at your job as I think you are. Now, that's not so bad, is it?”
Wipe the slate clean... fifty thousand... The words burst into her brain like a blaze of sunshine. Start again. The nightmare over. And money. She could really start over. Get help. Therapy. Oh, this was never going to happen again. Never!
She dabbed her eyes. She suddenly wanted to kiss this man, hug him. “What... what do you want me to do?”
“There, right to the point,” Griffin said approvingly. “I knew you were smart. I like that. I need a smart person for this.”
“Don't try to flatter me. Not now.”
Griffin laughed. “Feisty too. Got the spirit back, right? Hell, no one's even going to get hurt. Just a few records erased. Then you're home free.”
Records? Erased? Her records! Never. She shuddered, and then she took hold of herself. What had she expected? Why else would they need her? She was a record librarian. Chief of Federal Resource Medical Clearing House. Of course, it was medical records.
Griffin watched her. This was the critical moment. That first shock of a new asset knowing what he or she was actually going to have to do. Betray their country. Betray their employer. Betray their family. Betray a trust. Whatever it was. And as he watched, he saw the moment pass. The internal battle. She had gotten a grip on herself.
He nodded. “Okay, that's the bad part. The rest is all downhill. Here's what we want. There's a report to Fort Detrick and CDC and probably to a lot of other places overseas, too, that we need deleted from all the records. Wiped out, erased clean. All copies. It never existed. The same with any World Health Organization reports of virus outbreaks and/or cures in Iraq in the last two years. Those, plus all records of a couple of telephone calls. Can you do that?”
She was still too shocked to speak. But she nodded.
“Now, there's one other condition. It must be done by noon.”
“By noon? Now? During office hours? But how---?”
“That's your problem.”
All she could do was nod again.
“Good.” Griffin smiled. “Now, how about that drink?”
___________________
CHAPTER
Covert One 1 - The Hades Factor
TEN
___________________
1:33 P.M.
Fort Detrick, Maryland
Smith worked feverishly in the Level Four lab, pushing against a wall of fatigue. How had Sophia died? With Bill Griffin's warning ringing in his head, and considering the lethal attacks on him in Washington, he could not believe her death had been an accident. Yet there was no doubt how she had died--- acute respiratory distress syndrome from a deadly virus.
At the hospital, the doctors had told him to go home, to get some sleep. The general had ordered him to follow the doctors' advice. Instead, he had said nothing and driven straight to Fort Detrick's main ate. The guard saluted sadly as he passed. He had parked in his usual of near USAMRIID's monolithic, yellow brick-and-concrete building. Exhaust ventilators on the roof blew an endless stream of heavily filtered air from the Level Three and Four labs.
Walking in a semi-trance of grief and exhaustion, carrying the refrigerated containers of blood and tissue from the autopsy, he had showed his security ID badge to the guard at the desk, who nodded to him sympathetically. On automatic pilot, he had continued walking. The corridors were like something in a hazy dream, a floating maze of twists and turns, doors and thick glass windows on the containment labs. He paused at Sophia's office and looked in.
A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed and hurried on to the Level Four suite where he suited up in his containment suit.
Using Sophia's tissue and blood, he worked alone in the Hot Zone lab against advice, orders, and the directives of safe procedure. He repeated all the lab work she had done with the samples from the three other victims--- isolating the virus, studying it under the electron microscope, and testing it against USAMRIID's frozen bank of specimens from previous victims of
Wipe the slate clean... fifty thousand... The words burst into her brain like a blaze of sunshine. Start again. The nightmare over. And money. She could really start over. Get help. Therapy. Oh, this was never going to happen again. Never!
She dabbed her eyes. She suddenly wanted to kiss this man, hug him. “What... what do you want me to do?”
“There, right to the point,” Griffin said approvingly. “I knew you were smart. I like that. I need a smart person for this.”
“Don't try to flatter me. Not now.”
Griffin laughed. “Feisty too. Got the spirit back, right? Hell, no one's even going to get hurt. Just a few records erased. Then you're home free.”
Records? Erased? Her records! Never. She shuddered, and then she took hold of herself. What had she expected? Why else would they need her? She was a record librarian. Chief of Federal Resource Medical Clearing House. Of course, it was medical records.
Griffin watched her. This was the critical moment. That first shock of a new asset knowing what he or she was actually going to have to do. Betray their country. Betray their employer. Betray their family. Betray a trust. Whatever it was. And as he watched, he saw the moment pass. The internal battle. She had gotten a grip on herself.
He nodded. “Okay, that's the bad part. The rest is all downhill. Here's what we want. There's a report to Fort Detrick and CDC and probably to a lot of other places overseas, too, that we need deleted from all the records. Wiped out, erased clean. All copies. It never existed. The same with any World Health Organization reports of virus outbreaks and/or cures in Iraq in the last two years. Those, plus all records of a couple of telephone calls. Can you do that?”
She was still too shocked to speak. But she nodded.
“Now, there's one other condition. It must be done by noon.”
“By noon? Now? During office hours? But how---?”
“That's your problem.”
All she could do was nod again.
“Good.” Griffin smiled. “Now, how about that drink?”
___________________
CHAPTER
Covert One 1 - The Hades Factor
TEN
___________________
1:33 P.M.
Fort Detrick, Maryland
Smith worked feverishly in the Level Four lab, pushing against a wall of fatigue. How had Sophia died? With Bill Griffin's warning ringing in his head, and considering the lethal attacks on him in Washington, he could not believe her death had been an accident. Yet there was no doubt how she had died--- acute respiratory distress syndrome from a deadly virus.
At the hospital, the doctors had told him to go home, to get some sleep. The general had ordered him to follow the doctors' advice. Instead, he had said nothing and driven straight to Fort Detrick's main ate. The guard saluted sadly as he passed. He had parked in his usual of near USAMRIID's monolithic, yellow brick-and-concrete building. Exhaust ventilators on the roof blew an endless stream of heavily filtered air from the Level Three and Four labs.
Walking in a semi-trance of grief and exhaustion, carrying the refrigerated containers of blood and tissue from the autopsy, he had showed his security ID badge to the guard at the desk, who nodded to him sympathetically. On automatic pilot, he had continued walking. The corridors were like something in a hazy dream, a floating maze of twists and turns, doors and thick glass windows on the containment labs. He paused at Sophia's office and looked in.
A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed and hurried on to the Level Four suite where he suited up in his containment suit.
Using Sophia's tissue and blood, he worked alone in the Hot Zone lab against advice, orders, and the directives of safe procedure. He repeated all the lab work she had done with the samples from the three other victims--- isolating the virus, studying it under the electron microscope, and testing it against USAMRIID's frozen bank of specimens from previous victims of
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