therefore sent a note saying he would be at the London conference and could be contacted there.
And into this mess walks Charles Dean, Kegan’s friend since high school.
Coincidence?
Surely.
An unexplained murder at the home of a biology expert who had been contacted by possible terrorists — precisely the sort of situation Desk Three had been created to investigate.
Well, not precisely, but the executive order establishing the organization was suitably vague. Rubens picked up the phone and dialed the FBI.
5
Kjartan “Tommy” Magnor Karr walked up to the two men dressed in black and stretched out his arms.
“Maybe I can fly,” he told them.
The men didn’t laugh. As a general rule, the National Security Agency’s men in black didn’t have much of a sense of humor, and the select few who manned security at OPS 2/B — also known as the Headquarters/Operations Building National Security Operational Control Center Secure Ultra Command — were about as given to laughing as the hand-built supercomputers in the basement.
Besides, they’d heard that one many times.
The two men waved two small wands over Karr’s body. One of the devices checked for electronic recorders and bugs; the other was a metal detector sensitive enough to detect the paper clip Karr had inadvertently forgotten about in the change pocket of his jeans.
“Just testing you, guys,” said Karr, handing it over.
The two men resumed the scan. A second snag would mean a trip to a room around the corridor where, shoeless, Karr would be stood in the middle of a chamber that simultaneously conducted X-ray and magnetic resonance scans of his body; the search wasn’t painful, but it would make him even later for his meeting downstairs. The blond, blue-eyed Scandinavian-American giant waited silently, forgoing his usual kidding around in hopes that the Black Suits would quickly clear him through. The men were efficient but not particularly quick, and they stuck religiously to the security protocol, slowly running their scanners over every inch of his six-seven frame.
“Mr. Karr,” intoned his boss when he finally made it down to the conference room. William Rubens pushed back his suit jacket sleeve to expose his Hermes watch; Karr smiled and took a seat next to Charlie Dean.
“Where’s Lia?” he asked Dean.
“She’s on assignment,” said Rubens. “If we may continue.”
Karr reached for one of the 7UP cans on the table, then slid back in the seat. The NSA spent billions of dollars a year on high-tech computers and other gadgets; the table, for example, had flat-panel video screens that rose on command from the glass surface and could be tied into any number of inputs. It seemed as if no expense had been spared for Desk Three, which had its own satellite network, a small but potent air force, and hand-built weapons and sensors. But there were priorities: the seats arrayed around the table were so cheap the plastic nearly bent over backward under his weight.
Then again, Karr wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Rubens picked them purposely to make sure everyone stayed awake during his interminable briefings.
“Dr. Lester is from the CDC,” said Rubens, introducing everyone. “Bill Westhoven is with the FBI. You’ve already met Dean. Tommy Karr is one of our best people. Chris Carter, Joe Tyler, are experts in germ warfare.”
Rubens clicked a small remote control in his hand.
“This is Dr. James Kegan. He’s regarded as one of the world’s preeminent experts on bacteria and viruses, though his expertise is fairly wide-ranging.”
As Rubens spoke, the video panels began to rise. A picture of a fiftyish, ponytail-wearing man in an open- collar shirt filled the screens.
“Dr. Kegan has consulted with the FBI, CDC, and various other government agencies on facets of germ cultivation and weaponization,” said Rubens. “Recently, he was contacted by persons apparently unknown to him, contacts that he had questions about.”
Karr sipped his soda, waiting for Rubens to get to the punch line. He’d been called back to duty after only a few days of what was supposed to be a two-week vacation, so he knew something serious was up. But Rubens wasn’t exactly the explaining kind — or rather, he did explain, but always in his own way after an interminable lead- in.
Dean shifted in his seat next to Karr. He cocked his eye toward the older man, who seemed unusually uncomfortable.
It was more than just the chair. His face had tinged red.
“Dr. Kegan was due to attend a conference in London two days from now,” continued Rubens. “The FBI had hopes that the people who tried contacting him would show up. Dr. Kegan apparently did not know who it was who had contacted him. It’s not clear why, therefore, he thought it suspicious. We’ve been able to track the contact to a Ukrainian company named UKD,” continued Rubens. “Their purpose is not entirely clear. UKD, however, is connected with both the international underworld and the Research Institute for Viral Preparations in Moscow, which has some interesting intersections with the Russian germ warfare program.”
“So what’s the punch line?” Karr asked.
“The punch line is that Dr. Kegan has disappeared,” said Rubens, “after someone was found murdered in his house.”
“A John Doe,” said the FBI agent.
“Kegan’s disappearance presents us with a problem checking this connection out,” said the FBI agent. “We don’t have enough time to develop another source. So we were hoping that with your technology, you could fill the gap.”
“What are we going to do, clone him?” said Karr. He smiled at the scientists, but their expressions remained somber.
“What they have in mind is sending a replacement who can claim to be his assistant,” said Dean. “Someone who knows a lot about him.”
“Like who?” said Karr.
“He was a friend of mine,” said Dean. “I’m the one who discovered he was gone.”
“And the body,” added the FBI agent.
“And the body,” said Dean.
“You think your friend shot this guy, Charlie?” asked Karr.
“I don’t know,” said Dean. “Probably not.”
Under other circumstances, Tommy might have laughed and said something funny, something to get everyone to relax. But Charlie was too serious, and even Karr fell silent. He’d only met Dean a short time ago. The two men were very different; Dean was more than twice as old as the twenty-three-year-old Karr and even under the best of circumstances considerably less easygoing. But the danger they’d faced together had drawn them close; Tommy felt sorry for his friend. Dean had obviously learned something he didn’t want to learn about someone he’d thought he’d known.
“Kegan wouldn’t kill anyone,” said Dean, folding his arms. The room remained silent for a moment.
“So all right. When are we leaving for London?” Karr asked finally.
“Mr. Dean will spend the next day being briefed on some of the areas that Dr. Kegan was working in,” said Rubens. “Lia DeFrancesca is already en route to London to prepare for surveillance there. The FBI is in the process of obtaining subpoenas to check on the lab work that Dr. Kegan performed at a variety of institutions; we should know if there’s anything unusual in a few days.”
“What about me?” asked Karr.
“For the moment, I’d like you to go to Dr. Kegan’s home in New York and take a fresh look at it.”
“Poke through the garbage cans, huh?”
