by Siegel, Alex
"Did you sleep in the cab?"
"A little."
"Yvonne made a nice dinner for you, sir. It's in the kitchen."
Smythe nodded. "Food sounds like the perfect medicine."
Jack pressed a button and the inner door buzzed. Smythe went through.
He went to the kitchen. It was one of the largest rooms in headquarters, and it also served as an informal meeting room. Copper pots hung above broad, granite counters. Two refrigerators and dozens of cabinets held enough food to feed the entire team for weeks. Ethel liked to prepare for all contingencies, even a siege.
A plate of spaghetti and meatballs was waiting on the table. Smythe realized he hadn't eaten a proper meal in days and eagerly sat down. He ate slowly though because his stomach couldn't handle too much food at once. The delicious spaghetti sauce tasted of fresh tomatoes and garlic. He washed it down with a big glass of grape juice.
Ethel walked in, accompanied by Filipe Ramirez. The two of them sat with Smythe.
"How did it go with Detective McQueen?" Ethel asked.
"Very well, ma'am," Smythe said. "He took half the money."
"That's funny. Usually it's all or nothing."
Ramirez put a sheet of paper on the table. "This is the formula for the nectar of the night."
Smythe studied the paper while he chewed. Looking at the long list of ingredients, he wondered if the formula were a bad joke. The list included rattlesnake venom, powdered peanut shells, homogenized whale blubber, trifluoroacetic acid, vanilla liqueur, and of course, human blood.
"It's a real witch's brew," Smythe said. "Are we sure this is the real thing?"
Ramirez nodded. "It will take weeks to make a sample batch. Some of the ingredients are hard to get, and the mixing procedure is very complex."
Smythe read through the many steps. There were very precise descriptions of time and temperature. "A lot of repetition. It reminds me of a peptide synthesis experiment in a weird way." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm so tired. I can't think."
"I'm sorry," Ramirez said. "I should've waited until after you got some rest."
"Yes," Ethel said. "Go to bed."
"Right after I'm done eating, ma'am," Smythe said. "What else is going on?"
"We believe the Mooseland brewery in Milwaukee is the Eternals' next target. We're going up there at dawn."
"A brewery? Damn. That makes a lot of sense. I'll go with you."
"No," Ethel said. "You're far too weak."
"But..."
"Rest. Recover your strength. Analyze the poison. Find a cure. Those are my orders."
"Yes, ma'am," Smythe said.
"Good night."
Ethel and Ramirez stood up and left.
Chapter Twenty-five
Aaron, Marina, and Ethel sat in the office of Herman Gitelman, general manager of the Mooseland brewery in Milwaukee. The brewery was enormous but his office was humble. There was a plain wooden desk, some green file cabinets, and photographic prints on the walls. The black and white prints showed men in historic garb holding glasses of beer. The nicest feature of the office was an enormous window that provided an impressive view of the factory floor.
Mr. Gitelman was a short man with sparse brown hair. He wore a crisply pressed, white dress shirt and black pants. His expression showed deep anxiety.
"I wish you would just tell me what the problem is," he said.
"We will," Ethel said, "after we get a full tour of the facility."
"That could take hours."
"It will take all day if necessary."
"But I have meetings."
She shook her head. "Not anymore. If we don't like what we see, the Milwaukee Health Department will shut you down. This is very serious, Mr. Gitelman. One of your own employees filed a complaint that could lead to criminal charges. You could be held personally liable."
The Spears were disguised as health inspectors. They wore business suits and white hard hats and carried clipboards. Aaron had a fake beard, which made his face itch like crazy. Marina's disguise included a black wig and oversized glasses.
"This is a world famous brewery," Gitelman said. "We use the best and latest equipment. We test our product continuously to make sure it meets all of our standards. We are very proud of every bottle of beer. As far as safety goes, every employee attends mandatory training sessions. We even passed an OSHA audit two months ago. I can't imagine what this 'complaint' could be."
"You'll find out after the tour," Ethel said, "unless you want to waste more time stalling."
He frowned and stood up. "Follow me."
They left the office and went down a flight of stairs into the guts of the brewery. It was a vast space, filled with pipes, vats, and machinery. Everything was made of polished copper or stainless steel. Most of the production process seemed automated, but a few workers made their way through the forest of equipment. Aaron had expected the place to smell like a college fraternity on a Friday night, but instead there was only the fruity, pleasant aroma of yeast.
"We produce ten million barrels of beer annually," Gitelman said. "That's enough to fill 545 Olympic swimming pools or five billion cups."
"That's a lot of beer," Aaron said.
"And every drop tastes exactly the same. Computers monitor and control every detail of the production process. Of course we also employ brewmeisters, who taste every batch to make sure the computer got it right. Where do you want to begin the tour?"
"Your choice," Ethel said.
Aaron marveled at the miles of gleaming pipes and gadgetry. The factory was either a masterpiece of plumbing or a nightmare. Unfortunately, the tremendous complexity meant it was impossible to know if any equipment had been tampered with. He decided to focus his attention on the workers instead.
"How many people work here?" Aaron asked.
"Only about three hundred," Gitelman said, "mostly technicians. The machines do the labor. The days of manual mixing and measuring are long gone."
"You must know everybody."
"Pretty much. I don't see the night shift that often."
"Night shift?" Aaron raised his eyebrows.
"The brewery runs continuously. The only time we turn off all the machines is Christmas Day. Let's start with the water purification room." Gitelman walked briskly towards one of the doors.
Aaron and Ethel exchanged looks of concern. He could tell she was thinking the same thing as him. There was no way they could interview all the workers and inspect all the equipment. They needed a new plan.
"Wait," Ethel said. "I changed my mind. Let's not do the full tour."
Gitelman stopped. "What do you want to do instead?"
She produced the paper listing the roster for the company baseball team, which Aaron had found yesterday. "What can you tell me about this?"
Gitelman examined the paper. "Where did you get it?"
"Don't worry about that. Look at the circled names. Do they have something in common?"
"Let's see. I think all of them work the swing shift. That's four PM to midnight."
"None of them are here now?"
"No." He shook his head. "Are these men in trouble?"
"Not necessarily. I want to examine the areas where they work," she said, "very carefully. Do you have a head technician? Somebody who knows every nut and bolt in this place? Let's bring him along."
"What are we looking for?"
"I don't know."
"That's not very helpful," he said.
"Proceed anyway. This is an urgent matter."
Gitelman tracked down the head technician, a guy named Sal. The ample size of his gut suggested he was enthusiastic about his beer. A crown of fluffy, gray hair went around his mostly bald head. Aaron shook his hand and found it was calloused and missing a pinky finger.
"What's the problem, sir?" Sal asked.
"They won't tell me," Gitelman said.
"Just stay with us," Ethel said, "and keep your eyes open. If you see anything that isn't exactly right, let us know immediately. No detai
l is too minor."
"I'll try," Sal said.
The first stop was the "glycol chiller." It was a giant, blue machine, which hummed so loudly Aaron wanted to cover his ears. Two inch pipes dripping with condensation connected the chiller to other parts of the factory.
Sal walked around the machine, examining it with a critical eye. He pulled off an access panel and crawled inside. He didn't seem to have a problem with the noise.
After a few minutes he reemerged from the bowels of the machine. His face was red with exertion.
"No problems in there," he said. "The cooler is working perfectly."
The next stop was the cleaning fluid reservoir system. Stainless steel tanks held thousands of gallons of liquid, and as usual, there was a baffling tangle of connecting pipes. Aaron didn't understand how the workers could keep track of what connected to what.
"We sanitize all of our equipment before every brewing cycle," Gitelman said. "Caustic soda is used for cleaning, peroxyacetic acid is used for sterilization, and a blast of steam provides the final purge. We recycle the cleaning fluids. After a week we dispose of them in an environmentally safe manner in compliance with state and federal guidelines."
Sal checked all the gauges on the tanks. He yanked the hoses to make sure the fittings were secure. Finally, he climbed a ladder and opened a hatch, so he could look inside the tanks.
"Everything is good," he said.
They proceeded to the filtration system.
"This is where we separate the beer from the spent yeast to produce the finished product," Gitelman explained. "The unfiltered beer is mixed with diatomaceous earth, an inert powder. Powerful pumps circulate the slurry through fine metal screens until all particulate matter is removed and the beer meets our high standards of clarity."
The filter chambers were long, horizontal tubes with a diameter of about two feet. Windows allowed Aaron to see the many screens, which were covered with brown muck.
Sal walked back and forth along the chambers. When he came to the pumps at the end, he stopped. There were three pumps with large, electric motors. Aaron guessed they weighed at least a hundred pounds apiece. They hummed like giant bumblebees.
"Strange," Sal said.
"What?" Ethel said.
He pointed at one of the pumps. "This unit wasn't correctly installed. The power cable is supposed to use a water tight connector to the knockout box. Some idiot used a standard connector instead. We'll have to fix it right after this filtration cycle finishes."
"You have good eyes," Gitelman said. "Not many people would've caught that. The product is fine, though. Right?"
"Yes, sir. It's just a safety issue. If a pipe breaks and sprays beer all over, we might get an electrical short."
Ethel walked over for a closer look at the pump. "When was this work done?"
"Good question," Sal said. "I'll get the answer. I want to know who to chew out."
He unclipped a radio from his belt and spoke into it. The response was thick with static and jargon but he seemed to understand it.
After a few exchanges, he said to Ethel, "The entire pump was replaced last night. This unit is new."
Her eyes widened. "Shut it down!"
"Huh?"
"Turn it off immediately! I want to look inside that pump."
"But that would ruin thousands of gallons of product. The system is pressurized and sterile. We can't just take it apart."
Ethen turned to Gitelman. "If he doesn't do it, I will. Just tell me which button to push."
"Calm down." Gitelman nodded to Sal. "Go ahead and turn it off. Do as she says."
Sal frowned. "Yes, sir, but somebody else will have to clean up the mess."
He pressed several red buttons on the control panel, and the pumps became quiet. The brown fluid in the filter chambers stopped moving. Sal went off to get some tools, and he returned with a rolling tool chest. He squatted down in front of the pump with a wrench in hand.
"You're sure about this?" he asked.
Ethel nodded. "Yes."
He began to unbolt the pump from the connecting pipes. Beer leaked out and the trickle quickly became a flood. It flowed across the floor and into a nearby drain. Aaron inhaled the delicious aroma. He made sure none of the beer got on his shoes.
Sal looked like he might cry. "Terrible shame," he said.
It took only a few minutes to detach the pump. With an overhead chain hoist, he lifted it above the surrounding equipment and pipes. Sal looked inside first, using a small flashlight.
"What the hell is that!" he said.
"Don't touch it!" Ethel said. "Let me see."
Everybody took a turn. When Aaron looked, he saw a complex mechanism made of brass inside the pump housing, and it clearly didn't belong there. The workmanship was elegant.
Ethel looked at Sal and said, "Can you get that thing out? Be very careful. It's important evidence. Wear rubber gloves and don't touch it with your bare skin."
"Evidence of what?" Sal said.
"Just do what I ask and save the questions for later. Mr. Gitelman, we'll need a large container, one with an air-tight lid."
"Sure." Gitelman hurried off.
Sal used his tools to disassemble the pump housing. The strange mechanism was bolted to the center of the impeller, and he successfully removed it intact. Gold wire inlay on the exterior formed the sunset symbol of the Eternals.
Gitelman returned with an empty hops container. Sal carefully placed the device inside.
Ethel took the container and made sure the lid was sealed. She gave it to Marina and said, "Get this to the lab for analysis as quickly as possible."
"How?" Marina said.
"Hire a courier. Come back when you're done."
"Yes, ma'am." Marina ran off.
Ethel turned back to Sal and Gitelman. "Listen carefully," she said. "That was a poison dispenser. Do you understand? Your beer is poisoned."
They gasped.
She added, "Don't tell anybody. This matter is top secret. Sal, your job is to help us find out who replaced the pump last night. You must have security cameras around here. We're going to study all the video tapes. Mr. Gitelman, your job is to track down all the contaminated beer. Make sure every drop is destroyed. It's a very good thing we caught this quickly. God knows how many lives were just saved."
"What do I tell people?" Gitelman asked.
"Anything but the truth. That would start a panic."
He stared at her. "You're not really a health inspector, are you?"
"We're from the Federal Office of Domestic Counterterrorism. You're the victim of a terrorist attack."
He leaned against a pipe for support.
Sal looked down at his pants, which were soaked with poisoned beer, and he became pale. "I have to change my clothes."
"Good idea," Ethel said. "Now move! We have a lot to do."
* * *
Smythe woke up abruptly.
"Protein folding!" he yelled.
Then he opened his eyes and realized he was alone in his room.
He fumbled in the dark for the light switch and turned it on. He was lying on his bed in one of the guest rooms in headquarters. He had been dreaming but couldn't recall many details. He vaguely remembered sheets of sticky black cloth, which had spread across the sky until they turned day into night.
He remembered something else extremely important.
He got out of bed, pulled on a bathrobe, and ran directly to the laboratory. Ramirez was already there. He was looking through a high-power microscope at a slide.
"I'm glad I caught you," Smythe said. "You can help me. Do we still have some of those food samples from the carnival?"
"Slow down, sir," Ramirez said. "You look like you're about to have a heart attack."
"I'm just very excited." Smythe opened the refrigerator. As he had hoped, there was still a hot dog and a slice of pizza left. They were sealed in air-tight, plastic bags, just as he had left them. "Good! I want to perform protein separation u
sing two-dimensional gel electrophoresis. Do we have all the chemicals for that?"
"I think so. Why?"
"The poison is a protein."
"How do you know that, sir?"
"It came to me in a dream, or maybe my subconscious was analyzing the formula while I was asleep." Smythe shrugged. "Have you ever heard of a prion?"
"Like Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease?" Ramirez said.
"Exactly! A mutant protein that replicates itself almost like a virus. The human body has no defense. It's extremely hard to detect and almost always fatal. But I believe we can isolate the protein in this case."
"We don't have to." Grinning, Ramirez picked up a beaker full of black liquid. "I already have a pure sample."
Smythe approached with wide open eyes. "How?"
"The team went up to the Mooseland brewery early this morning, and they sent back a dispenser full of this stuff."
Smythe took the beaker and swirled it around. The liquid was as gooey as hot tar.
"This is wonderful!" He grinned wide enough to make his cheeks hurt.
"And your dream was right," Ramirez said. "I performed mass spectrometry, and the sample is ninety-five percent protein. I was just starting to measure its physical properties."
"I'll help you."
"Maybe you should get some breakfast first, sir. You still look anemic."
"Breakfast?" Smythe raised his eyebrows. "What time is it?"
"9:30. You slept for a long time. How are you feeling?"
"Good. I'm ready to work."
"You seem very happy," Ramirez said.
"I feel... at peace."
"Let me guess. For the first time ever, you're exactly where you want to be, with people you want to be with."
"Yes. That's it."
Ramirez nodded. "We all have the same experience when we join. Welcome to the Society."
"Thank you." Smythe smiled. "I think I will eat after all. It's hard to think when you're hungry. I'll be back in twenty minutes. Then I'm going to work my ass off until we find a cure. It's time I started pulling my weight around here."
* * *
Aaron rubbed his eyes. He, along with Sal and Marina, had been studying security camera videos for hours. It seemed every frame was poorly lit and out of focus. Distinguishing the faces of the many factory workers was difficult or impossible.
