Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

  Max, whose locker was beside mine, said softly, “That was an experience.”

  I nodded and asked, “Now do you feel better about living downwind from Plum Island?”

  “Oh, yeah, I feel fucking terrific.”

  “I was impressed with the biocontainment,” I said. “State-of-the art.”

  “Yeah. But I’m thinking about a hurricane or a terrorist attack.”

  “Mr. Stevens will protect Plum Island from a terrorist attack.”

  “Yeah. How about a hurricane?”

  “Same drill as a nuclear attack—bend over, put your head between your legs, and kiss your ass goodbye.”

  “Right.” He looked at me and asked, “Hey, are you okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “You sort of got spacey back there.”

  “Tired. My lung is wheezing.”

  “I feel responsible about dragging you into this.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  He smiled and said, “If you nail Ms. Tightass, you owe me one.”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” I slipped into my docksiders and stood. I said to Max, “You must be having an allergic reaction to the soap. Your face is all blotchy.”

  “What?” He put his hands to his cheeks and made for the closest mirror. He kept looking at himself, leaning closer over the washbasin. “What the hell are you talking about? My skin is fine.”

  “Must be the light in here.”

  “Cut the crap, Corey. This isn’t a funny subject.”

  “Right.” I went to the door of the locker room where Dr. Z was waiting. I said to him, “Despite my bad manners, I’m very impressed with your operation, and I thank you for your time.”

  “I enjoyed your company, Mr. Corey. I regret having met you under these sad circumstances.”

  George Foster joined us and said to Dr. Zollner, “I intend to make a favorable report regarding your biocontainment procedures.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I think that perimeter security could be better, and I’ll recommend that a study be conducted.”

  Zollner nodded.

  Foster went on, “Fortunately, it would appear that the Gordons did not steal any dangerous substance, and if they stole anything, it was an experimental vaccine.”

  Dr. Zollner again nodded.

  Foster concluded, “I would recommend a permanent detachment of Marines at Fort Terry.”

  I was anxious to get out of the orange locker room and into the sunlight, so I moved toward the door and everyone followed.

  Out in the big, gleaming lobby, Dr. Z looked for Beth, still not getting it.

  Anyway, we all walked to the reception counter where we exchanged our white plastic chain passes for the original blue clip-on ones. I said to Zollner, “Is there a gift shop where we can buy souvenirs and T-shirts?”

  Zollner laughed. “No, but I’ll suggest it to Washington. In the meantime, you should pray that you haven’t picked up a souvenir of another kind.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  Dr. Zollner looked at his watch and said, “You can catch the 3:45 ferry if you wish, or you can come back to my office if you have anything further to discuss.”

  I’d wanted to go back to the artillery batteries and explore the underground passages, but I thought if I suggested that, I’d have a mutiny on my hands. Also, to be honest, I was not up to another trek around the island.

  I said to Dr. Zollner, “We await the boss. We don’t make major decisions without her.”

  Dr. Z nodded and smiled.

  It appeared to me that Zollner didn’t seem particularly worried about any of this—about people questioning his security or his biocontainment procedures, or even about the possibility that his two star scientists stole something good and valuable, or something bad and deadly. It occurred to me that Zollner was not worried because even if he’d somehow screwed up or if he could be held accountable for someone else’s screwup, he was already off the hook—he’d already cut his deal with the government; he was cooperating in a cover-up in exchange for a free pass on this problem. There was also a possibility, however remote, that Dr. Z killed the Gordons or knew who killed them. As far as I was concerned, everyone who was close to the Gordons was a suspect.

  Beth came out of the ladies’ locker room and joined us at the reception counter. I noticed that she hadn’t done a complete paint-by-numbers job, and her cheeks glowed with that freshly scrubbed look.

  She exchanged passes, and Dr. Zollner related his offers and our options.

  Beth looked at us and said, “I’ve seen enough, unless you want to do the underground bunkers or something else.”

  We all shook our heads.

  She said to Dr. Zollner, “We reserve the right to revisit the island anytime until this case is closed.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome anytime.” He added, “But it’s not my decision.”

  A horn sounded outside, and I looked through the glass doors. A white bus was out front, and a few employees were boarding.

  Dr. Z said, “Forgive me if I don’t accompany you to the ferry.” He shook hands with all of us and bid us fond adieu, with not a hint of good riddance. A real gentleman.

  We went out into the sunlight, and I breathed gallons of fresh air before boarding the bus. The driver was another security guy, and I guess he was our escort.

  There were only six employees on the bus, and I didn’t recognize any of them from our tour.

  The bus made the five-minute trip to the dock and stopped.

  We all got out and walked to the blue and white ferry, The Plum Runner. We went into the big cabin, the horn sounded, and we cast off.

  The five of us remained standing, making small talk. One of the boat’s crew, a weather-beaten gent, came around and collected our passes. He said, “So, did you like the island of Dr. Moreau?”

  This literary reference took me aback coming from an old salt. We chatted with the guy for a minute and learned his name was Pete. He also told us that he felt pretty bad about the Gordons.

  He excused himself and went up the stairs that led to the top deck and the bridge. I followed, and before he opened the door to the bridge, I said, “Got a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you know the Gordons?”

  “Sure did. We rode this boat together for two years on and off.”

  “I was told they used their own boat to commute.”

  “Sometimes. Nice new Formula 303. Twin Mercs. Fast as hell.”

  Time to be blunt. I asked, “Any chance they were running drugs with that thing?”

  “Drugs? Hell, no. They couldn’t find an island much less a drug ship.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I talked boats with them once in a while. They couldn’t navigate worth a damn. They didn’t even have a navigation system on board. You know?”

  “Right.” Now that he mentioned it, I never saw a satellite nav device on board. But if you were a drug runner, you needed a satellite navigation device. I said to Pete, “Maybe they were pulling a fast one on you. Maybe they were the best navigators since Magellan.”

  “Who?”

  “Why do you think they couldn’t navigate?”

  “I tried to get them into the Power Squadron course. You know? And they weren’t interested.”

  Pete was a little dense. I tried again. “Maybe they were making believe they couldn’t navigate. You know, so no one would think they were running drugs.”

  “Yeah?” He scratched his head. “Maybe. Don’t think so. They didn’t like the open water. If they were in their boat and they saw the ferry, they’d get on the leeward side and stay with us all the way. They never liked to lose sight of land. Does that sound like a drug runner to you?”

  “I guess not. So, Pete, who killed them and why?”

  He did a theatrical double take, then said, “Damned if I know.”

  “You know you thought about it, Pete.
Who and why? What did you first think? What did people say?”

  He hemmed and hawed, then replied, “Well, I guess I thought they stole something from the lab. You know? Like something to wipe out the world. And they were going to sell it to foreigners or something. You know? And the deal went bad, and they got knocked off.”

  “And you don’t think that anymore?”

  “‘Well, I heard something different.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what they stole was a vaccine worth millions.” He looked at me. “Is that right?”

  “That’s it.”

  “They wanted to get rich quick and instead they got dead quick.”

  “The wages of sin is death.”

  “Yup.” Pete excused himself and went into the wheel-house.

  It was interesting, I thought, that Pete, and probably everyone else, including yours truly, had the same initial reaction to the Gordons’ deaths. Then, on second thought, I came up with drug running. Now we’re doing vaccine. But sometimes your first reaction, your gut reaction, is the right one. In any event, what all three theories had in common was money.

  I stood on the top deck and watched the green shore of Plum Island recede into the distance. The sun was still high in the west, and it felt good on my skin. I was enjoying the ride, the smell of the sea, even the movement of the boat. I had the disturbing thought that I was going native. Next I’d be shucking clams, whatever that means.

  Beth Penrose came up on deck and watched the ship’s wake awhile, then turned and leaned back against the rail, her face into the sun.

  I said to her, “You predicted what Zollner was going to say.”

  She nodded. “It makes sense, and it fits the facts, and it resolves the problem we had with believing the Gordons were capable of stealing deadly organisms, and also the problem we had believing they were running drugs.” She added, “The Gordons stole something good. Something profitable. Money. Money is the motivator. Saint-seducing gold, as Shakespeare said.”

  “I think I’ve had enough Shakespeare for this year.” I mulled a moment and said, “I don’t know why I never thought of that … I mean, we were so hung up on plague and stuff, we never thought of the antidotes—vaccines, antibiotics, and antivirals, and all of that. That is what the scientists are studying on Plum, and that is what the Gordons stole. Gee whiz, I’m getting dumb.”

  She smiled, then said, “Well, to tell you the truth, I started thinking about vaccines and all of that last night— then when Stevens mentioned foot-and-mouth vaccine, I knew where that was going.”

  “Right. Now everyone can rest easy. No panic, no hysteria, no national emergency. Jeez, I thought we’d all be dead by Halloween.”

  We looked at each other, and Beth said, “It’s all a lie, of course.”

  “Yeah. But it’s a really good lie. This lie takes the heat off Plum Island and off the Feds in general. Meanwhile, the FBI and CIA can work the case quietly without us and without media attention. You, Max, and I just got dealt out of the Plum Island part of this case.”

  “Right. Though we still have a double homicide to solve. On our own.”

  “That’s right,” I said to Beth, “and I think I’m going to miss Ted Nash.”

  She smiled, then looked at me with a serious expression and said, “I wouldn’t cross a man like that.”

  “Screw him.”

  “So, you’re a tough guy.”

  “Hey, I took ten slugs and finished my coffee before I walked to the hospital.”

  “It was three, you spent a month in the hospital, and you’re still not completely recovered.”

  “You’ve been talking to Max. How sweet.”

  She didn’t respond. She rarely took the bait, I noticed. I’d have to remember that.

  She asked me, “What did you think of Stevens?”

  “The right man for the right job.”

  She asked, “Does he lie?”

  “Of course.”

  “How about Zollner?”

  “I liked him.”

  “Does he lie?”

  “Not naturally, the way Stevens does. He’s been prompted though. Rehearsed.”

  She nodded, then asked, “Is he running scared?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Nothing to be frightened about. It’s all under control. Stevens and Zollner have made their deals with the government.”

  She nodded in understanding. “That was my impression. The cover-up was conceived, written, and directed late last night, early this morning. The lights burned all night in Washington and on Plum Island. This morning, we saw the play.”

  “You got it.” I added, “I told you not to trust those two jokers.”

  She nodded again, then said, “I’ve never been in a situation where I couldn’t trust the people I was working with.”

  “I have. It’s a real challenge—watch your mouth, cover your ass, grow eyes in the back of your head, smell for rats, and listen for what’s not said.”

  She glanced at me and asked, “Were you feeling okay back there?”

  “I’m feeling fine.”

  “You should get some rest.”

  I ignored this and said to her, “Nash has a teeny weenie.”

  “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

  “Well, I wanted you to know because I saw that you were interested in him, and I didn’t want you wasting your time with a guy who has a third pinky between his legs.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you. Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  “Okay.”

  The sea got a little choppier in the middle of the Gut, and I steadied myself against the rail. I looked at Beth, who had her eyes closed now, and with her head tilted back was catching a few UVs. I may have mentioned that she had one of those cupid-like faces, innocent and sensuous at the same time. Early thirties, as I said, and once married, as she said. I wondered if her ex was a cop or if he hated her being a cop, or what the problem was. People her age had some baggage; people my age have whole warehousesful of steamer trunks.

  Her eyes still closed, Beth asked me, “What would you do if you were handed a disability retirement?”

  “I don’t know.” I considered, then replied, “Max would hire me.”

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to do police work if you get a three-quarter. Do you?”

  “I guess not. I don’t know what I’d do. Manhattan is expensive. That’s where I live. I think I’d have to move. Maybe out here.”

  “What would you do out here?”

  “Grow wine.”

  “Grapes. You grow grapes and make wine.”

  “Right.”

  She opened her blue-green eyes and looked at me. Our eyes met, searched, penetrated, and all that. Then she closed her eyes again.

  Neither of us spoke for a minute, then she opened her eyes and inquired, “Why don’t we believe the Gordons stole a miracle vaccine in order to make a fortune?”

  “Because that still leaves too many questions unanswered. First, what’s with the power boat? You don’t need a one-hundred-thousand-dollar boat to make a one-time score of golden vaccine. Right?”

  “Maybe they knew they were going to steal the vaccine, so they knew they could afford the boat eventually, and they had some fun. When did they buy the boat?”

  “April last year,” I replied. “Right before the boating season. Ten thou down, and they’re financing the rest.”

  “Okay, why else don’t we believe the Plum Island version of events?”

  “Well, why would the customers of this vaccine have to murder two people? Especially if the person or persons on the Gordons’ deck couldn’t be sure of what the Gordons were delivering in the ice chest.”

  She said, “As for the murders, we both know people are killed for small reasons. As for the goods in the chest … what if the Gordons had accomplices on Plum who loaded the vaccine on their boat? The person on Plum calls the person or persons who are waiting
for the Gordons and says the goods are on the way. Think accomplice on Plum Island. Think Mr. Stevens. Or Dr. Zollner. Or Dr. Chen. Or Kenneth Gibbs. Or anyone on the island.”

  “Okay … we’ll put that in the clue bag.”

  “What else?” she asked.

  “Well, I’m no geopolitical expert, but Ebola is pretty rare, and the chances of the World Health Organization or the affected African governments ordering this stuff in quantity seem a little remote. People are dying in Africa of all sorts of preventable diseases, like malaria and tuberculosis, and no one is buying two hundred million doses of anything for them.”

  “Right … but we don’t understand the ins and outs of the trade in legitimate therapeutic drugs, whether they’re stolen, black market, copied, or otherwise.”

  “Okay, but you agree that the Gordons stealing this vaccine sounds implausible?”

  She replied, “No. It’s plausible. I just feel it’s a lie.”

  “Right. It’s a plausible lie.”

  “A terrific lie.”

  “A terrific lie,” I agreed. “It changes the case.”

  “It sure does. What else?”

  “Well,” I said, “there’s the chart book. Not much there, but I’d like to know what 44106818 means.”

  “Okay. And how about the archaeology on Plum?” she asked.

  “Right. That was a complete surprise to me and raises all sorts of questions,” I said.

  “Why did Paul Stevens give us that?”

  “Because it’s public knowledge, and we’d hear about it soon enough.”

  “Right. What’s the meaning of the archaeological stuff?”

  “I have no idea.” I added, “But it has nothing to do with the science of archaeology. It was a cover for something, a reason to go to remote parts of the island.”

  She said, “Or, it may be meaningless.”

  “It may be. And then we have the red clay that I saw in the Gordons’ running shoes and which I saw on Plum. The route from the main lab, into the parking lot, onto the bus, then to the dock has no place where you could pick up soft red clay in your treads.”

  She nodded, then said, “I assume you took some of the clay when you went to tinkle?”

  I smiled. “As a matter of fact, I did. But when I got dressed in the locker room, someone had been kind enough to launder my shorts.”