Each member gave a quick summary of recent discoveries. Tony reported that Dyson had died without recovering enough for serious questioning, and had mumbled only nonsense before he died. Jack cursed at that, but said nothing else. He repeated the information he’d pulled out of Kasim Turkel. Nina’s information surprised them all.
“Nurmamet Tuman is former Chinese intelligence. That’s about all I could get from my contact at the consulate, and even getting that was like pulling teeth,” she said. “My assumption is that he was Uygur trained to spy on other Uygurs, but my guy didn’t say any of that.”
“Maybe he was turned,” Jack mused. “Pretending to spy when his heart was still with his homeland.”
Nina nodded. “I thought the same thing, but they weren’t having any of it. It’s hard to have a conversation when they don’t even acknowledge that the separatists exist. There’s one other thing.” She paused. “When I was leaving Tuman’s house, the Secret Service arrived. They wouldn’t tell me why they were there. They seemed to know Tuman already.”
“You think they’re meeting at Tuman’s house? That wouldn’t make sense,” Tony pointed out. “Too public, too small, too insecure.”
Jack turned to Henderson. “We need to give them our information. Even if they won’t tell us what’s going on, they can at least change their plans; maybe that’ll stop al-Libbi.”
Henderson nodded in approval. Sometimes the best way to thwart a terrorist plan was the simplest: change a date, a time, a route. Denial of information was a primary part of counterintelligence, and counterintelligence was a foundational tool in any anti-terrorist organization. “I’ll ask Chappelle. But he might be in a mood.”
Jessi was standing back from the conversation, but she had continued to study the screen. “You know who else’s schedule matches up,” she said. “President Novartov from Russia. Remember, the contact I made was Russian, and the information on the Tuman connection was Russian.”
Jessi knew what they were going to ask the minute they spoke up. Henderson put the phone in her hand, and she dialed the number. A moment later she was listening to Anastasia Odolova’s melodramatic voice say, “My Jessi, what can I do for you now?”
Jessi felt extremely self-conscious with four experienced field agents all staring at her. “Anastasia, thanks again for helping before. If you have a minute, I could use a little more guidance.”
There was a pause, during which the analyst was sure she could feel Odolova smiling on the other end of the line. “First things first, Jessi. Call me Anna. Now, what else can I do for you?”
Jessi looked at Bauer and the others, who were studying her closely. Bauer, especially, made her nervous. The intensity in his eyes, in his movements, always shocked her in contrast to his boyish good looks. She knew how good he was at his job, but she hoped that he never had to turn that steely focus on her. “I’m digging into this Marcus Lee situation,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Everywhere I look, Russia keeps popping up. I thought you might be able to tell me a little more about what Tuman, or Lee, or whatever he’s called, might be up to.”
“Well, I always have an idea or two in my head,” Odolova replied. “But theories are sometimes misunderstood. It might be best if I were to tell you in person.”
“No, no,” Odolova said gently, but firmly. “You are Kelly’s friend. I’m happy to meet with you, but no one else. And, if my idea is correct, we should meet soon. I can be at the Cat & Fiddle on Sunset in thirty minutes. I’ll be wearing white.” With these final words, the Russian’s voice had quickened to a short, terse tone, informing Jessi that this was her only offer.
“Okay,” she said weakly. Odolova hung up.
Jessi relayed the conversation to the group.
“She’s not a field agent,” Tony said, voicing her thoughts.
“She should go,” Jack insisted. “We’re missing pieces here, and if this Odolova woman can give us some, we need them. Come on.”
He grabbed Jessi by the wrist and started to guide her to the stairs when the phone rang. Henderson picked it up and said it was for Bauer.
Jessi was relieved. Now she would have time to a phone call of her own before they left.
“Bauer,” Jack said.
“Agent Bauer, this is Ken Diebold with National Health Services. You sent us over a blood sample to examine.”
Jack’s attention narrowed suddenly to a laserlike focus. “Yes. What can you tell me?”
“The blood sample contains a virus…a sort of virus we haven’t seen before. Are you familiar with Ebola or Mar-burg?”
Jack felt as though a hand had clenched around his heart. “Yes.”
“They are hemorrhagic fevers. So is this one. We don’t know much about it, yet, but we’re using Marburg as a model. This subject is the second case we’re studying.”
“Wait,” Bauer said. “My colleagues should hear this.” He switched to the speakerphone and motioned for Nina to close the door.
Diebold continued. “If our information is accurate, this subject will be contagious about twenty-four hours after exposure, and will die a few hours after that.” Diebold paused. “I have some knowledge of your agency’s activities, Agent Bauer. Do you have the subject in custody? Do you know when he was exposed?”
Jack felt the hand try to tear his heart from his chest. “Yes,” he said quietly. He checked his watch. “About eight hours ago.”
“He needs to be isolated immediately,” Diebold said. “He’s no danger to anyone yet, but we expect lesions to appear on the skin. Once they break open, the patient is contagious and the virus can spread.”
“Isn’t there anything—?”
“A virus is a difficult thing to kill,” the NHS doctor replied. “There is no cure for Marburg.”
“You said this was the second case…?” Henderson asked.
“The other was reported to us from Brazil, from an area called Minas Gerais. We’re guessing that’s where the virus originates. Was your subject recently there?”
“No,” Jack said. But he was distracted. Tony Almeida’s eyes had widened at the doctor’s words.
“Agent Bauer,” Diebold said. “It’s imperative that we get your subject quarantined as soon as possible. If this virus is half as contagious as Marburg, it could take out half the population of Los Angeles in a matter of days.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Jack said. He hung up. “What?” he said to Tony.
Almeida frowned thoughtfully. “That’s the second time I’ve heard someone mention that place. Minas Gerais, or something like that? Dyson talked about it this morning, right before he tried to kill me. He was talking about coffee. I didn’t think there was any kind of connection.”
Jack felt frustrated anger boil up inside him. His daughter was dying and didn’t even know it, and Almeida was forgetting important information. “Did he say anything else?” he said evenly.
Tony saw the fire in Bauer’s eyes and countered it with cool professionalism. “Not unless you count the babbling he did right before he died. He saw me and mumbled something about a joke I made about monkeys earlier today. He talked about gangs of monkeys.”
Jack’s eyes lit up.
The ocean breeze blew across the southern face of the Santa Monica Mountains, cooling Nurmamet Tuman’s grounds, which had turned gold-green in the late afternoon sunlight. Tuman stepped out of the house to enjoy the breeze, leaving behind the two Secret Service agents who were stationed in his living room.
Out in the backyard, his “gardener” was moving equipment and clipping the hedges. He was butchering them, of course, because that’s what Ayman al-Libbi was: a butcher.
Tuman had been anxious ever since the female Federal agent had come to his door. He’d managed to hide his anxiety from her, of that he was sure. He had spent a lifetime concealing his thoughts and desires, even in the face of the most startling surprises. But although he could hide his fear from the woman, he could not hide it from
