by Robin Cook
One of the luckiest things that had happened to Yuri since his arrival in the U.S. was meeting Curt Rogers and Curt’s buddy Steve Henderson and striking up a relationship. It had been this relationship that had turned Yuri’s fantasy of vengeance into a realistic possibility. The initial meeting had occurred purely by chance. After a very long day of hot summer driving Yuri had stopped at a hole-in-the-wall bar called White Pride in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. His flask had long since been drained, and he needed a shot of vodka so bad he couldn’t wait until he got home to Brighton Beach.
It was after eleven at night, and the local hangout was crowded, dark, and noisy with the heavy-metal beat of Skrewdriver reverberating off the walls. Most of the customers were tough working-class white youths with shaved heads, sleeveless T-shirts, and a profusion of tattoos. Yuri should have guessed the kind of clientele he’d encounter. Outside he’d seen a number of gleaming Harleys emblazoned with Nazi decals nosed in against the curb directly in front of the bar’s open door.
Yuri could remember hesitating on the threshold while debating whether to go in. His intuition told him that danger hung in the air like a miasma above a swamp. People eyed him with hostility. After a moment’s indecision Yuri had taken the risk to enter for two reasons. One was the fear that fleeing would have provoked a chase just like running from a vicious but indecisive dog. The other was that he really needed the vodka and that all the other bars in Bensonhurst would probably have been equally intimidating.
Yuri sat on an empty stool, hunched over the bar, and pulled in his elbows. He kept his eyes straight ahead. As soon as he ordered his drink, his accent caused a stir. A number of the youths with supercilious expressions closed around him. Just when Yuri feared trouble was about to occur, the punks parted and a clean-cut man in his late thirties or early forties appeared whom the youths seemed to respect.
The newcomer was dirty blond, tall, and lean. His hair was short but his head was not shaved. The style was more like a military man’s. He, too, was wearing a T-shirt, but it was clean, had short sleeves, and looked ironed. There was a small image of a red fireman’s hat high on the left side of the shirt. Below that it said Engine Company #7. In sharp contrast to the skinheads, he appeared to have only the one tattoo. It was a small American flag on his right upper arm.
“I don’t know whether you’re brave or stupid for coming in here uninvited, friend,” the blond-haired man said. “This is a private club.”
“I’m sorry,” Yuri mumbled. He started to get up. The blond man put a hand on his shoulder to keep him in his seat.
“You sound Russian,” the man said.
“I am,” Yuri admitted.
“Are you Jewish?”
“No!” Yuri blurted. “Not at all.” The question surprised him.
“You live over in Brighton Beach?”
“That’s right,” Yuri said nervously. He didn’t know where the conversation was going.
“I thought all you Russians over there were Jewish.”
“Not me,” Yuri said. The man knew what he was talking about. The majority of the Russian émigrés in Brighton Beach were Jewish. It was one of the reasons Yuri had so few friends. There were all sorts of Jewish organizations that welcomed their fellow religious refugees. The Jews had been the only people allowed out of Russia during the Communist regime, so there was already a sizable community there by the time of the fall of the USSR. Because of his lack of religious affiliation, Yuri had been ignored.
“Do I detect a negative attitude about the Jewish persuasion?” the blond man asked.
Yuri’s eyes darted around at some of the slogans adorning the fronts of many of the skinheads’T-shirts. He saw things like The Holocaust Is A Zionist Myth and Down With The Zionist Occupied U.S. Government. Accordingly, Yuri wisely deemed it opportune to confess his current anti-Semitic bias.
Yuri had never thought much about Jews one way or the other until the most recent Russian presidential election. It was then that he’d been acculturated by neo-fascist Vladimir Zhirinovsky’s and neo-Communist Gennedy Zyuganov’s rhetoric. Because of Yuri’s toska and his wounded nationalistic pride, he’d been an easy target for both demagogues’hackneyed scapegoat theories.
“You know, I think we’ve misjudged you, friend,” the blond man said in response to Yuri’s racist admission. The blond man patted Yuri on his back. “Not only are you welcome to drink here, you can have another one on me.”
The blond man snapped his finger at the bartender, who’d moved away when he’d suspected a conflagration. The bartender brought the bottle of vodka over and filled Yuri’s glass to the brim.
“My name’s Curt Rogers,” the blond man said. He eased himself onto the stool next to Yuri. “And this here is Steve Henderson.” Curt gestured to a red-headed fellow who took the seat on the other side of Yuri. Although Steve was much more heavily muscled than Curt, he resembled Curt particularly in regard to his dress. His T-shirt had the exact same insignia.
The first meeting had led to several subsequent ones, since the three men found that they shared similar opinions on issues beside anti-Semitism. There was a particularly strong meeting of the minds concerning their respective views about the current U.S. government.
“The whole goddamn mess is illegal, oppressive, and unconstitutional,” Curt had whispered when the issue first came up. “And there’s only one solution. The U.S. government has to be overthrown by force of arms. There’s no other way. And it’s got to be soon, because the Zionists are getting stronger every day.”
“Really?” Yuri had asked. He’d been shocked to hear that there were Americans who disliked the government. And according to Curt, who was an authority on all aspects of the U.S. government as well as U.S. history, the malcontents weren’t just a tiny minority. The patriots, as Curt called them, were sprinkled all over the country. They were all heavily armed and waiting for the sign for them to rise up in revolt.
“Mark my word,” Curt had whispered on another occasion.
“I’ve got it on unimpeachable authority that the government’s training Gurkha troops in Montana with thousands upon thousands of black helicopters. Unless something’s done to this renegade government they’re going to swoop out of their base in the near future and take away every gun from every goddamn patriot in the country. Then we’ll be defenseless against the worldwide Zionists.”
Back then Yuri had not known what “unimpeachable” meant but he didn’t bother to ask since he’d gotten the drift of Curt’s message. The U.S. government was far more perverse and more dangerous than he’d imagined. It also became clear that both he and Curt wanted to do something about it, and indeed they could help each other since each could do something the other couldn’t. Yuri had the technological experience and the know-how necessary to build a bioweapon of mass destruction, while Curt had the people who could get the necessary equipment and materials. Curt had started a skinhead militia he called the People’s Aryan Army, and he claimed his shock troops would obey any order he gave them.
“An agricultural pest control sprayer? No problem!” Curt had said in response to one of Yuri’s early inquiries. “We can steal one from out on Long Island when the need arises. They use them in the potato fields. Most of the time they’re just sitting out there waiting for the taking.”
Several weeks later over iced shots of vodka Curt, Yuri, and Steve had shaken hands on the commencement of what they called Operation Wolverine. Yuri hadn’t known what a wolverine was, so Curt explained it was a small, extremely vicious, cunning animal. At the time Curt had winked at Steve, because Wolverine really referred to a group of youths in a survivalist movie classic called Red Dawn. It was Curt and Steve’s favorite movie. In it the Wolverines had held off the entire invading Russian Army.
Yuri had wanted to call the plan Operation Revenge, but he gave in to Curt and Steve when they were adamant about the name Wolverine. Curt had explained that the name would have immediate significance to the far-right underground.
After they’d polished off their vodka, they were all excited.
Their relationship was, in Curt’s words, a marriage made in Heaven.
“I have a feeling this is going to be the spark that ignites the conflagration,” Curt had said. “Something huge like this happening here in New York is bound to start the general revolt. It’s going to make what happened in Oklahoma City seem like a childish prank.”
Whether Operation Revenge started a general uprising or not Yuri didn’t care. He just wanted to severely slap the U.S. across its smug face. Any glory he might achieve he’d gladly donate to the Zhirinovsky movement and the return of the Soviet Empire.
A sudden knock on Yuri’s fender shocked him from his reverie. He turned to see a meter maid.
“You got to move along, cabbie,” the woman said. “This here’s for loading.”
“Sorry,” Yuri said. He put his idling car in gear and drove off. But he didn’t go far. He merely rounded the block and returned to the same spot. The meter maid was in the far distance heading away.
Yuri put his blinkers on to make it look as if he was waiting for a fare and climbed from his car. No one had gone in or out of the Corinthian Rug Company for the half hour he’d been watching. He ran across the street. With his hands around his face he leaned against the glass office door and looked inside. The place was empty. There were no lights on. He tried the door. It was locked.
Yuri walked a few steps to the west and went into a neighboring shop. He’d seen a number of people going in and out while he’d been sitting in his cab. It was a store for stamp collectors. Inside it was as quiet as a tomb after some bells attached to the door had ceased their tinkling. The proprietor appeared from an inner area with tiny reading glasses teetering on the end of a bulbous nose. On his bald head was a yarmulke that Yuri thought must have been stuck on with glue.
“I got a call to pick up a Mr. Papparis at the Corinthian Rug Company,” Yuri explained. “That’s my cab outside. Unfortunately the rug office is closed. Do you know Mr. Pap-paris?”
“Of course.”
“Have you seen him?” Yuri asked. “Or heard anything about him?”
“I haven’t seen him all day. But that’s not surprising. Our paths rarely cross.”
“Thanks,” Yuri said.
“My pleasure.”
Yuri went to the store on the east side of the Corinthian Rug office. He got the same response. He then got back into his cab and thought about what he should do next. He considered trying to call the neighborhood hospitals, but he gave up on the idea when he remembered he didn’t know where Mr. Papparis lived. He pondered getting a phone book to see if he could find Mr. Papparis’s number but quickly decided that calling his home would be foolhardy. Yuri had been extraordinarily careful so far and had no desire to take any unnecessary chances. For what he had in mind to do to New York, he didn’t want there to be any warning.
Yuri drove off. When he came to the corner of Walker and Broadway it occurred to him that he was only a little more than six blocks away from Curt and Steve’s fire station on Duane Street. Although Yuri had never visited his partners’workplace, he decided to drop by. He wouldn’t yet be able to confirm that the anthrax was potent, a question Yuri thought was academic, but he could at least inform them that the trial was under way. That was exciting enough, because it meant that Operation Wolverine was truly imminent. All the planning and preliminaries were over. Now it was only a question of producing adequate amounts of the agents and dispersing them.
______
THREE
Monday, October 18
11:30 A.M.
“Do you think we should be doing this?” Steve Henderson asked. “I can’t imagine we’re going to learn enough to justify the risk.”
Curt grabbed his friend’s sleeve and pulled him to a stop. They were standing in front of the Jacob Javits Federal Building at 26 Federal Plaza. Crowds of people were coming and going. It was a busy place. It housed nearly six thousand government employees and was visited daily by a thousand civilians.
Curt and Steve were dressed in their freshly pressed blue class B firefighter uniforms. Their black shoes glistened in the bright October sunlight. Curt’s shirt was a lighter blue than Steve’s, and Curt had a tiny gold bullhorn on his collar. Curt had made lieutenant four years previously.
“With an operation of this magnitude, reconnaissance is an absolute must,” Curt hissed. He glanced furtively at the scurrying crowd to make sure no one was paying them any heed.
“What the hell did they teach you in the army? We’re talking about basics here!”
Curt and Steve had been childhood friends. Both had grown up in the strongly blue-collar area of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Both had been quiet, polite, and neat loners who’d gravitated toward each other over the years as kindred spirits, particularly during high school. They had been indifferent students although they’d scored high on aptitude tests, Curt higher than Steve. Neither had played any sports despite Curt’s older brother’s being one of Bensonhurst’s legendary football stars. They had mostly “hung out,” as they explained in their own words. Both had ended up in the armed forces: Curt after an abortive six-month try at college and Steve after working for his plumber father for a year.
“The army taught me just as much as the Marines taught you,” Steve shot back. “Don’t give me any of your Marine Corps bullshit.”
“Well, we’re not going to carry the stuff in there on D day without having reconnoitered the place,” Curt said. “It’s got to go into the HVAC induction. We got to make sure we can get access.”
Steve nervously glanced up at the huge building. “But we got the plans,” he said. “We know it’s on the third floor.”
“Jesus Christ!” Curt exclaimed. He threw up his hands, including the one holding his clipboard. “No wonder you washed out of the Green Berets. Are you going to chicken out on me?”
In contrast to their desultory academic careers, both men had excelled in their respective branches of the service. Curt had gone to Camp Pendleton in California, while Steve had gone to Fort Bragg in North Carolina. Both had risen quickly to the ranks of non-commissioned officers. The regimentation and sense of purpose excited them, and they became model gung-ho, spit-and-polish soldiers. Of particular interest to each was any kind of ordnance, especially assault rifles and handguns. Both became decorated marksmen.
The two buddies corresponded infrequently over the years. Being in different branches of the service and stationed on different coasts was a barrier to their friendship. The only times they got together were on the rare occasions when their leaves happened to coincide, and they met up in Bensonhurst. Then it was like old times, and they traded “war stories.” Both had participated in the Gulf War.
Although neither Curt nor Steve had said as much, they both assumed the military would be their careers. But it was not to be; ultimately both were disappointed by their respective branches.
Curt’s experience was the more troubling. He’d risen to a position of leadership in the training of recruits for an elite Marine reconnaissance team. During a particularly grueling night maneuver and on specific orders from Curt to keep up, a recruit died. A subsequent inquiry implicated Curt as being responsible for a portion of the blame. Nothing was said about the fact that the man shouldn’t have been in the program. He was a “mama’s boy” who’d been accepted only because his father was a Washington bigwig.
Although Curt wasn’t punished per se, the incident tarnished his record and precluded further advancement. He was devastated and ultimately furious over the episode. He felt the government had let him down after he had given his all for his country. When the time for his next reenlistment came up, Curt took an early out.
Steve’s experience had been different. After a lengthy and frustrating application process, he’d finally been accepted into Green Beret training, only to have to drop out during the initial twenty-one-day assessment course. It was not his fault; he’d
come down with the flu. When he learned he had to start the whole application process again despite everything he’d done for the army, he followed Curt’s example, and with a sense of disgust and betrayal left the military.
After a series of odd jobs, mostly involving private security, Curt had been the first to join the New York City Fire Department. He liked it from the start, with its military-like hierarchy, uniforms, inspiring mission, pride, and interesting equipment. Without any sort of ordnance, it wasn’t the Marine Corps, but it was close enough. Also on the positive side was the fact that he could live in Bensonhurst.
Soon Curt was encouraging Steve to follow suit and take the civil service test. With some wrangling after Steve had gotten himself hired, they managed to get themselves assigned to the same firehouse and ultimately to the same engine company. Their story had come full circle. They were back living in Bensonhurst and were once again best friends.
“I’m not going to chicken out,” Steve said morosely. “I just think we’re asking for trouble. The building’s not scheduled for a fire inspection. What if they call the firehouse?”
“Who’s to know they’re not scheduled?” Curt said. “And what difference does it make if someone calls? The captain’s on vacation. Besides, we’re out doing legitimate inspections, and I happened to have found out there’d been a violation on the fed building’s last inspection. If a question arises, we’re just checking to make sure the violation has been corrected.”
“What kind of violation was it?”
“They’d installed a small grill in the ground-floor sandwich kiosk,” Curt said. “Probably some food service manager just thought of it as an afterthought. I doubt they even pulled a permit. It got put in without a dry chemical Ansul unit. We’re just making sure they rectified the oversight.”
“Let me see,” Steve said.