"That was quick. What have you got?"
"I talked with the chief up there. It's a small department. They don't have much. McCullough's friend worked for CDC down in Atlanta. The killer cut off an ear before he cut Campbell's throat."
"Only one reason to do that." Carter absently felt his ear. It was still attached to his head. "Torture. They wanted something from him."
"Cash and credit cards still in his wallet." Stephanie sat down. "His laptop is missing. No phone, either. Someone broke into the library where Campbell was working and got into the restricted archives. No one knows if anything is missing yet."
"No night watchman?"
"He drinks. He was asleep."
"Lucky for him, or he'd probably be dead. I think we can guess what's missing."
"The tablets." Harker thought for a moment. "Stephanie, bring up Campbell's phone logs. Let's see if he called anyone else. Maybe he sent that message to more than one person."
Steph went to a computer console off to the side of Harker's desk. The console fed into the big Crays downstairs. The Crays linked to the NSA database. Most messages sent over a cell phone or digital line were somewhere in that database. For sure all domestic messages. Campbell's calls would be there. Steph entered a string of commands.
"Got him. Several calls to Atlanta in the days before he was killed. Two a day to his home number. One long call to someone named Arnold Weinstein at CDC the day before he was killed. On the night of his murder, two calls. One to Kevin McCullough. Another to Weinstein. Those calls are back to back. Sent at 10:09 in the evening."
She began entering commands on her keyboard. "I'm checking on Weinstein now."
Nick tugged on his ear. "We need to talk with him."
"You'll need a hell of a connection." Steph stared at her monitor.
"What do you mean?"
"Weinstein got in his car to go to work this morning. It blew up when he turned on the ignition."
"A car bomb? Steph, can you retrieve the message from Campbell to Weinstein? Put it on the speakers."
"It will take a minute. Hold on." They waited. "All set."
They heard Campbell's voice. A voice from the grave.
"Arnold, it's James."
"Jim. Enjoying the weather up there? It was 78 here today."
"Arnie, I've got something." Campbell sounded excited.
"Oh?"
"I've been looking at records from Persia and I found something from the time of Alexander the Great. There was a devastating crop failure in Persia right after Xerxes the First returned from Greece. The famine that followed almost brought down his empire. These tablets I've been looking at might be a clue to the cause."
"Was there a draught?"
"That's what I thought at first. But water wasn't the problem. I think it was an unknown variant of Fusarium graminearum."
"Ah. That would do it."
"It's possible a store of Fusarium spores from then may have survived."
"You can't be serious." Weinstein sounded shocked.
"I am. One of the tablets describes a sealed vessel, an urn of gold. It's supposed to contain the curse of a goddess."
"Oh, come on, Jim. A curse?"
"Not a spell, something real. Xerxes brought it back with him from Greece around 490 BCE. I think it had spores in it, maybe from infected grains. It may even have been the cause of the famine. The Greeks could have isolated the cause without really understanding how it worked. They could have seen it as something to use against their enemies. The myth linked with the urn centers on the goddess of the harvest."
"You mean Demeter?"
"Yes. The urn was kept in the royal treasury. It was still there when Alexander defeated Darius III."
"What happened to it?"
"Alexander sent it back to Greece, along with the treasure."
"Then it's gone."
"What if it isn't? What if we could find it? This could be what the Pentagon has been asking for. If it is, I don't want to give it to them."
In Harker's office, they heard Weinstein sigh.
"Jim, this isn't a secured line."
"I don't give a damn. I didn't get into this field to turn science into a way to kill more people."
"Jim, please."
"If we can find this urn and it's what I think it is, we might come up with a way to wipe out Fusarium once and for all. Think of it, Arnie! New genetic material, uncontaminated. We have nothing that old to work with."
"It might not be different."
"No. But if it is…"
"How do you propose to find it? If it exists?"
"I think I know how, or at least how to begin."
"When are you coming back?"
"Tomorrow."
"Jim. Be careful."
"They wouldn't dare touch me, Arnie. You either. They need us. See you tomorrow."
The call ended.
"What's Fusarium whatever?" Nick asked.
"Let's find out." Steph's fingers moved over the keyboard. A picture came up. "It's a crop blight. Caused a lot of problems in the past. Spreads quickly, hard to stop, kills grains like wheat and barley. Reproduces with spores. Nasty stuff."
Elizabeth studied the picture on the screen. A field of wheat, rotten, black, spoiled.
"Campbell and Weinstein were working on something for the Pentagon and Campbell wasn't happy about it. They were virologists. It must be some kind of bio-weapon." She leaned back in her chair. "Campbell didn't seem to think he was in any real danger."
"Guess he was wrong about that," Nick said.
CHAPTER FOUR
Zviad Gelashvili sat sharpening a long steel blade he kept strapped low down on his left leg. He held it up to the light, inspected it, and continued the quiet stoke of the whetstone along the razor edge.
He was a huge man. His head came to a bald, round top under a workman's hat he wore to remind people of his peasant roots. He looked like a malevolent egg. He was known as "the egg". Not only because of his looks. Because anyone who annoyed or opposed him was turned into an unpleasant omelet.
The thick flesh of Zviad's face was marked by acne scars and jovial cruelty. He had a large nose and black eyes that glittered without warmth. His lips were large, tinged with purple. He was heavily muscled. The tailored shirts he wore cascaded forward over a mountainous gut balanced by huge buttocks that required special chairs to accommodate them. His shoes were of the finest leather, crafted by the most exclusive boot maker in London.
Gelashvili had risen to power in the criminal underworld of Moscow by emulating his idol and fellow Georgian, Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, otherwise known as Stalin. If Zviad suspected treachery, someone died. If someone failed to carry out their assigned tasks, they died. If someone opposed him, they died. Something could always be done to encourage motivation.
Gelashvili was powerful and rich. He controlled part of Russia's energy deliveries to Germany and Western Europe. He controlled politicians, judges, police. He owned nightclubs and brothels in Moscow, Kiev and St. Petersburg.
Earlier in the day he'd gotten a phone call from a client he knew only as an anonymous voice over the phone. His accent was American and it was how Zviad thought of him, as "the American". Sometimes he'd hired Zviad to terminate someone, or wanted industrial secrets. Once he'd sought plans for one of the new fighters. It was all the same to Zviad, as long as he was paid. The American always paid very well.