The Bug Hunter: A Novel Page 10

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss, as I’m sure you can understand. But it’s around genetic mutations of biological agents, work on antidotes, and things like that.”

  “Interesting,” Gabriel said.

  “Dr. Nomura, we’d like to know more about what Antonin Lebedev was working on during his time at GenomeX,” Jensen said.

  “Well, let’s see what I can tell you. He worked on the team that is researching new approaches to eradicating Gram-negative bacteria—the so-called ‘superbugs’ that are resistant to antibiotics. These bacteria carry a gene for antibiotic resistance that rides on a small fragment of DNA called a plasmid. The plasmids enable the bacterial genes to move over to other bacteria and to different species of bacteria, breeding resistance to antibiotics and transforming these bacteria into potentially untreatable superbugs. We are using a variety of approaches to this, including genetic sequencing to develop a deeper understanding of how the superbugs work. Antonin developed computer models to help us focus our research on the most promising approaches.”

  “I’ve read a great deal about antibiotic resistance. It’s a major health issue,” Gabriel said.

  “Indeed, it is. And a massive market opportunity,” Nomura said. “For years, drug companies ignored antibiotics because the revenue potential didn’t merit the investment. Now that more than ten million people a year are dying from bacterial infections, there’s great interest in finding new antibiotics. Unfortunately, it’s a very complex problem and requires a great deal of technology.”

  “Can you tell me what Lebedev worked on?” Jensen asked. “What project specifically?”

  “I can,” Nomura said. “But first I’d like to know why you want to know.”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Jensen said without elaboration.

  Normura wasn’t used to people not answering his questions. “Well then, I’m not sure I can help you.”

  “That’s too bad,” Jensen said, glancing at his watch. “I’m sure I can have ICE in here today to start an audit. Won’t be terribly inconveniencing. It’ll just take a week or two.”

  Nomura and Jensen stared at each other. They were taking each other’s measure. Finally, Nomura blinked. “Antonin was working on our CRE program.”

  Jensen waited for Nomura to elaborate. When he didn’t Jensen said, “Look, Dr. Nomura. Let’s not play twenty questions here, OK?”

  “CRE stands for carbapenem-resistant Enterobacteriaceae. The CDC refers to them as ‘nightmare bacteria.’ They’re basically resistant to any known drugs. If you come down with a CRE, you basically have a pretty good chance of dying.”

  “Can you provide some examples?” asked Gabriel.

  “Yes,” Nomura said. “Klebsiella pneumoniae carbapenemase and E. coli, among others.”

  “You mean KPC?” Gabriel asked.

  “Yes, that’s right. KPC.”

  “And when you say he was working on this, what does that entail?”

  “It means he ran the genetic sequencing database, ran the tests, compiled the data, and provided reports to the scientists.”

  Gabriel knew where this was going, and he didn’t like it. He knew KPC was a deadly enzyme produced by drug-resistant bacteria that several years prior had killed several hundred people in the New York City area when there had been an outbreak at one of the hospitals there. If Antonin had access to the genetic sequence that could synthesize KPC, this was going from bad to worse. “Can you do an audit trail on the access to the KPC sequence files?”

  “We can. But I can assure you those, and the sequences for more than a hundred other viruses and bacteria, are safely tucked away in our database. We require a double-entry system, much like an old safety deposit box at the bank. It takes two keys from two different identification cards to access the database. It’s pretty foolproof.”

  In Jensen’s mind nothing was foolproof. “Humor us, Doctor,” he said.

  “Very well.” Nomura picked up the phone and called his head of data security. “Please run an audit report for”—he paused to reference his computer—“project code 23244, and get it to me right away. Yes, do it now.”

  He put down the phone. The room was silent except for the hum of the AC unit that circulated the air in the huge office. Gabriel studied the view while running through the possibilities in his mind. None of them were good. After several minutes, there was a ding that signified a new message had arrived in Nomura’s inbox.

  Nomura opened the report. “It says here that the last access to the KPC file was three days ago from an employee with ID number 3545 and an employee with ID number 7699. Obviously, neither of those ID numbers match Lebedev.”

  “And what about Lebedev’s ID number? Can you check if and when he last accessed the files?”

  Nomura keyed some strokes on his computer and brought up Lebedev’s ID number. Comparing it to the list, he found three instances, all earlier in the current year. “Once in February, once in March, and the last time just a week ago,” he said.

  “Just before he disappeared,” Jensen said.

  “Yes. Let me see who else accessed the file with him.” Nomura cross-referenced the other ID number and read off a name. “Alex Fleming,” he said with a confused look on his face. “That name is familiar, but I can’t place the person,” he said.

  Gabriel laughed. “The name should be familiar. Alexander Fleming?”

  Nomura’s face went slack. He had suddenly comprehended what had happened. “Oh, shit!” he exclaimed.

  Jensen was confused. “Who the hell is Alexander Fleming?”

  “The man who invented penicillin. In 1928,” Gabriel said.

  “Houston, we have a problem,” Jensen said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Washington, DC

  DHS Secretary Jason Witt had spent the past twenty-four hours working fervently to keep control of the investigation into what was now being referred to in the media as the “Toxic OJ Scare.” That DHS had the case at all was owed to the fact that bugs were involved; DHS was at every airport and point of entry inspecting cargo and luggage for stowaways into the US that could harm domestic agriculture. DHS was, for all intents and purposes, the first and last line of defense against insect vectors.

  Over the past decade, DHS had also developed a robust ability to carry out investigations into criminal and terrorist activities, which meant it was increasingly playing on the FBI’s turf. Some of this was out of necessity, given the nature of the threats related to both immigration and border security.

  So far at least, Witt had been able to keep the FBI at bay. He’d been able to convince President Cooperman that stealth was critically important to the investigation and that getting the FBI involved was akin to broadcasting the investigation live on national TV during the Super Bowl. The FBI was great at many things, but doing things quietly was generally not one of them. Cooperman was incredibly nervous that what the public thought of as the “Toxic OJ Scare” would turn into the “Attack of the Deadly Insects” and felt that DHS should be given a bit more time to quietly work its investigation.

  But Witt was under no illusions; he didn’t have much time. If they weren’t able to break the case open in the next few days, he was sure Cooperman would bring in the FBI, if only because the president would feel compelled to do whatever was necessary to protect the nation. Witt knew that the only thing worse for the president than calling in the FBI would be not calling in the FBI and having the US attacked again. That would be politically unsurvivable.

  Witt’s desk phone buzzed. “Mr. Secretary, I have Special Agent Jensen and a Gabriel Marx here to see you.”

  “Great. Send them in, please.”

  Gabriel and Jensen looked worse for wear. Jensen had a day’s stubble on his face, and Gabriel’s hair was as unkempt as his beard. They’d flown in on a red-eye and had come straight to DHS Headquarters.

 
“You guys look like crap,” Witt said, shaking their hands.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Jensen said with a laugh.

  “OK, give me the update,” Witt said.

  “Sir, we believe that we are dealing with a massive potential threat—even greater than we’d previously thought,” Jensen said.

  “We? You mean you and Gabriel?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jensen said. Gabriel sat quietly on the couch in Witt’s office as Jensen recounted the events of the past few days: the second visit to Berkeley, the stolen type I sequence, the link to Antonin Lebedev, and the trace of Lebedev to GenomeX.

  “What do we know about this Lebedev?”

  “He’s a computer scientist who emigrated to the US six years ago and did his undergraduate work at George Mason. He grew up in Grozny—”

  “Chechnya?” Witt said, his alarm bells ringing.

  “Yes. He also has an older brother who was an officer in the Russian army. He was killed in Chechnya during one of the flare-ups in 2019.”

  “Huh. If Islamic separatists killed him, then he’d likely not be a jihadist, correct? That would mean we are dealing with something different. Possibly a Russian-sponsored government plot?”

  “That’s the rub, sir. The reports we have are that Lebedev’s brother was killed after attacking Russian soldiers in a suicide attack.”

  “A blue-on-blue attack?” Witt said. “So this may have links to the Caucasus Province, or some other Islamic extremist group in Chechnya. Where is Lebedev now? Do we know?”

  “He flew to Moscow a few days ago. That’s all we know.”

  “We need to find out everything we can about this guy. I’ll alert the CIA and the NSA, and we’ll see what they can find out from the Russians. Though don’t hold your breath. Putin is likely going to take pleasure in whatever pain we’re experiencing over this.”

  “Sir,” Jensen said, “there’s more. Lebedev used a fake ID to defeat the security system and access the database that houses GenomeX’s genetic sequence data, which includes a host of nasty and very dangerous biological agents.” He left the rest unsaid.

  Witt finished the thought. “And you think he may have provided one or more of these to whoever is behind the orange juice attack.”

  “Possibly, yes,” Gabriel answered. “Lebedev had access to the sequences for a number of deadly antibiotic-resistant bacteria—so-called superbugs.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” said Witt.

  “It’s not,” Gabriel said. “A superbug killed a bunch of people in New York City several years ago. The hospitals were powerless to stop it, and no drugs could arrest the spread of the bacteria.”

  “Jesus! I remember that. Is that what we’re talking about here?”

  “Yes.”

  Witt thought for a few moments. “So walk me through how it would work.”

  Jensen nodded for Gabriel to take the question. “Well, it would work a lot like the medfly and the botulinum toxin, only the target would be people and not crops. How they’d do it depends on what vector they chose to transmit the bacteria. I’d probably use mosquitoes, which can be engineered to synthesize the bacteria and transmit it to people when they bite them—a direct line to the bloodstream. Once these people are infected, they become carriers themselves and can spread the bacteria to those around them. Voilà, an instant epidemic.”

  “Fuck!” Witt said, his mind racing, contemplating all the heinous possibilities. “What if this guy smuggled that sequence into Russia? Will they be able to use it against us?”

  “Yes and no. Yes, the sequence can be lethal in the wrong hands. But it takes a sophisticated technical capability to use a genetic sequence in an insect that can deliver it. I’d guess there isn’t that kind of technical infrastructure in Chechnya. Now, if it turns out that Lebedev is working for the Russian government, it’s a different story. I’d be surprised if they didn’t have this capability.”

  Witt nodded. “So let’s say one of these superbugs gets unleashed. What would the damage be?”

  “Well, as I said, there are no known effective antibiotics against these bugs, so the mortality rate would be above fifty percent, maybe higher. The CDC would be able to give you better numbers on that. The health care system would quickly be overwhelmed. Once the bacteria gets moving, it spreads pretty quickly through human contact, so it will be very hard to quarantine. The damage ultimately depends on how big the initial attack is and in how many different locations.”

  Witt knew he’d need to brief the president on this. The question was when. He hoped he could hold off for a bit until they knew more. He looked at Jensen. “What’s the next step?”

  “First we want to pick up the Lebedev trail at George Mason,” Jensen said. “That’s where he went to school, and I want to learn what we can about his time there. Gabriel knows a scientist who works at the Biomedical Research Lab—a guy he was in Afghanistan with. He’ll reach out to see what he knows.”

  Witt looked at Gabriel and asked, “You think BRL is where the medflies came from?”

  “It’s certainly possible,” Gabriel said. “As I said earlier, there aren’t many labs where this work can be safely done at scale—and the Florida attack required a pretty substantial testing and growing operation. And the link between Lebedev and GMU can’t be coincidental.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Jensen said.

  Witt liked the plan. “Just be damn careful, OK? I don’t want to spook the bad guys. And the president wants to keep this under wraps until we have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”

  “Mum’s the word,” Jensen said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Moscow, Russia

  For the past few days, Antonin Lebedev had been in and out of consciousness. His dank cell in the bowels of the Soviet-era Lubyanka prison had no window and no light other than a single bare bulb that burned 24-7. The only way he could tell that time was passing was from the putrid food pushed through a slit in the door three times a day; though since it was always the same—a hard roll and some indeterminate brown slop—it was impossible to tell what was breakfast or lunch or dinner.

  Lebedev had known it was risky to return to Grozny, but he’d really had no choice. It was his home, and he’d promised his brother before he left that he’d provide not only the sequences he’d stolen from GenomeX but also the knowledge necessary to utilize them. His brother had martyred himself, after all. This seemed like the least Lebedev could do.

  Unfortunately, Lebedev had been picked up as the bus he was riding crossed the Chechen border on its way to Grozny. He’d managed to slip through customs at the Moscow airport and had picked up the bus at the main terminal in the city. He was had been dressed like most students, with a backpack and a beanie, and had avoided smoking or doing anything else that would draw attention to him. Everything had gone smoothly until the bus approached the Russian side of the Georgian border. As soon as the bus was directed off the road into a search area, he knew he was in trouble.

  It was clear from how his arrest went that they knew he was coming; they made little pretense of searching the other passengers. When Lebedev stepped off the bus, a huge guard carrying a PKM submachine gun grabbed him by his backpack and flung him backward onto the ground. Within seconds he was zip-tied and thrown into the back of a van, headed to the airport for a direct flight back to Moscow on a plane graciously provided by the Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti (FSB), the Russian state security service.

  Now, as he fluttered his eyes open, he tried to focus on a face hovering inches from his own; he could smell garlic and onion on the man’s breath and thought for a moment he might get sick. “Good, you are awake,” the man said in a deep, cigarette-stained voice. He grabbed Lebedev by the collar, placing him effortlessly onto a chair at the center of the small cell.

  Lebedev looked through the glare of the single
light bulb and assessed the man in front of him. He was squat, not more than five feet, five inches tall, with a face as flat as a pancake and ears that looked like saucers. He wore an ill-fitting black suit made of cheap wool rather than the bespoke Savile Row suits of the men in Putin’s orbit. It was a sign of his status or lack thereof; he was a midlevel bureaucrat, charged with doing the dirty work. He pulled another chair over and sat in front of Lebedev.

  “There are two ways we can do this,” the man said. “The first way is that you can tell me everything I want to know, and we can get this over with. I’ll put you back on the bus, and you can get on your way.” It was a lie, of course, but one that had fooled many a prisoner who was hungry and sleep deprived. “Or, you can decide not to cooperate, in which case I’ll have to try and convince you. And I must say, I am very convincing.” Again, that cigarette-stained voice, followed this time by a deep, gravelly laugh.

  Lebedev’s brain was trying to process what he was hearing. His throat was dry, and his head throbbed. He was near panic. “What do you want from me?” he managed to sputter out.

  “I want to know why the Americans are so interested in you.”

  “The Americans? I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “No? The American embassy seems very concerned about you, Antonin. They’ve been asking about you for the past few days. They would like to talk to you. Why?”

  Lebedev swallowed. “I don’t have any idea. I’m just a student.”

  Igor Alexandrovich Popov shook his head in resignation. “Oh, Antonin. Such a shame.”

  The man with the pancake face and saucer ears was the third deputy director of the FSB’s counterterrorism directorate. Popov was a grinder, a man with little tact and even less ambition to move up the ranks. He enjoyed his role immensely, allowing as it did for him to partake in the gratifying violence of interrogations and intelligence gathering. It also meant he didn’t need to negotiate the hyperpoliticized bureaucracy of the “new” Russian state. Popov was a holdover from the KGB days, when disagreements had been less tolerated and more easily dispensed with, and backstabbing had been more literal than figurative.