Code White

by Scott Britz-Cunningham

  “Code blue, acute psychiatric unit. Code blue.”

  Lee gave Harry a startled look. “What is that? What is Code Blue?”

  “Cardiac arrest,” said Harry.

  Both men peered through the doorway. They saw a red crash cart being jammed through a crowd of onlookers at the entrance to the isolation suite.

  “No! Jesus, no!” muttered Lee, as he dashed toward the scene.

  Harry was on Lee’s heels. When he reached the crowd at the door, he had to strain on tiptoes to make out a team of ER personnel frantically giving CPR to someone on the floor. Pushing his way inside, he saw that it was Rahman who was at the center of the ruckus. He lay on his back, silent at last, his right arm still handcuffed to the wreckage of the bed. His face was obscured by an oxygen mask, but to Harry his skin looked bright ruddy red, not blue like most people in cardiac arrest.

  “Pulse ox is ninety-eight, but I have no spontaneous respirations,” called out one of the nurses.

  A young doctor with red hair was giving chest compressions. “Keep bagging him,” he shouted. “Can we crank up that oxygen?”

  “It’s at ten liters.”

  Another nurse was injecting something into an IV line. “Another two milligrams of epi going in, now.”

  “What’s on the monitor?” asked the doctor.

  “Nothing,” came a reply. “ECG’s still flat.”

  For another two or three minutes, the young doctor continued pumping Rahman’s bare chest. There were beads of sweat on his forehead; as he bobbed up and down for the compressions, a shock of red hair would sweep across his brow, like a windshield wiper. He kept his eyes on the cardiac monitor.

  Finally, the compressions slowed, and then ceased. Harry could hear sighs of resignation among the CPR team. The red-haired doctor stood up, looked at the monitor once more, and then at his watch. “It’s 2:47. I’m calling the code,” he announced.

  Lee cornered Scopes, who had been watching on the sidelines. “Do you mind telling me what in God’s name happened here?”

  Scopes shrugged. “He had something sewn into the sleeve of his shirt. When we were grappling with him, he ducked his head down and bit into it.”

  Harry stepped forward and knelt beside the body. There was a yellow stain just above the hem of the right sleeve of Rahman’s soccer jersey. When Harry sniffed it, he smelled an overpowering scent of bitter almonds.

  “Cyanide,” he declared.

  “Right. Cyanide,” said Scopes. “That’s what we figured.”

  Lee’s jaw hung askew. “That doesn’t make any sense. We were about to release him.”

  “Obviously, he didn’t know that,” quipped Harry.

  “Jesus H. Christ! I’m holding you responsible for this, Lewton. Thanks to you, we’ve lost a critical intelligence asset.”

  “Some asset. Explain why a CIA informant would take poison.”

  “What did you say to him?” Lee’s eyes were as big as Harry had ever seen them. “Goddamn it, why did he kill himself? What did you say?”

  “Mr. Lewton! Mr. Lewton!” There came a woman’s voice, breathless as from a sprint down a long corridor, calling from the doorway. Harry looked beyond the crowd of cops and medics and saw Judy Wolper bobbing her head back and forth in an attempt to get his attention.

  “What is it, Judy?” asked Harry, getting to his feet.

  “We just got a call from the basement,” she shouted. “One of the electricians down there, Wayne Wilks. He’s … he’s…”

  “He’s what, Judy?”

  “He’s found the bomb.”

  2:55 P.M.

  Coming down the green-tiled corridor of Basement Level Two, Harry, Avery, Lee, and Scopes found a small group of men clustered in an alcove, where a service panel had been removed, leaving a three-foot-square opening in the wall. A tall, balding, gray-haired man in dark blue overalls, whom Harry recognized as Wayne Wilks, stepped forward to greet them.

  “Mr. Lewton!”

  “Wayne,” said Harry with a nod. “You want to show us what you found?”

  “Here.” Wilks led them forward, as the others stepped out of the way. “This utility shaft was checked once, but nobody saw it. Then I jes’ got a feeling, and decided to look for myself.” Wilks shined a flashlight up through the opening. He and Harry craned their necks to get a look up at the shaft.

  “I don’t see anything,” said Harry.

  “Lookit that metal box.”

  Harry looked again. About twelve feet up, there was a three-by-three-foot sheet-metal box protruding from a deep recess in one wall of the shaft. At first Harry had taken it for an electrical housing of some kind.

  “I been up in this shaft not three weeks ago to make a splice, and that durned box weren’t there,” said Wilks. “It ain’t on any schematic. I’ll be hanged if it ain’t that bomb—an’ it’s a big ’un, too.”

  Avery pushed his way to the shaft and looked for himself. “Aw, crap!” he said. “Can hardly get a midget up there.”

  Lee and Scopes took their turns inspecting the mysterious box.

  “Is it a bomb?” asked Lee.

  “I’ll let you know in a minute,” said Avery. From his attaché case he took out a small gray electronic device, turned it on, and held it inside the darkened utility shaft. “Chemical spectrometer,” he explained. “It can pick up vapor residue from any of several dozen different compounds of interest.” In a moment, the spectrometer began to chirp and flash with an amber light. Avery pulled it out and read from the LED indicator. “Cyclotrimethylene trinitramine. It’s C4, all right. Concentration’s off the scale.”

  Avery stepped away from the shaft and looked at Lee. “It’s our baby, no doubt about it. The outer casing encloses maybe eighteen to thirty cubic feet—big enough to contain your missing five hundred pounds of explosive. It’s bolted to the wall. I don’t see any wires going in or out, so it’s not clear how it’s set off. It could be a timer, or some form of radio or microwave detonation. All I know is, it’s gonna be real tough getting a man in there. And dangerous. There’s not enough room for a full bomb suit.”

  “Do you think it’s booby-trapped?” asked Harry.

  “Damn sure of it. This is a sophisticated device. Very clean. Very simple. Not a fucking clue as to how it’s put together inside. It’s got a creepy resemblance to something that showed up some years back in Lake Tahoe. That had eight different booby traps in it.”

  “How did they disarm that one?”

  “They didn’t. They just blew it up, along with pretty much all of Harvey’s Resort Hotel and Casino.”

  “I’ll call headquarters,” said Lee.

  “I’ll get my team down here on the double.” Avery turned to Wilks. “Excuse me, mister, but where are we? Which part of the hospital is this?”

  “Basement Level Two, Tower C.”

  “It’s the inner part of Tower C,” added Harry. “All three towers join together in a kind of backbone—a central service section that houses things like elevators, the inpatient pharmacy, X-ray satellite stations, computer labs, and so forth.”

  “What’s on the other side of that wall where the bomb is?” asked Avery.

  “Why, that’s nothin’ but solid concrete,” said Wilks.

  “Concrete and steel,” said Harry. “It’s the foundation pediment for a steel support column that runs all the way to the top, twenty stories above us. Each of the towers has one. It’s how they’re tied to the backbone.”

  Avery looked closely into Harry’s eyes, like a conspirator. “And if you wanted to bring down this whole complex—all of the towers, everything—could you think of a better place to do it?”

  Harry thought of his mother, eighteen stories directly above him. “No. I could not,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

  Avery put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Then, officially speaking, we’re up to our ears in doo-doo,” he said.

  * * *

  Shaken as she was when she left Rahman, Ali was d
etermined to get the answer to two questions that had surfaced during the encounter. Who had called Rahman from her telephone? And, How did Rahman know that she had left Kevin? She did not have to think deeply about it, just as one did not have to think deeply about how apples came to lie at the foot of an apple tree. Kevin was the obvious answer. But why? Kevin and Rahman were such opposites that Ali could never imagine any cause that would bring the two together. But that made the mystery all the more disturbing.

  Leaving the isolation room, she went directly to Kevin’s laboratory, on the first floor of the basement, in the central section between the three towers. She knocked, at first softly, then loudly. No answer. Had Kevin gone out? She could take advantage of that. She knew where he kept his personal notes. She could also look for his pink sheets—the reviews that gave a numbered score to grant applications at the National Institutes of Health and the National Science Foundation. Kevin had bragged about suddenly coming into funding for his research. If he were telling the truth, the pink sheets would not be hard to find.

  Ali swiped her ID badge through the scanner of Kevin’s door lock, but was surprised when it failed to open. She had always had access to his lab. Twice more she swiped the badge, but without success. The little green “go” light wouldn’t come on. Clearly, Kevin had changed the entry code. But why?

  She had just turned to leave when, to her surprise, she heard a slide-bolt click, and saw Kevin looking through the door crack.

  “Need something, babe?”

  “I, uh, I knocked.”

  “I’m kind of busy. What is it?”

  “It’s, uh, Jamie. We’re having problems with him. Diagnostically, it’s completely confusing. I’m wondering if SIPNI could be the problem.”

  “We checked out that unit ten ways from Sunday. Everything worked as advertised.”

  “I know, I know. But, uh, couldn’t you have Odin run a simulation? I could show you Jamie’s chart and all the clinical findings. You have that diagnostic algorithm that you used to generate all those outcome scenarios for the FDA application. We could run it now, couldn’t we?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Do I need to keep standing here in the hallway, Kevin? Can I come in?”

  “Sure, babe,” said Kevin with a sigh. He stood aside and opened the door just enough for Ali to squeeze inside.

  Inside, the laboratory was dimly lit, as always. Most of the light was coming from the bank of computer monitors to the right of the door. Ali saw that all of the computers were active, with each monitor scrolling dizzyingly through endless sets of numbers.

  “It’s a problem in cryptanalysis,” said Kevin in answer to Ali’s puzzled look. “The solution comes much faster when you attack it with a parallel array.”

  “I see.” Ali walked toward the L on the right side of the lab. Ahead of her were an unkempt cot and a row of bookcases filled with jars containing the brains of the animals used in the SIPNI experiments and Kevin’s prized collection of skulls. There was an extra chair in that part of the room but Ali did not sit down. She reached out and touched the coils of nylon rope and climbing gear that Kevin had hung on the wall, next to a large framed picture of the south face of K-2.

  “You don’t look too good, Kevin,” she said. “You don’t smell too good. I think you need to get out of this cave for a while. Maybe do some climbing.”

  “Speak for yourself, jasmine flower.” After shutting and locking the door, Kevin sat down in his chair and swiveled around to face Ali. “Now what’s this about the Winslow kid?”

  “He went into a coma for a while, and he may be having some autonomic nervous system dysfunction. Will you run the simulation for us?”

  “You have the chart?”

  “Not with me. I can go get it.”

  “Well, by all means do so. Unless you want to just stand around and talk about B.O.”

  “Okay, sure.” Ali pivoted on her feet, as though on the point of leaving, but then stopped to look at a big dry-erase board on the wall. It was covered with diagrams and cryptic inscriptions in runic alphabet. Kevin often wrote notes to himself in runes when he wanted to keep them secret. Ali regretted now that she had never bothered to learn to read them. “I need to ask you about something else, Kevin,” she said, trying to hide the tenseness she felt.

  Kevin looked at her expectantly, but said nothing.

  “It’s, uh … it’s about Rahman. Have you been in contact with him?”

  “Yeah, he helped me with a few things.”

  “Oh, what?” She spoke as nonchalantly as she could, shutting her eyes so as not to betray her uneasiness.

  “Travel arrangements. I’m going abroad for a while.”

  Ali touched her hand to her mouth. “The FBI has him in custody, you know,” she said after a pause. “They think he’s planted a bomb in the hospital.”

  “Bomb? Oh, you mean that Code White business? Really? Is that still going on?”

  “Yes, and Rahman has something to do with it.”

  “That must be awkward for you.”

  Kevin’s sly tone was meant to goad her, but Ali kept her cool. “I’ve just come from talking with him,” she said, matter-of-factly. “The FBI brought him here, to the hospital. Do you know how they traced him? Through phone calls made from our old apartment. I know I didn’t make those calls. Only one other person could have.”

  “So I’ve talked with him. He was my brother-in-law. What of it?”

  “How could you have anything to do with Rahman? You know what kind of person he is.”

  Kevin smiled. “I’ve worked with all kinds of bastards in my time. Rahman was nothing special.”

  Enough of this play-acting! Ali turned and looked directly into his eyes. “He’s dangerous, Kevin.”

  “A comedian. Too predictable to be dangerous.”

  “Has he threatened you?”

  “You mean, like with cutting my throat and so on? Of course. But that’s just de rigueur. Among his sort, it passes for standard business etiquette.”

  “Look, whatever he’s gotten you into, it’s not too late to get out of it. Let me take you to Harry Lewton. Tell him what’s happened. He can help.”

  “Harry Lewton, huh? The Sturmbannführer of our local Gestapo?”

  “Stop it, Kevin! He’s a decent sort. Not like those hard cases from the FBI. You can talk to him.”

  “Does Richard know about Harry?”

  Ali furrowed her brow. “Richard? What has he got to do with it?”

  “Even your marble-shitting Greek gods have been known to show a wee spark of jealousy now and then. Particularly since, well, let’s face it—Richard’s your gray December, Harry’s all lusty July.”

  “Don’t be such a bastard, Kevin. I’ve only just met Harry Lewton. He’s … he’s not my type, anyway. Too crude … too rugged. And for all I know, he’s happily married.”

  “Not married, jasmine flower. He’s the weekend joy of many a bluegrass diva and cocktail waitress out of those hick clubs like Horseshoe and Cadillac Ranch.”

  “Why do you always have to drag things into the gutter? This is exactly the sort of thing that drove me away from you. I don’t care if he’s married or not. I haven’t the slightest interest in him. Do you get that? None. I simply trust him, that’s all, and I believe he can help you.”

  “Do I need help?”

  “I’m not stupid, Kevin. I’ve seen that ransom message. I know Rahman didn’t write it.”

  Kevin raised his eyebrows in a look of exaggerated innocence. “Which means … I did?”

  “I don’t know anyone else who can be so ignorant and arrogant at the same time.”

  “Have you discussed this theory with the FBI?”

  “No. I wanted to hear your side of it first.”

  “My side … is a little bit messy.”

  Kevin’s coy frat-boy smile was as good as a confession. Ali’s eyes opened wide as she covered her mouth in horror. “Oh, God, Kevin! What have you done?”

&nbs
p; Kevin raised an eyebrow. “Be careful where you go with this, jasmine flower. You may wind up hearing things you would rather not know.”

  Kevin, you bastard! thought Ali. This is not a game. You’re in over your head this time. She strove not to overreact. “You’ve cooked something up with Rahman, I know. He’s duped you somehow. Promised you money. Played on your fantasies of getting back at me and Richard.”

  “Duped me? Do I really seem that weak to you?”

  Ali knelt in front of Kevin’s chair, leaning on the armrests. “Kevin, you can still get out of it. Please, let me help you.”

  Kevin looked at her coldly. “Has it not occurred to you that Rahman may not have been the master of this affair?”

  “That you—”

  “Yes, me.”

  “No, I don’t believe it. You don’t have that kind of wickedness in you. You can be mean and selfish sometimes, but not evil. You’re … you’re a scientist. This is not you. This bomb has Rahman’s signature all over it.”

  “Rahman was a bull, and like a bull he could be led by the wave of a cape. I gave him a chance to carry out one of those feats of martyrdom he’s always talking about. He would have done something anyway. He was itching to do it.”

  “You gave him…” She could barely get the words out. “It was your idea?”

  “Yes. I’d been thinking about it in the abstract for quite a while.” Kevin suddenly pitched his voice upward, as though he were playing a part in a stage farce. “A game-playing scenario between Odin and myself. Probably would have gone nowhere. But then one morning, I woke up all alone, just staring at the ceiling, and I thought, ‘Enough of these daydreams!’ I could move from theory into real applications if I could just get my hands on a little bit of that silly putty stuff—C4, they call it. So I called the only real expert I knew on the subject—your late half-brother —and asked him if there was a trading house or bazaar for dealing in curiosities like this. And it turned out that sometimes East and West do meet. Rahman had a dream, and I had a dream, and both dreams intersected precisely in this same batch of C4. The Martyrs, of course, were very predictable in what they sought: glory, the liberation of their comrades, a small stake of money to finance their next experiment in mayhem. All this I promised them, reserving a small but interesting part of the project to myself.”