The Bug Hunter: A Novel Page 8

“Really? What if . . .”

  “Gabriel, go. It will be good for you.”

  Maybe she knew best, he thought. Maybe he needed to face down his demons, and having a mission again would still his mind. Claire had no doubt he could do it and that it would be good for him. He had reservations, but he put his trust in her.

  Jensen flipped the pages of the Journal by tapping a button on the steering wheel, while he simultaneously played with the buttons on the satellite radio. He was in perpetual motion. Finally finding a song he liked—“Mr. Brightside” by the Killers—he started drumming the steering wheel to the beat. “I love this old stuff! They don’t make them like this anymore!”

  Gabriel smiled and realized that Jensen was typical of former Special Forces operators. He was driven, always thinking, always in motion, always doing three things at once. Gabriel also found out quickly that Jensen was fond of peppering his speech with movie lines. Sometimes they were spot on, and sometimes they were corny. But they were proving to be pretty entertaining.

  “Where’d you grow up?” Gabriel asked.

  “Ever heard of Hope, Arkansas? As in a ‘place called Hope’?”

  Gabriel thought for a moment. “Nope.”

  “You follow politics?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  Jensen smiled. “Yeah, me too. But this is old stuff. When Bill Clinton got the nomination for president 1992, he began his acceptance speech by saying, ‘I still believe in a place called Hope.’ He put the town on the map. But it’s really just a small town in southwestern Arkansas.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Clinton? Nah. He was long gone by the time I came along. He and Hillary left Arkansas after he became president and never came back, except to build their library in Little Rock.”

  “Hillary didn’t seem like an Arkansan.”

  “Shit, you can say that again. She couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

  “I take it you’re not a fan.”

  Jensen just smiled. “I joined the army right out of the University of Arkansas. That was right after 9/11. I spent the first few years studying to be a corpsman and then got the opportunity to do the Q Course. They needed medics then, just as Iraq was cooking off. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “How long were you in?”

  “Sixteen years. After a while I’d had enough. The Obama years were tough for Special Forces. We were kept on a short leash. And giving back Iraq to the hajis was really, really depressing. We got good at snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.”

  Gabriel thought about Iraq and the friends he’d lost there. It had been a painful chapter for him. “Yeah,” he said simply.

  “What about you? You like living in California?”

  “It’s a love-hate kind of thing. I love the wine country. And I love the vineyard. But the idiots in Sacramento have taxed and regulated the shit out of everything. When the tech bubble burst again a few years ago, the bottom fell out of the economy. Now the state can’t pay its pension obligations, and the tax base has gone to shit. It’s a mess.”

  “Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.”

  Another movie quote. “Sorry, must’ve missed that one.”

  “Chinatown? Jack Nicholson? Man, you need to do some streaming! It means it’s the way things are and the way they will always be. California has jumped the shark. There’s no fixing it.”

  As they entered Berkeley from the north, they passed through tony neighborhoods and noticed more cop cars than Gabriel could remember seeing in the past; the last several years had seen a resurgence of the demonstrations all around the university which had returned to its counterculture roots but in a more aggressive and less idealistic way than in the 1960s. Student groups protesting everything, from climate change to Israel to capitalism, had become the new Greek system; fraternities were out and social justice armies were in.

  As they passed through a line of police cars setting up a barricade on Solano Avenue, they noticed a line of cops in riot gear and a group of student demonstrators, many dressed in black and others carrying vividly painted signs, massing in the distance. “Reminds me a bit of Ramadi, only without the smell,” Gabriel joked. “Let’s hope this GPS doesn’t put us in the middle of Indian country.”

  Gabriel instinctively slouched down in his seat, trying to make himself a smaller target. He watched the map on the center display and knew they’d soon be at the gates of the sprawling campus. While it had once been an open public university, it was now cordoned off into security zones. Only students and registered visitors could drive onto the campus, and every inch was covered by high-definition cameras and/or high-speed drones. How sadly ironic, Gabriel thought, that this bastion of liberal arts education and free speech had been reduced to an armed camp.

  As the car approached the gate at the top of Center Street, a burly uniformed officer wearing a helmet and armored vest put up his hand, motioning for them to stop. Jensen took control of the car and rolled down the window to show the officer his badge.

  “We’re here to see Professor Lassiter,” Jensen said.

  “Where’s he work?” the officer asked.

  Jensen looked at Gabriel, who answered the question. “In the synthetic biotech department.”

  The officer scanned their car’s VIN into a handheld device; when it came up clean, he said, “Do you gentlemen know where you’re going, or do you require an escort?”

  “Depends on the escort,” Jensen said with a straight face. When the officer didn’t crack a smile, Jensen said, “We’re good. Thanks.”

  Jensen rolled up the car window, and they were waved through. “That guy needs to lighten up,” Jensen said. “So what’s synthetic biotech?”

  “It’s basically a mash-up of engineering, computer science, and biology. Its goal is to create new and better life-forms by modifying what nature gave us.”

  “New and better? Seems like it can also create new and worse.”

  “Like a lot of technology, in the wrong hands, it can be dangerous.”

  As they approached the synthetic bio building, there was no spot out front, so Jensen just parked by a red curb. He put a DHS “Official Business” placard in the window, and they got out of the car.

  Walking into the building brought back a flood of memories for Gabriel; he’d collaborated with students from Lassiter’s lab on a paper entitled “The Frequency of Genetic Mutations in Fruit Flies,” and he’d spent several weeks working from this location. It had been a good experience, one of Gabriel’s first real research projects. It had even gotten published in the Journal of Synthetic Research.

  They reached Lassiter’s office door, and Gabriel knocked several times. There was no answer. He was just about to check and see if Lassiter was in his lab when he heard a voice from down the hall.

  “Office hours are tomorrow from one to three.”

  Gabriel turned to look and found himself face-to-face with Professor James Lassiter, one of the world’s foremost experts on genetic engineering in insects.

  “You look familiar,” Lassiter said, looking at Gabriel. “Were you a student here?”

  “Not really. I’m Gabriel Marx, Professor. I did a research project . . .”

  “I remember you! Oregon State, right? When was that? God, my memory is failing me.”

  Gabriel was pleased that Lassiter had remembered him at all. “That was ten years ago at least. Great to see you again, Professor,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Lassiter was in his midfifties and wore jeans and an old “Obama for President” T-shirt. He had wild gray hair and wire-rim glasses and looked like a cross between John Lennon and Warren Zevon. He shook Gabriel’s hand and then looked at Lee Jensen.

  “I’m Jim Lassiter,” the professor said, offering his hand.

  “Lee Jensen. Nice to meet you.”

 
; They stood for a moment looking at one another. Finally, Lassiter said, “What can I do for you guys?”

  “I take it your secretary didn’t give you the message that we were coming?” asked Gabriel.

  “She probably did, but I don’t always pay attention. It’s a flaw, and I admit it. My wife hates it too.”

  Gabriel smiled. “Is there someplace we can go to talk in private?”

  “Sure,” Lassiter said, opening his office. “Come on in.” They entered and found a surprisingly clean, tidy office.

  “Have a seat,” Lassiter said, motioning to a pair of chairs in front of his desk.

  Lassiter sat down at his desk, pulled his iPhone out of his pocket, and laid it facedown on the desk in front of him. He folded his hands in front of him and waited for somebody to start talking.

  Gabriel kicked things off. “Professor, I’m here at the request of the Department of Homeland Security—”

  “DHS?” Lassiter asked. “What do they want with me?”

  “They—we—need information about some research that came out of one of the synth-bio labs a few years ago.”

  Lassiter looked confused. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

  “We will be, Professor. But first I need to have you sign this federal nondisclosure form,” Jensen said, pulling out his iPad. “By signing—”

  “Who are you?” Lassiter asked.

  Jensen stopped in midsentence. He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out his badge. “I’m a special agent in DHS’s investigations unit.”

  Lassiter took the badge and studied it. He then handed it back. Picking up the iPad, he read the NDA. Satisfied that he understood the secrecy he was committing himself to, he signed it by putting his thumbprint on the screen to be scanned and matched to its record and handed the iPad back to Jensen.

  “Thank you, Professor,” Jensen said. He quickly uploaded the NDA to the cloud and nodded to Gabriel that they were good to go.

  “Three years ago you ran the DNA on feces from a small boy who died from botulinum toxin,” Gabriel said.

  “That was done in Lab B under the direction of Dr. Sam Attisha,” Lassiter said. “The boy’s name was Samuel Billings. He was five years old. He contracted it from soil that touched an open wound. His parents couldn’t figure out what was wrong; over a period of twelve hours, he’d stopped eating, couldn’t sit up, and couldn’t talk. Eventually the toxin paralyzed his respiratory system, and he literally suffocated to death. Terribly sad.”

  “That’s the case,” Gabriel said.

  Lassiter sat for a moment deep in thought. “I remember it like it was yesterday. We did a DNA test because the hospital in Fresno ultimately suspected it was a case of BT and gave Samuel an antidote. But it failed to work. So they were curious if this was a new type of toxin they hadn’t seen before. And it was.”

  “Right, we read the article you published on it. Type I.”

  Lassiter looked at Gabriel. “Are you here because it’s come up again?”

  “Yes, we believe it has,” Jensen answered.

  “But not organically, Professor,” Gabriel said. “We believe that the type I strain was sequenced by someone using medfly larvae. We also believe that it’s from Samuel’s sequence.”

  “Can’t be. We never published that sequence. In fact, it’s locked away in a highly secure account with military-grade encryption. There’s no way an outsider . . .” Lassiter stopped himself in midsentence. “You think it’s possible it came from inside this lab?”

  “Yes, we think it’s possible. Maybe even probable,” Jensen answered.

  Lassiter, in disbelief, repeated what Gabriel had just told him. “Someone genetically altered medflies to secrete type I botulinum toxin.”

  “Yes, Professor,” Gabriel said.

  “Does this have anything to do with the outbreak of sickness surrounding the Tropicana juice on the East Coast?”

  Gabriel glanced at Jensen before replying. “Yes.”

  Lassiter pondered what he was hearing. “I have a lab to teach in a few minutes. What do you want from me?”

  “We would like to examine the list of students, interns, employees, and anyone else who worked on the Samuel Billings case specifically and also anyone who had access to your lab’s computer system over the past three years.”

  Lassiter checked his watch. “I’m afraid I’m out of time. You’ll have to take that up with the university’s legal department. Personnel records are confidential, as I’m sure you understand. They’ll make the call on whether or not to provide all that to you.” With that, Lassiter stood, indicating the meeting was over. “Good luck, gentlemen,” he said as he ushered them out of his office.

  Jensen and Gabriel stood and watched Lassiter walk down the hall toward his lab. When he was out of earshot, Jensen said, “No soup for you!”

  Gabriel looked at him quizzically.

  “Seinfeld, man!”

  “Whatever. All I know is that Lassiter just lawyered up.”

  “Let’s call Witt and get some pressure on the university. It’s going to take a lot more firepower than we can bring to bear.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Washington, DC

  Jason Witt hated being on hold. He paced back and forth behind his desk and listened to some awful elevator music playing over his speakerphone. He looked at his watch for the fifth time in the last two minutes and swore under his breath. Wasn’t anyone taking this seriously?

  After a moment his soon-to-be ex came on the line. “Jason, I’m trying to get in to see the president, but she’s in a meeting with the Joint Chiefs and the SecDef. Something’s brewing in the South China Sea.”

  “Jesus, Sarah. Something’s brewing all right, but it’s in our goddamn backyard! I need to speak to the president as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll call you right back,” she said, and hung up.

  Witt swore and punched the Off button on his speakerphone; he missed, and the phone fell to the floor. “Goddamn it!” he yelled, loud enough that his secretary popped her head in. “I’m fine, Susan, thanks,” he said to her with some embarrassment. Picking up the phone, he replaced it gently on the desk and plopped down to wait for the phone to ring.

  He’d spoken earlier to Lee Jensen, who’d recounted the conversation with Professor Lassiter. Witt felt as if there was a bomb ticking, and now they’d have to run the gauntlet of the University of California’s lawyers unless Cooperman could put pressure on the UC president to allow them access on national-security grounds. Witt was skeptical that she could because the politics in California—particularly on a university campus—were hostile to government data mining and surveillance; the progressive intelligentsia was deeply opposed to the NSA and the deep state and still had people like Chelsea Manning and Edward Snowden on a pedestal. Witt had no illusions that this would be an easy battle.

  After five minutes the phone rang. “This is Witt,” he said.

  “Hold please for the president,” the White House operator said. After a few seconds, Cooperman came on the line.

  “What’s so urgent?” the president asked without pleasantries.

  “Madam President, you asked me to keep you briefed on the Florida attack investigation. We’ve made progress and have a very good lead that requires us to access personnel data in the University of California system. There is a lab at Berkeley that may be the source of the strain of botulinum toxin used in the Florida attack.”

  “Good. So what’s the issue?”

  “The issue is that my investigators went to Berkeley to interview the head of the lab and got stonewalled. They want us to get a court order.”

  “Shit. Have you spoken to Justice about it?”

  “Yes, that’s in process. But this is extremely sensitive, and the last thing I want is to march in the front door with a federal search warrant.
That would certainly alert those who smuggled out the toxin’s sequence if they are still at the university. So I was hoping you might bring some pressure to bear so we could get access more quietly.”

  The president thought for a moment. “Look, I’m an old friend of the UC president. We went to law school together. I can call her and see what I can do.”

  Witt smiled and pumped his fist. “That would be great, ma’am. Thank you.”

  UC President Justine Acevedo answered her cell phone on the third ring.

  “Justine, how are things with Sam and the kids?”

  “Fine, Jennifer—oops, Madam President,” she said laughing.

  “Oh, you can call me Jennifer when it’s just us. We’ve known each other since we were practically kids ourselves!”

  “I’ll say. Back to when you were dating Matt Blumenthal!”

  “Matt Blumenthal. I haven’t thought of him in ages. I wonder how he is.”

  “He’s dead, actually. Sorry to say. Died of a heart attack two years ago.”

  “Oh, what a shame. I still remember those blue eyes and dimples,” Cooperman said wistfully. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “We aren’t getting any younger; that’s for sure. Anyhow, I know how busy you are, Madam President,” Acevedo said, putting particular emphasis on the M and the P. She then laughed a bit. “How can I be of service to the most powerful woman in the free world?”

  “Oh, Justine. You haven’t changed a bit,” Cooperman said with a laugh. “I actually need a favor. And it’s a big one.”

  “Name it.”

  Cooperman told Acevedo the outline of the situation at Berkeley and what they needed. When Cooperman was done, there was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Justine? Are you there?” Cooperman asked.

  “Yes, I’m here,” Acevedo said after a moment. “That’s a very big favor.”

  “I know. And I wouldn’t ask unless it was absolutely necessary. This is a major threat to the United States, and we need to move quickly.”

  “I understand. But I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m sure you can get a court order to compel us to open up our records. But I can’t order that to be done.”