongoing.

Tanner knew that police procedural work was a slow-going endeavor, though, and with only about a day and a half to go before the next attack, they needed something more expedient. Tracking the terrorists like hunters after an animal would not save lives quickly enough. Tanner recalled the summer trips he spent as a boy with his grandfather, who was a game trapper. He killed animals not with guns but by tricking them to walking into his traps. He’d take Tanner out into the woods (he called it “camping” to downplay the violent aspect and thereby appease Tanner’s mother, although she knew exactly what they were doing), and teach him the ins and outs of hiding his traps, of presenting them in the most natural way from the point of view of their target as possible. It was much easier than hunting, if one had something the target wanted and knew how to offer it in a way that seemed unthreatening.

And Tanner’s work now was not all that much different. He clicked off the news reports as he thought about what he could put forward to Hofstad as bait. What did they want? The American embassy closed. Yet Tanner, for all his connections in high and not so high places, could not control that. If President Carmichael didn’t authorize the closing of the embassy — and he doubted he would — then it would remain open.

But there was something else. He flashed on Jasmijn, now toiling away in her Netherlands lab to work on the STX antidote.

The antidote
.

Hofstad wanted the antidote, ostensibly to leverage their control over weaponized STX even further. They already stated their intention to pay a return visit to Jasmijn to collect it. But what if, Tanner postulated, staring at the track lighting on the ceiling, someone other than Jasmijn were to offer them an antidote?

Moving slowly while deep in thought, Tanner picked up the phone. There were people who owed him favors. It was time to call them in.

Tarfaya, Morocco

Hofstad leader Mustapha Aziz Samir was much more at home in the western Sahara desert than he was in the cooler, temperate climes of the Netherlands. Even though to most people this arid, brown coastal village seemed like a lost corner of the Earth that was best to remain that way, to Samir it was home. In a mud-colored stucco abode festooned with satellite dishes and antenna towers, he sat in a darkened room on the second floor, satellite phone in one hand, a TEC-9 automatic rifle leaning against the wall within easy reach. A small table in front of him supported a laptop and a tea setting, and a smattering of simple hand drums lay nearby on the floor — his only concession to entertainment.

He spoke in Dutch to one of his Lieutenants in the Netherlands, Bram Witte. Fifteen years Amir’s junior, he had been recruited to Hofstad while still a teen, his weekly visits to the Mosque initially a harmless venture born of innate curiosity, then transforming into in-depth brainwashing sessions under the guise of religious studies.

“The Hague embassy is still open,” Witte reported.

“Proceed as planned,” Samir commanded, ready to end the call.

“There is more,” his Lieutenant said.

“Tell me.”

“A call was received. An antidote to STX has been developed by a private U.S. lab. They are offering to give us both a batch of working antidote as well as the formula for $10,000 U.S. dollars.”

Samir asked why it was so cheap.

“They say they the amount covers development costs only. They want us to have it, to prevent more deaths. They have proposed a meeting place.”

“Where?”

“Charleston, South Carolina.”

Samir thought about this location. East coast, but not close to the seat of power, Washington, D.C. But not all that far, really, either.

Witte asked him if he wanted to act.

“Yes. But only in such a way as it does not impact the next strike team. And send no one higher than Tier 2.”

“Understood.” Witte signed off.

Samir smiled, tenting his hands. Could it be a trap? Yes. He was not still alive after leading his jihad-style group for almost three decades without equal doses of wariness, extra-caution and paranoia. But that is what expendable warriors eager for the endless virgins in the afterlife were for.

Bethesda, Maryland

Tanner disconnected the call and grinned like a Cheshire cat. Unbelievably, it had worked. He had plied his web of contacts — some of them frighteningly tenuous — but he had managed to get through to a mid-level operator within Hofstad and set up a rendezvous for the antidote. There was no doubt that they truly desired the STX antidote, though, to be willing to jump through such hoops for it, and that in itself concerned Tanner greatly. They were planning something big. The football attack was just the beginning.

Next, Tanner placed calls to Liam and Danielle. He and Danielle would pose as reps from the biotech company and actually meet face-to-face with the Hofstad contacts. Liam would be dropped in the vicinity of the drop ahead of time, ready to forcibly intervene should things head in a wrong direction.

The meeting was set for tonight at 8pm, in four hours time. The next day would see the expiration of the threat window, so Tanner knew that this was likely the only chance they would get at climbing sufficiently high on Hofstad’s hierarchy ladder to be able to make a difference. He knew that they wouldn’t be careless enough to send high ranking members. The possibility of a trap would not escape them. Militia-wise, they’d send lower level sleeper cell jihadists. Men who were trained to kill but who didn’t know too much about how the organization was run, should they be captured and tortured.

But they would need a scientist, or at the very least a highly experienced lab technician. This person, Tanner had a hunch, would be no more than one or perhaps two intermediaries removed from Hofstad’s brass. He could be physically tailed, electronically traced or both in an attempt to find his superiors. But the first thing they would have to do is to convince him that they did, in fact, have a functioning antidote for STX, else there was no reason for him to even contact Hofstad’s inner circle. Tanner had no idea how to accomplish that, but he knew who did.

* * *

Jasmijn looked up from her microscope to see Dante engaged in conversation. He wasn’t talking to Nay, who catted around the room on patrol, and he wasn’t talking to Jasmijn. Nor did he hold an obvious device like a cell-phone or radio in his hand, either, so she assumed he must be listening with his earbud and talking through a tiny mic, perhaps a clip-on. She decided not to get too distracted by it, and got back to her work on the antidote.

It was slow going. Progress was excruciating. The work was a vexing combination of tedious complexity and visual acuity with a microscope that mentally ground her down at an unrelenting pace. But with untold lives at stake, Jasmijn knew that resting was not an option. She sipped from a Diet Coke as she worked. She had almost lost herself in the protocols once again when she heard Dante calling her name.

She looked up from the microscope. He was walking toward her, arm extended, holding a smartphone he must have produced from a pocket since the last time she’d looked at him.

“Tanner wants to talk to you.” He handed her the phone and she put it to her ear.

“How are you? Everything okay? Line is secure, no one listening but me. You can talk freely.”

She recapped their travel and told him everything was fine so far. “I’m working on the antidote right now. Slow going, but it’s going.”

“I wanted to ask you about that. Do you think you can create a fake antidote that might pass inspection by a scientist for at least a few hours, even though it ultimately doesn’t work?”

Jasmijn pursed her lips as she watched the pair of OUTCAST spooks case the room.

“That’s easy. You could take a glass of Kool-Aid and say it’s an antidote. Unless they’re willing to test it on a live subject whose been infected with STX, it’d take several hours at least to confirm the chemical composition. But this is Hofstad we’re talking about, so it wouldn’t surprise me if they used it on an infected lab animal. Or person.”

In Maryland, Tanner frowned. He hadn’t considered this. Still, his goal was only to gain access to whoever it was that was calling the shots for the next attack. In his mind, all he had to do was get close to them and he would take it from there.

“I just want them to agree to a meeting where I’ll be posing as a biotech rep with an STX antidote for sale. Can you email me some information about an antidote that would sound legitimate?”

“Well yes, I–I can do that, but…” Jasmijn stammered as she comprehended Tanner’s meaning. “I thought you wanted the real thing, though? If you try to bluff them with a fake, what happens when — if— I have the real deal? They won’t believe it.”

“They’ll be the ones contacting you for an antidote, remember? In this case, we’re going to them. They won’t connect the two different sources.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“We don’t have much choice, Jasmijn. Another attack is coming tomorrow. If we’re going to stop it, I need to get to them. I don’t see how else to get to them but to lure them to me.”

“I’ll send you some convincing-sounding info along with a simple recipe you can use to make something in the kitchen that looks authentic at first glance.”

“Great. I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Tanner!”

“Yeah?”

“Please be careful.”

Jasmijn handed the phone back to Dante, who resumed his patrol with Naomi. Jasmijn shook her head at the audacity of the OUTCAST leader’s plan and set about concocting his bogus antidote.

Charleston, South Carolina

Tanner Wilson adjusted his tie in front of a mirror in his room at the Hilton near the airport. He disliked wearing a suit, but in this case it was good tradecraft. He was a biotechnology executive with a product to sell. He heard a coded knock at the door (two-one-three), checked the peephole anyway, then opened it.

Danielle Sunderland. She’d booked into the adjoining room as though they were traveling business partners, which in a way they were. Both of them were checked in under assumed names and using a business credit card obtained under the shell name, Helix Biotechnologies, L.L.C. Tanner carried fancy business cards which included a small circuit and flexible screen containing a simple but playable video game. A great gimmick, lots of wow factor, the salesman had said. But also a practical one, in Tanner’s case. Besides the game, the card also concealed a miniature GPS transponder. He was banking on the fact that they wouldn’t scan it for invasive tech while still in his presence.

If they did, he was prepared to fight.

“Do I look happy to see you?” he asked after Danielle had entered and he closed the door.

Her eyes roved up and down the contours of his suit and despite the role play, he found himself blushing a little.. “I don’t see a pistol in your pants, if that’s what you’re asking. In fact, I’d say you look good, Mr. Kohler!”

He checked the mirror on the door to be sure the outline of his Kahr PM9 didn’t show through his suit. Satisfied it was all but undetectable even to scrutinizing glances, he appraised his fellow operator. Danielle looked the part in a pressed pantsuit, hair in a tight bun and carrying a slim leather briefcase.

“You don’t look half bad yourself Ms. Halifax.” And he meant it. Somehow she’d managed to hide the dressed down computer geek that she truly was in the makeup and hairstyle of a corporate saleswoman. He liked it, but hoped he wasn’t too obvious about that fact.

“Ready for our big date?”

“You bet.”

“And our chaperone?”

“Liam is set up in the bar already.” It comforted him a great deal — and Danielle, too, he was sure — to know that ex-SEAL Liam Reilly had their back down there should things get too dicey.

Tanner picked up a larger metal attaché case on the floor, carefully hefting its weight to make sure he had a good grip on it. Per pre-arrangements with Hofstad’s contact made entirely through mobile text messages, all negotiations would take place in the hotel lobby bar. No private rooms or off-premises locales.

He glanced at his watch, now a Cartier more befitting a business executive than the waterproof G-Shock he normally favored. Twenty minutes until the arranged meeting time. He wanted to be there early but not too early, lest they appear suspicious. He decided fifteen minutes, while ordering a drink and appetizer, would be in accordance with a businessman wishing to be well settled in and prepared for an important meeting.

When they got to the lobby Tanner could see that Hofstad’s man was already there. Green shirt, tan slacks, black hat, as stated in the texts. His was a dark skinned, swarthy complexion. He sat alone, also as stated, at one of the lobby bar’s outer cocktail tables. Tanner knew he wouldn’t really be alone, though. He’d have backup. The lobby was crowded with the evening rush. Perhaps it was the group of three men loudly watching sports three tables away. Or maybe it was the African American woman reading a newspaper on a lobby couch, facing the bar. Could even be the bartender, busy as he was. There was no time to stand here and try to pick them out. One person he knew it wasn’t, though, was the young man wearing a sombrero style beach hat, shorts, T-shirt, and sandy flip flops occupying a cocktail table in the middle of the bar, because that was Liam. A backpack with a pair of swim fins sticking out was slung over his chair, and he buried his nose in the current issue of
Surfer Magazine
while he nursed a large brew. A pair of white iPod earbuds, actually connected to a two-way radio, completed the ensemble.