Chapter 43. Leads
After both Tsung and Pond had called in the information to their superiors, a video conference call was quickly arranged between members of the White House, the CDC, USAMRIID, the CIA, the FBI, and the NSA. President Anna Scall spoke first.
“Sheila, where are we in Michigan?”
Sheila Simms, Director of Homeland Security, addressed the President’s concerns. “The blood tests are running very smoothly and we are almost finished. So far, we have about 80% of the people on the island through the first round of tests, and about 50% percent through the second round of tests. So far, we have identified only four people on the island who have contracted the virus, and they were immediately flown to Ann Arbor. Each of those people was past five days from exposure, so it is unlikely that they are going to make it. The two doctors in Michigan contracted the virus, and they didn’t make it, but the nurses all survived. We had one helicopter pilot who contracted the virus from the Monahan woman, but he was successfully treated with the pharmaceuticals. So including the kid who died on the Wave Runner, it looks like we will have nine or ten as the final death toll. That’s assuming we do not find any more exposed with the remaining tests. We instituted a new procedure on the island to let anyone with certain symptoms to be put to the head of the line for testing, so that we don’t have people infected with the virus infecting others while they are waiting for the blood test. So it appears for now anyway that we will have this thing contained.”
“That’s a relief,” said the President. “Anything new concerning the kid on the Wave Runner?”
“The mother was told that he drowned, and she does not appear to be making any complaints at this point.”
“What do we know about this Graciano person?” asked the President.
Hank Armstrong, Director of the C.I.A. spoke next. “Madame President, we have assets on the ground in Rome, and the Italians are cooperating. We have the Italians’ file on Matteo Graciano, and the FBI has compiled its own record. On your screen, Madame President, is a photo of Dr. Graciano. He has been working for the Instituto Nationale for twelve years. Grew up in St. Louis, Missouri. Mom’s a lawyer for a big defense firm, makes a good salary. Dad’s a heart surgeon. M.I.T. graduate, majored in biology. Medical school at Harvard. PhD in Immunology and Virology. Worked for the C.D.C. for one year, then accepted the job in Rome. Excellent service record, promoted multiple times. Ran the Instituto Nazionale’s Research Division for their Level 4 Biohazard Lab. We have letters in his service file in which he asked to be assigned to Level 4. That’s interesting. Single, no kids. No money problems that we can see. No criminal record, except a couple of speeding tickets. Originally born in Makarska, Croatia. Family was killed in the Srebrenica Massacre in the 1990s. He was a refugee and was rescued by a Catholic charity, which arranged for his adoption by a family in St. Louis. His visa shows previous travel for work all over Europe and Africa, a few trips to Mexico and South America. All routine work stuff, at least on paper. Went to a few international conferences. We have no ties between him and any known terrorists or terrorist groups. No clear motive to engage in terrorism that we can see so far. We have some human assets in Serbia and Croatia trying to dig up more information on his early years. The FBI, I am told, has agents in St. Louis now tracking down the parents.”
“What are we doing to find him?” asked the President.
Sheila Simms spoke next. “He has been added to the No-Fly List and his picture has been sent to just about every security organization across the world. England, France, and Italy all have task forces looking for this guy. We have no record of him flying out of any airport in Tanzania. We are running airport security tapes through our facial recognition software, but it will take time. The Italian police have contacted his known friends and associates in Rome, with no luck. He has obviously gone underground, but we will find him.”
“What I don’t understand is why he needed to kill all those people,” said the President. “He ran the Level 4 Biohazard Lab in Rome. Why not just steal the Ebola Virus from the freezer in Rome and walk out with it?”
“I think I can answer that one,” said Dr. Jendel from the C.D.C. “All Level 4 Biohazard Labs in the world have the strictest security protocols you can possibly imagine. As soon as one of the Level 4 biohazard containers is accessed, notification is sent throughout the facility. It is like Fort Knox. There is no way I can think of that any scientist, even someone in charge of the lab, could get by all the security and walk out with a Level 4 Biohazard in his pocket. However, if you are in charge of the Research lab there, you are the one on the frontlines who will be called if there is a reported biohazard threat somewhere in the world. And if that happens, he could make sure that he was the captain of the first field team on site to collect the pertinent samples. So it was simply a waiting game. He waited until a serious enough threat was reported to his facility, and then he acted.”
“So he’s wandering around somewhere out there with a plague that can kill us all, and right now we have no leads?”
There was silence on the line for a moment. Then Dr. Jendel from the C.D.C. addressed the group from his conference room in Atlanta. “Madame President, I have with me here a member of my team, Murielle Winston, and I think she has an excellent suggestion. Murielle?”
“Hello, Madame President. It occurred to me that if this terrorist wanted to transport the tissue or blood samples of the virus, it would be difficult to simply walk through an airport metal detector or drive through a customs border with a cooler of dangerous materials. The easiest way to get the samples to the final destination would be to simply mail them. We have people mail us samples all the time. So, in all likelihood, the terrorist took the cooler of samples and mailed them to a conspirator. He might have done the same thing with the bat. So I figured if the FBI could subpoena FedEx and the other international mail delivery services, and check for all packages coming out of Kigoma, Tanzania or nearby cities, maybe you might get something.”
“One step ahead of you,” said Rudy Montana, the stocky but diminutive FBI Director. “We used the Patriot Act to subpoena all the international mail carriers in the United States, and we got a good hit. Shortly after those boys showed up at the Kigoma Hospital, FedEx records show a refrigerated package weighing less than one pound was sent from a Dr. Beladar to the C.D.C.’s Mexico office located at Camino de Canario No. 5823, Undécimo Piso, Col. Polanco, Mexico City, 11560, Mexico.”
Dr. Jendel was perplexed. “Director Montana, the C.D.C. does not have an office in Mexico City at that address.”
“Yes, we know that,” said Montana. “The office is in a large office building in Mexico City. Here is a picture of it on your screens. The office on the eleventh floor is registered to a Corporación Diversificada Colosal, initials ‘C.D.C.’ We checked the Mexican corporation registries, and the company was formed by someone using a phony name and address. We had the Mexico City Police raid the place this morning and they found a badly decomposed dead body belonging to a Hector Ramón. Here is a photo of Ramón’s body on your screen. Not a pretty sight. Two slugs to the head. Looks professional. We have a team down there going over the place now. Judging from dust patterns on his desk, it looks like he had a laptop there, which was removed by whoever killed him. We have checked out Ramón. Worked low-paying jobs his whole life, he lives in a beat up apartment, lots of porn magazines lying around. Typical low-life. We are checking his bank records now. So, from what we can tell, Graciano must have convinced Dr. Beladar to send tissue or blood samples to this phony C.D.C. address, where they were signed for by Ramón. Ramón probably did not even realize what he was signing for. Graciano’s accomplice in Mexico City then kills Ramón, takes the blood or tissue samples, takes Ramón’s laptop and heads to the hills. So best guess, our terrorists are somewhere in Mexico.”
“You’re telling me that a Harvard-educated terrorist with expertise in the handling of deadly viruses has an airborne strain of the Ebola Virus and is growing it only hundreds of miles from our borders? And the best we know is he is ‘somewhere in Mexico’?”
“That about sums it up, Madame President,” said Montana unflinchingly. “But we have all of our resources on this. We’ll find him.”
“Dr. Jendel,” said the President, “If someone wanted to grow this virus to make a bioweapon, what would they need?”
Dr. Jendel thought about the question. “Well, the first thing you would probably need is animals, most likely monkeys--and lots of them. You would need animals to infect with the virus. The monkey bodies would act as Petri dishes for the growth of the virus, where it could replicate. You would need RACAL suits and a complete biohazard lab, which would not be cheap. You would probably need things like electron microscopes and other scientific equipment.”
“If you wanted to set up that whole lab, what is the smallest area you could do it in? For example, could you set it up in the trailer of an 18-wheeler, like a mobile lab?”
“I sincerely doubt that,” Madame President. “Murielle, what do you think?”
“No way,” said Murielle Winston. “You would be looking for something much bigger than that. Maybe a warehouse, something like that.”
“OK,” said the President. “So most likely, we are looking for someone who has imported lots of shipments of monkeys, lots of scientific equipment, and has a security force to protect it. He has leased a large warehouse somewhere in Mexico. He knows Matteo Graciano. And he has enough wealth to pay for all of that. That should narrow it down, I would think. Let’s get on it and find this guy. I want him found by the end of the week before he kills us all.”
“Yes, Madame President,” echoed the Directors.
The following morning, Sheila Simms, Director of Homeland Security, had a meeting with Tom Irvine, the lanky, gray-haired sixty year-old Director of the NSA. Irvine led Simms into a screening room, where one of his analysts was waiting.
“Sheila, this is Special Agent Bobby Fils, one of my analysts. Bobby’s been going over the airport tapes all night. Facial recognition has a match for us. Take a look at this.” On a large monitor, Fils put up a black and white video of a man going through a metal detector.
“It’s kind of grainy,” said Simms. “Is this the best resolution we can get?”
“Yes,” said Fils. “But we are pretty sure it is him. Facial recognition gives it a 92% probable match. Notice he is not carrying any luggage. The passport says this person’s name is Matteo Barcelli, same first name. The day after the Kigoma hospital exploded, this Barcelli gets on a Precision Airlines flight from Kigoma to Dar Es Salaam. He then gets a connecting flight on Qatar Airways from Dar Es Salaam to Marrakech, Morrocco. Qatar Airways confirmed for us he was on the flight manifest. This is a video we just got in from the authorities in Marrakech.” A color videotape showed a handsome man with dark hair going through customs with no luggage. The videotape then switched scenes and showed the man walking in the baggage area. “Now watch this,” said Fils. The videotape showed the man taking a furtive glance over his shoulder, as if worried that someone might be watching him, and then took a set of surgical gloves out of his pocket and put them on his hands. He then took a surgical mask out of his pocket and placed it over his mouth. Then he picked up a small black carry-on bag from the baggage carousel. The man then quickly walked toward the exit of the airport and left.
“What were the gloves and mask for? And why didn’t he carry that bag on the plane with him?” asked Fils. “It was certainly small enough. That would have saved him time waiting in the baggage area. Because he knew that his carryon bag would be screened and he would have to explain why he was carrying a bat in his bag. That’s why he put on the gloves and mask before he picked up the carry-on. He was just being extra cautious.”
“So we have traced him to Morrocco,” said Simms. “Did he get on a plane after that?”
“Not that we have been able to find, but tape is still coming in,” said Fils. “Best we can tell, he probably took some other form of transportation, maybe train, car, boat. Marrakech is a port city. Since we suspect his ultimate goal was Mexico, my guess, he hitched a ride on a boat to Mexico. We are pulling the records now.”
“Good job. Keep me posted,” said Simms. “I will advise the President.”
St. Louis, Missouri.
Biggs & Biddle was one of the largest defense law firms in St. Louis, Missouri. There were over two hundred attorneys and over thirty partners. Ann Graciano was one of those partners. She had dark brown, almost black hair, an olive complexion, and, thanks to her healthy eating and vigorous exercise regimen, she did not look anything like her 52 years. She was proud of her accomplishments representing large corporations, and was one of the first women to be made partner in the firm. Today, she was defending Ford Motor Company in a rollover case in which a young woman had died when her Ford Roundabout flipped over. Her job was to defend the Vice President of Engineering in a deposition in the law firm’s offices. The conference room was all glass and looked out on the St. Louis Arch.
“So tell me, sir,” said the plaintiff’s lawyer across the conference table, “Were you even aware of the Liverpool study on the rollover propensities of the Ford Roundabout?”
“Object to form, vague,” said Ann Graciano. “What time frame are you referring to?”
“At any time,” said the Plaintiff’s attorney.
“Yes, I was,” said the engineer.
“When did you become aware of the Liverpool study?”
Ann Graciano was momentarily distracted as she looked through the glass walls of the conference room and saw two men in suits and overcoats, and two other large men in blue FBI windbreakers, walk briskly past the receptionist, charging towards her conference room. The Plaintiff’s attorney wheeled around to see what was happening, as the four large men burst into the conference room.
“Are you Ann Graciano?” asked one of the FBI agents.
“Um, yes,” said the attorney, surprised.
“Ma’am, you need to come with us immediately.”
“What’s this all about?” asked Graciano.
“Ma’am, we have a warrant here. You will need to come with us immediately.” The men in windbreakers escorted her out of the room. As she walked out of the conference room, she got a text message from her husband, the cardiac surgeon. The message said, “FBI agents here at hospital, arresting me. They are taking me to FBI Field Office on Clark Street. Get me a lawyer and come down here.” One of the FBI agents grabbed the phone out of her hand.
“Hey!” she protested.
“Ma’am, your phone is covered by our subpoena. Please do not make this difficult or I will put you in handcuffs.” She was dumbfounded, but did not protest further. As she was led down the hall, she saw a team of other FBI agents heading down the hall towards her office. What on earth was going on?
Dr. Anthony Graciano was absolutely apoplectic. He was in the middle of speaking with a patient in his office when FBI agents had barged into his office and roughly escorted him out like a common criminal. How dare they? His taxes paid their salaries. Those incompetent morons. He would get his wife to sue these idiots. It must be some kind of mistaken identity or something. And he had been in here for a half hour in this stiflingly hot room at the FBI Field Office with no one explaining what was going on. The delay was due to the fact that the agents had first attempted to question the doctor’s wife, but like a typical lawyer, she had refused to answer any questions. So, after striking out with Mrs. Graciano, the agents took a crack at her husband. The two agents, both in crisp starched white shirts and ties, one bald and the other almost bald, entered the small room. One of the agents placed a file on the table. The two agents took seats across from the doctor.
“Hello, Dr. Graciano. I am Agent Green and this is Agent Wilcox.”
The doctor showed his irritation. “Well, agents, you better have a real good reason for taking me out of my office this morning. I have rights, you know. You can’t just hold someone against their will. What are you charging me with?”
“Doctor, relax. We are not charging you with anything, yet. Tell us where your son Matteo is.”
“Matteo? He is in Italy.”
“Has he contacted you recently?” asked one of the agents.
“No,” said the doctor.
“Doctor, one of our rules here is we do not tolerate people lying to us. If you lie to a federal agent in the course of an investigation, that is called obstruction of justice. It is a crime and you can go to jail for that. So let’s try this again. Has your son contacted you recently?”
“Well, maybe a few months ago. But you said recently.”
“What did he say the last time you talked to him?”
“Not much, just the usual small talk, you know. He told us about his job. We told him we were worried about him working in that dangerous lab with all those viruses and so on. You probably know he works at the Italian equivalent of the C.D.C. He asked us how we were doing and we told him about our lives. You know, that kind of thing.”
“Did he seem angry?”
“No.”
“Did he mention anything about frustrations with his job, bitterness about anything, anything like that?”
“Not at all. He seemed pretty upbeat actually. He asked us if we ever wanted to visit him in Rome.”
“So no suicidal thoughts, nothing like that?”
“No.”
“Did he ever express any resentment about the American government?”
The doctor paused. The American government? What in the world? Did they think Matteo was involved in some kind of treasonous act or something?
“Um, what is this all about, detectives?”
“Doctor, we have reason to believe your son is planning a terrorist attack on the United States.”
“What?! That’s crazy. My son? He is a Harvard-educated scientist, one of the most brilliant minds of his generation. He is working to save people from deadly viruses, not infect people with them. Where would you get the idea that he is a terrorist?” asked the doctor.
“Doctor, he blew up an entire hospital of people, making it look like a natural gas explosion. Then he stole a deadly strain of the Ebola virus. And he has now fled to parts unknown. We have reason to believe he plans to turn that virus into a bioweapon.”
“Agents, I don’t know what to tell you other than you are wrong. I know my son. He would never do that.”
“Well, before he was your son, he was someone else’s son, wasn’t he?”
“Um, yes, we adopted Matteo when he was about eleven years old.”
“Were you aware his first parents were killed in the Bosnian conflict?
“I did not know the reason for their deaths, but I knew Matteo was an orphan refugee of the Bosnian wars. That’s all I know.”
“Doctor, do you still have the paperwork from your adoption of Matteo, like the home study, the adoption agency’s reports, that kind of thing?”
“Um, I don’t know, I might have it somewhere in my study at the house. I had a big folder on all that, but it has been almost twenty years since I have looked at that.”
“Well, we are going to need to look at that. Can we have your permission to search your house to find that file?”
The doctor did not trust the agents. “Well, I don’t know. I would have to ask my wife, she is the attorney. I am not sure what I should do here.”
“Doctor, aiding and abetting a terrorist planning an attack on the United States is treason, even if it is your own son.”
“I am not aiding and abetting him, I just said I need to talk to my wife about our rights, OK?”
“Doc, we really don’t need your permission. A judge is signing a warrant for your house right now, so we can do this the hard way or the easy way. You just let us know.” With that, the two agents left the room.
When they were out in the hall, the bald agent turned to the other agent. “Think this guy knows anything?”
“No, not a chance. But I would like to get my hands on that adoption file. Something tells me that the skeletons in Matteo Graciano’s closet were formed before he ever met the good doctor.”
“I agree,” said the other agent. “Let’s get that warrant.”