Rising Phoenix (25 page)

“I can’t imagine that this is helping any,” she said, looking at the TV where a CNN anchor was discussing casualty estimates. In the upper right-hand corner of the screen a black-and-red graphic depicted a needle and vial with the simple caption THE DRUG CRISIS. The media’s ability to attractively package a
tragedy like a bar of bath soap never ceased to disgust her. She took the remote control off the arm of her husband’s chair to try to find something a little more upbeat. He snatched it back before she could aim it, slamming it back down on the arm of the chair.

Erica eyed him strangely. She couldn’t ever remember him grabbing something from her like that. She had also expected him to have something to say about what was happening in the news, but he hadn’t uttered a word on the subject. He just watched the reports, keeping any feelings about them bottled up inside. It was probably just the flu, she reasoned, as she walked angrily out of the room.

“Close the door,” her husband yelled. She wanted to leave it open—he hadn’t showered and it was getting a little close in his den. But she didn’t want to argue, and did as he asked.

As the door clicked shut, Blake increased the volume on the TV until the sound penetrated every corner of his mind. He sat there, staring blankly at the screen in the dim light of the den.

He had stopped sleeping after the first few victims died. It had turned out that two of the first few had been drug dealers—scum of the earth, as far as he was concerned. But he’d been responsible for their deaths and that was a sensation he wasn’t familiar with, and as it turned out, wasn’t fond of.

Then the sky had fallen. CNN was estimating four hundred deaths and another six hundred terminally ill. A thousand people. Hobart and he had discussed the possibility of casualties, but never in his wildest dreams had he thought anything like this could happen.
Why hadn’t people stopped using? The ad had been clear enough—had they not read it? No, that was impossible. The media had saturated the airwaves with the story. Everyone knew, he told himself. Everyone.

Blake coughed loudly, leaning over the arm of his chair until the spasms subsided. Waves of nausea came over him, combining with the burning in his stomach. For a moment he thought he was going to throw up, but he managed to fight it off.

Mark Beamon pressed his back against the wall, narrowly avoiding a collision with a Secret Service man hustling to the other side of the room. He didn’t know how those guys did it. There must have been thirty people moving frantically back and forth waiting for the President to appear; all dressed the same, all with nearly the same haircut, and all talking in the same medium-loud monotone. And these guys had to keep it all straight. No thanks.

Beamon slid a few feet to his left, giving himself a partially obstructed view of the curtain leading to the small auditorium where the President held his press conferences. He could detect movement behind the curtain, but couldn’t really see anything.

He wished they’d get this show on the road. The makeup that had been slathered onto his face in preparation for the television cameras was beginning to dry in the corners of his eyes, and it was driving him crazy. He reached up to scratch at it.

“Don’t do that, Mark,”

Beamon turned his head toward the familiar voice
and watched Laura Vilechi weaving effortlessly through the crowd.

“Laura! What are you doing here?”

“I brought you a present.”

“A present? Really? What is it?”

Laura pulled a deep maroon tie with subtle blue dots from her bag and pressed it against the frayed lapel of his jacket. She nodded approvingly. “I didn’t have time to do anything about the suit, but this tie should help.”

“I take it you don’t like the one I have on.”

Laura pursed her lips and ran her tongue across the front of her teeth. “If you’re going to be on TV, you need a tie that says ’trust me, I know what I’m doing. I’ve got everything under control.’”

Beamon grabbed Laura by the shoulders and moved her a couple of feet to her right. A boom mike just missed her head.

“I know I’m going to regret asking this, but just what is it that my tie says?”

She pulled it out of his jacket and held the tip like it was the tail of a dead mouse. “Meet me at my trailer later, I’ve got a cooler full of brewskis.”

“I brought a six-pack. It’s a little early, but I thought we might need it,” Robert Swenson said, slamming the door to the apartment and making a beeline to the refrigerator. It was 9:58
A.M.
, and Hobart was sitting on the sofa, watching the lead-in to the President’s press conference. The subject today was near and dear to his heart.

Swenson plopped down on the sofa and put two
beers on the coffee table in front of them, unopened. The scene on the television changed from a reporter framed by the White House to a crowded room with an empty podium as its focal point. An unintelligible rumbling came from the reporters fidgeting in neatly organized chairs.

A few moments later President Daniel Jameson strode purposefully out onto the stage, followed closely by two conservatively dressed men. He took his place behind the podium and shuffled papers for a moment, a look of deep concern on his face.

“Shit,” Hobart said, no louder than a whisper.

Swenson looked over at him. “They haven’t said anything yet.”

“See that ugly son of a bitch next to Calahan?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Mark Beamon.”

“Beamon. Why do I know that name?”

“He’s the asshole that got me thrown out of the DEA,” Hobart replied, twisting the top of a beer. Swenson was about to ask for more details, but the President began to speak.

“As all of you know, a group known as the Committee for a Drug-Free Society threatened, through advertisements in a number of major newspapers, to poison the U.S. narcotics supply. It would appear that they have made good on that threat. I understand that current estimates of dead and injured are nearing a thousand people.” He paused for a moment to accentuate the point. The reporters struggled to contain themselves.

“I have directed the FBI to take the lead in this investigation, and to make it their top priority. I have
further directed that all other law enforcement agencies give the FBI their full cooperation. With that, I would like to introduce Bill Calahan and Mark Beamon from the FBI.”

Jameson began to turn away from the podium but was prompted back by the shouted questions of the press.

“We’ll take questions at the end of the conference,” he said into the microphone, and turned away again, shaking hands with the two men moving toward the podium.

Calahan spoke first, with Beamon flanking him a few feet behind.

“At the request of the President, I’ve formed a task force to investigate this most serious crime, and have told my people to make it their top priority. I’ve also appointed Mark Beamon, whom many of you know, as head of the task force. Mark should be able to bring you up to speed on where we are in the investigation. Mark?” Calahan gave up the podium and took a place alongside the President. Beamon moved forward and adjusted the mike, wondering how he was going to stretch what little he knew into a reasonable speech. There was nothing he hated more than coming out on national TV and saying he didn’t know what the fuck was going on, but that he’d do his best to find out.

“Obviously the Bureau’s been investigating this case since the ad requests were first made. We have a number of leads that we’re aggressively pursuing, though we don’t have any suspects yet.”

Christ, this sounds lame.

“We haven’t been able to isolate the poison used,
but we have been able to get a feel for how it works. I think you guys have already done a pretty good job of describing its effects.” There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. The press seemed to be in a bitter contest to see which network could be the most graphic.

“What we just found out this morning, though, regards the, uh, reaction time.” He paused, knowing that his next words were going to send a panic through the narcotics community. He felt a little bit like he was about to yell fire in a crowded theater.

“Apparently, symptoms will not appear for between one and a half and two weeks following contact with the poison. Death can be expected within three days of the appearance of symptoms. There appears to be no antidote.”

Beamon stepped back involuntarily at the force of the shouted questions from the men and women in front of him. Gathering his composure, he raised his hand, effectively quieting them.

“To date, it would appear that only cocaine has been contaminated, but let me stress that the ads did not limit their threat to coke. At this time, all illegal narcotics should be considered suspect.”

Beamon leaned against the podium and, for the first time, looked directly at the camera. “If you’re using illegal drugs, stop. Go to a rehab clinic, see your priest, start drinking, take up knitting—whatever it takes. Even if we catch these guys tomorrow, there’s no telling how much of this stuff is floating around on the streets.”

He turned his head and called to Calahan and the President to join him. The two men approached the podium, looking reluctant.

“Uh, I guess we have time for a few questions.” Every hand in the hall shot up.

Neither of the men flanking him made a move, so Beamon pointed. “Stacey.”

A woman who seemed too elegantly dressed to be a reporter stood up. Beamon remembered her having a little more class than most of her peers.

“If there is a two-week delay on the reaction time on this poison, is it possible that these first thousand casualties are only the tip of the iceberg? Does the FBI have an estimate of how many deaths are expected?”

Calahan didn’t seem to want to get anywhere near that question, so Beamon answered it himself. “Could the first thousand only be the tip of the iceberg? Maybe, but there are way too many variables to make an accurate estimate.”

All hands went from scribbling to reaching for the ceiling.

“Gill.” He was quickly running out of reporters that he knew to have even a small spark of decency.

“Mr. Beamon, there have been a lot of rumors flying around that this is a covert government operation to stop the illegal narcotics trade in the U.S. Would you care to comment on that?”

“Not really. But we’ve got the number one expert on government operations right here. Mr. President?”

Jameson stepped up to the podium, looking angry. “That’s ridiculous. If anything, my administration has been criticized for not being heavy-handed enough with the punishment of criminals, and of being too reform-oriented. These kind of rumors are bound to start when something like this happens—they are completely unfounded.”

Jameson stepped back, whispering in Beamon’s ear to wrap things up.

Beamon leaned into the mike. “We’ve got time for one more. Kim?”

“You said that you’re following up a number of leads. Would you care to comment on those leads, and give us a feel for how long you expect it’ll take to resolve this case?”

Beamon smiled. “No, and I don’t know. But you can rest assured that we’re doing everything humanly possible to find these guys. Thank you.”

Hobart flipped off the TV and finished his beer.

“They don’t have shit,” he observed.

Swenson looked concerned. “But there’s some history between you and that Beamon guy?”

“Yeah,” Hobart admitted. “Must have been ten years ago—we were working on a joint investigation. Peter Manion was one of my snitches back then. He was stonewalling me and I was pushing him around a little bit. To make a long story short, Peter fell over a table and broke his arm. Beamon walks in a few minutes later and goes ballistic. Takes Manion to the hospital and comes back and presses charges against me.”

“So what happened?”

Hobart smiled. “I fought back—got Peter to testify that Beamon was in on the whole thing. Goddam hearings went on for a year with both of us on unpaid leave. In the end, I got canned and he got demoted and sent to … Montana, I think.”

Swenson nodded thoughtfully. “Is he good?”

“Sure. But not as good as he thinks he is. He doesn’t have much support with management, either. Getting
an official reprimand for beating up an informant is pretty tough to live down.”

Hobart laughed as he stood and walked across the room to a strangely configured chess board and pulled a black king off the television. He placed it ceremoniously on the board.

“I’d been meaning to ask you about that, John,” Swenson said, walking quietly up behind him. “I don’t think you’ve got it set up quite right.”

Hobart surveyed the board. “It’s set up exactly right.” He pointed to the right side of the board where a white king and queen sat in the first rank. Eight white pawns were spread out over the board. There were no more white pieces. “We’re the white. You and I are symbolized by the king and queen. The eight pawns represent our men in the field.”

He shifted his focus to the left side of the board, where two full rows of pawns stood, one blue and one black. On the first rank stood a king and queen of each color. “The black pieces represent the FBI. Beamon’s the king. Tom Sherman, the associate director, and Beamon’s strongest ally, is the queen.”

“And the blue?”

Hobart scowled. The answer was obvious. Maybe his partner wasn’t as bright as he had thought. “The narcotics cartel. I don’t know who the king and queen represent yet, but my guess is that it will be Luis Colombar and his advisor—Alejandro something. Colombar’s the most powerful man in Colombia now—and it was his refinery that I hit. Of course, nothing stays the same for long in that business.”

L
uis Colombar walked briskly through the spacious entryway of his home listening to the complex chime of his doorbell fade away.

“Roberto! How have you been?” Colombar said to the tanklike man standing on the other side of the door. The two men shook hands warmly, effectively disguising their hatred for each other. Roberto Ortega wiped his feet carefully on the mat in front of the door and entered. Colombar noticed a complex sweat stain in his white cotton shirt that accurately traced a shoulder holster. This was the first time he had seen Ortega unarmed.