by Dom Testa
Poole clicked on something. “Name is Franks. Led a movement to abolish government involvement in his university’s laboratories. Lots of protests and lectures, very anti-government. He’s also written multiple pieces on the ‘fraud of the grant system.’ His words.”
I left the bathroom and started the room’s coffee maker. “How in the hell did these people land jobs at secure facilities like water treatment plants?”
“Traditional background checks wouldn’t show any criminal activity,” Poole said. “Their credentials are all fine, in terms of the work they’ve accomplished. They must’ve done well at their interviews.”
I mumbled an agreement. But underneath all of this I felt a new concern, one I’d definitely address at my upcoming meetings with water officials. Just how tight was security at such vulnerable sites?
Poole and her helpers had more work to do. She’d text me links to files and information on the three prime candidates. It would be helpful to run their names past Aiken and see if any of them sounded familiar.
After ending the call I went back to bed and managed to sleep another hour. This time when I awoke I passed on room service and decided to go in search of an old-fashioned diner for breakfast. Some seriously bad food sounded seriously good.
Four blocks from the hotel I found just what I needed. They even had an old-fashioned, low-slung bar, with a saucy woman working behind it. She was as quick with a quip as she was with the coffee. While I devoured an omelet with a side pancake, I used a tablet to study up on water treatment facilities.
In the United States there were more than 16,000 publicly-owned plants, which pretty much took care of three-quarters of the population. The remainder were covered by either private firms or their own septic system. On an average day the country’s wastewater systems treated more than 30 billion gallons of water. Which is great when everything is humming along.
But when a madman decides it’s the most efficient way to make a point, you suddenly realize how susceptible we might be. We all just take for granted that what comes out of the tap will always be pristine. Nobody wants to think a simple glass of water could kill them. And policing 16,000 different sources had to be a nightmare.
Now I was anxious to continue my schooling with an actual engineer. By 9:30 I was being escorted back to the office of the administrator of one of Maricopa County’s many plants.
He was a large, jovial fellow with a name to match. “Tiny Gonzales,” he said, sticking out his hand.
The guy had to weigh 300 pounds. I shook his hand and smiled. “Hello Tiny. Eric.”
He looked at the card I’d handed him — this one had an NSA logo on it — and was duly impressed. We sat down.
“What can I help you with?” he asked.
“We’re looking into a possible threat against a water supply.”
“A water supply? Which one?”
“That’s the problem. We don’t know. And it could all be a false alarm. But, as you know, Tiny, if we don’t follow up it’s all of our asses, am I right?”
He gave a deep, hearty chuckle. “What kind of threat are we looking at?”
“We don’t know that for sure, either. I’m here to simply find out how your system works, and see where any vulnerable spots may exist. You could probably reel off a few of those without even thinking about it, couldn’t you?”
His smile faded and he nodded. “Eric, there’s not a plant in America that doesn’t worry about this.” He studied my face. “Want a quick tour?”
“I’d love one.”
He pushed his large frame out of the chair and signaled for me to follow him down the hall. For the next 30 minutes I was treated to a behind-the-scenes look at everything that goes into cleansing, purifying, and delivering your tap water. It was almost beautiful how all of the components worked together.
There were various stages of filtration, the first to extract larger particles and debris, then finer levels that removed the smaller, nasty agents. There was actual water treatment, using algaecides and disinfectants, and several other stages, each designed to take wastewater and turn it back into drinking water. And it happened 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, constantly sifting, scrubbing, and sanitizing.
Toward the end of the tour I asked Tiny Gonzales a point-blank question.
“If someone wanted to contaminate a city’s water supply, where would they be most likely to do it within the confines of a plant like this?”
He gave me a look that bordered on suspicion. I got the feeling he wanted another peek at my credentials. But after a moment of thought he gazed around and nodded.
“If someone could get inside, which would be damned difficult to do, I’d say they’d have to do it at the back end. After the filtration and sedimentation layers.” He pointed toward the large room we’d just left. “Those containers? The water has to sit with the chlorine in order to permeate the supply. During times of normal usage it might be two hours, but during times of heavy volume it might only be half an hour.”
He gave it some more thought. “Yeah. Probably either right before or right after the final doses of chlorine and fluoride are added. Those are the last stops before the water is pumped out.”
I followed his gaze. “And there’s nothing after that to check the safety of the water?”
“No.” Then, glancing back at me, he added, “But I don’t know how someone would sneak in here to do that. We have pretty tight security. Especially since 9-11.”
I didn’t want to ask him, but I had to. “All right. But suppose it was introduced into the water supply by an employee. How tight is that security?”
The look on his face told me all I needed to know.
The text came from an unfamiliar number. It was Jonas, who’d made good on his demand for a new phone. He wanted to meet at a bakery in Glendale, another of the Phoenix suburbs. Of course it was a food establishment; I imagined I’d be out a few bucks in order to stuff croissants and muffins into his bottomless pit of a stomach.
I texted back: Make sure you’re not followed.
I got there at 11:15 and found him waiting. He stood up and steered me toward the counter. He’d already picked out what he wanted.
When we sat down with his large slice of carrot cake and my tea he started in.
“Here’s what I know. The target is definitely somewhere in Arizona, and I think right here in the Phoenix area.”
“And how do you know this?”
“I overheard Steffan talking to Jay. He said ‘everything’s here.’”
I considered this. “Hell, Jonas, they could’ve intentionally let you snoop on their conversation, just to give you bullshit information.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Where are they now? Are you staying with them?”
“No,” he said. “They dropped me off at my place. I have no idea where they are. But they said to be available 24/7.”
Not what I wanted to hear. “So ‘everything’s here.’ Does that mean it’s already set up? Are the containers of poison already installed? What’s the timeline?”
He took a large bite of his cake and talked through a full mouth. “The poison is definitely not in place yet. They’re going to wait until just a few hours before they throw the switch. That way it can’t be spotted and removed. In the meantime they’ve got their new timer system, and I guess they’re wiring everything so it’s ready to go at the same time. That’s what the trip to San Antonio was all about.”
“Listen, I need to know the exact plant. I’d just swoop in and pick up Parks and beat it out of him, but I’m afraid he’s got a backup plan in place and will just rot in a cell before he reveals anything. And I don’t want to see his goddamned smug face grinning through the bars while thousands of people die a miserable death.”
Aiken looked thoughtful. “What if I can get Jayanti to open up?”
I sighed. “Jonas. Look, you’re a big, romantic puppy dog. I get it. I’m the same way with my wife. But you don’t und
erstand what you’re dealing with here.”
“Yes, I—”
“No, you don’t. You’re a scientist and a hard worker and a husband — well, a shitty husband, as it turns out. But I’m the professional when it comes to this stuff. I’ve got a lot of experience with bad people. Your sweet Jayanti is not going to go soft. No amount of wooing by you is going to turn her. All right? Get that bullshit out of your head. You’re an amateur.”
“Which is what’s gonna help me get the job done,” he said. “The minute I turned you over at the Riverwalk they believed they could trust me.” He pushed his empty plate toward the middle of the table. “And you’re wrong,” he said. “I can get her to turn. It’s not too late.”
“It is too late. She’s already killed someone, dude. That’s the epitome of too late.”
This brought a glare but no argument.
I softened my tone. “And it’s not just that, Jonas. You’re going to get yourself killed. I can’t fathom why they haven’t yet, but if you keep screwing around, trying to play The Fixer, you’re going to wind up with a few cc’s of tabun in your bloodstream.”
He shook his head. “All I’ve done is talk shit about you. I don’t think they’re suspicious of anything.”
With a grunt I said, “Aren’t they the ones who perfected Damnation Deniability? They probably see right through your shit-talk and realize what you’re doing.”
It was obvious from his expression he hadn’t considered this. The same thoughts that bounced around my head were probably pinballing around his. Were they just toying with him? Did they really believe he was still an ally? There was no way of knowing.
“All right,” I said. “Before you leave, have you heard of any scientists they might be working with? Any names they may have dropped?”
“Like who?”
I gave him the names Hart, Oosterhaus, and Franks. Aiken shook his head.
“No. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t working with them. I just don’t get to hear very much about the actual plans. They keep me segregated from that.”
Dammit.
“Okay. Any names at all? Anyone they might be communicating with?”
“Yeah. Their backup bodyguard is a guy named Troy something.”
“That’s very helpful. Troy something.”
“Hey, I’ll find out his last name. Stop giving me shit. Oh, and there’s some other person I think they worked with in Santa Fe.”
I sat forward, suddenly alert. “Yeah? Who’s that?”
He concentrated. “I’ve only heard the name once, and it was before I met you. Something like . . .” His voice faded away.
I waited him out.
After a moment he said, “Maybe Bailey? I think some guy named Bailey. Or something like that.”
“Definitely a guy?”
He thought about that. “Oh. No. I just assumed it was.”
“Okay.” What else could I say. “Keep your ears open. If you can get me the name of one person who may be on the inside, we’ll know the treatment plant.”
We stood up and faced each other awkwardly for a moment. Then, for the first time, we shook hands. This was one of the strangest partnerships I’d ever had. Truly an odd couple.
Before he left Aiken had me buy another piece of cake to go.
Chapter Twenty-One
One thing about my job that sucks is how out of touch I get with current events. Once, while in-between bodies, my consciousness just lying in limbo within a computer hard drive, I missed a presidential election.
Sometimes I’d go weeks without hearing anything about my favorite sports teams. Then I’d spend an hour or two on a plane catching up and discovering our star player had injured his shoulder again and hadn’t even played in the past month.
When your focus is preventing mass murder, your pop-culture peripheral vision takes a hit. Christina told me I’m probably lucky. But it’s one of the reasons my uploading appointment with trash magazines was so exciting: everything was news to me.
After Aiken left I sat back down at the table in the bakery and noticed that the Super Bowl was only two weeks away. The last time I’d paid attention the season itself was barely halfway over.
I needed some time off.
Originally I’d planned on visiting another water treatment plant in the early afternoon, but Tiny had taught me enough that I felt I had a good grasp on what we were dealing with. I trusted his detailed analysis, that contamination could best be accomplished in that final step of adding chlorine/fluoride. What better place to insert a killer concoction?
It also confirmed, at least in my mind, that an inside person was paramount to an operation this size. No way Parks, nor his murdering mistress, could get inside one of those facilities, especially toting the ingredients and tools necessary. If something didn’t pop up soon on the names Poole had unearthed, we’d have to either keep digging for more or try another course altogether.
The two primary knaves in this case, after ditching Jonas, had once again gone underground, a development that had become as customary as it was aggravating. These two were able to live under the radar for short spurts of time, using false identities and untraceable forms of currency. Probably enormous amounts of cash. I’d seen it done before, often by foreign terrorists who’d snuck into the country. But amateur villains usually don’t give enough thought or preparation to such tactics.
Parks and Pradesh had mastered it. If he’d seemed cocky during our quick exchange on the San Antonio Riverwalk, it’s probably because he’d earned the right. We were chasing our tails as much as we were chasing him.
I finished my coffee and left. One block away a park was mostly deserted, and I settled onto the bench of a picnic table to place a call to Washington.
“You met with Aiken?” Quanta asked without small talk.
“Yeah. They brought him to town, dropped him off, and vanished. His gut tells him the target is definitely around here, though.”
“And the names that Poole uncovered?”
“They mean nothing to him. Oh, he did have two other names. One is additional muscle. Troy. What can you do with that?”
She made a discouraged sound. “I’ll pass it along.”
“More importantly, he said there could be another team member who either helped in Santa Fe or was intricately involved. Bailey.”
“Only one name again?”
I laughed. “And he wasn’t even sure about that. All right, so he’s the worst goddamned informant in history. But he’s the only one we’ve got at the moment. The reluctant informant who’s in love with one of the perps. Could be the most screwed-up case ever. Thanks for giving this one to me.”
Quanta sighed, her other discouraged sound. I knew she was disappointed in my lack of progress, but at least she kept that low appraisal to herself. For now.
“Listen,” I said. “There’s another angle to all this that I think we should place more attention on. That’s motive.”
She hesitated, then said, “You think there’s a motive other than the ones we’ve discussed?”
“No, I don’t mean his ultimate motive for revenge. I’m talking about how and why he chose his target city.”
This was greeted with silence, so I kept going.
“It just crossed my mind as I was talking with Aiken, the way he said he was pretty sure about the Phoenix area. I started wondering: Why here?”
Quanta offered an answer. “Could it just be the most convenient in terms of the inside help you described? If he has someone already working at a water treatment plant, it simply makes it easier.”
I tapped a finger on the picnic table and watched a woman walking two massive dogs through the park, almost being pulled along by them. Quanta could be right, but . . .
“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “But think about Parks for a minute. Everything he’s done has been calculated. He chose to work in desalination because it offered a way to become a hero worldwide and gain funding. He didn’t choose that field for h
umanitarian reasons; he chose it because he thought it provided the quickest route to fame and wealth.
“When those efforts didn’t pan out the way he expected, he hatched a plan to get back into the good graces of the government. How? By creating a toxin for the military. Again, something he was sure would be a priority for a country fighting ongoing battles around the globe. It was another shortcut back into the money. But it was vehemently rejected, as it should’ve been.
“And then, when he was outright humiliated by a fellow scientist for the work that had brought him the only real success he’d managed in his career, he took out his accuser. Murdered him and the people around him.”
I smiled at the woman with the dogs as she walked by and gave me a small wave. I lowered my voice until she was out of range.
“Now he wants to show the country we were wrong in not working with him. So why here? Knowing Parks, he chose his target with a specific reason in mind. I don’t think he’s someone who just throws a dart at a map and attacks the first city that comes up.”
Quanta said, “Granted, all of that makes sense. The problem is we have nothing to go on regarding that particular motive.”
“Right. But I’m saying it’s probably there. Somewhere. Something that makes Steffan Parks want to lash out at a sprawling city in the desert. It can’t be a random choice. That’s not his style.”
Her sound of silence carried the kind of weight that told me I’d redeemed myself, at least in part. The idea of this particular motive hadn’t even registered with me until today, but I quickly latched on to it as a way of solving the case. Why the hell would this deranged scientist want to poison a city in Arizona? We’d been chasing after him, trying to prevent a calamity, without slowing down to investigate the why?
Yes, revenge is a motivating factor in many heinous crimes. But even revenge can be broken down into constituent parts.
“Very good, Swan,” was all Quanta said. But that was enough. She’d be on it.
Back at my hotel I invested another 90 minutes into uploading. The chats with both Aiken and Quanta were too precious to be lost. Afterward I grabbed a quick nap, then at four o’clock changed into shorts and a long-sleeved running shirt and went out to work up a sweat.
