Biowar by Stephen Coonts

remained a mystery even to Desk Three. The man was around twenty-three years of age, of Asian descent, in decent shape, unarmed when he was found. He had no wallet, no jewelry, and no watch. His clothes could have been purchased in any Wal-Mart across the country. He had been shot once in the back of the head, execution-style, with a .22-caliber pistol. The pistol had probably been equipped with a silencer, according to the BCI’s ID division, which handled the forensic end of the investigation. The man’s prints didn’t match any the FBI had dug up, nor did they match those recorded of known foreign agents, at least not according to the common agency files that Desk Three had double-checked.
    It occurred to Karr that the victim would have been better suited to have been the executioner.
    “Kegan’s car was on the property,” said Gorman. “We think he drove away in the victim’s car.”
    “Makes sense.”
    “About the only thing that does.”
    A uniformed trooper sat in his patrol car at the side of the driveway. Karr smiled at his disapproving glare as they came up the drive.
    Big old house, in very good repair. Great view, but nobody was just wandering up here without having some sort of reason.
    The NSA op got out of the car and walked up to the porch, letting himself in ahead of Gorman. He walked down the hallway to the office and stood in front of the scientist’s two computers. One had a DSL link as well as a wireless portal for other devices; the second wasn’t hooked up to anything, physically firewalled from the rest of the world.
    That was the one he was interested in. Karr knelt down to the CPU, sliding a disk into the floppy drive.
    “Whatcha doin’?” asked Gorman.
    “Snooping around,” said Karr, hitting the power switch.
    “We’ve already looked at the machines,” said the BCI investigator. “They’re clean.”
    The investigator meant that literally. There was nothing at all on the two hard drives of the machine Karr turned on—the program on his floppy revealed nothing more than assembler-level zeros. Which meant it either was brand-new or had been scrubbed by a low-level formatting program sophisticated enough to defeat Karr’s snooper.
    “I want to send the drives to my guys,” he told Gorman, pulling the computer out from its shelf beneath the desk. “Be easiest just to send the whole computer.”
    “I guess that’s okay,” said German. “We haven’t found anything. I’ll just need a receipt. We have a form—”
    “Whatever paperwork you want is yours.”
    Karr went to the other computer and once more slipped his boot disk in. This one had the latest version of Windows, along with an intact file structure. Besides the system programs and files, Office, three different organizer programs, Quicken, and Turbo Tax accounted for most of the used space. Karr quickly recovered the deleted files; most were just Internet sites routinely deleted.
    A calico cat came into the room, meowing as he curled against Karr’s leg. Tommy reached down and patted him; the cat licked his finger.
    “Nice cat,” he said, wiping the cat slop onto his pants.
    “Just hungry.” The detective shrugged. “No more cat food in the house. Gave it some tuna last time I was here. I don’t know if there’s any more left. Thing comes and goes. Probably somebody in the neighborhood feeding it. Hopefully they’ll adopt it.”
    “No ASPCA?”
    “Only take dogs in this county, not cats. Too many, I guess. I’d adopt it, but my wife’s allergic,” added Gorman. “Thing loves to be petted. Slobbers all over you so much you’d think it was a dog. What’s all that stuff?” Gorman asked, pointing at the screen.
    “Things someone was looking at the day before the body was found,” said Karr, flipping through the recovered files on the second computer.
    “Anything interesting?” asked Gorman.
    “URL for a page showing what time it was in Asia. Couple of them.” Karr keyed up the DSL dialer to