The Scent of Revenge

by Russell Moran

  Comforting words from my friend, but he didn’t know as he spoke that I was about to learn of some dots, some large dots.

  Chapter 24

  The next morning, I was in my office when the phone rang. It was Dr. Frank Buchannan. He asked to meet with me.

  “Buster, it’s Rick. I just got a call from Doctor Buchannan. He’s peeing in his pants to see me. I think you should be in this meeting too. He’ll be here in a few minutes, and Bennie is on his way.”

  Frank Buchannan was in my office in 20 minutes.

  “What’s up, Frank?” I said, after introducing him to Buster.

  “Well, Rick, as I said last time, you FBI guys are teaching me a thing or two. What I’m about to show you will mess with your fucking minds.” Tough words from my mild-mannered intellectual friend. This guy’s on to something, I thought.

  “I have a list of victims of The Syndrome just from the past month. It represents 10 percent of all new cases.”

  “Take it from the top, Frank. Please give us your summary first and then drill down into the particulars.”

  “Okay, here it is. All are women. All are young. The oldest is 42. And here’s an interesting piece of data: all of them can be characterized as ‘prominent.’ My researchers tag a result as prominent when the woman has an important title or position. Your wife, of course, partner at a major architectural firm, is on the list. These are just a few of the names that just showed up in the past five days.

  “Georgina Laughlin, age 42, Secretary of Commerce;

  “Mary Escobedo, age 36, CEO of Suresoft, a large technical conglomerate;

  “Jane Lopez, age 40, Secretary of the Interior;

  “Florence Lambda, age 37, Deputy Secretary of Defense;

  “Dolores Estrada, age 41, Senior Director, NASA;

  “Aimee Pierce, age 34, CEO of United Way. Ms. Pierce just showed up on our database yesterday.”

  Buchannan’s cell phone went off.

  “I’m sorry, but I had to leave this thing on because I’m expecting some stuff that may be important for this meeting.

  “Just email what you’re telling me,” Buchannan said to his assistant.

  In a couple of minutes, Frank checked his email and read us the results.

  “Oh my God! These just came in this morning, between the time I left Columbia Presbyterian and when I arrived here.

  “Rebecca Spellman, age 38, Deputy Secretary of the Treasury;

  “Alberta Newman, age 39, President of Oberlin College;

  “Juanita Mazur, age 40, newly elected congresswoman from Georgia;

  “Marilyn Stockman, age 36, CEO of Advank Publishing Company;

  “Nancy McLaughlin, age 40, Deputy Secretary of Agriculture;

  “Marla Giovanni, age 39, Senior Vice President, Microsoft;

  “Wanda Black—and get this poor woman’s age—25, Deputy Secretary of Labor.”

  “Dear God,” Bennie said.

  “Gentlemen, somebody is targeting young prominent women,” Frank said. “And I remind you, the list I just read is from the last two hours.”

  “Targeting?” Buster said. “How the hell do you target an unsuspecting person with The Syndrome? We don’t even know what it is.”

  “Frank,” Bennie said, “have you adjusted at all for gender and age over the same time period as you’ve discussed?”

  “Yes. The results aren’t included in the list I just gave you, but the numbers are shocking. Of the few hundred people who have come down with Alzheimer’s type symptoms in the past month, the only ones who are under the age of 50 are all women. Of the men, the average age is in the 70s, which is what we would expect from Alzheimer’s. The Syndrome is something new on the radar.”

  “Unless we can throw statistics and logic out the window,” I said, “we’re looking at an inescapable conclusion. An intelligent actor or actors are involved. This shit is happening on purpose.”

  Frank Buchannan’s phone went off. He looked at his email. Then looked up at us.

  “In the past 20 minutes, there have been 53 more cases of young prominent women with The Syndrome.”

  Buster grabbed his phone and went to a corner of the room.

  “Who are you calling?” I asked.

  ”CIA Director Carlini. We need to take this to the White House.”

  Chapter 25

  I walked into the Waldorf Astoria, along with Barbara Auletta, Ben, and Buster for a must-attend dinner. The purpose of the event was to honor people in law enforcement. About 1,500 other FBI and CIA agents were there, along with other law enforcement officers from around the country. The keynote speaker was Amanda Reynolds, First Lady of the United States. Amanda Reynolds is one of the most popular First Ladies ever. As is tradition, First Ladies always take on an issue they can call their own. Often it’s child protection, literacy, or health, anything that doesn’t conflict head-on with something on the table at the White House.

  Amanda Reynolds, age 41, was an FBI agent for the five years immediately after she graduated from Harvard Law School. When her husband took office as president, she assumed a different role from the one First Ladies usually adopt. Her passion was raising esteem for law enforcement people. Tall, at 5’10”, pretty, with long brown hair, and a commanding voice, Amanda was a hit. Her approval polls always put her in the upper 90s. She also had a reputation as one of the best public speakers in the country, man or woman. She was also one of my favorite people, although I never met her personally.

  Senator Hugh Jackson was the Chairman of the Homeland Security Committee. A close ally of President Reynolds, Jackson was also a family friend, and he was the emcee for the dinner.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Jackson, “it almost sounds like a cliché to say that we have a special treat for you this evening, but it’s true—we do have a treat. Our keynote speaker is none other than Amanda Reynolds, First Lady of the United States. She’s also one of the best friends the law enforcement community ever had. After she graduated from Harvard Law School, Amanda didn’t follow her classmates to Wall Street. No, she chose public service, and spent the first five years of her career as an FBI agent, rising to the position of Deputy Director. Amanda knows a thing or two about law enforcement.

  “I won’t delay any further. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure and honor to introduce the First Lady of the United States, a woman most of us know as America’s Girlfriend.”

  The audience stood, applauded, and cheered for what seemed like five minutes. Amanda walked to the podium. Hugh Jackson leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. What did I just see? Amanda seemed to pull away, as if she were repulsed by Jackson’s polite show of friendship. I wasn’t the only one who saw this. A guy seated near me said, “What the hell was that all about?” I also heard a few say, “What the fuck?”

  Amanda stood before the microphone. The cheering had died down, and the room was silent, anticipating a talk from a great orator.

  A minute went by, then two. I’m a pretty good judge of people, and I got a sense—a sense that I tried to dismiss—that Amanda Reynolds was confused. She finally spoke.

  “Thank you, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy? Did Hugh Jackson have a new nickname?

  She continued to stare out into the large audience. Then she spoke again.

  “The chicken sucked,” she said, apparently referring to one of the dinner selections. Amanda Reynolds is known for her sense of humor, but it usually doesn’t accompany earthy language.

  The crowd chuckled politely.

  A guy called out, “Why don’t you tell us about your FBI career.” That was totally uncalled for, but most of us in the audience were happy that he had broken the awkward pressure.

  “What’s an FBI?”

  The audience was silent. The tension in the room was getting painful.

  “What’s this all about?”

  The audience laughed, all of us thinking, hoping, that this was a joke. I looked at Bennie, who sat next to me. He closed his eyes and put his hand
to his forehead.

  “Who are you people?”

  I thought this was just a lead up to something like “You people are the backbone of our public safety,” or some positive sentiment like that.

  She took a sip of water and went into a coughing fit. After she stopped coughing, she turned to Hugh Jackson, who was seated behind her on the dais.

  “Jimmy, why are all these people looking at me? What the fuck is going on?”

  I didn’t think in words. My mind carried me back to a horrible memory, when I came home and realized that my Ellen was beginning to lose her mind. I had that same sickening feeling as I watched Amanda Reynolds.

  Jackson, a skilled politician known for his statesmanlike ability to make the best of tense situations, stood and approached the podium. Without turning off the microphone, he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Amanda, why don’t you sit down and relax? I’ll handle it from here.”

  He then turned to the audience and said, “We’re going to take a short break, folks.”

  Jackson was trying his best to unscramble the eggs.

  ***

  The following day, Amanda Reynolds was admitted to Walter Reed Medical Facility for psychiatric evaluation. The preliminary diagnosis was sudden-onset dementia, with all the symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease. She was 41 years old.

  Chapter 26

  Barbara Auletta, Buster, Bennie, and I, along with CIA Director Carlini, waited in the Oval Office for our meeting with the president. Dr. Frank Buchannan and Dr. Harry Noonan were there also. We had expected that President Reynolds would skip the meeting under the circumstances. Reynolds strode into the room and walked to the front of his desk. He’s is a big man, about 6’3”, with broad shoulders. The President is a commanding figure. We prepared for a stirring speech, a sad, inspiring speech, but he began in a way I didn’t expect.

  “Who’s Rick Bellamy?”

  I raised my hand. He strode over to me and I stood, of course. I offered my hand, but instead he wrapped me in a bear hug. He grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me in the eyes, tears streaming down his face.

  “Rick, you and I are members of a brotherhood, a strange fucking brotherhood.”

  It was obvious that the poor man was distraught over what he learned last night. If he was looking for sympathy, he turned to the right guy.

  Reynolds walked to his place in front of his desk. He straightened his shoulders, obviously trying his best to compose himself.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this isn’t a press conference so I’m going to cut the bullshit. A few months ago, you heard me announce that World War III had begun. Nothing has happened between then and now to make me change my mind. We’re at war. Last night I found out that the woman I love, Amanda, the First Lady, has come down with this goddamned illness that we’ve been reading about. You don’t need to be a CIA or an FBI agent to see the outline of what’s going on. On my way here, Doctor Buchannan briefed me on what he’ll tell us this morning. Any update, Frank? Just the numbers, please.”

  “Mr. President, since yesterday, the list of young prominent American women who have been stricken has grown to 850.”

  We all gasped.

  “My friends, as I said, you don’t need to be a secret agent to see what’s happening,” said the president. “We see what’s going on, but we don’t know what it is. I’m not going to give you any politically correct bullshit. These cases are intentional. Because of its cruelty and depravity, I’m making a preliminary guess that it’s al-Qaeda or ISIS, or some other inhuman bastards associated with them. But, to beat the obvious over the head with a stick, we have no idea how they’re doing it.”

  ***

  Gloria Franken, the President’s secretary, appeared in the doorway. Reynolds looked at her with raised eyebrows. Obviously, her appearance was totally against protocol.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but a gentlemen called and said that he has to speak to Agent Bellamy immediately. I explained that he was in a high-level meeting with you, sir, but he said that his message has a direct impact on the meeting.”

  “Grab the call, Rick. I hope your friend isn’t inviting you to a bowling game.”

  Reynolds’ little joke helped ease the stress of the meeting. I went to the outer office to take the call.

  “Rick, it’s Mike, Imam Mike from Brooklyn.”

  Mike, aka Muhammed Busharif, is the imam of a mosque in Brooklyn. He’s a trusted inside source, one of the few we’ve got. He gradually became infuriated with all of the terrorist killings in the name of his religion. When a good friend of his daughter was killed in a bomb attack at a football game, Mike went over the edge. He’s renounced his religion, but only to Buster, me, and Bennie. Mike’s language tends to be salty, not what you’d expect from a religious leader. Mike’s on our side, and is probably the most important mole we’ve ever had. Mike feeds us information that we could never get without an insider like him. He’s also a good guy. He was one of the first to offer me his condolences when he heard about Ellen.

  “Mike, what’s up? You know I’m at the White House meeting with the president.”

  “Rick, I know you’re talking about some heavy shit, but I’m about to tell you some really heavy shit.”

  “Mike, how can I express that you have my undivided attention? So what is it?”

  “I’ve been hearing constant chatter about water bottles. Yes, water bottles. But then I started to hear about water bottles in the same sentence as ‘heathen bitches.’ This morning, I overheard a reference to Ellen Bellamy, your lovely wife.”

  “Mike, did you hear anything specific about these bottles, anything that could be a link to something more?”

  “I don’t have a clue, Rick, not a fucking clue. I’ve been reading in the papers about young women coming down with a horrible disease, just like Ellen. When I started to hear about ‘heathen bitches’ and water bottles in the same sentence, I knew I had to call you.”

  “God bless you, Mike. Please keep your ear to the ground and let me know when you hear anything else. Oh, and Mike, watch your ass. Be safe my friend.”

  ***

  I walked back into the Oval Office. President Reynolds gestured for me to speak.

  I was about to simply relate what Imam Mike had told me when I just blurted out, “Holy shit!”

  “Could you be a bit more specific, Rick?” said Reynolds.

  I felt like I was going to faint. I just connected a dot in my head, a dot to my conversation with Imam Mike. I sat down and wiped the sweat off my forehead.

  “I just found out what happened to Ellen. I just found out what probably happened to the First Lady and all the other women. They were sprayed with what looks like water bottles. After I got off the phone with my contact, I remembered something that Ellen told me. She said that some jerk who was washing the windows on our building sprayed her in the face with a water bottle. He said, ‘Happy springtime.’ She was angry but let it go, thinking that the guy was just flirting. I put in a call to building management, but was told that the guy had left.”

  “Dear God,” said President Reynolds. “We hosted a bunch of kids on the great lawn a couple of days ago. Part of their game was to squirt water bottles at each other. Amanda was sprayed in the face by an adult, who immediately apologized. The Secret Service wanted to talk to the guy, but he was gone in an instant.

  “Rick, who was that call from and what did you just find out?” said Reynolds.

  “The caller was Muhammed Busharif, an imam of a mosque in Brooklyn, Mr. President. He’s a turncoat, the best kind. He’s turned to our side and is probably our best inside source about radical Islamic activities. Bennie and Buster know him well. He finally renounced his religion when a good friend of his daughter was killed at the Notre Dame football bombing last year. He just told me that he’s been hearing a lot of chatter about water bottles in the same sentence as the phrase ‘heathen bitches.’ That’s what my outburst was about when I came back to the room. I remembered Ellen being
sprayed in the face by a water bottle.”

  “I’d like some medical input here,” said Reynolds. “Is it possible that it’s a poison, a virus, or a bacteria that can cause a disease that looks like Alzheimer’s? Doctor Frank?”

  “The answer is that I simply don’t know, but I think the evidence we just heard points to something in water bottles that could be causing these incidents. I need to study this, fast.”

  “And me as well,” said Dr. Harry Noonan, the Alzheimer’s expert.

  “Let’s hear your thoughts, people,” said Reynolds. “This is now a working meeting, and I’m part of the team.”

  “Buster?” said Director Carlini. “I can hear your brain clicking from here. What do you think?”

  “Here’s where we are, at least from a working hypothesis point of view. The young women who have come down with The Syndrome were sprayed in the face by a water bottle, which contained a substance we know nothing about. But why women, and why women who we’ve been calling prominent?”

  “Could it be that they’re being punished for some perceived slight to Islam?” I said. “When Ellen was kidnapped last year, she emptied an AK-47 into an al-Qaeda big shot. That would make her a clear target for revenge.”

  “The First Lady,” said Reynolds, “has been quite public with her denunciation of the way radical Islamists treat women.”

  “If we drill down into the list of the targeted women,” said Buster, “I’m sure we’re going to find reasons why they were singled out by radicals.”

  “But here’s the most important thing,” said the president, “we have to lay our hands on one of those bottles, and then we have to study what’s in it and see if we can come up with something to prevent it.”

  “Or cure it, Mr. President?” I added.

  “Your lips to God’s ears, Rick.

  “Folks,” the President continued. “This operation, if we can call it an operation, is the most crucial item on the nation’s agenda. Someone or some group is attacking young prominent women. We’ve got to stop it.”

  Chapter 27