Read Online Biowar by Stephen Coonts - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Coonts
Tags: Fiction, thriller, Suspense, Fiction - General, Science-Fiction, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Suspense fiction, Espionage, Political, High Tech, Intrigue, Biological warfare, Keegan; James (Fictitious character), Keegan, James (Fictitious character)
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suitcase beeped at him, telling him that while it had been prodded and dropped and kicked—a large black smudge on the side near the base attested to this rough handling—it had not been opened or tampered with.
Dean pulled it along through the hall to the customs area, where he took a spot at the end of the snaking line. Dean surveyed the crowd, casing it to see if he had been followed. In his brief stint with the NSA he’d learned that paranoia could be extremely healthy, but he’d also learned that picking a really good trail team out in a crowded place could be next to impossible.
If he was being followed, it was at least being done by pros.
“Let’s move along now,” said a female customs agent at the front, opening a new station. Dean pulled his luggage up and took out his passport, which was in his name. He handed it and the questionnaire to the clerk.
“Business or pleasure?”
“I’m here for a scientific conference,” said Dean. “But I do hope to get a little pleasure in.”
“Science, really?” said the woman. “What of?”
“Biology,” said Dean. “Bacteria and viruses.”
“I see.” The woman looked as if she might start quizzing him, and Dean wondered about the timing of her arrival—she’d opened up a station just as he got to the head of the line. Had she been sent by Desk Three to test him?
Or was something else going on?
“Yeah,” said Dean, noncommittally.
“Thick glasses,” said the clerk.
“Trifocals,” said Dean. He smiled apologetically and held them as if adjusting his vision. “Getting old.”
She took his passport and looked at it under a special lamp to make sure it was authentic—or in this case, an authentic forgery. The two college girls he’d followed earlier were now at the station on his left. One made a joke when the customs agent asked why they had come, and they were given a lecture about the employment situation in Great Britain. (Not pretty, according to the agent, who noted that Her Majesty’s government could not have illegal workers “mucking about” and taking jobs from legitimate citizens.)
“That way,” said Dean’s customs agent, clearing him through.
Lia stood next to the line for the ATM, watching the escalator up from the lower level. British intelligence had an operation going to track the arriving scientists—she’d seen them pick up on a pair of Russians earlier, tagging their luggage with a small locator bug and then following them onto the airport shuttle into the city. For some reason they hadn’t tagged Dean—whether because he was American or hadn’t been listed on the original list of conference attendees wasn’t clear.
Lia had one of the ops in sight. They were easy to spot, lacking luggage and knowing far too much about where they were. The man made no move as Dean walked past, nor did he touch his ear to use his radio.
“You’re going to lose Dean,” warned Rockman in her ear.
“That’ll be the day,” she said, circling around the escalator. She paused to adjust her shoulder bag, moving the strap button so it focused on a brunette near the coffee seller.
“What’s Sylvia doing here?” said Rockman.
“My point exactly,” said Lia.
Sylvia Reynolds was a former CIA officer who did contract work for the FBI and occasionally British MI-6 and MI-5, respectively the external and internal intelligence organizations of the United Kingdom. Lia watched as Sylvia paid for her coffee, then began walking toward the terminal entrance. It wasn’t obvious that she was following Dean, which of course made Lia suspect immediately that she was. Dean had found his way to the taxi queue and was standing about twelve fares back.
“Tell him to go downstairs and take the express,” said Lia. “Let’s make sure she’s on him.”
“Good idea,” said Rockman.
Lia went back inside, spotting a pair of Russian SVR officers coming through the door lugging their bags. There were going to be more spies in London
Dean pulled it along through the hall to the customs area, where he took a spot at the end of the snaking line. Dean surveyed the crowd, casing it to see if he had been followed. In his brief stint with the NSA he’d learned that paranoia could be extremely healthy, but he’d also learned that picking a really good trail team out in a crowded place could be next to impossible.
If he was being followed, it was at least being done by pros.
“Let’s move along now,” said a female customs agent at the front, opening a new station. Dean pulled his luggage up and took out his passport, which was in his name. He handed it and the questionnaire to the clerk.
“Business or pleasure?”
“I’m here for a scientific conference,” said Dean. “But I do hope to get a little pleasure in.”
“Science, really?” said the woman. “What of?”
“Biology,” said Dean. “Bacteria and viruses.”
“I see.” The woman looked as if she might start quizzing him, and Dean wondered about the timing of her arrival—she’d opened up a station just as he got to the head of the line. Had she been sent by Desk Three to test him?
Or was something else going on?
“Yeah,” said Dean, noncommittally.
“Thick glasses,” said the clerk.
“Trifocals,” said Dean. He smiled apologetically and held them as if adjusting his vision. “Getting old.”
She took his passport and looked at it under a special lamp to make sure it was authentic—or in this case, an authentic forgery. The two college girls he’d followed earlier were now at the station on his left. One made a joke when the customs agent asked why they had come, and they were given a lecture about the employment situation in Great Britain. (Not pretty, according to the agent, who noted that Her Majesty’s government could not have illegal workers “mucking about” and taking jobs from legitimate citizens.)
“That way,” said Dean’s customs agent, clearing him through.
Lia stood next to the line for the ATM, watching the escalator up from the lower level. British intelligence had an operation going to track the arriving scientists—she’d seen them pick up on a pair of Russians earlier, tagging their luggage with a small locator bug and then following them onto the airport shuttle into the city. For some reason they hadn’t tagged Dean—whether because he was American or hadn’t been listed on the original list of conference attendees wasn’t clear.
Lia had one of the ops in sight. They were easy to spot, lacking luggage and knowing far too much about where they were. The man made no move as Dean walked past, nor did he touch his ear to use his radio.
“You’re going to lose Dean,” warned Rockman in her ear.
“That’ll be the day,” she said, circling around the escalator. She paused to adjust her shoulder bag, moving the strap button so it focused on a brunette near the coffee seller.
“What’s Sylvia doing here?” said Rockman.
“My point exactly,” said Lia.
Sylvia Reynolds was a former CIA officer who did contract work for the FBI and occasionally British MI-6 and MI-5, respectively the external and internal intelligence organizations of the United Kingdom. Lia watched as Sylvia paid for her coffee, then began walking toward the terminal entrance. It wasn’t obvious that she was following Dean, which of course made Lia suspect immediately that she was. Dean had found his way to the taxi queue and was standing about twelve fares back.
“Tell him to go downstairs and take the express,” said Lia. “Let’s make sure she’s on him.”
“Good idea,” said Rockman.
Lia went back inside, spotting a pair of Russian SVR officers coming through the door lugging their bags. There were going to be more spies in London