Independence Day Plague (34 page)

Dorado turned to him. “Take a deep breath and tell me what you smell.”

Taylor did, his face creasing in puzzlement. “Wetness, mint. A lot, considering how dirty this place is.”

“
Yeah, the explosive was home-made. Anarchist websites recommend coating the outside with a strong aromatic to throw off the scent. Plus, people left lots of gum under the sign box. People leave their damn gum in lots of hidden places that are also perfect for bombs. We can’t train the dogs to search out a mint smell or they would be stopping at hundreds of false alarms.”

Taylor looked at the many chewed lumps along the top and back of the sign. “We can test them to see if any have his DNA.”

Dorado shook his head. “We won’t get results in time and I’ll lay you odds he’s not in the system. Everything about this guy has disappeared. No, he left us clues, we’re just not putting them together right.” He paused, brow furrowed. “About how many people are inside the Mall grounds now?”

Taylor harrumphed and frowned. “People can hardly move in there. I’m guessing about close to a million maybe.”

“
But that doesn’t include the ones outside the fence perimeter, in the museums, or down by the monuments.”

“
Well, it’s just a guess. We’re more crowded now than I’ve ever seen this area.”

“
But they’re still coming in…”

“
I don’t think we’ve seen the worst of it yet, no.” Taylor replied. “Some folks will get tired and go home but most will still be arriving."

“
When do you think the crowds will peak?” Dorado and Taylor walked back towards the exit.

Taylor looked around, watching the next train arrive, belching out people. “Most will arrive by seven to get seats for the fireworks. That is when everyone looks for a patch of grass to sit on. Why?”

“
Bombers tend to be very dedicated to their methods. He’s going to use a spray bomb because he's told us the weapon is some kind of disease. So we have an idea of the delivery method, and a large, general idea of where. Now we need a when.”

"When the crowds are at their highest. I saw the first message when you posted it.” Taylor replied.

“
Yeah, that means we have about five hours to discover the real bombsite.” His phone buzzed on his hip and he tapped the earpiece on. “What?” he said flatly.

“
Mike, we have the next message. It’s a list of names of diseases and their symptoms and treatments.” Her voice sounded cool and professional.

“
That’s all?”

“
Yes. All the diseases are fatal and I think most of them are rare. At least I haven’t heard of them before.”

“
Contact Col. Anderson directly by that number I gave you and give him the list. See if it has more meaning to him than it does to us. Also pass it on to the CDC and ask for their take on it.”

“
I’ll do that.” She paused. “I think we have something else too.”

The noise echoed and increased as more people filled the station. He cupped his hand over the earpiece. “What’s that?”

“
Each message’s email comes from a different IP address. In other words, he uses a different computer each time. In addition, he’s piggybacked off of any Wi-Fi connection he can get. So far, they are all downtown with the last one in the Smithsonian area. The length of the email transmission sometimes gives us enough time to trace it back to a physical location but the machines are abandoned once the officers get to the location.”

“
So that doesn’t leave us with anything.” He tried to stifle the snap in his voice.

“
By themselves, no but the numbers are sequential.”

“
So?”

“
We know the next IP address he’ll use. Jacobson thinks we can program something to backtrack it to him so you’ll have a window to call him back before he disables the machine. You can talk with him. If we can keep him on the phone and occupied…”

“
We can track him down.” Dorado replied. “Good work, Sherrie.”

Mitchell carried the backpack in his hands to keep from bumping into people as he weaved further through the crowds. It was five minutes shy of 3:00 and he gave up finding a private place to remove the next com-unit. Instead, he decided to rely on the general disinterest of those around him. Many of the people, particularly the kids were using some form of texting device, so one more person on a phone wasn't remarkable. He mounted the steps of the Natural History Museum, walking slowly behind a family of dark brown-skinned Indians. The younger male members were dressed in jeans and t-shirts while the two elderly women wore bright yellow and red traditional sari dresses.

A uniformed officer stood halfway up the steps, his back propped up against the stonewall, gazing across the crowds. He took frequent glances at the screen of the com-unit in his hand.

Mitchell silently cursed. Sending the message in the museum was safer but his timing was critical. He glanced at the cop as he unzipped the bag and pulled out the com-unit. Looking over again, he saw the cop scanning the line, pausing briefly on him as the com-unit in the officer's hand chirped. The man looked away, raising a hand to his earpiece. Mitchell turned his back and opened the machine. Ignoring the bored glances of the old women in front, he brought the message up and pushed send without reading it over. He knew the email by heart. The message talked about Marburg, the virus that killed his friends and family. He wrote how they evolved it over time. This microbe's DNA proved unique enough to only come from their labs. The message ended by telling them that it was the same virus he planned to release tonight.

He watched the pop-up screen showing the messages departing along electronic waves to its destinations. He closed the lid and risked another look around. The cop spoke into the mic while searching the faces of the people sitting or standing on the white steps.

Suddenly, the com-unit in Mitchell’s hand vibrated then began emitting a tinny but loud tune. He stared at it in shock. The screen still showed the transmitting popup window but now included an incoming call message. The family shifted around, shooting him irritated looks.

“
Sir!”

He looked around wildly. The police officer slowly walked up the steps towards him, com-unit in hand. “I’d like a word with you sir.”

Mitchell nodded, thinking furiously. He snapped the com-unit’s case shut, turning off the ringing and slipped it inside the unzipped bag. He turned and walked along the step away from the line. The officer stopped a few steps below. “Can I see what you’re holding there sir?” The officer held out his hand.

“
Sure,” Mitchell mumbled. He fumbled with the backpack then swung it at the officer’s head. It clipped the side of the man’s head and knocked him off balance down a few steps. Mitchell took off at a run, dodging the around people as he headed for one of the museum’s four brass-lined exit doors.

He shouldered his way past two teenagers and through the door. The officer was shouting outside. Inside, a portly white-shirt security officer dove to intercept him “You can’t go this way sir.”

Mitchell heaved a shoulder into the fat man’s chest, knocking him into the rope stands, and then took off, weaving through the crowds. Glancing back, he saw the police officer come in, pistol in hand and four other white-shirt security men diving into the crowds after him. The normally spacious rotunda was packed thick with people. The distance between himself and the police increased slowly as he continued to push and weave around the Mammoth display and towards one of the five hallway exits.

Once into the walkway beyond the rotunda walls, the crowds thinned out, movement became easier, and he quickly dove through a marine exhibit. During the past month, he had toured many of the museums, familiarizing himself with their layouts. He slowed to a calm walk, progressing through the animal exhibit and exiting out the far side near a stairwell.

Once upstairs, he walked near the edge of the balcony, peering down at the officers from the crowded circular balcony. The security men at the door stopped people from coming in while others slowly allowed some out. Several of the white shirt men attempted to make their way through the crowd in the rotunda but people were pressed tightly everywhere against the walls and exhibit cases. The cop stuck out from the crowd in his brown uniform, hand to his earpiece. As he watched, four other police came through the exit doors and dove into the crowds.

Mitchell swore quietly. He backed from the railing and zipped the bag closed. He fought the desire to throw the com-unit away immediately, but curiosity on how they had tracked the machine down stopped him.

He looked around, spotting the geology exhibit. Crossing the flow of traffic around the rotunda balcony, he slipped into one of the quieter room. Gleaming glass cases of rock specimens dotted the walls and central floors. The exhibit seemed almost spacious compared to the press of bodies around the centerpieces of the exhibit, the gems at the entrance or the Hope diamond located in the outside passageway. The lights flickered overhead and people froze in position. With the sound of the air conditioning system winding down, the lights dimmed then failed completely. Voices rose in anxiety but light filtered in through the few windows in some of the exhibit and through the roof of the rotunda area. Mitchell blinked a few times and then began pushing through the paralyzed crowds. The blackout lasted four minutes, allowing him to move deeper into the museum's bowels. Weaving through four packed rooms, he finally arrived at the small gift shop at the end of the exhibit.

The shop's glass shelves and displays were filled with rocks of all sizes and many sculpted specimens as well as books on geology. Mitchell spied what he needed in one back corner. Standing near a harried-looking mother flipping through shirts, he found a dark blue tee shirt with museum logo and a black baseball cap with a mammoth in gold embroidery. Thus exhausting the store’s clothing possibilities, he reached for the card in his pocket. As he stood in line, he saw another white-shirt walk through the rock exhibit. Mitchell looked around the little shop but it had only one doorway. As the security man moved closer, Mitchell dropped the cap and squatted behind the glass display to retrieve it as the man looked through the shop’s entrance and moved on.

After paying for his purchases, Mitchell wove through another exhibit at a calm pace and then up another flight of stairs to the third level. The small restroom at the end of the Roman exhibit was decorated with pale tile and dirty with bits of wadded paper all over the floor. He stepped to the last stall, locking the door in place. The air reeked of unflushed toilets. As he slipped one shirt off and put the other on, he heard the door swinging open as men came and went. He froze as he heard the knock on the far stall.

“
Sir, this is the police. Can you come out please?”

The voice rose from the first stall. “Yeah man, let me just finish up in here.”

Mitchell bent and glanced through the stall crack. Brown pants and tan shirt of the Park Police reflected back at him from the grubby sink mirrors as the man moved down the stalls, opening each on. Heart pounding, Mitchell stuffed the old shirt into his bag and looked around wildly. The nightstick banged against his stall. “Sir, can you come on out?”

The toilet flushed further down and Mitchell heard the snicking of the distant door lock. “Yo man, what’s up?”

The cop turned towards the voice. “Just looking for a specific man. Sorry to disturb you.”

“
Is it a brother?”

“
No sir, white man with brown hair.”

“
Well long as it’s not a brother, I guess I can go.”

The cop’s radio crackled to life. “All units, we have a Code Red at the south east corner of the American History Museum. All available units respond on site for crowd control.”

The cop swore, moving out of range of Mitchell’s view to answer. “Roger central on Code Red. 407 responding.”

Mitchell stood silent, breathing deeply despite the odor. The noises of others coming and going continued as he opened the backpack with shaking hands and pulled the com-unit out. Restarting the machine lead to a popup window stating “
Missed Call”
and the ID and phone number. He’d have to email Macon with the number and hope the wire-head felt generous enough to provide the information for free. He closed the machine and stowed it away. Ball cap on, he left the stall, washed his hands and then dumped the shopping bag of clothes into the trash, pushing hard to bury it among the used hand towels.

Fifteen minutes passed since the Code Red call went out and Dorado still fought to move through the crowds to get to the site. He listened to the reports flowing through the earpiece as he elbowed his way through. The dogs found a suspect package near a garbage can outside of the American History Museum. The bomb squad had been called in. Meanwhile, no word came through about whether the 2:00 call back attempt was in custody. Central communications buzzed overload with the current crisis.

He yelled into the mike unit. “Central, connect to me to the officer in charge at the Red Zone!”

Seconds later, Cardell’s voice came on line. “Dorado! Where the hell are you?”

Dorado gritted his teeth as he dodged around a line of three greenie-dressed kids, all holding hands. “Stuck in the goddamn traffic. Give me an update.”

“
We’ve secured the perimeter and bomb squad is on the way. I’ve got officers combing the crowds for Mitchell.”