“Come in,” he called.
Into the room strode a tall, thin man in his fifties with a gray crew cut and elegant, slim features. He wore gold wire-rimmed glasses and the insignia on his uniform and his ID badge indicated he was Lieutenant Colonel Jerome Tallifer. Tallifer carried a briefcase secured with two combination locks.
“Dr. Derek Stillwater?”
“Yes sir.”
“I’m Lt. Col. Jerome Tallifer, Military Intelligence. May I see some ID please.”
Derek provided it. Tallifer, his voice hinting at a childhood in the hills of Kentucky or maybe Mississippi, said, “Retired Army, I understand.”
“Yes sir. Colonel, Special Forces. Retired, sir.”
“But a professor.”
“Yes.”
“I believe I’ve read your papers. Might even have caught a talk or two you gave.”
“Possibly, sir.” Derek remained in his seat despite the temptation to stand at attention. Though the years of service and conditioning had been deeply ingrained and the inclination to salute never went away, he had found that his ability to ignore the response had grown stronger every day he was out of the military.
“Yes, well, we would like to know why you’re interested in a dead soldier, Doctor.”
Derek leaned back in his chair and studied the standing Lieutenant Colonel. He gestured to the other chair. “Have a seat. I’ll make it quick because, quite frankly, the clock’s ticking.”
To his surprise, Colonel Tallifer sat.
Derek laid it out for him. The stolen infectious agent, the murder of the family, the tape and his recognition of a voice that he thought was that of Captain Richard Coffee. Tallifer considered him for a few minutes. “If I may say so myself, Doctor, that doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. Captain Coffee died in Iraq.”
“I’m aware of that. I was there.”
“But you want to read his file.”
“Yes sir.”
“And you suspect what, exactly?”
Derek said, “I suspect that I have precious little to go on and the FBI has the manpower to pursue a more conventional route of investigation, but my mandate as a Homeland Troubleshooter is to evaluate, coordinate and investigate. It is my determination that all conventional avenues are currently being covered. However, I am pursuing a long shot, what some might call a WAG, or wild-assed guess. I am pursuing it because everyone else is busy. And I’m pursuing it because I think it needs to be pursued, especially since some terrorist lunatics have stolen a BW organism that could wipe out most of the population of the planet in less then a month. Now,” he said, an edge to his voice, “are you going to let me see the file, or shall I have the request put to the Joint Chief by Secretary Johnston, who I just spoke to on the telephone less than twenty minutes ago?”
Tallifer shrugged. He picked up the briefcase and let it rest on his lap. He turned the dials on the combination lock, opened the lid, pulled out a file and dropped it on the desk. He closed the briefcase and spun the dials. “Good luck, Doctor.” Tallifer stood up and headed for the door. Turning, he said, “Good luck with your wild-assed guess.”
“Colonel,” Derek said. He hadn’t touched the file.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“How many files were there in your briefcase?”
Colonel Tallifer’s cool blue gaze lingered on Derek for a moment, then without a word he left the office.
Derek nodded, thinking that a Lieutenant Colonel from Military Intelligence was a rather unusual delivery boy. He picked up the file and began to read.
9
In the White House secure communications center, Sam Dalton hung up the stew phone and whirled to look at General James Johnston, the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security. Johnston raised an eyebrow. “You have a problem?”
Dalton was tall, his physique as taut as a bowstring. He could have been a recruiting poster for the Army, a sandy-haired, square-jawed man in his forties, his gaze steady and hard. He leaned back in the chair, which creaked beneath him. “You never should have assigned Stillwater to this case.”
Johnston crossed his arms. He was older, closing on sixty, his shoulders broad, his thick chest swelling the tailored shirt beneath his dark blue suit. “I understand that you’re not Derek’s biggest fan. I have confidence him, though.”
“I don’t,” Dalton said. He tapped a finger on the chair’s armrest. “The man is a cowboy. Or a nutcase. You figure it out. I think he’s unreliable. You remember his last trip out to Kansas City?”
Johnston nodded. It had been memorable. One of the truths of working anti-terror, especially bioterror, was that luckily it was filled with false alarms. Every time the FBI’s HMRU was called out to investigate an envelope filled with white powder, or a food poisoning case that occurred in some government cafeteria, or water contamination, Derek or one of his colleagues for DHS was sent with them to evaluate. Two months ago, in Kansas City, the HMRU had been called because someone thought their Cheerios box had been contaminated with anthrax. By the time they got there it had been determined that the family’s kids had filled a bowl with Cheerios, added sugar, then decided they wanted toast instead and threw the bowl’s contents back in the box. Had the mother of the children not been a semi-hysteric with a job in a state senator’s office, it would never have even come to the attention of the FBI, or anyone else, for that matter.
But she had freaked out and gone to her boss who had called in the Bureau. Derek and the HMRU had flown in and Derek had taken one look at the box of cereal and flung it in the woman’s face, turning and storming out of the house. Johnston hadn’t known whether to laugh or reprimand Stillwater. Derek had offered to resign and buy the lady a new box of cereal, but Johnston had talked him into an apology. It was a legendary story within DHS. For that matter, Derek’s offers to resign were legendary… and weekly.
Johnston shrugged. “Derek has an instinct for bullshit. And he’s right this time. If the FBI and USAMRIID have things under control, let him chase the long shots.”
Dalton scowled. “I wanted to assign Swanson. Why did you assign Stillwater? Next time he offers to resign, let him.”
Johnston sighed, craned his neck and looked at the ceiling. “You know, Sam, I’ve got to go and talk to the entire administration tonight about this. They’re going to want to know what we’re doing that the FBI and USAMRIID aren’t doing. It’s very useful for me to have an answer for the President besides, ‘Dogging the FBI.’ Besides, Stillwater’s much better than Swanson.”
“Swanson is by the book.”
“Swanson hasn’t had an original thought in his head in twenty years. He just likes being on the government payroll. He’s strictly an academic. His experience with terrorism and bioterrorism comes from books and made-for-TV movies.”
Dalton looked disgusted. “He gives us clear and articulate reports on time and doesn’t have panic attacks before every assignment.”
Johnston headed for the door. “Derek Stillwater’s reports are clear and articulate.”
Dalton flung himself out of the chair. “Oh, right. Let me see, do you remember: ‘The substance in the fucking envelope was fucking talcum powder.’”
Johnston suppressed a smile. That report had been memorable as well. Derek’s entire incident report, one sentence, two epithets. And completely accurate. Johnston put on his official face and turned to Sam Dalton. “Sam,” he said. “I still think Derek Stillwater’s my best troubleshooter. He stays on the case.”
Johnston opened the door, but Dalton tried one more thing. “He’s a psychiatric case. You know that. He has panic attacks in the field. It’s well documented.”