Lethal Dose (17 page)

35

“Gentlemen, we have a real problem this time,” J. D. Rothery said. He paced the carpeted floor of his office while he spoke. Present were Jim Allenby, Tony Warner, and Craig Simms. The task force against America's latest terrorist threat was assembled and listening as the head of the scientific arm of the Department of Homeland Security brought them up to date on the latest viral outbreak.

“A group of Boy Scouts was having a picnic in Franklin Park in Boston. Five of them are sick. We've isolated the cause of the infection to the Pepsi cans they were drinking from. Five of the nine boys drank Pepsi, and they're the ones contaminated. We quarantined the remainder of the cans and found traces of the virus on the metal rim next to the pop-up tab. Plus someone had written a message on the inside of the cardboard case.”

“What was the message?” Warner asked.

“
A small mouse can cause great damage if let loose in the elephant's tent.
Right now, we have no idea what the hell that's supposed to mean.”

“Where did the Pepsi come from?” Allenby asked.

“One of the parents bought it at a corner store close to their home in Roxbury. It's a suburb just south of Boston, and most of the kids in the Scout troop live there.”

“What's the status of the kids? How bad are they?”

“All five are going to die, probably sometime today. They ingested the pop five days ago, on September fourth. But we've got problems with their families this time. Two of the kids have infected their parents, and one sibling is showing symptoms. The press is all over this. Two of the kids were admitted to the hospital, so we've got our work cut out for us just trying to contain the virus from spreading.”

“Any signs the virus is loose in the hospital?” Warner asked. The NSA man was working on his computer, calculating the collateral damage.

“Not yet,” Rothery said, “but we're monitoring the situation hour by hour.”

Warner hit a button and glanced up. “If two kids are in the hospital for two full days, they encountered six shifts, each with three nurses and attendants in direct contact. If the two days hit on the end of a workweek for the staff, then we have thirty-six health care professionals at risk. And they would have been in close contact to at least three or four people in triage and emergency.

“Then there are the cloths and towels from the kid's rooms. They've been mixed in with the laundry from other wards. And at least a couple of workers would have been in contact with the dirty sheets and towels before they went in for sterilization. All told, the peripheral contact, just in the hospital alone, is over fifty people. And each of those individuals has now had time to go home, kiss their spouse, share a fork over a piece of pie, hug their kids, and sneeze on the clerk at the 7-Eleven. Let's assume each of the fifty has been in close contact with six other people. That's three hundred. And the more time that passes, the more cases of intimate contact those three hundred will have with others.”

“We've got to get this contained, and fast,” Rothery said. He turned to Allenby. “What resources can the FBI contribute, Jim?”

“Whatever you need. We can free up an agent or two from field offices across the country. That would give us up to two hundred agents we could place in Boston within twelve hours. Each of our agents is well trained in this exact scenario—they know how to interview the victims and potential victims, and how to trace the disease as it moves through the population.”

“Do it,” Rothery said. He turned to Tony Warner. “Tony, get your people over at Crypto-City to map out every possible route the virus could travel. I want to be proactive on this, not reactive. Let's cut it off before it gets into the general population.”

“I'll have mock-up scenarios to Jim inside six hours,” he said.

“Craig,” J.D. said, turning to the CIA director. “You know what I need. It's time.”

Craig Simms nodded, just a slight movement but enough to acknowledge that years of clandestine operations were about to go up in smoke. “All of them?” he asked.

“Every lab you know that's actively producing toxins at this time. No exceptions. Even the ones in hostile territory if you can get SEAL units in place quickly enough.”

“We anticipated it may come to this and we've called in a few favors. Mossad and MI6 are both ready to assist with the raids. The British have one SBS unit and two SAS units they can free up immediately. We'll use those for the raids on the Eastern European countries. The Israelis are anxious to shut down the labs operating in Egypt and Libya. I think we have enough SEAL and Delta Force teams to hit the rest. I'll know in a few hours.”

Rothery stopped pacing and said, “I'm sorry it came to this, Craig, but we've got to stop this in its tracks. And finding out where this virus is coming from is number one. Getting a cure is a close second.” He looked at Tony Warner. “You were talking with Dr. Henning on this yesterday, Tony. What did he have to say about a possible antiserum against the virus?”

“His take on it was that this virus, although hemorrhagic like Ebola, is different enough that there may be the possibility of finding something to combat it. One of the keys is in the actual diameter of the virus itself. It's double the size of Ebola, so genome replication is completely different. He thinks that some sort of viral protein, processed on the intracellular level, might stop the virus from attaching to the host cell.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Rothery asked.

Warner looked perturbed at Rothery's lack of technical expertise but explained. “We have to treat the patient once they have the virus, J. D. And the best possibility we have to stop the virus from spreading inside the body is to keep it from attaching to host cells. If the virus can't attach, it's finished.”

“Okay, I get what you're doing.” Rothery was thoughtful. “We have a lot of scientists in the government sector we can draw on for answers, but we're missing an entire slice of the academic community.” He focused on Jim Allenby. “What about the pharmaceutical companies? Could we give them a hypothetical and see if they have an answer?”

Allenby thought about the impact of revealing the virus to the public sector for a minute, then said, “It's a possibility. If Marcon or Frezin or one of the big guys has something in the pipeline, it'd be lax of us not to exploit that technology. But every company we ask for help would have to sign a nondisclosure agreement. We don't need this getting out to the general public.”

“I don't know how much longer we can keep it under wraps, Jim. This Boston incident isn't going away anytime soon.” Rothery's voice had an edge to it, that of a man ready to explode.

No one spoke for a minute, each one alone in the silence with his own thoughts. The attack on America with a deadly virus was now a definite reality, one that the media would be all over. And they would be relentless. They would find the connections between Austin, San Diego, Miami, and Boston, and once they did, CNN and the rest of the networks would have their top story for some time to come. And each man in the room realized that stopping the virus from reaching an epidemic had to come from within that room. The power of the country's four largest law-enforcement and espionage communities sat waiting for their directions. And if those directions were wrong, the results could be catastrophic. But if they were right…

Rothery broke the silence. “Jim, get your agents to Boston and contain that situation. Craig, shut down the labs. Tony, ensure all our government scientists are working on this, and bring in the pharmaceutical companies that have the resources and are willing to work under a gag order.”

He took one more look at each of the men. “This is it, gentlemen. We are on the edge of losing control of this thing. We need results. And we need them now.”

36

The listing agent on Albert Rousseau's condo arrived at the property at precisely six minutes after ten o'clock. Her being late irritated Gordon, but when she slid out of her Mercedes, Gordon mellowed a bit. She was attractive and smartly dressed in a dark pantsuit, black heels, and a white blouse cut close to the neck. Her dark hair was cut just off her shoulders and suited her tanned face. She wore an apologetic smile as she greeted him.

“I'm Arlene,” she said, offering out her hand. Her grip was firm, and she locked eyes with him as they shook. “Sorry I'm late. I got held up at another property.”

Gordon shook her hand. “Not a problem. Can we see the property?” he asked, nodding toward the burned-out shell.

She glanced over at the wreckage. “Sure. We don't even need to open the lockbox on this one. Being there's no front door.” Gordon chuckled at the remark, and she continued. “I just got this listing from the insurance company a week ago,” she said. “I don't know much about it, other than there was some sort of explosion and they wanted it priced at $145,900. Lowest-priced property in the area, for obvious reasons.”

“What kind of structural damage was done in the explosion?” he asked.

She flipped through the file, stopping at a sheet covered with figures. “There is an engineering report here,” she said. “I'm not an expert on these things, but from what I can see, the major damage is to the rear of the building and the second-level floor, or first-level ceiling, depending on how you want to look at it. The front of the condo didn't fare too well either, as you can see. The floor joists are badly damaged and need to be repaired. And the city has placed a caveat on the title that whoever buys the place has to have an engineer stamp the renovations before new flooring or drywall can be installed. They want to know the structural repairs have been done properly before they'll let you cover anything up.”

“Okay,” Gordon said. “Can we look through what's left of the place?”

She looked down at her high heels, then at the wreckage. “I wasn't thinking,” she said. “I should have worn different clothes. I'm not sure I can walk around in there with you. Would you mind if I waited out here? I can answer any questions you have after you've finished looking about.”

“Probably a good idea,” Gordon said. In fact, as he strode up the front walk, it struck him that this was a very good thing. With no realtor at his side, he would be able to look about freely. And that was why he was here.

He entered what had been Albert Rousseau's home through the front entrance, now just a hole in the brick exterior. Immediately upon entering the house, Gordon was struck by the extent of the damage. The explosion had blown outward from the stove, and pieces of metal and glass were embedded in what was left of the walls. The foyer was defined only by the difference in floor coverings, with ceramic tile in the entranceway and hardwood in the living room. He carefully picked his way through the remains of the living room and into the kitchen. The cabinets were almost entirely gone: Just a maple pantry in one corner remained. The sink was hanging by the drainpipe and the water lines jutted out from the walls at crazy angles.

The ends of the brass lines were shredded and water damage was everywhere. Gordon knew that some of the damage came from water pouring out of the broken lines and the remainder from the firemen pouring water onto the ensuing fire. The floor felt soggy, and he was careful where he stepped.

He spent a few minutes in the kitchen, thinking about how the scene could have played out. The damage was so extensive that there must have been quite a buildup of gas prior to the explosion. Was Albert Rousseau already dead when the stove exploded? Quite likely. Dead or unconscious. At any rate, if he was anywhere near the stove, there was probably little left of the man's body after the gas ignited. He continued through the house, checking out the second floor for any sign of a wall safe. But there was no place in the unit where the wall thickness was sufficient to accommodate a safe of any size. Gordon returned to the main floor, then continued on into the basement.

It was dark and, with the electricity off, impossible to see anything. He gave himself a small pat on the back for thinking ahead and bringing a pocket flashlight. He pulled it out and flipped the switch. A narrow beam of light illuminated the concrete foundation. The basement was unfinished, but what was once an open storage space was now a garbage heap of broken wood and soggy drywall. It felt dank and smelled of rotting wood and mold.

Gordon picked his way through the mess toward the corner where the electrical service entered. Under the electrical panel were the rusting remains of a washer and dryer. Near the appliances the floor was not so deep in crud, and he kicked away some of the garbage until he could see the concrete. The hot-water tank was a few feet from the washer and dryer, almost in the corner. Gordon gave it a quick glance. The gas line was still attached, but the gas would have long since been shut off. The water lines were intact as well, and there was a floor drain a couple of feet from the base of the tank. He looked back to the washer and dryer. The basement floor appeared to slope ever so slightly away from the hot-water tank toward the washer.

That didn't make sense. The floor drain should be at the lowest point in the concrete floor, so that any overflow water would drain out to the city services. And the floor was dry, which meant that the water had drained somewhere. Gordon looked back at the floor drain next to the hot-water tank. It was definitely higher than the floor level in front of the washer and dryer. He kicked away the sludge and garbage from in front of the washing machine. About five feet from the front of the machine, and at a low point in the concrete, was a second floor drain. Something wasn't right.

Gordon pulled the metal lid off the drain and peered in with the flashlight. Water, about six inches below the concrete. That was about right. He moved back to the first drain he had spotted, next to the hot-water tank, and pulled the cover off. He shone the light in. Nothing. Just what appeared to be a small piece of tight-fitting wood about three inches down. He pushed on the wood, but it didn't move. Holding the flashlight in his teeth, he shone the beam directly into the hole and worked the wood with his fingers. It moved. He kept pushing on it until one edge lifted slightly. He got his finger under the uplifted edge and pulled. The piece of wood popped out. Underneath, now exposed to the light, was the top of a floor safe.

“I'll be damned,” Gordon said under his breath. He tried the handle, but the safe was locked. He spun the dial and it rotated easily to his touch. It was still working. All he needed was the combination. He read the manufacturer's name and model number off the safe and committed it to memory, then replaced the wood and the grate. He returned to the main floor and back into the sunshine. The realtor was waiting for him.

“Well?” she asked as he walked across the street to where she was leaning against her Mercedes.

“There's a lot of structural damage,” Gordon said. “It would take at least two hundred thousand to get that place livable.” He pointed to the units on either side. “What do they sell for when they're in normal condition?”

“About three hundred thousand, give or take. It depends whether they've had any renovations. The top price anything on this block has sold for is three-thirty, and it was totally redone.”

Gordon nodded. “Even if I could get this at one-thirty, by the time I put two hundred into it, I'd just get my money back. No upside for the renovation.”

“Not if it cost you two hundred to fix it,” she said. “That might be a bit high.”

“I'd rather be high than low,” Gordon said. “Sorry, but I don't think it works for me.”

“That's okay,” she said, smiling. “Thanks for not making me trudge through that place with you.”

Gordon returned to his rental car and waved as she pulled away. He sat in the car for a few minutes, thinking about how to approach this situation. He needed to get back into the condo, but this time with either the combination to the safe or something that would open it. And since Albert Rousseau was long since gone, that eliminated the possibility of using a combination to open the safe. So it would have to be force. Now all he needed to know was how.

One thing was for certain. He was going to get into that safe.