by Stuart Woods
The bartender set the beer on the bar, and Ted put a twenty beside it. “Start me a tab,” he said. “You mind if we put the TV on CNN? Broadside is on.”
“Yeah, sure,” the bartender said, switching channels and turning up the sound.
“I love this guy Brennan,” Ted said. “He makes mincemeat of that liberal schmuck every night.”
“Yeah, me, too,” the bartender said.
Tim Brennan, a voluble right-winger, shared the platform each evening with Evan Turner, a bespectacled, bow-tied, tweed-jacketed example of the liberal breed.
“Tell me something, Tim,” Turner was saying. “I’d love to, Evan,” Brennan replied. “There’s so much you need to know.”
“We’ve got the best fighter planes in the world, right?” “Right, Evan. I’m surprised you knew that.” “And nobody is even trying to build a better one—not the Russians, not the Chinese, not anybody—right?”
“They couldn’t even come close.”
“Then maybe you can explain to me why we need a brand-new, twenty-first-century fighter plane to replace the terrific planes we already have—and at a cost of more than a hundred billion dollars.”
“Sure, I can, Evan. We need that new plane so that we can keep our edge in the world of military aviation.”
“But we already have that edge, and you’ve just admitted that it’s not even threatened. Why can’t we spend that hundred billion on a national health insurance initiative, on education, on cleaning up our environment.”
“The usual litany of liberal sinkholes for cash, right? You think the Chinese are going to be impressed by national health insurance, or another round of tree hugging? Nothing impresses those people but hardware—military hardware—the sort of hardware that can send nuclear missiles right down their throats at the press of a button. That’s what will keep the peace, and the new fighter is an integral part of that plan.”
“That’s telling him, Tim,” Ted shouted, banging his hand on the bar. “Nuke the bastards!”
“Well, that’s all we have time for tonight, folks,” Brennan was saying. “Evan and I will see you tomorrow evening, same time.”
The theme music came up, and the two men began freeing themselves from their microphones.
Ted paid his bill, pocketed his change, and, swinging his umbrella, went outside, keeping an eye on the CNN entrance. He watched as Brennan and his cohost signed out of the building and left. They paused out front, shook hands, and departed in opposite directions, which seemed appropriate to Ted.
Ted crossed the street and fell in a dozen paces behind Brennan. He kept pace with the man until he was sure there were no guards watching him, then followed him into Penn Station, where Brennan headed for the New Jersey trains.
Ted caught up with him on an escalator, and as he walked past the man, he aimed the umbrella at his calf muscle and jabbed quickly.
“Ow!” Brennan yelled.
“Gosh, I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Brennan,” Ted said. “The thing just got away from me.”
“That hurt like hell,” Brennan said, massaging his leg.
“I’m really sorry. The tip of the umbrella got caught in the escalator tread, and when I yanked it out, it hit you.”
“It’s okay,” Brennan said. “Forget it.”
“Great show tonight!” Ted said.
Brennan beamed. “Thanks.”
“You take care now.”
Brennan peeled off toward the trains, and Ted turned and found an up escalator. Half an hour later, he was on a bus back to New Jersey.
Tim Brennan let himself into his house and dumped his briefcase on the hall table. “Anybody home?” he yelled.
“Back here,” his wife called.
He went into the kitchen and sat down at the little dining table in the corner. “Man, I’m beat,” he said.
“That’s unusual for you,” his wife replied. “You usually get home full of piss and vinegar, ready to jump me.”
“I think I’m coming down with some sort of bug, or something. I really feel rotten.”
She set a plate of hot food before him. “Eat your dinner and go straight to bed,” she said. “If you’re not feeling better in the morning, I’ll take you to the doctor.”
Brennan nodded and began to eat. He had taken only a few bites when he suddenly vomited into his plate.
The doctor came through a swinging door and walked up to her. “Mrs. Brennan?”
“Yes.” She stood up.
“Your husband seems to be suffering from some sort of bacterial infection. We haven’t been able to identify it yet, so we’re treating him with broad-spectrum antibiotics.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“I think so. We’ve given him something to help with the vomiting, and he’s resting more comfortably now.”
“May I see him?”
“I don’t think you should, until we’ve found out exactly what’s wrong with him, and I’d like to take a blood sample from you before you go home.”
“You think he might be contagious?”
“I really don’t know yet, but we’re working on it.”
“I’ll be glad to give you a blood sample,” she said. “Will you please tell Tim that I’ll be back in the morning to see him?”
“Of course I will,” the doctor said.
Ted pointed the RV south on I-95 and headed for Virginia. He’d find an RV park along the way and get some sleep.
17
Bob Kinney stopped at a pancake house for breakfast and opened his Washington Post. He was presented with a large photograph of the Arlington arson inspector accompanied by an interview about the facts surrounding the death of Van Vandervelt, including an extensive description of the bomb, some of which had to have come from the FBI people on the crime scene.
Kinney was an advocate of the Bureau being as open as possible with local law enforcement, but it seemed that every time they opened up, some local guy would jump in and either take credit for the investigation or reveal a great deal more than he should about it. Now the killer knew most of what the FBI knew about his technique of bomb building.
He finished his breakfast and went to the office. Helen was waiting for him with a notebook in her hand. “Have you been watching TV this morning?” she asked.
“No, I hate those shrieking tourists outside the morning shows.”
“Something has happened you may be interested in.”
“Not another murder of a right-winger.”
“A death, yes. Who knows if it’s murder?” She consulted her notebook. “This is what I gleaned on three channels: Tim Brennan, who is half the Broadside program on CNN, came home from work last night feeling ill, and in the middle of his dinner started throwing up. His wife got him to an emergency room where doctors found he had symptoms of a bacterial infection, which they were unable to identify.”
“Oh, my God,” Kinney half-moaned.
“What?”
“Go on.”
“He died at five o’clock this morning. That’s it.”
“Where did he die?”
“At a hospital in New Jersey.”
“Get me the head of pathology at that hospital.”
Helen returned to her desk and, a moment later, buzzed him. “Dr. Mendelson on the line.”
“Dr. Mendelson?”
“Yes?”
“This is Robert Kinney, deputy director for investigations at the FBI.”
“Good morning, Mr. Kinney.”
“Do you have the remains of Tim Brennan at your facility?”
“Yes, he’s on ice in my morgue.”
“Have you performed an autopsy yet?”
“No, I was about to go and attend to that myself.”
“Please don’t do that, Doctor, at least not yet. I want to send an FBI forensic pathologist and some special equipment up there to work with you on the postmortem.”
“Why?”
“Do you have Brennan’s medical record handy?”
> “Right here. What would you like to know?”
“Cause of death.”
Mendelson shuffled some papers. “Bacterial infection, unidentified.”
“Doctor, the unidentified nature of the infection is a red flag for a possible biological or chemical assault.”
“Assault?”
“Whatever Mr. Brennan had may have been induced.”
“That’s very disturbing, but it’s not the first time we’ve had trouble identifying the cause of an infection, Mr. Kinney. What causes you to believe that Mr. Kinney may have suffered an assault?”
“There are other factors surrounding this death that tend to support such a conclusion. I can’t go into it now, but until our pathologist arrives I strongly suggest that you quarantine your morgue and keep anyone involved in Mr. Brennan’s treatment before his death under close observation for symptoms resembling his. I also suggest that you keep this as quiet as you can, under the circumstances, and that, in particular, you issue no statements to the press, except a statement announcing the time and supposed cause of death and say that an autopsy will be conducted in due course, but that’s all.”
“All right, Mr. Kinney,” the doctor replied, sounding worried.
“I should be able to have my people with you by mid-afternoon. Please call me if you have any questions between now and then.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kinney. I’ll certainly look forward to seeing your people here.”
Kinney hung up, then called the lab and gave instructions to assemble a team and get them to New Jersey, then he called the Trenton FBI office and instructed them to send an agent to interview Brennan’s wife. “I want to know if Brennan told her about any sort of encounter with a stranger in the hours between the time he left his office and arrived home, especially any sort of physical contact. I’m thinking about a fan who may have shaken his hand, a panhandler, a drunk—anybody at all.”
He hung up and called the New York City office and instructed them to send agents to interview anyone at CNN with whom Brennan had had contact during the hours between his arrival at and departure from CNN, with particular attention paid to any illness among them. “Tell your agents to remember that they’re talking to newspeople and to take care not to alarm them. Just see if any of them called in sick today.”
Helen came back into his office. “Have we got another victim?” “I don’t know,” he replied, “but, given the circumstances, I hope not.”
Kinney remained at his desk, waiting to hear from his pathologist. The call came shortly after seven o’clock.
“You want a summary, or all the details?” the doctor asked.
“Let’s start with a summary.”
“We conducted a full-blown antibiological field autopsy, complete with all the gear—sealed suits, the works. None of Brennan’s blood work or tissue samples revealed any pathogen, biological or chemical. Everything came back normal. None of the people who came into contact with Brennan at the hospital have exhibited any symptoms of infection.”
“Cause of death?”
“Complete collapse of the cardiopulmonary system, with no apparent underlying cause.”
“Jesus.”
“Exactly. I’m bringing blood and tissue samples back to D.C. with me, and I’ll run further tests and issue a report in a day or two.”
“Did you find any sign of external injury?”
“He had a shaving cut, apparently inflicted yesterday sometime, and there was a small puncture mark on the left calf muscle, just below the knee. I examined his trousers at that location and found a tiny trace of xylocaine present.”
“That’s a local anesthetic, isn’t it? The sort of thing you get at the dentist’s?”
“Or in the emergency room, if you’re, say, getting a cut stitched. You want my best guess?”
“Please.”
“By some unknown means he was injected with a fluid containing an unknown pathogen and xylocaine. The anesthetic would relieve any pain from the puncture almost immediately, so Brennan would get over it quickly. I think the pathogen was chemical, rather than biological.”
“So he was poisoned?”
“That’s what it amounts to, but so far, there is absolutely no trace of the poison, not even on the clothing where I found the xylocaine. And that is very disturbing.” “An unanalyzable poison?”
“Yes. Such things do exist. A poison can be made by combining two common household cleaning agents in the right proportions. When ingested, it causes death within twenty-four hours, and it cannot be analyzed. Also, if some stranger injected the poison, it would have to have been done very quickly, so as not to arouse Brennan’s suspicions, so the amount would have to have been very small, certainly much less than a cubic centimeter.”
“There was a case like this in London back in the seventies, I think. A man was stabbed with a poisoned umbrella tip on the street.”
“I’m familiar with that case, but Brennan died much more quickly than that victim, who, to the best of my recollection, took three days to expire.”
“So he was killed by an injection of a tiny amount of an unanalyzable poison.”
“That’s my initial and unofficial diagnosis,” the doctor replied. “And I need hardly point out that, if my diagnosis can be confirmed, we’re likely looking at the involvement of a foreign intelligence service. The London killing was traced to the Romanian or the Bulgarian service, I believe. Cold War stuff.”
“Get back to me as soon as you’ve confirmed something,” Kinney said. “And thanks for calling.” He hung up.
Helen came into the office. “So?”
“We’ve got another victim, and this is getting very, very strange.”
18
Kinney was about to leave his apartment when his cell phone rang. “Yes?”
“This is the director’s secretary, Mr. Kinney,” she said. “The director got your memo this morning about the Brennan death, and he would like you to accompany him to the White House this morning for the president’s intelligence briefing.”
“All right.”
“The director’s car will pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
“Please tell the director that I’ll drive my own car and meet him there, if he would be kind enough to notify White House security. I have an appointment that I’ll have to drive to immediately following the briefing.” This was a lie, but Kinney had no intention of being trapped in a car with the director for half the morning.
“I’ll let the director know and notify White House security.”
“Thank you.”
Kinney had been to the White House before for meetings with presidential aides, but never with the president him-self. He was passed through the main gate after showing his ID and being carefully compared to his photograph by the guard, then his car was parked for him, and an escort took him to a small waiting room. The director arrived presently, and the room filled up with the meeting’s other participants.
After the others were called inside, Kinney waited until summoned. The director introduced him to the president, then, one by one, to the others.
“I understand we have another killing, Bob,” the president said.
“I believe we do, Mr. President.” He told the group about the circumstances of Brennan’s death and the autopsy results.
“Now those results are preliminary, aren’t they, Bob?” the director asked.
“Yes, sir, but I expect the final report to be the same.”
“What do you make of this?” the president asked. “Are we dealing with a foreign intelligence agency?”
“I don’t believe so, Mr. President.”
“Then who?”
“I believe we’re dealing with an individual who has knowledge of all sorts of technical skills—firearms, explosives, black chemistry. I’ve ordered that all the Bureau’s retired or dismissed employees with such knowledge be investigated, and I want to extend that investigation to the retired employees of other agencies, too.”
“Why retired employees, not current ones?”
“Because our killer seems to have the time to travel up and down the Eastern seaboard, murdering people. Apparently he’s driving, and a current employee wouldn’t be able to do that, unless he were on vacation, and that would call unwanted attention to him.”
“What agencies are you talking about?” the president asked.
