The Bug Hunter: A Novel Read online

  Jensen attempted to string it all together. “So we know Rahman worked for al-Qaeda and now possibly ISIS; he teaches at GMU under an alias and was Lebedev’s thesis advisor. We also know that Adnan worked at the BRL, which is a part of GMU. But what’s Adnan’s connection to Rahman?”

  “That’s the piece we need to figure out,” Gabriel said. “And I bet it has something to do with our mystery woman.”

  “What woman?” Maddox asked.

  Witt showed Maddox the photo found in Adnan’s office. “We’re doing a SPARK search now. Hopefully we’ll know who she is soon.”

  “What does the CIA know about Lebedev?” Jensen asked Maddox.

  Maddox recounted what she’d told Witt earlier about Lebedev being in the hands of the Russian FSB and their interrogators. She then asked, “So my question to you all is this: What are they going to extract from him?”

  Jensen motioned for Gabriel to take the question. “I think there’s a very real chance that the Russians are going to end up with the keys to a very dangerous weapon of mass destruction. Lebedev is either carrying a genetic sequence to engineer highly infectious antibiotic-resistant bacteria or knows where that sequence has been hidden. Either way, we have to assume that the Russians are going to get their hands on it.”

  Maddox nodded. Turning to Witt she asked, “Have you told the president that yet?”

  “Nope. But I’m going over to the White House now. Before I came to see you, I got word from the CDC that they think there’s been another attack, this time in California. So I’m full of good news.”

  Maddox reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of scotch. “This is thirty-year-old Famous Grouse. It was the only scotch my daddy ever drank. And he passed that on to me.” She poured a couple of fingers into a set of crystal tumblers. Handing one to each person in the office, she clinked her glass against Witt’s. “L’chaim.”

  Jason raised his glass, admiring the caramel colored liquid. “Mud in your eye,” he said, and he downed the glass, the warmth filling his chest.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Washington, DC

  Just before dinner, President Jennifer Cooperman sat in the solarium on the third floor of the White House Residence, watching a YouTube video of her daughter’s most recent concert in Budapest. Cooperman had kicked off her shoes and had a glass of California Chardonnay in her hand. Her daughter was a violinist touring with the London Philharmonic Orchestra, and the piece she was currently playing—Tchaikovsky’s Symphony no. 1—was one of Cooperman’s favorites. The president had few moments alone like this, and she cherished her chance to steal away and connect with her daughter’s work. The lights were off, and she was sitting in the dark, with only the glow from a rising moon filtering through the solarium’s floor-to-ceiling windows.

  “Jen? Are you in here?”

  Cooperman reluctantly opened her eyes. “Yes, Jonathan. I’m just resting.”

  Her husband of thirty-one years came and sat next to her. “Tchaikovsky always reminds me of that summer we spent in Zurich. We only had three CDs, and that was the one we listened to the most. Remember?”

  Cooperman smiled. They’d spent a summer in Switzerland when Jonathan had done a medical internship at the ETH university. They’d had little money then and lived in a small flat overlooking the Sihl River in the Niederdorf, an old part of the city with cobblestone streets. It had been one of the best times in their lives, when things were simple. “I remember,” she said wistfully. “Those were great times.”

  Jonathan put his arm around her and pulled her close. Since she’d won the White House, they’d been in perpetual motion, with little time for each other. As the first “First Man” in the nation’s history, he’d been a curiosity to the world. His schedule was packed with events, and he’d volunteered to chair a committee on health care. That had quickly turned out to be a political hot potato that he regretted taking on, and he’d had spent the past year working to minimize his role. He hated Washington and longed to return to California.

  She began to snuggle into his arm when the phone next to the couch rang. “Should I answer it?” she asked, half in jest. She then reached over and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

  Cooperman listened for a few seconds. She then said, “Thank you” and hung up the phone without another word.

  She melted back down into her husband’s arms. “Jason Witt’s on his way over. Can I pretend that phone call didn’t happen? I want to stay right here.”

  He kissed her on the top of her head. “I wish. But a president’s duty is never done.”

  “Shit,” she sighed, moving to get up. “Don’t wait on dinner for me, honey. I’ll eat when I get back.” With that she slipped on her blue Jimmy Choo pumps and headed for the elevator.

  By the time Cooperman got down to the Oval Office, Jason Witt was waiting for her.

  “Sorry to bother you at dinnertime, Madam President,” Jason said. “I was just over with the D/CIA, and I wanted to update you on the bug case.”

  “We should probably give it a name at this point, don’t you think? Something catchy historians will find compelling. ‘The Poisoned OJ Caper’ or ‘Case of the Vicious Vector’ or something like that.”

  Witt wasn’t sure if the president was joking or not, but he dutifully smiled.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t make light of this.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Unfortunately, we can’t call it the Poisoned OJ Caper because it’s no longer just about orange juice. In fact, the CDC is now investigating a possible new attack out in California.”

  Cooperman was suddenly no longer in a light mood. “What kind of attack?”

  Witt recounted the discussion with Dr. Smythe on the apparent botulism cases in California and also updated her on what the CIA had uncovered about Lebedev and the Russians. “I hope to have confirmation of what we are dealing with in California by morning.”

  “Jesus, this thing is getting worse by the minute.”

  “Ma’am, that may not actually be the worst of it,” he said carefully.

  Cooperman’s stare bored into Witt, and it suddenly seemed very warm in the Oval Office. “And?”

  “And, we think that Lebedev was carrying with him the genetic code to genetically modify a vector that can carry and transmit a so-called superbug, an antibiotic-resistant bacteria capable of infecting humans.”

  “A bug that carries a superbug. Carl Sagan once said, ‘The sword of science is double edged.’ Boy, was he right.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Witt said.

  “Are you telling me this could be weaponized against us?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It could be. I don’t know when—that would depend on the Russians’ genetic engineering capabilities. But eventually we have to assume that it could be used against us or other Western targets.

  Cooperman let that sink in. After a moment she asked, “So now what?”

  “My team is running down some leads that I’d like to pursue before we call in the cavalry,” Witt said, and told the president about the link to GMU, the presence of a known al-Qaeda and possibly ISIS operative and the mysterious woman who had yet to be identified. “Can you give me more time to work this?”

  Cooperman stared at Witt as her mind raced through the endless risks and rewards of what he was suggesting. On the one hand, if they could keep this under the radar, she’d have an easier time continuing with her oft-stated position that the nation was safer than it had been under the previous administration. On the other hand, if it blew up and it were disclosed that she had sat on the information, she’d probably get impeached.

  “OK, since we don’t yet have confirmation on what’s occurred in California, I’ll give you more time,” she said. “But as soon as we know it was a deliberate attack, I’m going to blow the lid off this. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

/>   CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Washington, DC

  “What is ISAMO?”

  Gabriel Marx and Lisa Brooks sat side by side in a small conference room at DHS Headquarters. They were going back over the layers of Abdul-Azim’s life in America compiled through academic, immigration, and banking records. There was a line in his record that said he was a “faculty advisor to ISAMO.”

  “I looked it up. It’s nothing.” Brooks referred to her notes. “It stands for International Society for Structural Multidisciplinary Optimization. It’s a computer science organization he belongs to.”

  Gabriel thought through that. “Is that right? Wouldn’t that be I-S-S-M-O?”

  Brooks’s face went white. In her haste she had obviously mistyped the acronym. She immediately typed in the correct letters. The result left her feeling cold: Islamic Students against Mideast Oppression. “Oh, shit!” she said.

  Gabriel quickly scanned the web page and clicked on the Washington, DC, chapter link, which brought up a picture of the Islamic Center of Washington. As he scrolled down, he read the mission statement out loud:

  ISAMO is a student-led organization dedicated to protesting the occupation and oppression of Muslims by the imperial powers of the West: America, Europe, and Israel. ISAMO is focused on three activities:

  The education of Muslim students about the plight of their brothers and sisters in the Mideast.

  The creation of a safe and welcoming environment for students who wish to learn about the Koran and its teachings.

  The organization of protests and active dissent against those who oppress Muslims throughout the world.

  For more information or to attend our weekly meeting, please contact our faculty advisor, Professor Abdul-Azim Bashera, at [email protected].

  “Bingo,” he said.

  Thirty minutes later, Gabriel and Brooks were standing in front of the reception desk at the Islamic Center of Washington. Brooks took out her badge and discreetly showed it to the young bearded man who greeted them. His eyes looked at the badge, and for a split second, Gabriel could see fire in man’s eyes.

  “How can I help?” he said in perfect, British-accented English.

  “We’d like to speak with whoever is in charge here,” Brooks said.

  “That would be Dr. Habib,” the man said.

  Brooks waited a beat for the man to continue. When he didn’t, she said, “Can you please tell him that we’d like a word?”

  The man started at her and for a moment contemplated what to do. He then picked up a phone and pushed a single button. He spoke in Arabic to whoever answered on the other end of the line and then hung up. “He’ll be right out.”

  Brooks and Gabriel stepped away from the front desk and looked around at the soaring atrium as Muslims streamed in the front doors for afternoon prayer. After a moment a diminutive man in a traditional Islamic robe walked up. He was in his early sixties with a well-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and wore wire-rimmed glasses that would have looked at home on John Lennon. “You wanted to speak with me?” he asked, also with a slight British accent.

  Brooks again discreetly showed her DHS badge. “We’d like to talk with you about a student group that meets here called ISAMO.”

  “Again? I’ve already had this conversation with the government,” he said looking around. “Let’s go into my office.”

  Once they were in Habib’s office, Gabriel asked, “Who in the government did you speak with?”

  “The FBI,” Habib said. “They were here a month ago asking questions about ISAMO. Someone had complained that the group was teaching hatred of the West and the Jews. I told them that I don’t tolerate such talk. They asked some questions and then left.”

  Gabriel now wondered if the FBI was already on Abdul-Azim’s trail. “Did they ask about Professor Bashera?”

  “Yes. But they seemed more interested in a few of the students in the group. In particular a young woman.”

  Brooks took out her phone and showed Dr. Habib a picture of the mystery woman. “Is this her?”

  Habib looked at the image. “Yes, that’s her.”

  “What did you tell them about her?” Brooks asked.

  Habib was about to answer when he stopped himself. “What is this about?”

  “We are conducting an investigation into a possible terror plot involving the man you know as Abdul-Azim Bashera and possibly some members of ISAMO.”

  “Ya Allah! That can’t be! We are against jihad here!” Habib exclaimed. His face was suddenly filled with worry. “I’ve worked hard here to ensure that we work in the name of peace between Islam and the West . . .”

  “I’m sure you have,” said Brooks. “And we know you would want to avoid something terrible that might be linked to this mosque.”

  Habib blinked a few times and then nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you know who this woman is?” Gabriel asked, pointing to the picture.

  “I don’t,” Habib said. “I told the FBI that as well. She was obviously a member of ISAMO, but I never met her.”

  “I find that hard to believe, Dr. Habib,” Gabriel said.

  “We have more than three thousand members and hold events every day. I can’t possibly know everyone who comes here!”

  “But you’ve seen her.”

  “Yes, I’m sure I have seen her,” Habib said.

  “Why are you sure of that?”

  Habib looked down at the floor, and his face flushed. “I remember her because when I saw her, I thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

  Gabriel knew that was a difficult thing for Habib to admit, and he immediately decided it was true. “That’s not a crime, Dr. Habib.”

  “Samhny ya Allah,” Habib said. Forgive me, God. “It is not a crime, no. But it is not something I am not proud of. I’ve been married for thirty-six years,” he said, with true contrition in his voice.

  Gabriel worked to get the conversation back on track. “So you’ve seen her but don’t know who she is. Have you ever seen this man?” He opened a picture of Adnan on his phone.

  Habib studied the image. “I don’t think so, no.”

  Gabriel tried to hide his disappointment. “Do you have video surveillance here?”

  “Yes, we have a full system inside and outside the building. We installed it after 9/11. The only place we don’t have it is in the prayer room. That would be an affront to Allah.”

  “How long do you keep the data? We’d like to view the footage just before and just after the weekly ISAMO meeting going back a few months. Can you help us with that?”

  “Yes, of course,” Habib said. “We keep the data for a year. Come, I’ll show you where it is.”

  They walked into a back room where a uniformed man sat before a bank of monitors. Habib said a few things to him in Arabic, and the man gave up his chair. Brooks sat down in it. “How does this work?”

  The security guard reached down and touched the screen, bringing up a menu. Brooks could feel him leaning into her and could smell his cheap cologne and was immediately grossed out. “Thanks, I think I can handle it,” she said, pushing his arm away and forcing him to straighten up. She clicked on the list of cameras and selected the main entrance view. “Where are the cameras that view the room that ISAMO meetings are held in?”

  “There is no camera inside the room since it’s technically in the prayer wing. But there is a camera that points to the hall outside and the door.” Habib asked the guard in Arabic what camera it was. When he replied, Habib translated. “It’s camera twenty-two.”

  Brooks clicked on camera 22 and then clicked on the calendar. Once she was confident she could run the system, she turned to the guard. “You can go now.”

  The guard puffed out his chest, and the look on his face told her he wasn’t happy about being dismissed by a woman. Whe
n he didn’t move, she looked at Habib, who got the message. In Arabic, he tersely said something to the guard, who left in a huff.

  “OK, let’s start two months back and work forward.” She switched to the camera on the front entrance, clicked on the first date, and selected the playback for 4:00 p.m., ninety minutes before the scheduled start of the ISAMO meeting. She then selected triple speed and hit Play.

  For twenty minutes they watched the ebb and flow of people coming and going from the mosque. There was a noticeable pickup at the top of the hour when prayer time ended, and then it slowed to a trickle. Then they noticed a white self-driving sedan pull up and a man get out carrying a briefcase. He was dressed in a traditional Muslim tunic and had wavy hair and a full beard. Brooks immediately slowed the playback down so they could study him as he walked up the front steps and approached the camera location. Just before he got to the front door, he looked up, allowing the camera to catch a glimpse of his face before he put his hands up, as if shielding his eyes from something.

  “That’s him. But that was strange. Was he trying to shield his face from the camera?” Brooks asked?

  “I don’t think so,” said Jensen. “It’s almost like he didn’t want to see something.”

  Brooks put on the second camera feed and cued the time to correspond to Abdul-Azim’ arrival. They got a vivid view of him entering the room where the ISAMO meeting was held, as well as of a dozen young men and women. But no one who resembled either Adnan or the mystery woman.

  They cued up the feeds from the following two meetings that month and again identified Rahman but no one else. “Maybe we should go further back?” suggested Gabriel.

  Brooks nodded and then selected the same time on a date from four months prior. After ten minutes, Gabriel said, “There he is!”

  He pointed at the screen as a man walked quickly up the steps; he was slender and wore a backpack. Brooks, who’d never met Adnan, said, “You sure?”

  “Goddamn, I’m sure,” said Gabriel. “Freeze it there. Can you zoom in?”