“Doctor, that’s the third good piece of news today,” Alexandre breathed. The first had been the woman at Hopkins. The second was Pickett’s analytical data. Now
1158
the third was Gus’s lab work and the logical conclusion it led to. “John always said that bio-war was more psychological than real.”
“John’s a smart doc, Alex. So are you, my friend.”
“Three days and we’ll know.”
“Agreed. Rattle some beads, Alex.”
“You can reach me through Reed for the time being.”
“I’m sleeping in the office, too.”
“See ya.” Alexandre punched off the speakerphone. Around him were six Army physicians, three from Walter Reed, three from USAMRIID. “Comments?” he asked them.
“Crazy situation,” a major observed with an exhausted smile. “It’s a psychological weapon, all right. Scares the hell out of everybody. But that works for us, too. And somebody goofed on the other side. I wonder how . . . ?”
Alex thought about that for a moment. Then he lifted the phone and dialed Johns Hopkins. “This is Dr. Alexandre,” he told the desk nurse on the medical floor. “I need to talk to Dr. Ryan, it’s very important . . . okay, I’ll hold.” It took a few minutes. “Cathy? Alex here. I need to talk to your husband, and it’s better if you’re there, too. . . . It’s damned important,” he told her a moment later.
55
COMMENCEMENT
TWO HUNDRED FILES meant two hundred birth certificates, two hundred driver’s licenses, houses or apartments, sets of credit cards, and all manner of other permutations to be checked out. It was inevitable that once such an investigation started, Special Agent Aref Raman would garner special attention from the three hundred FBI agents assigned to the case. But in fact every Secret Service employee who had regular access to the White House was on the immediate checklist. All across the country (the USSS draws personnel from as wide a field as any other government agency), agents did start with birth certificates and move on, also checking high-school yearbooks for graduation pictures to be compared with ID photos of all the agents. Three agents on the Detail turned out to be immigrants, some of whose exact personal details could not be easily checked. One was French-born, having come to America in his mother’s arms. Another hailed from Mexico, having actually come illegally with her parents; she’d later legitimatized her status and distinguished herself as a genius with the Technical Security Division–and a ferociously patriotic member of the team. That left “Jeff Raman as an agent with some missing documentation, which was reasonably explained by his parents’ reported refugee status.
In many ways, it was too easy. It was on his record that he’d been born in Iran and had come to America when his parents had fled the country with the fall of the Shah’s regime. Every indicator since showed that he had fully adapted to his new country, even adopting a fanaticism for basketball that was a minor legend in the Service. He almost never lost a wager on a game, and it was a standing joke that professional gamblers consulted him on the line for an important game. He was always one to enjoy a beer with his colleagues. He’d developed an outstanding service reputation as a field agent. He was unmarried. That was
1160
not terribly unusual for a federal law enforcement officer. The Secret Service was especially tough on spouses who had to share their loved ones (mainly husbands) with a job far more unforgiving than the most demanding mistress– which made divorce more common than marriage. He’d been seen around with female company, but didn’t talk about that much. Insofar as he had a private life, it was a quiet one. It was certain that he’d had no contacts at all with other Iranian-born citizens or aliens, that he was not the least bit religious, that he’d never once brought up Islam in a conversation, except to say, as he’d told the President once, that religion had caused his family so much grief that it was a subject he was just as happy to leave alone.
Inspector O’Day, back at work because Director Murray trusted him with the sensitive cases, was not the least bit impressed with this or any other story. He supervised the investigation. He assumed that the adversary, if he existed, would be an expert, and therefore the most plausible and consistent identity was to him only a potential cover to be examined. Better yet, there were no rules on this one. Agent Price had made that determination herself. He picked the local investigating team himself from Headquarters Division and the Washington Field Office. The best of them he assigned to Aref Raman, now, conveniently, in Pittsburgh.
His apartment in northwest D.C. was modest, but comfortable. It had a burglar alarm, but that was not a problem. The agents selected for the illegal breaking-and-entering included a technical wizard who, after defeating the locks in two minutes, recognized the control panel and punched in the maker’s emergency code–he had them all memorized–to deactivate the system. This procedure had once been called a “black bag job,” a term which had fallen by the wayside, though the function itself had not quite done so. Now the term “special operation” was used, which could mean anything one wanted it to.
The first two agents in the door called three more into the apartment after the break-in had been effected. They photographed the apartment first of all, looking for possible telltales: seemingly innocent or random objects
I 1161
which, if disturbed in any way, warned the occupant that someone had been inside. These could be devilishly hard things to detect and defeat, but all five of the agents were part of the FBI’s Foreign Counterintelligence Division, both trained against and trained by professional spooks. “Shaking” the apartment would take hours of exquisitely tedious effort. They knew that at least five other teams were doing the same thing to other potential subjects.
TH E P-3C WAS hovering at the edge of the radar coverage for the Indian ships, keeping low and bumping through the roiled air over the warm surface of the Arabian Sea. They had tracks on thirty emitters from nineteen sources. The powerful, low-frequency search radars were the ones they worried about most, though the threat-receivers were getting traces of SAM radars as well. Supposedly, the Indians were running exercises, their fleet back at sea after a long stand-down for maintenance. The problem was that such workup exercises were quite indistinguishable from battle readiness. The data being analyzed by the onboard ELINT crew was downlinked to Anzio and the rest of the escorts for Task Group COMEDY, as the sailors had taken to calling the four Bob Hopes and their escorts.
The group commander was sitting in his cruiser’s combat information center. The three large billboard displays (actually rear-projection televisions linked to the Aegis radar-computer system) showed the location of the Indian battle group with a fair degree of precision. He even knew which of the blips were probably the carriers. His task was a complex one. COMEDY was now fully formed. Under way- replenishment ships Plane and Supply were now attached to the group, along with their escorts Hawes and Can, and over the next few hours all of the escorts would take turns alongside to top off their fuel bunkers–for a Navy captain, having too much fuel was like having too much money: impossible. After that, the UNREP ships would be ordered to take position outboard of the leading tank carriers, and the frigates outboard of the trailers. O’Bannon would move forward to continue her. ASW search–the Indians had two nuclear sub-
1162
marines, and nobody seemed to know where they were at the moment. Kidd and Anzio, both SAM ships, would back into the formation, providing close air defense. Ordinarily the Aegis cruiser would stand farther out, but not now.
The reason for that came not from his mission orders, but from TV. Every naval vessel in the group had its own satellite-TV receiver; in the modern Navy, the sailors wanted and got their own cable system, and while the crew spent most of their time watching the various movie channels–Playboy was always a favorite, sailors being sailors–the group commander was overdosing on CNN, because while his mission orders didn’t always give him all the background information he needed for his missions, very often commercial TV did. The crews were tense. The news of events at home could not have been concealed from them in any case, and the images of sick and dying people, blocked interstates, and empty city streets had initially shaken them badly, causing officers and chiefs to sit down with the men on the mess decks to talk things through. Then had come these orders. Things were happening in the Persian Gulf, things were happening at home, and all of a sudden the MPS ships, with their brigade set of combat vehicles, were heading for the Saudi port of Dhahran .. . and the Indian navy was in the way. The crew was quiet now, Captain Greg Kemper of USS Anzio saw. His chiefs reported that the “troops” were not laughing and cutting up in the mess rooms, and the constant simulations on the Aegis combat system in the past few days had conveyed their own message. COMEDY was sailing in harm’s way.