Target Zero (An Agent Zero Spy Thriller—Book #2)

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

Deputy Director Shawn Cartwright glanced at his wristwatch as he strode quickly along the carpeted West Wing corridor. It was just after five o’clock; less than twenty minutes earlier he had been sitting at his desk at Langley, finishing some paperwork and hoping he might make it home in time for dinner for once.

Then he received the urgent call, and then came the police escort, and then the White House.

Walking along a pace in front of him was Director Mullen, head of the Central Intelligence Agency. Mullen was fifty-six, his shining bald head ringed with a ridge of gray hair. Ordinarily the director was very good at obscuring his mood, but this afternoon he seemed keen not to waste any time on pretense. His posture was rigid and his gait quicker than Cartwright would have imagined it could be.

The black high heels clacking against the floor behind him belonged to Assistant Director Ashleigh Riker, a former intelligence officer who had worked her way up the chain. Mullen had brought her along because she was being vetted for the position of deputy director, specifically to head up Special Operations Group—an idea that Cartwright was very keen to enact, since Spec Ops had been temporarily absorbed into his jurisdiction, Special Activities Division, ever since the former deputy director, Steve Bolton, had been outed as a traitor. He had also been missing for the past month. Cartwright presumed—no, he hoped—Bolton was dead. He deserved nothing less for what he had done.

Cartwright had no idea what this emergency meeting was about, but he was smart enough not to ask. He knew he wouldn’t be told anything outside of the Situation Room.

The three CIA superiors paused outside a pair of oak double doors, guarded by two stoic Secret Service members in sunglasses who checked their credentials before granting them access.

As they did, Cartwright leaned toward Riker and said in a whisper, “Mouth shut and ears open. You’re about to meet a whole lot of important people.”

She nodded as Mullen led the way into the John F. Kennedy Conference Room, a five-thousand-square-foot center of command and intelligence in the basement of the White House’s West Wing, known more commonly as the Situation Room.

Seated around the twelve-person conference table were several faces familiar to Cartwright—White House Chief of Staff Peter Holmes, Press Secretary Christine Cleary, Secretary of Defense Quentin Rigby, and the Director of National Intelligence John Hillis. There were a few others that Cartwright didn’t immediately recognize, likely National Security Council members. Regardless, the very presence of those he knew lent to the potential gravity of whatever situation they were about to be told.

At the head of the long, dark table was a man whom Cartwright had met on a handful of occasions before, and not one of them ever pleasant. At forty-six years old, President of the Unites States Eli Pierson was fairly young for his office, with a head of thick brown hair that had not yet been grayed or thinned by his three years in office. President Pierson was not a career politician, but rather a business magnate who had been elected on a platform of significant trade reform and a viable plan for sustaining the United States’ nonrenewable resources.

“Mr. President.” Mullen briefly shook hands with Pierson, who did not rise from his chair.

“Sir.” Cartwright greeted him in turn, as did Riker.

“Have a seat,” said the president. “Thank you all for coming so quickly. As this is an urgent matter, I’m going to turn it directly over to Director Hillis for briefing.”

“Thank you, sir.” DNI Hillis rose and buttoned the top button of his dark blue suit jacket. He was an older man, in his mid-sixties, and Cartwright definitely noticed that his usually sharp eyes looked weary. Hillis pressed a button on a small black remote and the widescreen monitor mounted on the furthest wall of the Situation Room flickered to life, showing an office elsewhere with two men seated side by side, patched into the briefing via satellite. On the wall behind them was the blue and white logo of the CDC, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, Georgia.

A slight shiver ran up Cartwright’s spine. The involvement of the CDC could mean only one thing—a biological agent. But where? I haven’t heard anything.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Hillis began, “at approximately oh-two-hundred local time, a viral outbreak occurred in Barcelona, Spain, which is ongoing as we speak. The World Health Organization is on-site and working to contain the outbreak. The first known case, or what the CDC would refer to as ‘patient zero,’ was admitted to Hospital de l’Esperanca about”—he glanced at his wristwatch—“three hours and fifteen minutes ago. As of about twenty minutes ago, the entire city is undergoing lockdown. All airports are closed; all roadways are being blockaded. Federal law enforcement in Spain is under pressure from the European Union to temporarily close their borders.”

“Is this an isolated event?” asked President Pierson.

“So far, yes sir,” Hillis replied. “No other reports have come in from anywhere except Barcelona.”

General Rigby cleared his throat. “Was this an attack?” Cartwright had no doubt that was the question on everyone’s mind. It was certainly on his.

“Details are unclear at the moment,” Hillis told the room. He hesitated a moment before continuing, “However, the speed with which the infection spread, and the concentration in a major metropolitan area, suggests that this is not a natural occurrence.”

Cartwright was beginning to see what the CIA’s involvement in the matter would be.

“Sir?” Riker raised her hand. “Assistant Director Ashleigh Riker, CIA. Do we know what it is?”

Cartwright narrowed his eyes at her. Hadn’t he just told her to keep her mouth shut? She was the lowest rung on this ladder by far. Riker had a reputation for being smart as a whip and taking no grief from anyone, the latter of which she honed by virtue of being a woman in a traditionally male environment—which Cartwright respected, and he spoke highly of her whenever he had the opportunity, but this was not the time for posturing.

“I’ll let our friends at the CDC answer that, Ms. Riker.” Hillis gestured toward the monitor and the two men tuning in via satellite from Atlanta.

The older of the pair wore a dark suit under his salt-and-pepper hair. “For those that don’t know, I’m Dr. Thomas Fitzgerald, Director of the CDC. With me is Dr. Edwin Barnard, our lead virologist and expert in toxicology.”

Dr. Barnard nodded once. He wore a beige suit and his black hair was long, slicked back over his head and tied in the back in a stubby ponytail. Upon his nose was a pair of round, silver-rimmed eyeglasses and Cartwright thought he was in dire need of a shave.

Dr. Barnard adjusted his eyeglasses and cleared his throat. “I’ll begin with the only good news we have. The WHO believes it can contain the outbreak. They are establishing makeshift hospitals for anyone experiencing symptoms of the disease. As of the last report, just before this meeting, we have one hundred and sixty-seven confirmed cases.

“The lab at l’Esperanca has done some imaging and sent them to the WHO, with whom we have been in constant contact. I’ve had the chance to thoroughly review them myself, as well as some video of the virus’s effects. Here, take a look for yourself.” Dr. Barnard tapped a few keys, and their perspective shifted from the two men in the office to a grainy, shaky video that appeared to have been taken with a cell phone.

In the video, doctors tended to a man lying on a gurney, the color drained from his face, as he suffered through a seizure. As his limbs fell still and the doctors eased their grip, the patient turned his head to the side and vomited a liberal amount of dark blood onto the floor.

The press secretary gasped in shock. Cartwright’s own stomach turned at the sight. Jesus, he thought. He could have warned us.

“Apologies for the graphic nature,” Barnard said flatly as he switched off the video. “But I have little doubt about what we’re seeing here. Symptoms and cursory imaging are aligned with that of a mutated strand of variola major.”

“Smallpox,” Riker murmured.

Cartwright raised an eyebrow. How did she know that?

“Have there been any fatalities so far, Doctor?” President Pierson asked.

“Only one, Mr. President—our patient zero, a teenager.”

“So the virus is fatal?” the Secretary of Defense asked.

“I’m afraid it’s not quite that black-and-white, General.” Barnard pushed his eyeglasses up the ridge of his nose. “It’s too early to know the level of lethality, but we can definitively say that the virulence is much higher than that of naturally occurring smallpox.”

“But smallpox was eradicated.” Peter Holmes, the chief of staff, finally spoke up. Cartwright had always thought of him as something of a soft touch compared to Pierson’s no-nonsense tactics and straight-shooting. “Wasn’t it? Like polio, or Spanish flu.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, the WHO declared smallpox eradicated in 1980,” Barnard explained. “Since then there have been a few natural cases, but nothing we would consider outbreak level… until today.”

“What about vaccines?” Holmes pushed. “Surely there must be some preventative measure—”

“Modern vaccines would be completely ineffective against this strain,” Barnard interrupted. “This is unlike anything we’ve ever seen before. Which brings us to the crux of the matter: As I mentioned, this strain has been mutated—not by nature, but by human hands. It is a process known as mutagenesis, in which the RNA sequence of the virus is purposely altered as a means to an end. In this case, we’re looking at something that is much more virulent than ordinary smallpox, with effects that reflect the more severe hemorrhagic smallpox—which, naturally occurring, is quite rare, only about two percent of cases.”

A headache was beginning to form in Cartwright’s skull. If what Dr. Barnard was saying was correct, someone had done this on purpose—not just mutated the virus, but released it as well, which meant that the deputy director would soon be dispatching agents in search of a biological weapon.

General Rigby’s cell phone rang and he answered it, speaking in a hushed tone.

“So far no one has come forward to claim responsibility for this,” said Hillis. “Dr. Barnard, Dr. Fitzgerald—should we assume that the perpetrators have more of this virus?”

The two doctors exchanged an uneasy glance. Dr. Fitzgerald, the head of the CDC, cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “The samples were stolen from a WHO excavation site in Siberia. We have to assume they may have much more.”

“Can a vaccine be developed?” asked President Pierson.

Dr. Fitzgerald adjusted his tie nervously. “Well… yes, Mr. President. But it would take some time, and we would require samples of the virus. But while that is entirely possible, the mass production and dissemination to the entire developed world would be an enormous undertaking. It took the WHO years to eradicate smallpox. I don’t believe we have that kind of time.”

Cartwright understood immediately what the doctor was suggesting. If whoever did this had more, then Barcelona was only the beginning, and without more information they couldn’t begin to guess where they may strike next. Weaponized smallpox, he thought. What a goddamn nightmare.

General Rigby ended his call and turned to the president. “Sir, I’ve just received word that Spain is barring all international travel, under orders from the EU. France, Andorra, Portugal, and Morocco are temporarily closing their borders. The European Commission is currently convening to decide if the outbreak warrants the closure of all airports and seaports.” The Secretary of Defense paused for a brief moment before adding, “Until we know more, I would suggest we do the same.”

“Jesus,” murmured the chief of staff. “We can’t afford to incite a panic—”

“And we can’t afford to assume the US is not a target,” DNI Hillis interjected. “Barcelona could be a shell game, and we have very little information.”

“Do you have any idea how much closing international trade and travel would cost us, even for a day?” Holmes fired back. “We’re already teetering on another recession. We should wait until we have more information before we make such a brash decision—”

“Mr. Holmes, I think you’re mistaking brashness for cautiousness,” Hillis said heatedly. “If something like we’re seeing in Barcelona were to strike any major US city, the economy would be fairly low on the list of concerns…”

“Gentlemen.” President Pierson stood and the bickering men fell silent. Cartwright had to admit, though he didn’t care much for Pierson’s politics, the man could command a room. “We have to keep in mind that as a world power, the decision we make right now is going to affect other nations. We will be setting an example that others will likely imitate.” He rubbed his chin as he thought for a moment. “For now, we follow suit with the European Union’s edict. Close travel from Spain and all neighboring countries. If the situation escalates and the EU decides to close all international ports of entry… we will too.” The president directed his last comment directly to his chief of staff.

Holmes folded his arms, but said nothing.

“Dr. Fitzpatrick.” Pierson addressed the screen at the far end of the room opposite him. “The CDC has plans prepared for situations like this. What measures can we take to minimize disruption of international trade and travel?”

“Uh, well.” The doctor cleared his throat. “We can work with the WHO to establish exit screenings of all passengers bound for the US. Enhanced risk assessment at all ports of entry, heightened security, and education material for TSA, law enforcement, and emergency services.”

“Good,” Pierson replied with a single nod. “Get on it.”

“Sir, perhaps we should use the NTAS…” Hillis suggested.

“No,” Pierson said sharply. The National Terrorist Advisory System, Cartwright knew, was Homeland Security’s replacement for the former color-coded terror alert levels. “I don’t want the word ‘terror’ mentioned at all, anywhere. Does everyone understand that?” The president glanced around the Situation Room, meeting each pair of eyes as murmurs of assent rose.

“As far as the American public is concerned, a dangerous viral outbreak occurred in Europe, and we are simply protecting our nation from potential exposure,” the president continued. He turned to Press Secretary Cleary. “Christine, get on the podium and tell the press exactly that. If any rumor mills start up, you quash it. If any reports come out of Europe about this being an attack, our position is that we don’t have enough information to confirm it.”

“Yes sir.” She nodded.

“We’ll put the National Guard on standby,” General Rigby offered. “And send out a bulletin to medical staff, law enforcement, and emergency services. Let them know how to recognize the symptoms, and what to do in the event that anyone is believed to be infected.”

“That sounds like we’d be inviting a thousand cases of Munchausen’s,” Chief of Staff Holmes muttered.

“Maybe so,” the general countered, “but we need to consider the possibility that the virus is already here.”

“Rigby is right,” Pierson agreed. “Dr. Fitzgerald?”

“The only solution at the moment would be immediate quarantine,” the head of the CDC said without hesitation, “along with anyone that they may have come in contact with.”

“And a containment plan?”

“The CDC is actively working on one,” Fitzgerald replied. “But I should advise you, Mr. President, that if a major metropolitan area is hit, like New York or Boston, I just don’t know that we would have—”

Pierson held up a hand sharply and silenced the doctor. “I really don’t want to hear the words ‘don’t know’ again in this conversation. We need answers. Figure it out.” At long last he turned to the three CIA members seated to his left. “Director Mullen, I don’t think I need to tell you your role in this.”

“If this was an attack, we’ll find them,” Mullen confirmed.

“Before it happens again,” the president added sternly.

“We need this kept tight, quiet, and quick,” said General Rigby. “Interpol is already on this, as is Spain’s National Police, but we can’t assume their success and we have to protect American interests. You have people at the ready for that?”

Mullen turned to Cartwright expectantly; as the head of Special Activities Division, he was in the direct position to assign agents to covert international ops. But before the deputy director could say anything, Riker spoke up.

“We do,” she said clearly. “We have a specialist.”

Cartwright shot her a glare. Not only was it not her place to suggest anyone for this case, but he knew precisely who she meant as soon as she said it. But Riker did not return his gaze.

“Director Mullen,” Dr. Fitzgerald spoke up, “given the extremely sensitive nature of the virus and the mutation, the CDC would like to request that Dr. Barnard accompany your agents. His expertise includes not only viruses, but biological weapons as well.”

“With all due respect, Dr. Fitzgerald, I think it would be unwise to send a civilian along on this op,” said Mullen.

“I have field experience,” Barnard interjected. “I spent two years assisting US Special Forces in identifying bioterrorism agents in Afghanistan and Iran.”

Cartwright almost scoffed. He had difficulty believing the owlish, long-haired Barnard had much of what anyone would call “field experience.” He shot Mullen a dubious glance, but the director ignored it.

“Fine,” Mullen agreed. “If you believe you can pull your own weight, get on the first plane to Dulles. We’ll send a car.”

President Pierson stood and buttoned his jacket. “All right then. We know our position and we know what we need to do. Get to it. Dismissed.”

As soon as Cartwright was in the West Wing corridor outside the Situation Room, he spun on Riker. “Strange,” he said quietly, “I’m fairly certain the agents of Special Activities Division are my people.”

“You know there’s no one better for this,” she shot back. “We need someone smart enough to handle this right, brazen enough to get the job done… and reckless enough to take it on in the first place.”

“It’s been a month and he hasn’t given us an answer about his reinstatement. I don’t think he has any intention of coming back.”

“Well then,” said Riker, “maybe it’s time we give him an ultimatum.”

“Good luck,” Cartwright remarked. “He has a history of being somewhat headstrong.”

“From what I understand,” said Riker, “he doesn’t know a whole lot about his own history…”

“That’s enough out of both of you,” Director Mullen said sternly, coming up from behind Riker. “Were we not just in the same room? Do you understand what’s happening out there—what could happen here?”

“Yes sir,” Cartwright muttered.

“Riker, consider this your proving grounds,” said the director. “You’ll work directly with Cartwright to oversee the op.”

“Mullen.” Director of National Intelligence Hillis strode up to the trio. “We’ve gotten word that Interpol has established a temporary command center near Barcelona. They’re working with the WHO to try to back-trace the virus to a source. Have your agents rendezvous there; hopefully by then they’ve got some good news for us.”

“Yes sir.” Mullen turned back to Cartwright. “Make the calls. We brief at Langley as soon as humanly possible.”

The deputy director nodded. He didn’t want to admit it out loud, but Riker was right; there was no one better for the job, but he was not at all looking forward to making the call.

But push had come to shove, and it was time to force Agent Zero to make a choice.