The Scent of Revenge

by Russell Moran

  Two o’clock came and went. The three of us reviewed recent events and made some preliminary notes.

  “Elsie, it’s Barbara.” said Auletta over the intercom to her assistant. “Have you seen Director Watson? She was supposed to be in my office for a meeting over a half-hour ago.”

  “Wow, that’s unlike her.”

  “I agree, Elsie. See if you can find her.”

  It was now 3 p.m., a full hour after the time Watson had set for the meeting.

  We heard a knock on the door. Elsie, Barbara’s assistant, led Director Watson into the room. From behind Watson’s back, Elsie shrugged her shoulders, raised her eyelids, and held her hands in front of her, palms up, the universal sign for “What the hell is going on?”

  Watson walked over to a chair along the wall.

  “Madam Director,” said Barbara, “please sit at the head of the table.”

  Watson walked over and took her place. She looked at each of us for a few moments.

  “Hi, Mickey,” she said to me. “Hello, Alma,” she said to Barbara. “Hi, Bruiser,” she said to Buster.

  She sat at the head of the table and kept smiling at the three of us. A few seconds went by, probably just moments, but it seemed like an hour.

  “So what are you folks doing here? This is my office.”

  After the events of the past few weeks, including my wife and then the First Lady coming down with The Syndrome, the three of us started diagnosing what our eyes and ears showed us. Holy shit, I thought, the Director of the FBI has gotten The Syndrome.

  “Okay, get out of here,” Watson screamed loudly, “get the fuck out of here, now.”

  FBI and CIA agents are trained for the unexpected. We’re trained how to cope with challenging situations, and how to meet a surprise with a quick decision and move on. But none of us knew how to handle this one. We were loudly ordered to leave Barbara Auletta’s office, by a woman who thought the office was hers.

  “Sure thing, Sarah,” said Auletta. “Come on, guys, let’s go.” Barbara is one cool operator.

  “Bennie,” Barbara said into her phone as we stepped into the hallway, “I’ve got a situation for you. Bring two security people with you and meet me outside my office.”

  That evening, FBI Director Sarah Watson, age 42, one of the most powerful officials in the federal government, was admitted to the psychiatric wing of Bellevue Hospital, heavily sedated because of her agitation.

  Chapter 33

  “My fellow Americans,” began President Reynolds, “the past month has seen a dramatic increase in reported cases of a terrible disease, a disease that appears to be Alzheimer’s. What’s different about the statistics that we’re seeing is the profile of the people afflicted. We’re accustomed to thinking of Alzheimer’s as an affliction of the elderly, but what we’ve seen recently is a sharp rise in cases of early-onset dementia. The profile is clear. Younger women, no older than 42, have succumbed to this disease in alarming numbers. As you all know, my own wife, Amanda Reynolds, the First Lady, has become a victim. Amanda is 41 years old.” He stopped to take a sip of water. This guy is tough under stress, I thought.

  “I’ve just been informed that Sarah Watson, Director of the FBI, has come down with the condition. She’s 42 years old. People have speculated that, because of the profile of the victims, these incidents may be some kind of deliberate act. We have no hard evidence of any such thing, but we’re not taking any leads off the table. At this point, we’re not even certain that the disease is Alzheimer’s, or something that mimics its symptoms. We are calling the affliction simply The Syndrome.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “A few months ago, you heard me announce from this very podium that World War III has begun. Whether we are seeing another horrible front in that war is something I cannot answer today. But we’re not taking a wait-and-see attitude. Today, I have appointed Doctor Frank Buchannan, one of the nation’s top epidemiologists, to head up a massive study at the Centers for Disease Control. Doctor Buchannan is a medical detective. With his team, he will look at every possible clue to solve this crisis. And yes, it is a crisis. Our nation is losing scores of young, talented women. Together we will stop this scourge. Thank you, and God bless America.”

  ***

  “Perfect, just perfect,” Buster said.

  “Do you think he went too heavy on the deliberate act theory?” said Bennie.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Reynolds knows what he’s doing. You can’t turn on a news show without seeing some talking head speculating that the incidents may have been intentional. If Reynolds didn’t touch on the deliberate act theory, nobody would believe him. But he didn’t go anywhere near the spray bottles. That will come out soon. Also, appointing Frank Buchannan to head up the effort is a great call. He couldn’t have picked a better man.”

  “Another good thing that will come from this,” said Buster, “will be call-in advice to the CDC from self-appointed mavens. Remember that book by Malcolm Gladwell, The Tipping Point? In the book, he talks about the power of mavens. He wrote that a certain hand soap actually had an 800 phone number imprinted on it. It was a ‘maven trap.’ He said that may seem ridiculous, but the marketing idea was to encourage ‘soap mavens’ to weigh in. With the prevalence of Alzheimer’s, Frank Buchannan and his team will have lots of help from self-appointed experts across the country.”

  “The spray bottle idea will have to become public soon,” I said. “I’d love to see what the mavens will have to say about that.”

  Chapter 34

  I got home to our apartment, our apartment, later than usual at 9:30. I’m using work to keep my sanity. When I walked in, the first thing I noticed was silence. Dead, fucking silence. Not a bright, cheery, beautiful woman who would throw her arms around my neck and kiss me, but silence. I made myself a cup of green tea and sat in front of the TV, the TV that Ellen had stared at blankly. I’ve got to stop this shit, I reminded myself. I’m in a position where I can be of some use to my country. I can be of some use to the future women who may come down with The Syndrome. I can make a difference. I can kill a few fucking people. Okay, stop! This way of thinking will go nowhere good.

  I clicked off the TV and I tried to read a book. I have no idea what I was reading. Thank God I was feeling tired, because I sure as hell needed some sleep. I walked into the guest bedroom. No way in hell could I stand the thought of sleeping in the bed that I shared with Ellen.

  Bennie, God bless him, was helping me to get through this shit. As he always reminded me, don’t force out negative thoughts. Let them in and look at them, and they’ll go away by themselves. But the one big negative thought never seemed to go away—I may never see my Ellen again. It’s more than just a thought, it’s becoming more like a condition that I live through, something that consumes me like chronic pain. It’s just there.

  I clicked on the TV again, probably a dumb move to make right before going to bed. As per Ellen’s plan, I thought of a Jerry Seinfeld joke before I turned on the TV. It wasn’t funny.

  “Wolf Blitzer reporting for CNN, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve found out from the President’s address to the nation that Sarah Watson, the Director of the FBI, has come down with the terrible affliction that’s attacking women, a condition known as The Syndrome.

  “The White House has just announced that Barbara Auletta, the Director of the New York office of the FBI, has been appointed as the new provisional FBI Director.

  “FBI Agent Rick Bellamy, the former head of the New York Counterterrorism office, has been named as Barbara Auletta’s replacement as Director of the New York FBI headquarters. The White House also announced that the New York office will be in charge of nationwide counterterrorism efforts.

  “You may recall that Agent Bellamy’s wife came down with The Syndrome a few weeks ago. She is under care in a nursing home.

  “In other news…”

  Blitzer didn’t have to remind me that my Ellen lives in a nursing home.


  Chapter 35

  “There’s a guy named Mike B. on the phone for you, Rick. He wouldn’t give his last name.”

  When Imam Muhammed Busharif (Mike B.) calls, I drop everything.

  “Mike, what’s up?”

  “I gotta see you, Rick. Central Park at noon?”

  “You got it, Mike. I’ll bring Buster.”

  ***

  Buster and I walked to Bethesda Terrace, the restaurant near Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, our usual meeting place when we see Imam Mike. It’s been a few weeks since Ellen moved into the nursing home, shortly after she came down with The Syndrome on April 4. For the rest of my days, I’ll think of life as two distinct phases, before and after that horrible April 4.

  It was a warm day, so I told Mike to meet us at the outdoor café. As usual, we had a hard time spotting Mike. Under Buster’s coaching, Mike had become a master of disguises. We saw a guy in a softball uniform wearing dark sunglasses. He brushed his hand across the peak of his cap, a sign to let us know it was him. We walked over and sat at his table.

  “Mike,” I said, “your call to me at the White House blew the doors off everything. Your spray bottle information has moved us forward by miles. I’d like to personally introduce you to President Reynolds someday, but that’s not likely to happen soon. So, my friend, what’s on your mind today?”

  “Rick, before I go any further, I want to tell you again how sorry I am about your wife. To think that the scumbag who did this calls himself a Muslim makes my skin crawl. But my job is to feed you guys information, and I have some big stuff to talk about.”

  “Any more on the water bottles, Mike?” asked Buster.

  “Yes, a lot. From what I’ve been picking up, whatever shit they’re putting into those bottles can only be produced in small amounts. But that will change a few weeks from now. They have a plant in Baltimore, and I’m guessing it’s a manufacturing facility of some sort. I’ve been hearing a lot of Arabic words that can best be translated as ‘ramp up.’ ”

  Buster asked him the Arabic word. When Mike told him, he said, “Yes, ‘ramp up’ is a perfect translation.”

  “So they’re looking to make a lot of this spray bottle stuff, whatever it is, and they’re looking to make it in large amounts. These assholes seem to think that they can shoot their mouths off in my mosque and nobody will notice. There’s been a lot of giggling about ‘hundreds of infidel bitches.’ You know how these creeps revel in depravity.”

  “Mike, I’m sure I know the answer or else you would have told us already, but do you have any idea where this Baltimore facility is?”

  “I can’t give you an address, but I hear a lot of talk about an aquarium. I checked online and found that there’s a National Aquarium in Baltimore. One bastard even talked about making a lot of fish forgetful. That’s as much as I know about a location at this point, but I’ll keep listening.”

  “Do you have the names of the men you’ve overheard, Mike?” asked Buster.

  “Sure. Here are their names and addresses. Just don’t tell them I sent you.”

  “Mike,” said Buster, “you’re turning into a top-level spook. If you ever decide to change professions, I’d love to personally sponsor you into the CIA.”

  “I think I’m more valuable where I am.”

  “Very true, Mike. Hey, while we’re on the subject, keep your head down. If you get yourself whacked, it won’t do you, your family, or America any good.”

  “Don’t worry, Buster. I’ll continue to parrot my mild denunciation of terror every time I hear about another job these slimeballs pull off.”

  “Anything else you can think of, Mike?” I said.

  “Yeah. They’re on to you about the tracking devices on the surface-to-air missiles. They know that you have drones patrolling runways.”

  “Mike, neither Rick nor myself told you anything about tracking devices on the missiles.”

  “You didn’t have to. I heard it in my mosque. Here are the names of the guys I heard talking about it. I’ll let you know if I hear anything more about the exact location of that place in Baltimore.”

  Chapter 36

  “A Mr. MacPherson is on the line for you, Rick.”

  “Hello, Rick, it’s Angus MacPherson, lad. I need to see you.”

  Angus MacPherson, one of the wealthiest men in America, was Ellen’s biggest client. Last year, MacPherson’s wife and daughter were kidnapped, along with Ellen, as part of an al-Qaeda plot to destroy five shopping malls that MacPherson had planned. Ellen saved the life of his daughter, Jane, and he now refers to Ellen as his adopted daughter. He was the first person to visit Ellen after she was admitted to New Horizons. Angus is a charming Scotsman and a brilliant businessman. He’s also a good friend.

  “Angus, it’s good to hear from you. I need to get out of here for a bit, so I’ll meet you in your office.”

  MacPherson International headquarters is on Park Avenue, about 25 minutes from my office. When I arrived, his secretary immediately showed me in. His office is what you would expect of a major real estate developer. About 30 by 40 feet, the mahogany walls framed the place with opulence. A large table off to the side was covered with plans and blueprints. The floor was polished mahogany, with a large Persian rug in the middle. Angus walked from around his desk and gave me a bear hug. He has a large jovial face that is usually lit up by a broad smile. But his face told me that he was upset about something.

  “They’ve done it to Jane, lad. They’ve given her the sickness, just like they gave it to Ellen. At the age of 26, Jane’s mind is leaving her.” He broke down into sobs.

  “Where is Jane now, Angus?”

  “She’s at my house in Scarsdale with 24-hour nursing care. Rick, she barely knows my name, and she thinks that my wife, Margo, is her sister. They tried to kill the poor lass before, but Ellen saved her life. Now, there’s nobody to save either of them.”

  “So you and I are part of the growing brotherhood of people who have lost important women in their lives, Angus. I know what you’re going through, my friend. Is there anything I can do?”

  “I’m sure you FBI folks are on top of this, but I want you to know that my other business, MacPherson Security, is back in action. I’ve rooted out all of the Islamic infiltrators, with no small amount of help from you FBI people. It’s now a fully functional security company, manned with some of the best people I could find. I’m looking to kill some bastards, lad, as I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course I understand, Angus, but please don’t go off on a personal vendetta, as reasonable as that may be. Do you think that I’m not looking for blood? I am, but I know that the way we’re going to fight this goddam war is to use our brains, not our guts—or our anger. Ellen has been turned into a zombie, and I’m looking to find who did it. But the only way we can do that is to move carefully.”

  “Can you tell me where you are in the investigation, Rick? Are you in any way close to finding a solution?”

  “Angus, as you understand, I can’t tell you everything that I know, but I can tell you that we’re a lot closer now than we were a week ago. We know that The Syndrome is caused by a deliberate act. We’re pretty sure it has something to do with a substance that’s sprayed into a person’s face with a water bottle. We also know that the jihadis are planning to ramp up production of whatever the substance is. But our biggest problem is just that—we don’t know what it is that they’re spraying into women’s faces. How was Jane attacked?”

  “As she walked into her office, a window washer sprayed her. A friend who was with her told me how it happened. The man apologized, claiming that it was an accident. Jane thought nothing more about it. She started to show symptoms the next day.”

  “That’s exactly what happened to Ellen. Something so simple, so apparently harmless. But to get back to what I was saying, please don’t go off on your own, Angus. Leave it to the pros. And please keep something in mind: the White House is all over this like flies on sugar. I hate to say
it, but the attack on Amanda Reynolds could be the best thing this case has going for it. You heard the president on TV. He’s appointed some great people to track this from the Centers for Disease Control. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Even if they crack the case, Rick, what do you think that will do for Jane and Ellen?”

  “I have no idea, Angus.”

  “I have one word for you, lad, and I’d like your thoughts on it.”

  “So what’s the word?”

  “Baltimore.”

  Holy shit! If I wanted to keep that a secret, I was afraid that my face blew it.

  “You’ve heard about a facility in Baltimore?”

  “Yes, and my people from MacPherson Security are on the case. Don’t worry, lad, I won’t take this into my own hands, but you won’t mind some investigative help, would you?”

  “I’m supposed to say no, Angus, but I trust you. We have a lead that it may be located near the national aquarium. Do you have any thoughts on that?”

  “Yes, it is near the aquarium. I assume you have the area under satellite surveillance.”

  “You know I can’t confirm that, Angus.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, lad. I will feed you whatever information we gather, Rick. So now you have MacPherson Security helping you, along with Imam Busharif.”

  “You know about Mike?”

  “As I said, we have good people working at MacPherson.”

  ***

  After my meeting with Angus, I went to New Horizons to see Ellen.

  “Hi, Rick, good to see you,” said Nurse Nancy. “I have some great news for you. Come to Ellen’s room and I’ll let you see for yourself.”

  Ellen was laughing, laughing out loud. I wanted to pick her up and hug her, but I didn’t want to interfere with her joy. She was watching TV, laughing hysterically, and occasionally clapping her hands.

  “We’ve found something that makes her happy, Rick.”

  I looked at the TV. Barney the dinosaur was going through his antics on the kiddie show, Barney and Friends, along with a bunch of other goofy characters. Barney the dinosaur made Ellen happy.