'special.'
'John, it's been a principle of our government for many years that we never comment on intelligence operations. I will not change that principle.'
'The American people have a right and a need to know what sort of man sits in this office,' Plumber insisted.
'This administration will never discuss intelligence operations. As far as what sort of person I am, that's the purpose of this interview. Our country has to keep some secrets. So do you, John,' Ryan said with a level gaze into the commentator's eyes. 'If you reveal sources, you're out of business. If America does the same thing, people get hurt.'
'But—'
'The subject is closed, John. Our intelligence services operate under congressional oversight. I've always supported that law, and I will continue to uphold it, and that's it on this subject.'
Both reporters blinked pretty hard at that, and surely, Ryan thought, that part of the tape wouldn't make it onto the network tonight.
BADRAYN NEEDED TO select thirty people, and while the number wasn't especially difficult—nor was the required dedication—brains were. He had the contacts. If there was a surplus of anything in the Middle East, it was terrorists, men like himself, if somewhat younger, who had dedicated their lives to the Cause, only to have it wither before their eyes. And that only made their anger and dedication worse—and better, depending on one's point of view. On reflection, he needed only twenty smart ones. The rest just had to be dedicated, with one or two intelligent overseers. They all had to follow orders. They all had to be willing to die, or at least to take the chance. Well, that wasn't much of a problem, either. Hezbollah still had a supply of people willing to strap explosives to their bodies, and there were others.
It was part of the region's tradition—probably not one that Mohammed would have approved entirely, but Badrayn wasn't particularly religious, and terrorist operations were his business. Historically, Arabs had not been the world's most efficient soldiers. Nomadic tribesmen for most of their history, their military tradition was one of raiding, later quantified as guerrilla tactics, rather than set-piece battle, which was, in fact, an invention of the Greeks, passed along to the Romans and thence to all Western nations. Historically, a single person would step forward to become a sacrifice—in Viking tradition the person was called a 'berzerker,' and in Japan they'd been part of the special attack corps also known as kamikaze — on the field of battle, to swing his sword gloriously, and take as many of his foes off to be his servants in Paradise as possible. This was especially true in a. jihad, or 'holy war,' whose objective was to serve the interests of the Faith. It ultimately proved that Islam, like any religion, could be corrupted by its adherents. For the moment, it meant that Badrayn had a supply of people who would do what he told them to do, his instructions relayed from Daryaei, who would also tell them that this was, indeed, a jihad service in which lay their individual keys to a glorious afterlife.
He had his list. He made three telephone calls. The calls were relayed through several cutout chains, and in Lebanon and elsewhere, people made travel plans.
'SO, HOW'D WE do, coach?' Jack asked with a smile.
'The ice got pretty thin, but I guess you didn't get wet,' Arnie van Damm said with visible relief. 'You hit the interest groups pretty hard.'
'Isn't it okay to trash the special interests? Hell, everybody else does!'
'It depends on which groups and which interests, Mr. President. They all have spokespersons, too, and some of them can come across like Mother Teresa after a nice-pill—right before they slash your throat with a machete.' The chief of staff paused. 'Still, you handled yourself pretty well. You didn't say anything they could turn against you too badly. We'll see how they cut it up for tonight, and then what Donner and Plumber say at the end. The last couple of minutes count the most.'
THE TUBES ARRIVED in Atlanta in a very secure container called a «hatbox» because of its shape. It was in its way a highly sophisticated device, designed to hold the most dangerous of materials in total safety, multiple- sealed, and spec'd to survive violent impacts. It was covered with biohazard warning labels and was treated with great respect by the handlers, including the FedEx deliveryman who'd handed it over this morning at 9:14.
The hatbox was taken to a secure lab, where the outside was checked for damage, sprayed with a powerful chemical disinfectant, and then opened under strict containment procedures. The accompanying documents explained why this was necessary. The two blood tubes were suspected to contain viruses which caused hemorrhagic fever. That could mean any of several such diseases from Africa—the indicated continent of origin—all of which were things to be avoided. A technician working in a glove box made the transfer after examining the containers for leaks. There were none he could see, and more disinfectant spray made sure of that. The blood would be tested for antibodies and compared with other samples. The documentation went off to the office of Dr. Lorenz in the Special Pathogens Branch.
'GUS, ALEX.' Dr. Lorenz heard on the phone.
'Still not getting any fishing in?'
'Maybe this weekend. There's a guy in neurosurgery with a boat, and we have the house pretty well set up, finally.' Dr. Alexandre was looking out the window of his office at east Baltimore. One could see the harbor, which led to the Chesapeake Bay, and there were supposed to be rockfish out there.
'What's happening?' Gus asked, as his secretary came in with a folder.
'Just checking in on the outbreak in Zaire. Anything new?'
'Zip, thank God. We're out of the critical time. This one burned out in a hurry. We were very—' Lorenz stopped when he opened the folder and scanned the cover sheet. 'Wait a minute. Khartoum?' he muttered to himself.
Alexandre waited patiently. Lorenz was a slow, careful reader. An elderly man, rather like Ralph Forster, he took his time with things, which was one of the reasons he was a brilliant experimental scientist. Lorenz rarely took a false step. He thought too much before moving his feet.
'We just had two samples come in from Khartoum. Cover sheet is from a Dr. MacGregor, the English Hospital in Khartoum, two patients, adult male and four-year-old female, possible hemorrhagic fever. The samples are in the lab now.'
'Khartoum? Sudan?'
'That's what it says,' Gus confirmed.
'Long way from the Congo, man.'
'Airplanes, Alex, airplanes,' Lorenz observed. If there was one thing that frightened epidemiologists, it was international air travel. The cover sheet didn't say much, but it did give phone and fax numbers. 'Okay, well, we have to run the tests and see.'
'What about the samples from before?'
'Finished the mapping yesterday. Ebola Zaire, Mayinga sub-type, identical with the samples from 1976, down to the last amino acid.'
'The airborne one,' Alexandre muttered, 'the one that got George Westphal.'
'That was never established, Alex,' Lorenz reminded him.
'George was careful, Gus. You know that. You trained him.' Pierre Alexandre rubbed his eyes.
Headaches. He needed a new desk light.
'Let me know what those samples tell you, okay?'
'Sure. I wouldn't worry too much. Sudan is a crummy environment for this little bastard. Hot, dry, lots of sunlight. The virus wouldn't last two minutes in the open. Anyway, let me talk to my lab chief. I'll see if I can micrograph it myself later today—no, more likely tomorrow morning. I have a staff meeting in an hour.'
'Yeah, and I need some lunch. Talk to you tomorrow, Gus.' Alexandre—he still thought of himself more as «Colonel» than 'Professor' — replaced the phone and walked out, heading off to the cafeteria. He was pleased to find Cathy Ryan in the food line again, along with her bodyguard.
'Hey, Prof.'
'How's the bug business?' she asked, with a smile.
'Same-o, same-o. I need a consult, Doctor,' he said, selecting a sandwich off the counter.
'I don't do viruses.' But she did enough work with AIDS patients whose eye troubles were secondary to their main problem. 'What's the problem?'
'Headaches,' he said on the way to the cashier.
