“Art. Frankie. Have a seat.” The A-SAC pulled two more chairs over for the captain and himself.
There was no mistaking the expression Hidalgo wore like a red flag. Art had noticed it as he neared. There should have been grief, and sadness, but there was something masking those emotions instead. Art suspected it to be determination. The A-SAC knew it was rage.
“What is it, Lou?” Art asked.
“As of four o’clock today, per the director, I am overseeing this investigation.”
“Wait,” Frankie said. “Lou, they can’t dump this on you right now.”
Hidalgo shook his head. “It’s not like that. Cam is out of the country, and Jerry...well, he has other things to deal with.”
Oh, shit. Art straightened in his seat unconsciously. The director had called the A-SAC personally, and Jerry Donovan was busy? “Lou?”
Hidalgo faced the man who could have had the A-SAC position had his life not taken a personally tragic detour. “Art, don’t read into that. I know you. Jerry is busy, that’s all. The director wants me to watch over this thing, and, that said, you two are now running the investigation per me.”
That statement perplexed Frankie. Weren’t they already the de facto lead on the case because of their involvement with Allen? That silent musing lasted only until she noticed the look on Orwell’s face. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
“This isn’t going to be just a cleanup investigation,” Hidalgo said. “Things are a lot worse than anyone wanted.”
Dammit! Art remembered the captain’s less-than-absolute assurances at the site. Probably, huh? “Some of it got out, didn’t it?”
The question was directed squarely at Orwell. “Not exactly.”
“Well, exactly what does ‘worse’ mean?” Art demanded.
“When I finished the analysis on the chemical residue in the containers there were some anomalies I wasn’t expecting,” the captain explained. “I want you to understand this, so let me be precise. VX can be manufactured into two stable reagents.”
“As a binary weapon,” Frankie recalled.
“You told us that at the site,” Art said impatiently.
“Give him a chance, Art,” Hidalgo said.
Orwell waited a second for the air to clear. “The two reagents are what we refer to as a base and an activator. For VX the base is ethyl 2-[diisopropylamino] ethylmethylphosphonite. We call it QL for brevity’s sake. The activator is a thicker substance called dimethyl-polysulfide. When those two are mixed they yield VX. I found residue that let me estimate King could have produced enough QL for three of those cylinders.”
“But there was only one,” Frankie said.
“Which made sense because there was only enough residue of the ingredients for the activator for that one batch in the cylinder. I was able to estimate that because there was a clear measurement of one of the activator’s components: methyl mercaptan.”
“Okay, I follow you so far,” Art said. “There was enough of the base for three cylinders of VX, but only enough activator for one.” The captain confirmed Art’s understanding with a nod. “Was the leftover base still there?”
“No. I was—”
“Wait,” Art cut off the captain. “It was not there? You mean someone out there has half of what is needed to make twice as much VX as we had on-site?”
“No,” Orwell said. “Let me finish.”
Frankie gave her partner a look that told him to ease up. He was a driven one, she knew, and sometimes needed a little mothering to keep him from letting that drive push him too quickly.
“While we were doing the residue analysis we found something unexpected,” Orwell went on. “Two chemicals: ethyl mercaptan and ethylene glycol dinitrate.”
“Wasn’t that other one methyl mercaptan?” Frankie asked.
“Right. These two chemicals, along with a combination of the others we identified, can be processed into an activator named triethylmonosulfide.”
“An activator?” Art said. “Like the dimethyl-whatever?”
“Similar.”
“What are you saying, that this other activator works with the base that isn’t accounted for?” Frankie asked.
“Yes. VX shares its base with another nerve agent that was derived from it. VZ is its name.”
The two agents shared a look before Art spoke. “You mean that there is a reason to believe that someone out there has all the ingredients to make a nerve agent like the one that got loose up on Riverside?”
“Not like, Jefferson,” Orwell corrected. “Worse.”
“Worse?” Frankie said with surprise. “You said VX was the most deadly thing we had.”
“It’s the most deadly nerve agent we’ve produced and stocked,” Orwell clarified. “VZ is more lethal, but it is not as useful to the military because its deliverable state reduces its persistence. Triethylmonosulfide as an activator is not a thickener, which means that, although VZ won’t stick to things as readily on the battlefield, it is more readily absorbed into the human body, both through inhalation and through the skin.”
“So we didn’t make this stuff because, even though it would kill you better, it wouldn’t hang around long enough?” Art asked incredulously.
“Basically, yes.”
Art let his body fall back in the chair. It was all clear now, why Lou was running the show. Jerry had put the cart before the horse and told the world that everything was A-OK before getting any final word. Idiot! “So someone has this stuff.”
“We have to assume that, Art,” Hidalgo said.
“Enough for two of those cylinders?” Frankie inquired.
“Or containers of similar size,” Orwell answered. “But that thing had to be specially made, so there’s no reason to think there wouldn’t be more.”
Art filtered all the information that had just filled his mental data banks, trying to place what was most important in the forefront. In the lead was a question. “If this VZ stuff is more deadly, why did King make VX at all?”
Frankie seized on a possibility almost immediately. “Maybe as insurance against exactly what we think Allen was going to do.”
That made a hell of a lot of sense, Art realized. “Freddy goes there to do away with King, after the VZ has already been delivered. King had to sense that something was up.”
“And Freddy probably played the tough guy,” Frankie surmised. “Remember the surveillance tape from that liquor store he robbed last year? He didn’t even pull the gun at first. You could hear him on the tape saying, ‘Give me the money so I can kill you.’ Then he did. Just shot the clerk in the face.”
“So he may have been equally as cocky with King,” Art continued the line of thought. “Telling King what he was going to do without even pulling the gun.”
“But King was prepared for that,” Frankie said. “There was a bathroom right off the hallway where we found King. He might have retreated that way when Allen confronted him.”
“And the cylinder of VX could have been right there,” Art agreed. “King just had to reach through the doorway.”
Orwell listened to the exchange with intense interest, wondering how the agents could process the possibilities so quickly, how the imprecise could be funneled into a combination of probabilities that one could almost see as reality.
“This investigation just became priority number one, Art,” Hidalgo said.
“Clearly,” Art said. “Captain, you said this stuff is more potent than VX. How much?”
“The effectiveness of chemical agents is measured as LD-50. That’s the amount of the substance, measured in milligrams, released per minute within a cubic meter that will kill half of those exposed without protection. VZ has twice the LD-50 of VX when inhaled, and four times when absorbed percutaneously.”
“What’s the dose?” Art asked.
“For VZ you’re talking point-two-five milligrams if inhaled, and four milligrams if absorbed through the skin. But VZ, unlike VX, mists extremely well into minuscule drop
lets, which means that anyone unprotected will almost certainly breathe in a lethal dose before they absorb it.”
Art tried to imagine so small an amount, but couldn’t grasp it effectively. “And how much is in one of those cylinders?”
“My estimate is about fourteen ounces,” Orwell answered.
“And how many people could that much VZ kill?”
“That would depend on a lot of factors,” Orwell said. “Environment. Dispersion.”
“A ballpark figure,” Art said. “Assume that there are lots of people and everything goes just right.”
The captain thought for a moment. “Figuring that half the agent would be wasted as it spread, a guess would be four to five thousand.”
The number, spoken clinically as just a combination of digits, floored the three agents.
“Five thousand people?” Frankie asked.
“In the nightmare scenario your partner gave me, yes,” Orwell affirmed.
“If someone of Allen’s kind has it and is planning to use it, you can bet they envision the nightmare scenario,” Art said.
“So how do we stop them?” Hidalgo wondered for the group.
“Well, pardon my French, but Jerry’s fuckup may have given us a little edge,” Art observed. “Everyone knows that there was a release of VX thanks to him, and they also think that that was it. The fact that we’re investigating just goes along with the incident.”
“So whoever has the VZ might be feeling more secure because they think we think there’s nothing more out there,” Hidalgo said. “And the fact that we’re still checking around to tie together loose ends might not spook them either.”
“Not if they were as careful as I bet they were,” Art said.
“If King was insulated well,” Frankie began, “just imagine how tight the folks behind this are wrapped up.”
Hidalgo considered the proposition that his lead agents were laying out. “So we press this without actually saying publicly what our real focus is?”
“I think that’s our edge,” Art said.
“But what about public safety?” Hidalgo asked. “If something happens...”
“There’s no way you can protect anyone from this,” Orwell said. “I may not be a cop, but what Jefferson is saying is logical. The only way to protect the public is to get this stuff away from whoever might use it.”
Secrecy was not uncommon in an investigation, but Hidalgo could just imagine the media and the civil libertarians crying “cover-up” if something happened before the Bureau could find and secure the nerve agent. But experience told him that a wide-open investigation might simply push the bad guys deeper into hiding, or, worse, into using their trump card before it could be taken from them.
“Do it, Art,” Hidalgo said. “You’re senior on this. Find it.” Find them.
“Will do,” Art promised, seeing the added desire in the A-SAC’s eyes...along with the fire.
“Captain,” Hidalgo said. “Thanks for digging this up. You may have saved some lives.”
“I hope so.”
Hidalgo excused himself and headed back up to Jerry Donovan’s office, leaving Orwell with the two agents.
“If you need anything...” Orwell offered.
“I’m sure we will,” Frankie said. She looked to Art. “Early morning tomorrow, partner?”
“Tomorrow, and the next day, and the next... We’ll figure a split between us tomorrow.” Art glanced at his watch. This very late dinner with Anne could end up being his last for a while. He wanted to get going, but there was one thing still nagging at him. “Captain, you said we never made VZ for our inventory, even though it was more deadly.”
“But not on the battlefield,” Orwell repeated from earlier. “Just because you can make something doesn’t mean you have to.”
“Did anyone else know how to make it?” Frankie asked, picking up on her partner’s line of questioning.
“Yes.”
“Did anyone actually produce it for their military?” Art pressed.
“Yes.”
“Who?” Art asked.
“The Russians,” Orwell answered. “Why?”
He didn’t get an immediate answer from the agents, who were locked in a suspicious, almost knowing stare.
“King, huh?” Art said, repeating his doubts from earlier.
“Da,” Frankie agreed.
* * *
The West Executive Avenue entrance gate to the White House grounds swung open an hour shy of midnight as a light snow dusted the nation’s capital. Three white Ford vans, windowless from the cab rearward, pulled in behind a government sedan, which led the small caravan around the executive mansion to a spot near the East Wing. There they stopped, met by a tall, serious-looking Secret Service agent who went to the lead car, brushing the snow off his shoulders as he walked.
“Who are the drivers?” Secret Service Agent Ted O’Neil, head of the presidential detail, asked.
Fellow agent Larry Price, stepping from the warmth of the Service Buick, pulled the collar of his overcoat up. “Tenth Mountain Division from Fort Drum. All louies.”
“Good.” O’Neil, the man charged with keeping the president alive for the four or eight years he was in office, walked to the back of the first van with Price at his side. The driver already had the twin doors open.
“Where are these going?” the lieutenant, wearing nothing even remotely Army, inquired.
O’Neil looked at the piles of duffels in the back of the vehicle, at least two dozen in number. “Everything’s going down in my office.”
“You’re not going to have any room left, Ted,” Price commented quite correctly.
“How often am I there?” O’Neil asked. The leader of the presidential detail, a man of great importance himself, existed on a schedule that left little time for anything other than being close to the Man. The office was really just a place O’Neil visited once a day, late in the evening, after the president had been put to bed, to complete his portion of the requisite daily reports. Then it was sleep in the small bunk stuffed among others in a small section of the East Wing reserved for the Secret Service, and then up an hour before the president’s scheduled wake-up time so he could walk the Man from his private quarters to the Oval Office. Once every two weeks O’Neil went home to his family in suburban Maryland to reacquaint himself with his wife and four children. This lasted but a weekend, and already three of those had been preempted by overseas trips, and the one coming in just twenty-four hours was now just a dream fading away. O’Neil felt the pressure, dreaded the long hours, missed his family, and loved the job he did more than anything he could imagine. “Who’s going to instruct us?”
Price looked down the line of vans. “The louie in the back.”
“His name’s Morrison,” the lieutenant with the two agents clued them in.
“Tell him to bring two of the...what are they called?” O’Neil wondered aloud, searching his fatigued mind for the word.
“MOPP suits,” the lieutenant said.
“Tell Morrison to bring two MOPP suits to the bunk room,” O’Neil told Price. “You escort him and keep them in the duffels. I don’t want some steward catching sight of them and letting it slip.”
“Gotcha, Ted.”
O’Neil backed away and let the officers and two of his detail begin the chore of lugging the seventy-plus duffels into the dark and quiet basement of the East Wing, the smaller and less important sibling of the power center on the opposite side of the executive mansion.
“JESTER is down for the night,” the report came through O’Neil’s earpiece. JESTER was the Service code name for the president. The first lady was TULIP. And there was a third code name the agents now had to associate with the first family.
“Is SCOOTER quiet?” O’Neil inquired, speaking into the microphone hidden under his left cuff.
“For a change,” the agent reported.
O’Neil smiled to himself. The president’s son was an “active” child, and one who had
demonstrated that he had a pair of lungs to challenge the most bellicose inhabitant of the Hill. And the code name was quite appropriate. O’Neil had personally taken two tumbles trying to avoid the tyke as he scooted out from behind some piece of furniture in the Oval Office or in the first family’s private area of the main building. He was a handful. He was also damned cute.
“Early wake-up tomorrow?” the agent asked.
“Five,” O’Neil reminded the night detail leader. “He has a speech at NYU.”
“All right. See you in the morning.”
O’Neil pulled his wrist away and checked his watch. Morning. That would give him about four hours of sleep, which was about the norm. Not as much as he wanted, but enough. Enough for this job.
A stiff breeze blew in without warning, reminding him that he didn’t have an overcoat on. But the chill was somehow welcome, just as the end of each day was welcome and satisfying. Another day behind them. The mission of the Secret Service presidential detail fulfilled. The president and his family were tucked safely into bed. As the snow tickled O’Neil’s face he had a feeling that all was right with the world.
Then, as the combination of agents and Army officers came back for a second load of the gear O’Neil hoped was never needed, that feeling became more a hope than a measure of reality.
* * *
“A little wine?” Anne half-asked, half-prodded.
Art held his finger and thumb an inch apart, spreading them to an inch and a half as Anne’s smile grew. He watched her walk back to the kitchen and wondered how any woman could look so good in sweats, or in nothing at all for that matter. Ease up, Arthur. You’ve got all night.
“I can feel your eyes on my behind, Art,” Anne said, glancing back over her shoulder with a smile.
“Can you blame me?”
“Hmmm.” She filled two glasses with Chardonnay, hers more than his, and re-corked the bottle.
“You’re the one trying to get me drunk, sweetheart,” Art said.
Anne walked back in and sat next to her own private G-man. She handed his glass over and clinked hers lightly against it. “A girl has to get lucky somehow.”
Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3) Page 8
