Pandora's Legion

Wolf spread his hands. “Go ahead, Omar.”

“Two young men, about twenty. There’s complete agreement on that. They seem to be related, but just how is uncertain. Brothers, cousins, whatever. One apparently speaks some English, but we don’t know about the other.

“Names?”

“They received code names, apparently from Sharif before he was killed.” Wolf made a mental note. Omar’s really tired. Of course Sharif gave them names before he was killed! “The Urdu words are maqsad, or purpose, and badlah, which is revenge. Obviously, that indicates a depth of commitment consistent with suicide bombers. As before, the real trouble is lack of evidence. If they’re carrying the virus — and we must assume they are — it’s undetectable. They will probably have minimal luggage.” He looked around the room. “They won’t plan on living very long.”

The former FBI man absorbed that information. “Okay. What else?”

Mohammed plopped his notepad on the polished tabletop. “That’s it. At least for now.”

Carmichael emitted a low, pensive whistle. Wolf bit his lip, staring at an ornamental ashtray that would never be used. Finally he said, “Is there any chance this could be disinformation? We need to consider all the angles.”

“I don’t think so, Joe. As I said, Khan was present, and I learned I can trust him. After all, his family has suffered from terrorists. There’s also the political aspect. Whatever many Pakistanis think of us, the government does not want to have some of its citizens spreading deadly diseases in the U.S.” Mohammed knew that the reasons were tacitly obvious, mainly spelled with dollar signs.

Mohammed rubbed his eyes, then added, “There’s one other thing. Pakistani security forces brought in another suspect shortly before I left. Khan felt he’s potentially a good source, but evidently he’s a hard case. It may take some time to break him down.”

“My god, Omar. We don’t even know how much time we have! They need to lean on this guy, now!”

“Well, the embassy is aware of him. Or at least General Hardesty is, which amounts to the same thing. I believe he’s monitoring things as closely as he dares.”

Carmichael cleared her throat, casting sideways glances at both men. She knew the implications: the interrogation methods were unlikely to withstand congressional scrutiny, so Hardesty would keep his distance. “Ah, gentlemen…”

Wolf nodded. “Yes, Sandy.”

“Couldn’t some of our people… you know… provide technical assistance?” She etched quote marks in the air around “technical.”

“I suppose so…”

Mohammed interjected. “You’re suggesting drugs, Sandy?”

“Sure. It’s the quickest way, isn’t it?”

Mohammed replied, “Sodium pentothal has been erratic. The evidence I’ve seen indicates that stronger means are needed. Maybe psychoactives or hallucinogens.”

Wolf looked back to Mohammed. “Do you know who the prisoner is?”

“No. Only that he’s a foreigner. Khan said they caught him by accident, a little after our raid on Sharif’s hideout.”

“Well, as you all know, it is not SSI policy to use or advocate illegal methods, even overseas. But right now we’re looking at a hell of a big job. Either we get a break or we try to coordinate with several agencies in identifying and tracking every young Muslim male who enters this country for the next month or so.”

Sandy said, “That’s the admiral’s call, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. I’ll give him the info as soon as he returns from meeting with Burridge.”

FORT MARCY PARK

The government limousine turned off the road between Chain Bridge and Langley, entering the park within two minutes of the appointed time. Michael Derringer exited his Jaguar and walked the short distance to the Cadillac.

Homeland Security Secretary Burridge opened the rear door. “Hi, Mike.”

The former classmates shook hands, then Derringer asked, “Inside or out?”

Burridge extended his basketball player’s legs and eased himself from the seat. “It’s good to get out of the office. Let’s take a walk.”

After pacing through the blowing leaves, the friends stood at the perimeter, watching the Potomac flowing 275 feet below them. Derringer, who usually read history when he had time to himself, recalled that New York and Pennsylvania artillerymen had enjoyed the same view from 1862 onward.

Burridge got to the point. “Mike, I understand your concern over security. But we do have secure comm at DHS, you know.”

“You still log most calls, though, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah. Most of them. Why?”

Derringer turned ninety degrees to face his friend. “Bruce, what I have to say is not anything that you want known on the Hill — by your friends or enemies.”

The DHS czar nodded solemnly. “Okay. Fire away.”

Derringer inhaled, then expelled his breath. “The Pakistanis have a valuable asset. They nabbed him a couple of nights ago, and there’s every reason to believe he knows about the last Marburg kamikazes. Or, at least what we think is the last. The doctor who injected the volunteers is dead.”

“Yeah, I got that word. But what about this other asset?”

“He’s a Syrian called Kassim. That may or may not be his real name, but he’s been positively ID’d as one of Sharif’s men. Apparently he lost a foot fighting the Russians in Afghanistan, and he’s been in more or less continuous combat since then. Our contact says that a couple of the interrogators openly admire the guy.”

“What’s he know about the volunteers?”

“It looks as if he escorted them to their point of departure from the border. Evidently he was returning to Sharif when he ran into a Paki patrol. There was a brief shootout and he was captured.” Derringer did not bother mentioning that the veteran fighter had killed one Pakistani and wounded another.

“So we missed the two guys by just…”

“Probably a few hours.”

“Then,” Burridge concluded, “this Syrian knows what they look like and probably knows their names.”

“That’s right. Although they could travel on forged papers.”

“And Hardesty at the embassy knows all this?”

“Check.”

“So, what do you need from me, Mike?”

Derringer glanced around to ensure no one overheard. “The Syrian hasn’t said much yet — and believe me, that means he’s hardcore.”

Burridge began to understand. He did not ask for details about third-world interrogation techniques but he knew the figures: three to five percent of al Qaeda prisoners would die rather than reveal information they held dear. “You’re asking me to make a back-channel request via our embassy to use — ahem — extraordinary measures to interrogate a third-party national deemed a major security risk.”

“You got it, shipmate.”

Burridge turned back toward the river. He had seldom been to the park, and only knew of its recent history. I wonder where they found Vince Foster’s body, he mused. He recalled the news report: the Park Service spokesman had actually declared, “It’s a suicide because we say it’s a suicide.”

“The locals aren’t going to use extraordinary means unless we request it?”

“That’s the word from our Pakistani liaison and General Hardesty. As I said, some of the interrogators admire the Syrian.”

DHS nodded slowly, staring at the Potomac. “Well, it’s my potato and I can’t toss it up the line. The president needs to maintain deniability.”

Derringer nudged his friend with an elbow. “Hey, that’s why we get the big bucks.”

Burridge did not smile. “Alright. I’ll pass the word immediately.” He looked closely at Derringer. “What do you