Backersley slammed both fists down on the top of his desk. "How could you let this happen?"
"Don't you dare try to put this on me! How many times did I tell you not to go nosing around Darlene Phillips? How many? This whole mess is square on you and you alone. And if I get hauled up in front of some subcommittee, you can bet your ass that's what I'm going to say. I'm not going to jail over your damned ego. You'll have to excuse me; I have to go try to clean up your clusterfuck." She stood up, grabbed Backersley's favorite coffee mug, and threw it across the room, shattering it against the wall. "Damn you, Bernie. Damn you. I suggest you'd better start making some phone calls to let our people know what the hell is going on. Don't call me; I'll call you. I have a shitload of work to do. Thanks." She thundered out of his office, slamming the door so hard two framed photographs fell off the wall. She could hear telephones ringing off their hooks.
By the time she returned to her office, several members of her team were waiting for her. Approaching them, she merely held up her hand to stop any questions. "Everybody downstairs, and someone call maintenance; we're going to need some help. We have to swap out the mainframes. We've got a shitload of work to do and no time to do it, so everybody let's get going."
Hidden inside a hangar at the McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas, Phillips was tapping a pencil at the conference table while Styles, Starr, and Christman were seated around opposing sofas.
"Well, the obvious question is what the hell do we do with this?" Starr asked, referencing the wooden crate strapped in place to the floor.
Phillips asked, "How much do we want to deal with this? Do we risk traveling with it? What if the plane crashes into a lake or river? Guys, I don't mind saying this thing scares the hell out of me."
"Good point," agreed Starr. "Marv, what are your thoughts?"
"I think I'll defer to J. C. for that. J. C.?"
Christman was quiet before he answered. "Well, obviously, we take it to somebody, or somebody comes to us. Who is that going to be? The chances of us crashing are extremely negligible, but there is always the possibility. Weigh that against what could happen to it if someone else becomes responsible for transporting it. How are they going to do that? My gut says it'll be flown; might end up having a military escort of some kind. I'm not sure. I think it would be as safe with us as anyone. To me, the bigger question is who do we give it to? FBI? CDC? NSA?"
"Good question," Styles agreed.
Phillips spoke up. "I've worked previously with Olivia Watson; she's the assistant director of the CDC in Atlanta. I think I could hand it off to her without a lot of questions."
"How would she explain how she got it?" Starr wanted to know.
"I'm not really sure. I'll just vaguely explain the circumstances and see what she comes up with. She's pretty sharp. Like I said, I've worked with her before."
"Darlene, if you trust her, that's good enough for me," Styles asserted, with everyone noticing that Styles was calling her by her first name more and more.
"Yes, I do. A couple of years ago, the CIA had a, uh, let's just say a delicate problem, and she proved herself. She's not afraid to act on her own. If we all agree, I'll give her a call."
"Well?" Styles asked, looking at Starr and Christman.
"Fine by me," agreed Starr with Christman nodding his agreement.
"Make the call."
Phillips retreated to the workstation she'd set up on the jet and opened up one of her laptops, retrieving a phone number. Using a secure line, she placed the call. After three rings, the call was picked up.
"Olivia Watson," announced the voice over the phone.
"Olivia, Darlene Phillips here. I'm going to give you a number. I want you to get a burn phone and call me back on it ASAP. It is critically important, and keep this between us. Here's the number," she continued, reciting it to her.
"I have one already that's never been used. I'll call you back in ten minutes. It's in my car."
"Great. I'll be waiting."
Returning to the group, Phillips announced, "She's calling me back on a burn phone. No need to advertise this conversation. I'd suggest we head for Atlanta."
"I'll get the tanks topped off, and we'll be on our way," Christman said, getting up and heading for the cockpit.
Phillips started to grin.
"What's with the smile?" Styles asked.
"Just thinking about how this is going to absolutely just burn Backersley's ass. I wish I could be a fly on the wall when the CDC comes up with this."
"Why would that piss him off?" Starr inquired.
"Because he wants to be top dog and hates it when he thinks that anyone is upstaging him. It doesn't matter one bit if it falls within his jurisdiction or operational assignment. With him, it all comes back to his ego. That's his shortcoming, and it's a big one. It makes him predictable."
"Not our problem," observed Styles.
"No, it's not."
Right then, Phillips's phone that she'd designated to Olivia Watson started ringing. Answering it, she said, "Thanks for getting back to me this quickly. Olivia, I have some news that absolutely has to stay between us. I know I can count on that. Please don't ask me any questions. Just take what I say as gospel. I need your word before I continue."
"You have it, Darlene. No questions asked."
"Good. Long story short, this new synthetic toxin that everybody is concerned about is no longer a threat — at least this particular batch. It has been secured, and I want to give it to you so CDC can take possession of it. No one can know about how you acquired it. I mean no one. You'll have to come up with a story on how you got it, but it absolutely cannot involve me. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"I'll be on my way to Atlanta shortly. I'll call you back at this number, and we can make arrangements for you to pick it up. I want to meet only with you, but I suggest you have a heavily armed escort waiting for you. This is much too dangerous for you to try handling alone. However, I don't want anyone in your security detail to know that you are meeting with me. You'll have to handle the logistics for that."
"Understood. It won't be a problem."
"How much time do you need to make your arrangements?"
"An hour tops."
"I'll call you when I'm an hour out of Atlanta. Talk to you soon." Phillips hung up. "Everything is being set in place with the CDC to take this," she told Styles, Starr, and J. C. upon returning to the table.
"Good. I don't really like being around this thing," grumbled Starr.
Looking out the windows, they saw the fuel truck pulling up. "We should be on our way within fifteen minutes. I don't want to draw attention, so I'm not going to speed getting there. Figure about three hours and fifteen minutes' flight time," offered J. C.
"What about anyone watching us?" Starr asked with concern.
"No need to worry."
34
FBI Director Matt Sanderson was on the phone with Special Agent Paul Hedges, who was leading the investigation on both the deaths of the CIA agent at the motel and the massacre at Ryyaki Ali's property. "So what is your take on this, Paul?"
"Director, I'm not quite sure. My gut is telling me if the CIA was involved at the motel, I'm betting they were at Ali's property, as well. As I've said before, there's no such thing as coincidence with the CIA."
"Are you saying you think the CIA killed Ali and the rest?"