“What?”
“I need to come out of this looking a certain way.”
“Let me guess. If this somehow blows up in Danielson’s face, you want to be clean?”
“All I ask is you keep me apprised as things develop.”
“So you can stay ahead of the curve.”
“So we both can.” Wilson took out a business card and pushed it across the table. “These are some numbers where you can reach Rissman. He’ll be plugged in to me. Like I said, this thing should be over by this afternoon, and no one will be any wiser.”
“And if it isn’t… ”
“Keep us in the loop.”
I slipped the card into my pocket. The mayor got up and left.
CHAPTER 7
They had three black vans waiting in the parking lot behind the university lab. I got into the backseat of the middle one. Molly Carrolton hoisted herself into the driver’s side and buckled in. Ellen Brazile came out of the building last, wearing dark sunglasses and talking on her cell phone. She finished her call outside the car, then folded her long frame into the seat beside Molly. I looked behind me at a solid wall of aluminum cases.
“Bringing a few toys, huh?”
“I’ll be honest, Mr. Kelly. The last thing I wanted was you tagging along.” Brazile stared a hole through the front windshield as she spoke.
“Maybe we’ll grow on each other.”
“I doubt it.” She took a sip from an aluminum bottle that had CLEAN printed in block letters on its side. I took a look at the plastic bottle of Evian they’d given me upstairs and wondered. Carrolton accelerated to the back bumper of the van, riding point.
“What do you know about anthrax?” This time Brazile favored me with a glance. She might have even blinked.
“I know what weaponized anthrax is. And I know if it’s already been dispersed into the subway there’s little you, or anyone else, can do to prevent a lot of people from dying.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Molly and I are scientists. We don’t care about politics. We don’t care about whatever power struggles might be going on in Washington.”
“You work for the government. Your careers depend on making someone in DC happy.”
“Our work is funded by a private consortium called CDA Labs. CDA contracts with the Department of Defense to provide cutting-edge tools in the ongoing war against chemical and biological weapons. Yes, we have ties to the government. But we don’t work for them. As such, we’re not subject to a lot of the regulations and restrictions placed on their agencies.”
“And that allows you to do what?”
“That allows us to kick some ass.” That was our driver, flashing hard eyes in the mirror and shaking out a shock of red curl. “We spend a lot of money and take a lot of chances that taxpayers might not like. But we do it because we have to, and we get results.”
Brazile snapped open a case she had by her feet and took out a small black-and-yellow device about a foot long by six inches wide.
“Know what this is?”
“Looks like a controller for an Xbox.”
“It’s called a Ceeker. It’s highly classified. In fact, there are only a handful of them available in the world.”
“I’m listening.”
“Up until recently, identifying a pathogen required the collection of samples that were ferried back to the lab for analysis. The Ceeker uses wavelengths of light and a special algorithm to identify the presence of anthrax within minutes. It’s handheld, operates on batteries, and can be used by any first responder.”
“How come I’ve never heard of it?”
“No one hears much about the war on bioweapons,” Brazile said. “Too scary.”
“How accurate is it?”
“Ninety-nine percent. At least in the lab.”
“How about in real life?”
We rolled up to the Blue Line L stop at Clinton.
“This will be the first time it’s ever been used in the field,” Brazile said.
“Great. But my point is still a valid one. If the Ceeker tells you this stuff is hot, then what? People still die.”
Molly Carrolton slipped the van into park and turned. “That’s where the cases in the back come in.”
I looked behind me. “What’s in there?”
Brazile popped open her door. “Ever heard of carbon nanotubes, Mr. Kelly?”
“No.”
“All right, then. You have a lot to learn. Let’s get suited up.”
CHAPTER 8
The upper level of the Clinton L station looked entirely normal, save for the fact it was entirely empty. We walked down the stairs and onto the platform, crowded with gear and divided by a series of opaque plastic curtains. Brazile disappeared through the first set without a word. I moved to follow, but Carrolton held up a hand.
“Got to put our suits on first.” Carrolton popped the seal on an aluminum case and pulled out what looked like a space suit. “This is an NBC suit.”
“Nuclear, biological, and chemical?”
“Very good. It’s state of the art and will protect you against any airborne pathogens up to. 011 microns in size.”
“Means nothing to me.”
“Just put it on. It has its own respirator, and a comm system so we can talk to each other.”
Carrolton began to climb into her suit. I did the same.
“How far are we from where the pathogen was detected?” I said.
“Half a mile.”
I stopped putting on my suit. “Call me crazy, but shouldn’t we have put these on before we got down here?”
Carrolton pulled out a helmet with a tinted visor and handed it to me.
“The platform and stairwell have already been swept for pathogens. Once we determined them to be clean, we set up what amounts to a negative pressure room along the tracks starting here and extending in both directions.”
“Ever done that before in a subway?”
“We’ve never done any of this before. The restricted area starts just beyond the last set of partitions. The air is scrubbed by a HEPA filtration system, and the environment is constantly monitored for leaks.”
Carrolton slipped on her helmet and then showed me how to put mine on. I found a pocket along the thigh and zipped my gun into it.
“There are two buttons on your wrist,” Carrolton said. Her voice was muffled through the mask. “Push down on the first, and you can talk to me.”
“How’s this?” I said.
Carrolton gave me a thumbs-up. “Perfect. Your audio is set up to talk to me and Ellen only. It’s good up to about a mile, give or take. If I’m standing right beside you, it’s usually easier to just talk through the mask. If you need to speak to the other scientists, let me know, and I’ll put you on their net. Now, hit the other button.”
I pushed down on the second button. Images of scientists in suits collecting samples appeared on the upper quarter of my visor.
“What you’re seeing is a video feed from one of the working areas along the tracks. We can hook you into data feeds as well, but that’s going to be up to Dr. Brazile.”
I pushed the button again, and the video link disappeared.
“Where is Dr. Brazile?” I said.
“Follow me.”
We stepped through three sets of plastic partitions and came to a curved glass divider, set into a metal frame and sealing off the rest of the platform and tunnel. A double-door system allowed access to the area. Inside the first door were two large machines, and a series of hoses connected to two gray bladders. The machines groaned like an old man who’d spent his life smoking five packs a day. The bladders wheezed like they were his charred lungs.
“Airflow system,” Carrolton said.
Maybe that was supposed to make me feel better. It didn’t.
“Ready?” She looked back, but all I saw was my visor reflected in hers.
“Open her up.”
She cracked the second door, and we stepped through. They had set up a run of tem
porary stairs at the edge of the platform leading down to track level.
“Third rail is dead,” Carrolton said. “But watch your step.”
We walked down the middle of the track bed, our boots kicking up small puffs of black soot. Carrolton paused at the mouth of the tunnel. “Five minutes, that way.”
She handed me a flashlight, turned on one of her own, and ran it into the darkness. The light singed a couple balls of fur that took off for points unknown.
“Rats are still alive,” Carrolton said.
“Albert Camus would say we have nothing to worry about.”
Carrolton’s head turned. “Is he a bio expert?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
She waggled her flashlight up and down. “Just playing to type, Mr. Kelly.”
“Funny.” I ran my own light across the scarred walls of the subway. “Seems like an awfully big area to try and seal off.”
Carrolton began to walk. “Not really. If we got the external seals right and our readings are accurate, containment should be pretty good. Of course, that’s not the real problem with a subway deployment of pathogens.”
“No?”
Carrolton shook her head. “The real problem is the trains themselves.”
“How so?”
“Think about it. A weaponized pathogen is released in the tunnel. A train barrels down the track and into the station. The train’s momentum is going to carry some of the pathogen with it. Then the train opens its doors, allowing passengers out… ”
“And some of the pathogen in.”
“Exactly. The train heads to its next stop. And the stop after that. And so on. Each time the train opens its doors, it creates a natural vacuum, and releases a little bit of the pathogen.”
“So the train becomes a vehicle for distribution.”
“That’s the beauty of a subway release. Homeland Security has done extensive airflow testing in tunnels like these. Developed a pretty sophisticated model for what a dispersal would look like.”
“Great. How many trains went through here this morning?”
“Best we can tell, maybe three before they shut things down. Two were headed toward street level and Oak Park. The other went down into the Loop… ”
“And O’Hare?”
“Yes. So even if we found and contained a live pathogen this morning, what’s already left the barn… ” Carrolton shrugged. “There’d be no telling. Dr. Brazile?”
Carrolton had hooked into another audio channel. She nodded and listened.
“I have him with me. Yeah, all right.” Carrolton pointed with a gloved finger. “That was Ellen. She’s just ahead.”
We moved forward, hugging a long curve on an uphill grade of track. In the distance, I could see large white lights floating in black space.
“What’s that?” I said.
“Ground zero. Come on.”
Twin ribbons of steel spun off into the darkness. On either side, two scientists crouched, a readout from some device reflected in blinking blue on their visors. Farther on, single figures scraped soil samples from the rail bed with thin, long-handled shovels. No one looked up as we passed. No one spoke. Then again, I wasn’t on anyone’s net unless they wanted me there, so how the hell would I know anyway? We eased around a soft corner and came up on four figures, clustered together in a semicircle. Molly Carrolton touched my sleeve, then dissolved into the darkness. One of the suits half turned and gestured me forward. Pale gray eyes floated behind the clear faceplate. Ellen Brazile’s voice cracked in my ear.
“Ever been down here before?”
I thought about an FBI agent named Katherine Lawson, cuffed to a locker. A bullet in her leg, but still alive.
“Not dressed like this,” I said.
Brazile swept a hand across the scene. “This team is specially trained in the field of microbial forensics. We process crime scenes at a genetic level. In the case of a suspected bioweapon, we isolate, collect, and process samples of the potential pathogen in accordance with a strict protocol.”
“So your evidence will hold up in court?”
“Exactly. We establish a rigorous chain of custody and follow it right through to the lab, where we break down the pathogen’s molecular structure in an attempt to pinpoint how it was engineered and where it came from.”
“You can do that?”
“If the virus or bacteria has been modified and you know where to look, yes, most labs will leave what we call a genetic fingerprint or signature.”
I glanced around at the team, scooping, scraping, and tapping away on their iPads. “The next generation of CSI.”
“If you want.”
“And what have you found so far?”
Brazile walked me twenty yards down the tunnel, through a gap in the wall and onto a second spur of track. Three cameras were trained on a cordoned-off area fifteen feet square. Two men walked an evidence grid. A third watched them on a flat-screen monitor.
“Danielson told me you know about the lightbulbs missing from Fort Detrick?” Brazile said.
“I know there are at least two missing.”
Brazile pointed to the ground with her flashlight, then up, at a single bare light socket.
“The lab coded them with ultraviolet identification tags. Danielson gave us the key.”
“And?”
“According to Detrick’s records, this bulb was loaded with anthrax on July 6, 1996. According to the records, the anthrax was irradiated. Harmless.”
“And what about your tests? What do they tell you?”
“The Ceeker’s optical scanner is calibrated to react to and identify a chemical compound unique to the anthrax bacterium. Each scan takes ten to twelve minutes. Come over here.”
Brazile led me to a row of laptops set up on a portable worktable. Nearby, piles of soil were laid out on a pale silk sheet. Small bits of white glass glinted in the dirt.
I watched as a scientist ran the Ceeker over a sample. After what seemed like a couple of eternities, the device beeped. Sort of like a microwave. Brazile took the Ceeker into her hands and studied the readout. Then she went back to her laptop and typed in a few commands.
“Want to take a look?” Brazile leaned back so I could see the results.
“Why don’t you just give me the bottom line?”
“That was the fifth sample we’ve tested. All irradiated. All harmless.”
“Just like Danielson said.”
“Just like he said.”
On the other side of the tunnel, a couple of scientists had unloaded a half-dozen silver canisters from the aluminum cases we’d brought in and attached black hoses. Now they started covering the walls with layers of thick white foam.
“What’s with the shaving cream?” I said.
“I mentioned carbon nanotubes earlier.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to give me a little more than that.”
“Nanotubes are specially constructed carbon molecules that make up the hardest and most flexible substance known to man. Can’t be seen with the naked eye and have all sorts of interesting applications. In this case, the aerosol foam delivers a constellation of nanotubes that have been chemically bonded to molecules of simple carbohydrates-sugars.”
“Why?”
“Weaponized anthrax spores are attracted to sugars and bond with them. Once the weaponized spores clump up around the sugar, they become too thick to enter the lining of the lungs, making them harmless to humans. In this case, it’s just a precaution. And a chance for us to see how our prototypes work in the field.”
I stepped to one side as a scientist started to layer foam across the tracks.
“Why don’t we head topside,” Brazile said. “Call in and give them the good news.”
“What about the second bulb?”
Brazile stopped packing up her laptop. “What about it?”
“Shouldn’t we pull it before it falls?”
“There is no second bulb, Mr. Kelly.”
“How do you know that?”
“Danielson.”
“He told you that?”
Brazile nodded. “He’ll have to explain the rest. Now, you want to head up?”
“Can I get out of this suit?”
“You don’t like it?”
I took a look around, at faces I couldn’t see, conversations I couldn’t hear, death I couldn’t touch. “No, I don’t like it at all.”
“Come on. I’ll take you back to our lab.”
“What’s back there?”
“It’s called black biology. You may not like it. I may not like it. But it’s the future. And it’s coming sooner than you think.”
CHAPTER 9
Quin’s throat felt parched and swollen. He slid the rearview mirror over and took a look. His face was bright with fever. His eyes itched in their sockets, and the pressure behind his temples threatened to blow his head off his shoulders.
“Fuck me.”
Quin pulled to the curb and shook a couple of Tylenol out of a bottle. The ME’s assistant had cut him a break on the two homeless stiffs, agreeing to take them in alone and let him send over the paperwork later. Probably took one look at Quin and was worried he’d have a third body on his hands by the time he got the first two on ice.
Quin glanced at the clock on his dashboard: 8:03 a.m. The little pricks would be there, angling to get some walk-ups on their way to school. Quin slipped his car into gear.
He came in from the north, going the wrong way down Kildare at twice the speed limit. There were a half dozen of them, sitting on stoops, slumped against cars, huddled in the morning chill. They scattered when Quin was still twenty yards away. He punched the gas, then locked up the brakes and fishtailed into an alley, knocking one of the little bastards to the ground. The kid bounced up running. Or, rather, limping.
Quin jammed the car into reverse and zoomed back up the street. He ignored the rest of them and focused on the limper. Quin watched all that Discovery shit. Lions always went after the weak and the wounded. No different here.
The kid was wearing a Chicago White Sox hoodie and looking for a friendly doorway to duck into. Quin cut the wheel and bumped over the curb. The kid tried to ride the hood of the cruiser, but wasn’t as quick as he might have been. Quin pinned him against a building with the side of his car and stepped out, telescoping metal baton pressed to his thigh.
We All Fall Down mk-4 Page 3
