Plum Island (23 page)

Beth said, “I just want you to know—”

“For next time? All right, the next time two of my top scientists are murdered, I’ll be sure not to go into their laboratory.”

Beth Penrose was bright enough to let it go and said nothing.

Clearly, I thought, Ms. By-the-Book was not handling the unique circumstances of this case very well. But I gave her credit
for trying to do it right. If she’d been one of the crew on the
Titanic
, she’d have made everyone sign for the life jackets.

We all looked around the lab, but there were no notebooks, no beakers labeled “Eureka,” no cryptic messages on the blackboard,
no corpses in the supply closet, and in fact, nothing at all that the average lay person could understand. If anything interesting
or incriminating had been here, it was gone, compliments of the Gordons, or Zollner, or even Nash and Foster if they’d ventured
this far on their earlier visit this morning.

So, I stood there and tried to commune with the spirits that possibly still occupied this room—
Judy, Tom … give me a clue, a sign
.

I closed my eyes and waited. Fanelli says the dead speak to him. They identify their murderers, but they always speak Polish
or Spanish or sometimes Greek, so he can’t understand them. I think he’s pulling my leg. He’s crazier than I am.

Unfortunately, the Gordons’ lab was a bust, and we continued on.

We spoke to a dozen scientists who worked with or for the Gordons. It was obvious that (a) everyone loved Tom and Judy; (b)
Tom and Judy were brilliant; (c) Tom and Judy wouldn’t hurt a fly unless it advanced the cause of science in the service of
man and beast; (d) the Gordons, while loved and respected, were different; (e) the Gordons, while scrupulously honest in their
personal dealings, would probably screw the government and steal a vaccine worth its weight in gold, as someone phrased it.
It occurred to me that everyone was reading from the same script.

We continued our walk and climbed a staircase to the second floor. My bad leg was dragging, and my bad lung was wheezing so
loudly I thought everyone could hear it. I said to Max, “I thought this wasn’t going to be strenuous.”

He looked at me and forced a smile. He said to me softly, “I get claustrophobic sometimes.”

“Me too.” In truth, it wasn’t claustrophobia that was troubling him. Like most men of courage and action, myself included,
Max didn’t like a danger he couldn’t pull his gun on.

Dr. Zollner was going on about the training programs that were conducted here, the visiting scientists, graduate students,
and veterinarians who came from all over the world to learn and teach here. He also spoke of the facility’s foreign cooperative
programs in places like Israel, Kenya, Mexico, Canada, and England. “In fact,” he said, “the Gordons went to England about
a year ago. Pirbright Laboratory, south of London. That’s our sister lab there.”

I asked Dr. Zollner, “Do you get visitors from the Army Chemical Corps?”

Dr. Zollner looked at me and commented, “Whatever I say, you see something to question. I’m glad you’re listening.”

“I’m listening for the answer to my question.”

“The answer is it’s none of your business, Mr. Corey.”

“It is, Doctor. If we suspect that the Gordons stole organisms that can be used in biological warfare, and that’s what got
them murdered, then we have to know if such organisms exist here. In other words, are there biological warfare specialists
here in this building? Do they work here? Experiment here?”

Dr. Zollner glanced at Messrs. Foster and Nash, and then said, “I would be less than truthful if I said no one from the Army
Chemical Corps comes here. They are extremely interested in vaccines and antidotes for biological hazards…. The United States
government does not study, promote, or produce agents of offensive biological warfare. But it would be national suicide not
to study defensive measures. So, someday, when that bad fellow with the can of anthrax paddles his canoe around Manhattan
Island, we can be ready to protect the population.” Dr. Zollner added, “You have my assurances that the Gordons had no dealings
with anyone from the military, did not work in that area, and in fact, had no access to anything so lethal—”

“Except Ebola.”

“You
do
listen. My staff should pay as much attention. But why bother with an Ebola weapon? We have anthrax. Trying to improve on
anthrax is like trying to improve on gunpowder. Anthrax is easy to propagate, easy to handle, it diffuses nicely into the
air, kills slowly enough for the infected population to spread it around, and cripples as many victims as it kills, causing
a collapse of the enemy’s health care system. But, officially, we don’t have anthrax bombs or artillery shells. The point
is, if the Gordons were trying to develop a biological weapon to sell to a foreign power, they wouldn’t bother with Ebola.
They were too smart for that. So put that suspicion to rest.”

“I feel much better. By the way, when did the Gordons go to England?”

“Let’s see … May of last year. I recall that I envied them going to England in May.” He asked me, “Why do you ask?”

“Doc, do scientists know why they’re asking questions all the time?”

“Not all the time.”

“I assume the government paid all expenses for the Gordons’ trip to England.”

“Of course. It was all business.” He thought a moment, then said, “Actually, they took a week in London at their own expense.
Yes, I remember that.”

I nodded. What
I
didn’t remember was any unusually large credit card bills in May or June of last year. I wondered where they’d spent the
week. Not in a London hotel, unless they skipped out on the bill. I didn’t recall any large cash withdrawals either. Something
to think about.

The problem with asking really clever questions in front of Foster and Nash was that they heard the answers. And even if they
didn’t know where the questions were coming from, they were smart enough to know—contrary to what I indicated to Zollner—that
most questions had a purpose.

We were walking down a very long corridor, and no one was speaking, then Dr. Zollner said, “Do you hear that?” He stopped
dead and put his hand to his ear. “Do you hear that?”

We all stood motionless, listening. Finally, Foster asked, “What?”

“Rumbling. It’s a rumbling. It’s …”

Nash knelt down and put the palms of his hands on the floor. “Earthquake?”

“No,” Zollner said, “it’s my stomach. I’m hungry.” He laughed and slapped his fat. “Lighten up,” he said in his German accent,
which made it sound even more funny. Everyone was smiling except Nash, who stood stiffly and brushed his hands off.

Zollner went to a door painted bright red, on which was plastered six standard OSHA-type signs, as follows: Bio-hazard, Radioactive,
Chemical Waste, High Voltage, Poison Hazard, and finally, Untreated Human Waste. He opened the door and announced, “Lunch
Room.”

Inside the plain white cement block room were a dozen empty tables, a sink, a refrigerator, microwave oven, bulletin boards
covered with notices and messages, and a water cooler and coffee maker, but no vending machines, the fact being that no one
wanted to come in here and service them. Sitting on a counter was a fax machine, a menu of the day’s fare, and paper and pencil.
Dr. Zollner said, “Lunch is on me.” He wrote himself a big order which I saw included the soup du jour, which was beef. I
didn’t even want to think about where the beef came from.

For the first time since I left the hospital, I ordered JellO, and for the first time in my life, I skipped the meat dishes.

No one else seemed particularly hungry, and they all ordered salads.

Dr. Zollner faxed the order and said, “The lunch hour here doesn’t start until one, but they will deliver quickly because
I requested it.”

Dr. Zollner suggested we wash our hands, which we all did at the sink with some weird brown liquid soap that smelled like
iodine.

We all got coffee and sat. A few other people came in and got coffee and took things out of the refrigerator or faxed orders.
I looked at my watch to see the time and saw my wrist.

Zollner said, “If you’d brought your watch in, I’d haveto decontaminate it and quarantine it for ten days.”

“My watch wouldn’t survive a decontamination.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was five minutes to one
P.M.

We made small talk for a few minutes. The door opened and a man in lab whites entered, pushing a stainless steel cart which
looked like any other lunch cart, except it was covered with a sheet of plastic wrap.

Dr. Zollner pulled off the wrap and disposed of it, then— perfect host—gave us each our orders and dismissed the man and the
cart.

Max asked, “That guy has to shower now?”

“Oh, yes. The cart is first put in a decon room and retrieved later.”

I asked, “Is it possible to use that cart to smuggle large items out of here?”

Dr. Zollner was arranging his large lunch in front of him with the expertise of a real trencherman. He looked up from his
labor of love and said, “Now that you mention it, yes. That cart is the only thing that makes a regular journey between administration
and biocontainment. But if you used it to smuggle, you’d have to have two other people in on it. The person who pushes it
in and out, then the person who washes it and takes it back to the kitchen. You’re very clever, Mr. Corey.”

“I think like a criminal.”

He laughed and dug into the beef soup. Yuck. I regarded Dr. Zollner as I slurped my lime Jell-O. I liked the guy. He was funny,
friendly, hospitable, and smart. He was lying through his teeth, of course, but other people had forced him to do that. Probably
the two jokers across the table, for starters, and God knew who else in Washington had briefed Dr. Z on the phone all morning
while we were rambling around the ruins and getting brochures on rinder-pest and blue balls or whatever. Dr. Z in turn had
briefed Dr. Chen, who was a little too perfect. I mean, of all the people we could have questioned, Zollner led us to Dr.
Chen, whose work seemed to be only peripherally related to the Gordons’ work. And she was introduced as a good friend of the
Gordons, but wasn’t; I’d never heard her name mentioned before today. And then there were the other scientists to whom we’d
spoken briefly, before Zollner whisked us off—they, too, had been on the same page as Chen.

There was a lot of smoke and mirrors in this place, and I’m sure there always had been. I said to Zollner, “I don’t believe
this story about the Ebola vaccine. I
know
what you’re hiding and what you’re covering up.”

Dr. Zollner stopped in mid-chew, which was a chore for him. He stared at me.

I said, “It’s the Roswell aliens, isn’t it, Doc? The Gordons were about to blow the lid on the Roswell aliens.”

The room was real quiet, and even some of the other scientists glanced at us. Finally, I smiled and said, “That’s what this
green Jell-O is—alien brains. I’m eating the evidence.”

Everyone smiled and chuckled. Zollner laughed so hard he almost choked. Boy, I’m funny. Zollner and I could do a great routine;
Corey and Zollner. That might be better than
The Corey Files
.

We all went back to our lunches and made chitchat. I glanced at my companions. George Foster had looked a little panicky when
I said I didn’t believe the Ebola vaccine thing, but he was fine now, eating alfalfa sprouts. Ted Nash had looked less panicky
and more murderous. I mean, whatever was going on here, this was not the time or place to yell bullshit or liar. Beth and
I made eye contact, and as usual I couldn’t tell if she was amused by me or if she was annoyed. The way to a woman’s heart
is through her funny bone. Women like men who make them laugh. I think.

I looked at Max, who seemed less phobic in this almost normal room. He seemed to enjoy his three-bean salad, which is not
the thing that should be on a menu in an enclosed environment.

We picked at the chow, then the conversation got back to the possibly purloined vaccine. Dr. Z said, “Someone before mentioned
that this vaccine would be worth its weight in gold, which made me recall something—a few of the vaccines that the Gordons
were testing had a golden hue, and I recall the Gordons once referring to the vaccines as liquid gold. I thought that odd,
perhaps, because we never speak in terms of money or profit here….”

“Of course not,” I said. “You’re a government agency. It’s not your money, and you never have to show a profit.”

Dr. Zollner smiled. “And the same in your business, sir.”

“The very same. In any case, now we believe that the Gordons came to their senses, and, no longer satisfied with working in
the interests of science for government wages, they discovered capitalism and went for the gold.”

“Correct.” He added, “You’ve spoken to their colleagues, you’ve seen what they did here, and now you can draw only one conclusion.
Why are you still skeptical?”

“I’m not skeptical,” I lied. Of course I was skeptical; I’m a New Yorker and a cop. But I didn’t want to upset Dr. Zollner,
Mr. Foster, or Mr. Nash, so I said, “I’m just trying to make sure the facts fit. The way I see it, either the Gordons’ murders
had
nothing
to do with their work here, and we’re all following a false trail—or if their murders were related to their work, then most
probably it had to do with the theft of a viral vaccine worth millions. Liquid gold. And it would appear that the Gordons
were double-crossed, or maybe they tried to double-cross their partner, and were murdered—”
Ping
.

Jeez. There it was again. What … ? It was out there. I couldn’t see it, but I could hear its echo, and I could sense its presence,
but what
was
it?

“Mr. Corey?”

“Huh?”

Dr. Zollner’s twinkling blue eyes were appraising me through his little wire frame glasses. He said, “Is there something on
your mind?”

“No. Oh, yeah. If I had to remove my watch, why can you keep your glasses?”

“That’s the one exception. There is an eyeglass bath on the way out. Does this lead you to yet another clever thought or theory?”