Mirrors (16 page)

“Yes, but—”

“Hold on, there’s more!” I said, cutting Flagstaff off. “In Ecuador, Manovic limped from what appeared to be an injury to his right leg, and a review of the medical records by my colleague indicated that Grainger had been admitted to the hospital for a swollen right thigh.”

I paused to allow Flagstaff to object, but hearing only silence, I continued. “Add to this the assertion by Zot that Manovic had gone to the shrimp farm to deal with a venomous snake that was making its way into the shrimp pools from the mangroves. Frank Grainger’s PhD research was on snake venom. That’s the reason he went to Madagascar in the first place: to collect snake venom!”

A pause left both of us speechless until Flagstaff asked: “But why would he have tried to hide his identity in Ecuador?”

“To cover his role in the XK59 poisonings, I’m guessing.”

“Alright, let me do this,” Flagstaff said. “I’ll call Charles E. Oxford at
BioVironics
to inquire about this. In the meantime, we just heard from our folks in Ecuador that Zot died from massive muscle breakdown resulting from spider bites.”

“
Spider bites
?”

“Yes. Our pathologist wasn’t sure what type of spider it was, but he’s convinced spiders killed Zot. That part of Ecuador is known to harbor a poisonous species in the cane fields, and I understand there was a field behind Zot’s house.”

“Are they testing Zot’s tissues for venom?”

“Yes.”

“Was he allergic to spiders?”

“Don’t know. The pathologist is going to interview Zot’s wife today. Gotta run. Call me from Annapolis.”

I made my
way to Route 50 outside Washington where I joined a throng of cars destined for resorts along the coast. It was a hot summer Saturday, and many cars toted beach chairs, bicycles and vacation goods. I took my place among them, the odd man out.

At the outskirts of Annapolis, I received a call from Alistair Brubeck. I pulled off the road to take the call.

“I’ve been talking to you more than to my wife,” I lamented.

“Lots to discuss.”

“What now?”

“I have results on the samples you brought from Ecuador. The shrimp are hot.”

“With XK59?”

“Yes, but only shrimp from the source you labeled,
Round, glowing pond
. Why would that be?”

“I
knew
something was odd about that pond!” I described its bioluminescence.

“Could be innocent,” Brubeck replied. “A number of marine organisms emit bioluminescence—worms, squid, and bacteria, all of which have a chemical system similar to fireflies. In fact, people have been startled to find fish filets glowing in the dark on kitchen counters after they let the fish sit out at room temperature. Bioluminescent bacteria multiply to create the glow.”

“How much XK59 was in the shrimp?” I asked.

“The same level we detected in the Seattle victim’s leftover shrimp—one part per billion.”

“Did the shrimp glow?”

“Hang on, let me check.” He came back shortly. “Yes, they glow, but, again, only the ones from the round pond.”

“Was
Vibrio parahaemolyticus
present in the shrimp you tested?”

“Yes, along with
Aeromonas hydrophila
, but again, only in shrimp from the round pond.”

“I’m becoming convinced the
Vibrio
played a role somehow in producing the levels of XK59 we’re seeing in the victims.”

“How?”

“I’m not sure; it’s just a gut feeling. Which reminds me: Did you check the
Vibrio
databases to determine whether the strain we’re dealing with has been seen elsewhere in the world?”

“Not yet.”

“Let me know when you find out.”

I set off again, soon reaching the Annapolis waterfront with its sleek yachts and parking lots filled with Mercedes, Jaguars, and BMWs. Before long, I turned onto a lane with staid, ivy-lined homes and coiffed lawns. From each side, boughs from ancient oaks reached over the road to form a canopy that extended several blocks to a marsh thick with cat tails. I lowered my window and gazed beyond the marsh to a tributary of the Chesapeake Bay, inhaling the salty air.

More eloquent homes with screened porches and gazebos set along the waterfront sailed by as I drove, but I stopped when I came to a mailbox hosting the letters
N.K
. It stood at the entry to a driveway lined by rhododendrons taller than the SUV, but before turning onto the property, I rehearsed a response in case someone asked why I was there. Satisfied, I followed the driveway into a vast tract where a stately manor overlooking the water came into view. The drawn blinds and empty parking spaces suggested I was alone, but I left the car warily to approach the front door where I rang the bell.

With no response ensuing, I walked around the house to find locked windows and doors about. A path in back stretched toward a thicket of woods, and when I followed it, I came to a secluded inlet that opened to the Chesapeake Bay. A blue heron perched in shallow water nearby eyed me cautiously before resuming its hunt for fish.

My eyes turned to a sleek cabin cruiser moored nearby, its name
Down Under
. She had a long main cabin and a snappy flybridge for the helm station, and her windows were tinted, making it impossible to see inside. Confident I was alone, I ventured up a set of steps onto the rear deck and called, “Anyone here?”

In the silence, I opened the glass door to the salon and entered a natty room with teak trim and cream-colored chairs. Beyond the salon, one step down, a galley boasted an electric stove with glass-top hot plates, a microwave and conventional oven, and a full-sized refrigerator with freezer. Keeping the cream-colored theme, a padded vinyl bench surrounded a generous marble table in a dining area adjacent to the galley.

I explored a pair of staterooms, one with bunk beds and the other with berths fore and aft. The master suite was located beyond them at the bow, equipped with king bed, private head, and a host of shelves which, like those in the staterooms and salon, were stacked end-to-end with the works of Greek authors. I felt as if I were in a library, for the books spanned multiple genres: poetry, medicine, history, comedy, tragedy, philosophy, and more. While many names I recognized—Aristotle, Plato, Homer, Sophocles—some I did not—Callimachus, Apollonius of Rhodes, Aeschylus. As for titles, a number were new to me:
On the Heavens
,
Lysistrata
,
The Birds
,
The Clouds
, and many more. I was astonished not only by the volume of books, but by the impeccable care taken to preserve them, each housed in a clear plastic box to shield against the elements.

A bedside photo in the master suite caught my eye, one in which three dark-haired men stood beside a boy with the Parthenon of Athens behind them. I examined the boy’s face more carefully. He was an adolescent, but his features were familiar: dignified nose, full lips, and a widow’s peak that reminded me of a freighter’s bow plowing the sea.

I turned the frame …

To Nicholas Kostanopoulos,

beloved nephew:

Never forget your heritage

nor your birthplace.

—Your Uncles:

Cristoforo, Damian, and Sebastian Kostanopoulos

I set the photo down, admiring Kosta for scaling the immigration ladder to reach the lofty heights of Congress.

Returning to the deck, I climbed to the flybridge, a partially-covered platform above the main cabin that held a wheel and navigational equipment. Surrounding the helm was a semi-circular cushioned bench under which cabinets held life jackets and tools. In one, I noticed a stack of maps and, beside them, a marine battery with a cable running to a solar panel.

I pushed my head further into the storage space. Behind the battery, I saw a laptop and a printer. I lifted the computer and turned it on, surprised to see the icons appear without need for a password.

I opened the word processor, but it contained no files. The same was true for the spreadsheet and graphics programs, leading me to believe the laptop had been abandoned. Curious to see if the system worked, I typed a few words and printed the results.

Growing uneasy, I started for the ladder to return to the main deck but stopped short when I eyed a briefcase behind a cooler next to the helm. It was an odd placement, I thought, for it was exposed to the elements. I set it atop the bench and opened it. It contained a logbook entitled
Down Under
.

I leafed through its hand-written notes, ones describing excursions dating back to a maiden voyage from Australia to Annapolis five years earlier. Each entry provided a date, summary of marine conditions, distance traveled, key sightings, and a closing signature,
N. Kosta
. I was impressed by the Congressman’s extensive travels along the Atlantic coast and to destinations beyond in the Windward and Leeward Islands, Dutch Antilles, Belize, and Yucatán. Also noted were regular excursions to Galveston where he owned a beach house from which he courted constituents on fishing trips.

As I examined the pages, I noticed the lettering turned increasingly scraggy as the script strayed from the lines. It was as if the more recent entries had been made in the dark, on shaky surfaces, or under the influence of alcohol (a bar in the salon was generously stocked). And then, for some reason, the latest data came in the form of computer-printed entries stapled into the book. The nature of the excursions changed over time as well, being confined largely to the Chesapeake Bay—all, that is, but a final, multi-stop jaunt that ended the previous week. For this excursion, there were no daily narratives, only a list of ports of call …

July 7—10 Annapolis to Charleston, SC

July 12—Georgetown, SC

July 15—Carolina Beach, NC

July 18—Wrightsville Beach, NC

July 20—Morehead City, NC

July 22—Currituck, NC

July 24—Norfolk, VA

The list hit me like a body blow because I recognized each town as a missive postmark site. From my pocket, I extracted a sealable plastic bag of the sort used to pack sandwiches in which I kept notes from the investigation. Reviewing the missive postmarks, I saw that, without exception, the dates and locations matched the days the
Down Under
had moored in each town. Breathless, I snapped a photo of the names and dates.

Because figures helped me visualize details, I drew a new epidemic curve to which I added the missive postmarks. For simplicity, I included only the original twelve cases for which I had complete information. Once again, I noticed that only seven victims had received a missive …

Studying the curve, I saw a pattern wherein victims with later illness onsets received missives postmarked at successively northern locations. Of particular concern were the short periods between illness onset dates and missive postmarks. For example, the first victim fell ill on July 1st yet his missive was postmarked in Charleston, SC only nine days later, on July 10th. Similar short intervals occurred with other victims, suggesting someone with intimate knowledge of the outbreak investigation—an “insider”—had sent the missives. Congressman Nick Kosta came to mind immediately.

“
Impossible
!” I whispered.

How was it that a
Congressman
—a member of a super-secret federal Task Force, no less—mailed the missives? What motive could he possibly have had for doing so? Surely he knew the tracks of a Congressman were indelible, all the more so given his position on an elite anti-terrorism unit. Moreover, Congressmen didn’t commit acts like this. They partook in lewd and lascivious behavior and peddled influence, but they didn’t poison the public and then issue bizarre missives.

I pondered whether Kosta was a new breed of Congressmen, one turned against his fellow citizens. Or could it be that, in exchange for a million dollars deposited in his Antigua bank account, he was protecting an employee at
BioVironics
who orchestrated the poisonings?

The question dangled as I replaced the logbook. Returning to the main deck, I began perusing the shelved books, and because they were arranged in genres in alphabetical order by author, I kept an eye out for a poetry section that might hold Hesiod’s
Theogony
.