The Bug Hunter: A Novel Read online

  The case of Antonin Lebedev had ended up on Popov’s desk in a most unusual way. A call had come in several days prior from his boss’s boss, the first deputy director, who had been called by the director himself. The Americans were inquiring about a Russian citizen who’d emigrated to the United States to attend college and who they believed was on his way back to Russia. He was wanted for questioning in a crime they refused to disclose. That in and of itself would have set off alarm bells within the FSB. But when the US ambassador had divulged the surname of the suspect, he had become of even greater interest.

  Lebedev. The name was well known inside the FSB. Vasily, Antonin’s older brother, had been a true enemy of the state, a Russian army officer who had turned on his comrades in a suicide terrorist attack that killed a dozen of his fellow soldiers. After the attack, the parents of Antonin and Vasily, knowing they were in the cross hairs of the Russian state, had disappeared. And the younger brother? He had been in America when the attack occurred, a lucky break that had put him out of reach of Russian security.

  But no longer. Now he was in Popov’s capable hands. His orders had been to extract from Lebedev the reasons the Americans wanted him so badly. Fortunately, Lebedev’s laptop had been seized with him and offered a treasure trove of information. IKSI, the FSB’s tech division, had spent twenty-four hours dissecting the hard drive and the telltale crumbs from his web activity. Besides the porn and a proclivity for online gaming, they found Lebedev’s encrypted folders from his time at GenomeX and UC Berkeley, which thus far they’d been unable to crack open.

  Popov knew that, whatever they had found, it would have something to do with Lebedev’s work on genetics. Popov didn’t really understand what that work entailed and had no idea whether it could be important to the Russian state. So, like a good bureaucrat who understood that his job security was directly linked to taking as few risks as possible, Popov brought in an expert to assist him.

  That expert was Dr. Mikhail Sokolov, professor of genetics at the prestigious I. M. Sechenov First Moscow State Medical University. Sokolov, the son of a former KGB agent in the old Soviet Union, was often consulted by the FSB on the use of bioterror agents and had proved particularly useful in Syria, where Russian troops occasionally ran into chemical toxins used by the Assad regime against its own people.

  “Dr. Sokolov, thank you for coming in,” Popov said, pouring tea into silver-ringed glass cups.

  “Igor Alexandrovich, it is my pleasure. My father had an office on this floor, and as a boy I loved to come and visit him,” he said, his voice trailing wistfully off. “Those were simpler times.”

  Popov grunted his agreement. “Speaking of simple, I have something to show you that my simple mind cannot understand,” he said, reaching for a folder on his desk. “Take a look.”

  Sokolov opened the folder and started leafing through the pages, which included metadata on work that Lebedev had done at GenomeX. “Where did you get this?”

  “It comes from a detainee who worked in America on genetics of some sort.”

  “Igor, this is not just genetics,” Sokolov said, holding up some of the pages. “This is work being done at one of the world’s leading genomic engineering firms in Silicon Valley.”

  Popov stared at Sokolov, his flat face showing incomprehension. “And?”

  “And we’ve been trying to do this kind of science for the past several years with only moderate success,” Sokolov said. He looked again at files. “GenomeX does this kind of genetic engineering work on different bacteria, viruses, and toxins. Among other uses, these can be used to genetically create new weapons for transmitting them.”

  Popov was again confused. “Weapons using bacteria and viruses?”

  “Yes, Igor,” Sokolov said, trying to calm himself. “They can be used to modify insects to carry disease, to poison crops or people. It’s cutting-edge technology!”

  It suddenly dawned on Popov that if what Sokolov was telling him was true, how he handled Lebedev could make or break his career. While he had no aspirations to climb higher in the ranks of the FSB, he certainly had no interest in losing his current position.

  “I want to know more about this detainee,” Sokolov said. “There is no telling what he knows. He’s a potential gold mine!”

  “Perhaps you want to join me in questioning him, then?”

  Sokolov had no stomach for the rough stuff and was not interested in seeing pain inflicted. He knew how the FSB worked. But at the same time, he was salivating over the information he might learn. It could make his career and catapult him into the top echelons of Russian science. He swallowed hard. “Da,” he said finally.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Moscow, Russia

  Antonin Lebedev soon regretted his decision not to answer any of Popov’s questions. Before he went to America, he’d gone through a terror group’s version of boot camp, which was nothing like that of a modern military. There he’d learned to fire an AK, perfected a few self-defense moves, and done a lot of calisthenics. But he hadn’t gotten any help in knowing how to resist a determined interrogator.

  Now he stood naked in the center of his cell, his arms above his head, wrists shackled by a chain to a pair of eyebolts anchored in the concrete ceiling. The temperature in the room had been cooled to seven degrees Celsius; the Soviets had learned through testing that being cold was more uncomfortable than being hot, and that naked prisoners in temperatures below ten degrees Celcius tended to crack much more quickly than they otherwise would. Lebedev had long ago lost feeling in his hands, and his knees were shaking, both from the cold and from fatigue. Standing on his tiptoes, he could briefly alleviate the pressure on his arms. How long he’d be able to keep it up was anyone’s guess.

  Popov’s interrogation plan for Lebedev was to walk a fine line; he wanted to break Lebedev but not kill him. Based on what Sokolov had told Popov, the prisoner was a resource that could be extremely valuable to the Russian state. If something were to happen to Lebedev—if he were to suffer brain damage or paralysis or even death—Popov would have failed.

  “Wake him up!” Popov yelled to the guard.

  The guard walked over to Lebedev and threw ice water on his face, attempting to get him out of his stupor. The cold liquid braced him and caused him to flinch, which in turn shot sharp pains up his arms. He opened his eyes and attempted to spit on the guard, but his mouth was dry, and spittle ended up on his chin.

  “Let’s try this again,” Popov said with a hint of pleasure in his voice. They’d slowly extracted information about Lebedev’s work at GenomeX and confirmed that the files on his laptop were genetic sequences for a variety of viruses and bacteria. But they still didn’t know whom he was working for.

  “What were you going to do with the information on your computer?” Popov asked.

  Lebedev didn’t respond, so Popov nodded at the guard. With a swift motion, the guard pulled down on the chain, lifting Lebedev off the ground. He screamed in pain before the guard let him back down.

  “Answer me!” Popov shouted.

  In an instant, as if a switch had been flipped in his mind, Lebedev knew it was over. He’d done his best to resist and knew that Allah would forgive him. He’d have preferred they just kill him, but he knew they weren’t going to do that.

  “I—I was taking it back to Chechnya,” Lebedev sputtered.

  Popov laughed. “Da, we know that. Whom are you working with?”

  Lebedev could feel the pressure mount on his arms as the guard slowly, inexorably pulled on the chain. “Baseyev,” Lebedev said, his voice almost inaudible.

  Popov knew the name all too well. Aslan Baseyev, terrorist, leader of the Caucasus Province, and enemy of the Russian state. “And what was Baseyev going to do with the information?”

  Lebedev swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

  Again, pressure on his arms increased until his toes were bar
ely touching the floor. The pain was excruciating. “OK! He was going to use it against you.”

  Popov looked back at Sokolov, raising one of his caterpillar-sized eyebrows. Sokolov then walked forward from the back of the room.

  “Perhaps they were working with another government, maybe North Korea or China. But they couldn’t do this work from Chechnya,” he whispered to Popov. “It’s too sophisticated.”

  Popov nodded. “How was Baseyev going to use it against us?”

  Lebedev was hyperventilating. “I really don’t know! He said that he had found a way. Al-Baghdadi had found a way.”

  The name al-Baghdadi sent shockwaves through the tiny cell. Popov pounced on it. “Is al-Baghdadi working with Baseyev? In Chechnya?”

  Popov nodded at the guard, who again put a slight bit of pressure on the chains binding Lebedev. “Yes!” Lebedev shouted. “Please stop! He’s in Chechnya. They are working together!”

  “Da, good,” Popov said, nodding again to the guard, this time signaling him to release the tension. “Would you like a drink of water?”

  Lebedev nodded. He was so thirsty. Popov motioned for the guard to give Lebedev water from a cup; he drank it hungrily. “Why did you leave America?” Popov asked.

  “Because our plot was in motion, and they would have found me.”

  “Plot?” Popov asked. “What plot?”

  “Orange juice,” Lebedev rasped. And suddenly the pieces began to fall into place in Popov’s simple mind.

  “The toxic orange juice in Florida?”

  “Yes.”

  Popov smiled. This was getting very interesting. The Americans were under attack from a weapon that he now potentially held the blueprint for. And he was going to be able to tell the director of the FSB that the leader of ISIS was now operating right in Chechnya. This would be a feather in the cap of the FSB and a great pretext for President Putin to launch another strike on Chechnya.

  “OK,” Popov rasped. “Let’s get you some food. That’s enough for now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Manassas, Virginia

  The Bug Wing inside BRL had always been a place of refuge for Adnan Mishner; it was behind secure doors, a place where access was permitted for only a select few and where he could work in solitude. His only companion was his ever-present music—on this day a techno dance mix—pumped into his brain by custom Bluetooth headphones. The beat of the bass put him into a trance that enabled him to block out other noises inside his head. Those noises, like fingernails on a chalkboard, were starting to drive him crazy.

  It had been several months since he’d provided the first of the vector vessels to Bashera for use on the Florida citrus fields. Adnan had at first viewed that task with clinical objectivity; he’d been more concerned about the flies themselves than the people they were going to poison. But then people started getting sick, and a few even died. Suddenly it didn’t seem so clinical any longer. But he felt trapped, committed to a cause he’d convinced himself was worth sacrificing everything for. Committed to a woman who had no reservations about her mission and who looked at it as central to their life together. Theirs was a relationship bonded by her passion; it was seductive to Adnan in ways he couldn’t fully comprehend and felt powerless to resist.

  Adnan’s work on their mission was now largely done; the last of the vectors he’d created were in Bashera’s hands. He often wondered what would happen to him once his usefulness was over; his heart told him that Haniya wanted him for who he was and not what he could do for her. But his head was less sure.

  “Dr. Mishner, there’s a visitor here for you,” came a voice over the loudspeaker in the lab.

  When Adnan didn’t answer right away, a message was sent to his computer screen. When that failed, a runner was sent to enter the airlock and bang on the inner glass door of his lab. Finally, Adnan saw the movement outside the door and removed his headphones. He walked to the door and pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

  “We have a visitor for you in reception.”

  Adnan looked at the clock on the wall. It was already late afternoon. “A visitor? I’m not expecting anyone.”

  The young girl, an intern from GMU, looked at Adnan through the green-tinted glass and shrugged. “You have a visitor,” she repeated.

  “OK,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

  He removed his glasses and smoothed out his hair. He then left the Bug Wing and headed for the front desk. As he opened the door, he saw a man wearing jeans and a brown corduroy coat. He looked vaguely familiar.

  “Can I help you?” Adnan asked.

  The man approached him. “Hello, Adnan.”

  The voice was familiar. Recognition slowly dawned on him. “Gabriel Marx?”

  “In the flesh,” Gabriel said, holding out his hand. “It’s been what? Six years?”

  Adnan’s stomach was suddenly in his throat. “What do you want?” he said. It came out more brusquely than he’d intended.

  Gabriel was a bit taken aback. “Nice to see you too.”

  Adnan gamely tried to recover. “Sorry, I meant what are you doing here? In Virginia.”

  “I was in DC on some business and thought I’d come by. You know, to see my old haunt.”

  “Oh,” he said. He wasn’t sure what else to say.

  They stood staring at each other. Finally, Gabriel said, “Can we grab a cup of coffee?”

  Adnan looked at his watch. “I actually don’t have time right now. I’m on a deadline,” he lied.

  “No problem. I’ll be in town for a few days. How about tomorrow morning?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Nine o’clock OK?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “OK then,” Gabriel said, nodding at Adnan. “See you tomorrow.”

  Adnan watched him walk out the front door, his eyes following Gabriel all the way to the parking lot. There he met a man in a suit and tie. They talked for a few minutes and then got in a car. The man in the suit was driving.

  “Fuck,” Adnan said under his breath. He watched the sedan until it left the parking lot and then walked quickly back to the sanctity of his lab. He fumbled with his key card and slammed the airtight door behind him.

  “What the fuck is he doing here?” he yelled at the top of his lungs. He paced quickly back in forth. His mind was racing. Gabriel had been a contractor for the CIA and had also done work for Homeland Security. Adnan hadn’t seen him since they’d returned from Afghanistan, and they hadn’t gotten along well when they were there. They weren’t friends.

  Adnan instinctively knew something was very wrong. He sat down at his computer and realized that he might end up having to leave in a hurry. He spent the next hour and a half getting everything he needed out of his office.

  By the time he got home that evening, Adnan was in a state of panic mixed with anxiety. He looked around his house and realized he was ill prepared for this moment. Where to start? What to take with him? He cursed himself for not putting together a list of the things he and Haniya would need to start their new life in Egypt.

  He looked at his watch and knew he had a half hour before Haniya came over for dinner. He went into his study and uploaded a single file from a thumb drive to his Amazon cloud account. Once that was done, he signed off and walked into the kitchen. He put the thumb drive in the microwave, set it to run for thirty seconds, and turned it on. Sparks flew and smoke filled the inside, and when the thirty seconds were complete, the plastic case was nothing but a melted glob. He then went to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet.

  Adnan was in his closet rifling through his clothing when Haniya arrived. She poked her head into the closet and was shocked at the mess he’d made. “Adnan, what are you doing?”

  “I’m packing! We must get ready to go.”

  “What are you talking about?”

 
“They’re on to me! To us! We must go now to Egypt like we planned!”

  Haniya was trying to comprehend everything she was hearing. “Wait, wait. What? Who’s on to us?”

  “The government. Homeland Security. The FBI. I’m not sure which one. But I know they know!”

  “Adnan, my sweet, come sit down,” she said, leading him to the bed. “Calm yourself, and tell me what’s going on.”

  Adnan took a few breaths. Just having Haniya there was making him feel better. “I got a visit from an old friend today. He came to the lab.”

  “Oh? What friend is that?”

  “His name is Gabriel. He and I were in Afghanistan together.”

  “Really?” Haniya asked. “What did he do in Afghanistan?”

  “He and I worked with the vectors. He worked for the CIA then. Now I’m pretty sure he’s working with the government.”

  Haniya was now clearly getting agitated. “What did he want?”

  “I didn’t talk to him. We are meeting tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. But I think he wants to talk about the medflies.”

  “How do you know that, Adnan?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have. He knows this is work I’ve done in the past. He’s figured it all out.”

  “Ya Allah! You can’t really know that! Maybe he just wanted to see how you were doing. Maybe it’s just a social call.”

  “No, it’s not social, Haniya, my love. We aren’t friends. He was there with another agent. I know he wants to talk about the medflies.”

  “But how? How can that be?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Haniya’s mind was racing through the possibilities and the risks. “Adnan, why don’t you meet with him and tell him nothing? Just be pleasant. Talk about Afghanistan . . .”

  Adnan started to shake at the mere suggestion that he meet with Gabriel. Haniya looked into his eyes and could see panic. She knew at that moment that it was hopeless. “My sweet, are you packed for our journey?”