Biowar Read Free

ask what I do?”
    “You’re a government employee, Mr. Dean. It need go no further than that. Who is your friend?”
    “James Kegan. He’s a scientist.”
    The name registered in Rubens’ brain, but he could not decide why. He knew Kegans and Kagans—Tom Kegan in at the Pentagon, Kagan at State, the historian, of course....
    “Do you think he murdered this person?” Rubens asked.
    “I don’t—I wouldn’t think so.”
    “Are you there now?”
    “I’m standing over the body.”
    How inconvenient, thought Rubens.
    “Alert the authorities. Keep me informed.” He glanced at his watch. He was due for his weekly haircut in forty minutes; after that he had a session with his yoga master. “Charlie, you were right to call me. For the next few hours I’ll be tied up. If you need anything, speak to Marie in the Art Room.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Rubens clicked off, entering his security codes as required to disentangle the phone from the system. He rose and went to the desk, pulling the blanket back from the comer so he could pick up the secure phone that tied to the Art Room—Desk Three’s control room, where Marie Telach was on duty as supervisor.
    “Marie, I’d like you to find out what you can on a James Kegan of New York. He lives in—” Rubens slid his thumb over the buttons on his phone to retrieve the GPS location that Dean had called from.
    “Athens, New York,” said Telach. “We’re on it already. Charlie talked to me first.”
    “Very good.”
    “Listen, boss, you’re going to want to take a look at this.”
    “Why would that be?”
    “He’s some sort of expert in germ warfare. His name is on our file as a potential consultant.”
    Rubens considered the painting once again. Green faded to gray; gray merged with black ... shadow blurring to shade, shade to shadow: the perfect representation of the world Rubens and his people operated in.
    “Is Mr. Dean aware of this?” Rubens asked.
    “I don’t think so. He knows he’s a big-shot scientist, but when I spoke to him I hadn’t run the name.”
    “I will be back in the building no later than eleven-thirty. Please have the details waiting in my queue.”

3

    “You found him just like this?”
    “Haven’t touched him. You can see where the blood is. I would have to have stepped into it.”
    “How’d you know he was dead?”
    “Well, I guess in theory I don’t,” Dean told the plainclothes investigator.
    “All right, let’s go outside. ID people have to go over the place.”
    “ID?”
    “Crime-scene guys.”
    The state police investigator put his hand out in the direction of the door. Dean walked out to the front of the house and followed down toward the driveway, which was now filled with several troop cars, an SUV, and an unmarked Bureau of Criminal Investigation sedan.
    “You mind showing me your license?”
    “I went through this with the trooper.”
    “Yeah, I know.” The BCI investigator didn’t sound particularly apologetic. “You right- or left-handed?”
    Dean held out his arms so the investigator could look at his sleeves himself. “You want to dust me or something?”
    The investigator stared at Dean’s arms and hands. Probably he was trying to decide whether Dean was smart enough to wash and change his clothes after firing a gun, so there were no traces of gunpowder.
    Or blood.
    “How ’bout that license?” said the investigator, looking up.
    “Your name again was—”
    “Achilles Gorman. License?”
    Dean took out his wallet and handed over his ID. He’d already put his pistol and its holster in the car—not hiding them, exactly, just trying to avoid unnecessary questions.
    Gorman called in the license information, then copied it in a small notebook he’d taken from his pocket.
    “You live in California?” the detective asked.
    “I’m in the process of relocating.”
    “Up here?”
    “Maryland.”
    They went back and forth like that for a while, the investigator gathering useless background