well-organized, competent forces that may not even be working together.”
Wolf emitted a low whistle. He looked around the table and noticed that Sandy Carmichael’s hands were now clenched fists. “How might we become involved, sir?”
Burridge produced a short document and slid it across the table. “We cannot afford an attack on our food supply any more than we can afford an oil boycott. Depending on what might turn up, SSI could be deployed to other countries for purposes of deniability. That paper contains names, numbers, and the CVs of scientists and field agents who could prove helpful to you. Feel free to contact them — they’ve all been vetted.” He looked around. “We won’t be scrambling for last-minute scientific help next time.”
Derringer exchanged glances with George Ferraro, his chief financial officer. Both men realized that SSI had just been offered an open-ended contract. Discussion of that happy prospect would have to wait.
“Bruce, just for background. If Marburg or something else explodes here, how’s the government going to deal with it?”
“Well, that’s more FEMA’s bailiwick, but there’s contingency plans for local, state, and federal agencies. Most of the players know each other by now. Meanwhile, we’re still working up to full strength of thirty-two National Guard emergency response teams. They’re trained to deal with WMD attacks, though something like anthrax in a major metro area probably would be impossible to contain. As far as nukes…” He shrugged. “Hell, a couple of backpacks could come across the border on horses or burros.”
Wolf sat upright in his chair. “Animals!” He smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead — what he called “the marine salute” when Leopole was not around. He rifled through a stack of papers. “Why didn’t I think of it before?”
Derringer asked, “Think of what, Joe?”
“Here! I thought I remembered it!”
“For petesake,
“Animals! In Mannock’s notes, Jason’s mother said he worked in an animal shelter. The kid wanted to be a vet but didn’t have the grades. One of his letters goes into some detail about sheep and goats.”
“Yeah? So?”
Wolf unleashed a grin that could in fact have been called wolfish. “So… maybe our Dr. Ali is a veterinarian!”
15
Joe Wolf had done his homework, and then some.
He had been up almost constantly for fifty hours, working the internet, maintaining email contact with Pakistan and Britain, and making phone calls at rude hours. At 0845 he walked into Derringer’s office.
“My god, Joe, you look awful!”
Wolf laughed. “You should see me from this side of my eyeballs.”
Derringer stood and offered his domestic ops chief some coffee. Wolf waved it away. “I’ve lived on the stuff since yesterday afternoon and I’m still wired. I may not come off my caffeine high for days.”
“I’ll whistle up some juice and rolls.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Wolf slumped into a chair and plopped a notepad on the desk.
Derringer picked it up. “What’ve we got?”
“What we’ve got is Dr. Saeed Sharif, DVM. At least I think that’s who we want. Everything fits: geography, timing, and known activities. The other prospects are far less likely.”
“What about our mysterious Dr. Ali?”
“Looks like an alias. Sharif is a leading veterinarian in Baluchistan. Very highly regarded — does all kinds of good work among the heathen. If he were Catholic, he’d be an odds-on candidate for sainthood.”
Derringer nodded. “Okay, but what’s the al Qaeda connection?”
Wolf massaged his temples, blinking his reddened eyes. “It’s a long story. Sharif attended veterinary school in England during the 1980s. Evidently he had a real good time. That’s not unusual for Muslims. I knew a couple of Saudis in college, and they burned the candle at both ends because they knew once they returned home the good times would come to a screeching halt.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So… Sharif had a very good scholastic record — what we’d call an A and B student without much effort. And here’s the kicker — he took some optional classes in microbiology. Anyway, he had time to play, and he played the field. He got a couple of girls preggers, as the Brits say, but his family bought them off. He was also a boozer, evidently a borderline alcoholic. But he got his degree in ‘88 and returned to Pakistan and opened his own practice.”
Derringer rubbed his chin. “That doesn’t sound like a candidate for a Muslim fanatic.”
“Well, somewhere along the way he got religion. I’ve not been able to track that yet. But he pops up as a player in 1991, about the time…”
“Desert Storm.”
“Check.” Wolf looked around. “Uh, Mike, about the juice and rolls?”
“Oops, sorry.” Derringer buzzed the outer office and relayed the request. “Go ahead.”
Wolf sat up straighter, ordering his thoughts. “At first he was more vocal than active, but after the Russians left Afghanistan in ‘89 he became more interested in the Taliban. He disappeared for several months in ‘92 and again at odd intervals. Apparently he was back and forth across the border. He may even have known bin Laden. Anyway, he was certainly no friend of the U.S. He resented the American presence and our support of the Northern Alliance, especially since Afghanistan had mostly been a Muslim theocracy before 9-11.”
“Any idea what turned him around?”
“Just a theory. I’ve been working with Dave Dare — or at least I think I have!” Wolf chuckled at the insider’s joke. Allegedly Derringer was the only SSI member who had ever met the mysterious intelligence chief. “The contact has all been by email and phone. Anyway, you were right about him. Whatever the reason he left NSA was a real bonus for us. He put his research people on the case and they gave me some promising leads. I was able to track a couple of Sharif’s vet school classmates and one of them kept in touch with him for about a year and a half afterward. He says that Sharif began to regret the good times he spent chasing and boozing, and was trying to redeem himself. I’ve had a couple of emails with Omar, who says that makes sense. He says that Islam accepts those who repent their evil ways and devote themselves to spreading The Word.”
“Well, it looks like this Sharif is spreading a lot more than The Word.”
“Damn straight. He’s spreading the Marburg virus.”
Leopole sat at the head of the table in SSI’s improvised headquarters, joined by Omar Mohammed and the team leaders. “Gentlemen, I’ve heard from Arlington again. I asked them what we really know about Sharif or Ali or whoever he is, and the research division has been working overtime.”
“What’d they find out?” Foyte asked.
“Mainly what you’d expect of somebody with his background. He’s smart, maybe brilliant. Just getting into vet school is an accomplishment — sometimes it’s easier to get into medical school. He had excellent grades and conducted some independent study in microbiology. That fits with bio terror, but of course that came years later.”
Steve Lee appeared relaxed, polishing the lenses of his glasses. “Okay, that’s the doctor. What about the man?”
“That’s the best of it,” Leopole responded. “Dave Dare and Joe Wolf worked up a likely profile. We know from Ali’s college pals that he was a boozer and a chaser in his youth. At some point, likely in the early ‘90s, he became a born-again Muslim, probably because of his work with the Taliban in Afghanistan. He maintains a successful clinic in Islamabad but that’s evidently a way to fund his pro-bono work with poor farmers and tribesmen. Dr. Mohammed says it’s likely that the do-gooder in him led to the Marburg project as a way of redeeming his misspent youth.” Leopole nodded to his colleague.
