Allenby glanced quickly at his files. “A handful of possibilities, J. D. I’ll get entire dossiers on each one to your department by end of work today. We’ll be approaching this problem with total interdepartmental cooperation. Anything you need, just ask.”
Rothery nodded his approval. “Thanks, Jim. What’s going on outside our borders, Craig?”
Craig Simms, Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, had been quiet, assimilating information. He was a thoughtful, academic man with intelligent gray eyes and a full head of silver hair that matched his eyes perfectly. He was a veteran of the espionage community, and his knowledge of terrorist cells operating worldwide was renowned. He shifted his gaze to the people at the table as he spoke, ignoring the thick file he had brought with him to the meeting.
“We have identified twenty-seven possible locations in nine countries where there is what we consider to be the right mixture of personnel and facilities. There are thousands of buildings that could be used to create and breed this virus, but only a few molecular biologists that would have the expertise and hate the United States enough to actually do it. We’ve spent the last few weeks tracking these experts and we know where most of them are. Getting into some of these labs will be easy; others will be next to impossible, but we’re ready to begin covert ops if necessary. Seventeen of the labs are in countries where our operatives can move about in relative anonymity, but the other ten are in very hostile territory. At present, we’re using satellites to watch every vehicle that leaves these labs and we’re trying to intercept them whenever possible. We’ve had some success, but to date we haven’t found anything that resembles this virus.”
“What about the seventeen labs you could gain access to?” Rothery asked. “Have you done anything about that yet?”
“You mean have we sent in operatives to terminate operations?”
“Yes.”
“No. We suspect at least twelve of these labs are al-Qaeda, and we’ve been monitoring them, trying to identify al-Qaeda members as they come and go. It’s working very well. We’d rather not go busting down their doors and lose the information trail we’ve spent months, sometimes years, putting in place.”
“But if you had to…”
“If we had to, we would cooperate, Mr. Under Secretary,” Simms said evenly. “But let’s try to keep that avenue as a last resort. Identifying al-Qaeda operatives is our top priority right now, and I’d hate to lose what we’ve worked so hard to put in place.”
Rothery nodded and pursed his lips. “I understand, Craig,” he said.“Let’s let the status quo remain intact for now. I’ll let you know if we need to shut down those labs.”
“Thank you.”
“Tony, what does the National Security Agency think about all this?”
Tony Warner, the youngest of the four and just into his thirties, shook his head. He had GQ looks, and his jet-black hair, which he wore just touching his shoulders, swung back and forth with the motion of his head. “We don’t know what to think at this time. Our people at NSA are analysts, and we need time and data before jumping out on a limb.”
Rothery nodded and glanced about the room. “Anything else?” he asked, closing his folder. No one spoke. “Then let’s get working on this, gentlemen. I want whatever group is behind this shut down.” He locked eyes with each person individually.
“Shut down or dead,” he said. “Either is fine with me.”
22
Twin Pines Sawmill was tucked into a dense stretch of forest about twenty-two miles south of Butte. Signage was good and the main road into the mill was paved and well maintained. The rugged foothills of the Beaverhead Mountains framed the smokestacks that rose above the trees and quietly released thin trails of white smoke against the crisp blue sky. Aside from a low droning sound and the occasional high pitch of a saw slicing into cut timber, the woods were quiet.
Jennifer Pearce parked in one of the assigned visitors’ spots near the front door and stared at the sawmill. What was she doing here? It had taken her seven hours of flights and connections to arrive in Butte, and another hour to rent the car and drive to the mill. It was five o’clock Saturday afternoon and she was tired, irritated with airlines and airports, and apprehensive about meeting Gordon Buchanan. She ran a comb through her hair and stepped from the car into the warm Montana sun. It felt good on her skin.
The front-end offices of Twin Pines were modern and bright, the walls painted sage with ocher trim, the floors gleaming hardwood. Four maple desks with flatscreen monitors and dedicated laser printers dotted the office. Only one of the desks was occupied, and the young woman stopped typing on her keyboard as Jennifer entered.
“Good afternoon,” she said pleasantly. “Can I help you?”
“I’d like to see Gordon Buchanan,” she replied, ready for the usual runaround when you ask to see the top dog. It didn’t happen.
“Let me find him for you,” she said, reaching for a two-way radio. “Mike?” she said, depressing the talk button. A voice came back over the air in a second or two. “Do you know where Gordon is?”
“At the planer.” The voice was clear and resonated through the almost empty room.
“Thanks, Mike,” she said, and set the radio back on the desk. “I’ll show you where the planer is, but I can’t take you personally. It’s Saturday and I’m the only admin staff in.” She rose from her desk and walked to a window overlooking the main mill. She pointed to one of the larger buildings. “Go in the north entrance and just ask someone. They’ll know where Gordon is. And here, you’ll need these.” She handed Jennifer a hard hat and a visitor’s pass.
Jennifer signed the guest book, thanked the woman, and headed across the lumber yard to the building the woman had singled out. When she had dressed in the morning, it was with a sawmill in mind, and she wore snug jeans, running shoes, and a button-up-the-front cotton shirt. The mill hands seemed to appreciate her choice, and most of them stopped what they were doing to watch her as she made her way between the pallets of trimmed lumber. She locked eyes with one of the men, and he smiled and tipped his hard hat. She returned the gesture, which elicited an even wider grin. She reached the planer building and entered, asking the first man she saw if he knew where Gordon Buchanan was.
“Sure,” he replied, giving her a quick glance, then focusing on her face. “He’s over here.”
She followed him through the building, which housed a series of large machines where raw lumber was being sliced into thinner strips. It was noisy inside the building, but not to the point of displeasure. The smell of wood sap and freshly cut timber was strong, and the fine sawdust floating in the air tickled the inside of her nostrils. She sneezed a couple of times, and the man leading the way said, “Bless you,” both times. They reached a machine that was quiet, the massive saw blades sitting idle. Her guide pointed at the ground under the machine.
“That’s Gordon,” he said, then turned and headed back to work.
A pair of legs stuck out from under the machine, blue jeans ending in cowboy boots. She was still staring at them when the owner slid out from under the machine, his eyes focused on hers. Buchanan had stripped off his shirt to loosen the saw blades so they could be removed and sharpened.
Jennifer took note of the man’s physical condition. His upper body was well developed and his waist was trim, abs showing. He smiled as he rocked himself into a sitting position, then up on his feet. He wiped his hand on a flannel rag and extended his hand.
“Gordon Buchanan,” he said. His voice was deep and strong and fit the environment perfectly.
“Jennifer Pearce.”
He slipped on a shirt that had been draped over one of the levers sticking up from the machine’s control panel, buttoned it, and tucked the tails into his jeans. “Now, Ms. Pearce, it’s not often I get visitors who look as good as you in a hard hat. What would you be doing at a sawmill in the middle of the Montana forest?”