by Mike Brogan
“DMSO?” Nell asked, looking shocked.
“Yes.”
“Are they absolutely certain?”
“They ran the test twice. It’s DMSO.”
Donovan had no idea what DMSO was, and wondered why it shocked Nell. “What’s DMSO?”
She stared out the window. “It’s a pharmaceutical. Many consider it a wonder drug for arthritis.”
“What the hell does arthritis have to do with VX nerve gas?” Donovan asked.
No one answered.
“Why is it a wonder drug?” Manning asked her.
“Because it relieves arthritis pain quicker,” Nell said.
Donovan still didn’t get it. “But if his goal is to kill people with painful VX - why combine it with this DMSO pain-reliever?”
Nell shook her head. “I’m not sure.” She began pacing alongside the conference table.
“I don’t buy it!” Cage said. “Hasham decides to give people pain relief as he kills them? Doesn’t sound like him.”
“Doesn’t make sense either,” Nell said, walking around the table.
“What might make sense?” Donovan asked her.
She shook her head. Then she walked to the window, looked outside for a few seconds, then suddenly faced them with a very worried expression.
“Maybe one thing does.”
Everyone waited.
“He doesn’t want DMSO for its pain relief. He wants DMSO’s speed. Its faster absorption into human skin. I just remembered something. Many years ago VX-DMSO was tested on animal skin. The VX-DMSO was absorbed through the skin and into the bloodstream twice as fast as VX alone.”
“But we’re talking paper,” Donovan said. “Are you suggesting that just holding the paper laced with VX-DMSO in your fingers can be deadly?”
Nell paused. “Yes.”
“But paper is . . . dry!”
“Our hands are not. They have a small amount of moisture. Some people have more moisture. Hasham’s obviously formulated this VX-DMSO blend so that the normal moisture in your fingers, or maybe even less than normal moisture, is enough to activate the VXDMSO in the paper. And he might have used special, tailor-made cellulose paper with a very high moisture content. Once VX-DMSO in the paper is activated, your skin will absorb VX faster into your blood, and by then, well, it’s . . . too late.”
No one spoke.
Donovan stood up and paced. “So how does he get the VXDMSO paper in contact with so many people?”
No one answered.
“And how does he get them to hold the paper long enough?” Donovan said.
Again, silence.
“Maybe free offers?” Manning said. “Giveaways, handouts at malls, free gift cards and valuable vacation vouchers?”
“Possible,” Donovan said.
“Newspapers maybe?” Cage said. “People hold newspapers in their hands a long time. Maybe he somehow laces VX into newspapers.”
Manning shook his head. “Major newspapers generally buy their massive rolls of paper well before they print on it. I’m thinking the VX would probably degrade in long-term paper storage conditions. But I’ll check it out.”
Donovan nodded.
Agent Cage said, “Maybe he targets customers at specific stores like Macy’s, Walmart, Target. Leaves 50% off coupons and coupon books.”
“I just remembered,” Nell said. “Hasham said his delivery system could reach people with accuracy. He was very proud of his accuracy and precision.”
“He bragged about reaching individuals with precision, right?” Donovan said.
“Right. On a couple of occasions,”
Donovan wondered how precise? He stood, walked over to the conference room window and looked out at the Adirondack Forest. Thick dark clouds swept over the trees. Turning back, he walked alongside the conference table and noticed a Holiday Inn envelope addressed to a customer. He picked the envelope up and showed it to the group.
“The US Mail is very precise.”
“It‘s also reliable, fast and cheap!” Manning added.
“I saw some envelopes near the printing machines,” Nell said, growing excited.
“What size?” Donovan asked.
“That size. Regular size. White. The size bills come in.”
Donovan turned to Manning. “Have Agent Kim search for pieces of the envelope and the contents and try to fit them together fast. Get a return address. And get some idea of what’s inside.”
Manning phoned the request to Agent Kim.
“So let’s say,” Donovan continued, “you get one of those envelopes in the mail and open it. You take out the VX-laced letter or whatever’s inside. You hold it in your hands. You read it. How long do you have to hold it before the VX enters your blood?”
“Depends on the moisture in your hands.”
“What’s your rough estimate?”
Nell paused. “Based on normal moisture in your hands, I’m thinking maybe thirty to forty-five seconds before you absorb some VX. If you’re fingers are normally moist, or sweating, or damp - maybe ten to twenty seconds.”
Silence.
Donovan couldn’t believe how fast it entered the body. “So the question is - how can Hasham make absolutely sure you’ll take the envelope, open it and hold what’s inside? How can he make sure you don’t toss the envelope out as junk mail?”
No one answered.
“I toss my junk mail out in seconds,” Nell said.
“Me too,” Donovan said, “So it can’t look like junk mail.”
Heads nodded.
“And how can he make sure you hold the envelope’s contents long enough?” Donovan said.
Again, no one answered.
“You’re sure the envelope was this size? A regular, 9 by 4 inch envelope?” Agent Cage asked. He held up a regular white envelope.
“Yes. And it had a window for a name and address.”
“Maybe the names and addresses are on the two flash drives you took,” Donovan said. “Maybe Hasham spent time on his computer buying specific target lists. Maybe groups of people he wants to kill. Group lists give him accuracy! Precision.”
Manning nodded. “Groups he blames, like US soldiers who fought against Muslims in Iraq and Iran. Or certain ethnicities like blacks, Christians, Jews, government personnel and politicians, you name it. He hates them all! Lists let him target people . . . give him the precision and accuracy he bragged about.”
“Check if Hasham’s purchased any lists,” Donovan said.
“And check the flash drives,” Manning said, turning toward his tech team in the corner. “Any luck on the two drives?”
“Still password-blocked! But Bobby Kamal at NSA is helping.”
Donovan said, “Let’s assume for a moment that Hasham’s mailing out VX-DMSO letters in those bill-sized envelopes to hundreds of thousands of homes. Bobby Kamal heard Hasham tell Maahdi in Yemen that their so-called medicine would reach 260,000 people in Phase One, and then 220,000 more in Phase Two. So . . . roughly a half million people . . . are potential victims!”
Donovan felt like steel bands were squeezing his chest.
“The US postal system delivers . . . 660 million pieces of mail – each day!” Manning said. “And New York City is the largest mailing hub in this area.”
“Check with the Postmaster General,” Donovan said. “See if any Manhattan postal workers have died today from serious respiratory problems.”
Manning gave the order.
“Whatever Hasham is mailing,” Donovan said, “it has to make the person want to open it. It has to look very important. It has to look valuable to the person.”
“Or maybe legal,” Manning said. “A lawsuit notification. Legal process papers. Important stuff. You’d have to open it.” Heads nodded.
“What else would make people open it right away?” Donovan asked. “And make them hold the contents in their hands long enough?”
“Cash,” Cage said. “But postal workers might see the cash in he envelope, take i
t out and die.”
“I don’t think he’s after postal workers,” Donovan said. “He’s targeting individuals. Selecting them. The letters are probably addressed to his selected victims.”
“The promise of money would make people open it right away,” Manning said.
“A serious promise of money. The assurance of guaranteed money,” Donovan said. “Not some one-in-a-million-chance sweepstakes contest.”
Heads nodded.
“We need to know who sent the letter. The mailer’s name and address are critical,” Donovan said.
“Agent Kim is collecting and piecing scraps together now,” Drew Manning said.
Donovan nodded. “Alert the Post Offices and the Postmaster General. We may need to stop mail delivery in New York City and the northeast. Maybe even nationwide.”
FIFTY EIGHT
FBI tech supervisor, Anne T. Kim, and her team crunched over rubble and broken ChocoYummy glass, searching for scraps of paper and envelopes to fit together.
But so far they’d found only tiny soot-smeared bits of paper. Too small and fragile to fit together. Still, her three assistants bent over a large table, trying to puzzle-fit the scraps into something readable.
“Remember,” Kim said, “All we need is the return address. Or a few words on the envelope. The contents would be best. Or even pieces of the contents.”
She noticed some paper scraps were light green and beige, vaguely familiar shades. But she couldn’t recall where she’d seen them.
“Kim, over here!” an assistant said, pointing to something on the puzzle-fitting table.
Kim walked over.
“I’ve just fit together what might be the last postal digits of the return address.”
“What are they?” Kim asked.
“The city name ends in IA. The zip code ends in 18.”
“Run them through the computer to determine location,” Kim said.
A minute later, the assistant hurried over to her.
“The computer gives us a 92% certainty that it’s - PENNSYLVANIA, 19118. That’s northwest Philadelphia. The Chestnut Hill area.”
Donovan said, “Find companies or direct mailers in that zip code that might send out hundreds of thousands of letters.”
Manning asked an assistant.
“Any more pieces of the envelope?”
“Just tiny bits. But no words.”
Agent Kim walked back into the rubble. Breathing in her Hazmat suit tired her. But the air outside her suit very likely contained VX particles, which is why she’d ordered a one-mile evacuation of the streets around the factory and curfewed residents in their homes with windows shut and air ventilators turned off until Homeland declared it safe to come outside. Her team wore HazMat suits, walking down streets like alien invaders. Residents got the message.
Perspiration beaded on her lips. She’d die for some cool fresh outside air. She’d also die from it.
As she walked toward the charred printers, her boot nudged a small metal filing cabinet to the side. She looked down and saw the corner of an envelope beneath the cabinet. She lifted the cabinet to the side and stared at what lay beneath.
She couldn’t believe it. She blinked to be sure.
She was looking at a complete envelope with the contents.
The return address and envelope were smeared with soot and ashes, but the envelope looked in good shape - and its contents appeared untouched.
She brushed ashes off the envelope, saw the return address, and her heart stopped. She reread the return address and the addressee window and blinked.
“Naneun nae nun-eul mid-eul su eobs-eo!” she whispered in Korean. “This can’t be what it is!”
Wearing her gloves, she used an Exacto knife to ease open the envelope flap. Then she took her tweezers and pulled out the contents. When she saw the contents, she let rip with another long Korean curse.
Gripping the envelope, she ran outside and headed toward her lead technician, Deek Jenkins.
“Whatcha got?” he asked.
“The Holy Grail!”
“You mean Holy Shit!”
“Test the envelope and contents for VX-DMSO!”
Deek took them, ran into the MobileLab and jackknifed his sixfoot-eight frame over his sophisticated testing equipment.
As she waited, Kim paced back and forth, fearful of what he would confirm . . . because she was certain of what he’d confirm. Thank God for the MobileLab she thought. A few years ago, she would have to drive the envelope to the nearest lab and wait hours, maybe even a day for the lab results.
Waited - while people died!
The MobileLab’s on-site analysis was a godsend. It confirmed the presence of biological or chemical toxins in real time – fast! And fast saved lives.
Deek Jenkins tugged Kim’s sleeve.
She turned and faced him.
His eyes shouted the results.
***
Donovan heard Manning’s iPhone ring on the conference room table. Manning hit a button that projected his phone’s Skype video onto a large-screen wall monitor. They saw Agent Kim in the MobileLab.
“We found a complete envelope and its contents,” Kim said. “Both are in good shape.”
“Terrific!” Donovan said, leaning forward to see better.
“The envelope is addressed to Mr. Ernest T. Smythe in the Bronx. The outside of the envelope does not contain VX or DMSO.”
Thank God postal workers won’t die from touching them, Donovan thought.
“However, the envelope’s contents are saturated with high levels of VX and DMSO.”
No one spoke.
“What do the envelope and contents look like?” Donovan asked.
“Watch your screen.”
Everyone watched.
Agent Ann T. Kim held up the envelope to the camera, but her hand trembled so much, Donovan couldn’t read the return address. He squinted. Finally, she steadied the envelope using both hands.
Donovan read it and froze. “Awww . . . Jesus . . .!”
Gasps filled the room.
“Is that what it I think it is?” Manning asked.
“Yes! You’re looking at a Federal IRS envelope. And inside is an IRS tax refund check.”
Silence.
She took out the check and accompanying letter.
“We reviewed and changed your 2011-2015 Form 1040s to match our record of your estimated payments, credits applied from other tax years, and payments received with an extension to file. As a result you are due this refund of $4,850.”
“This refund check for $4,850 is for Mr. Ernest T. Smythe. The check itself and its accompanying letter are heavily saturated with VX-DMSO.”
Agent Kim continued, “I assure you, this envelope, letter and check, look and feel, absolutely authentic. Everyone will see ‘Pay to the order of.’ They’ll see their name in the envelope window. They’ll rip open the envelope, read the letter. And they’ll grab the check!”
And celebrate, Donovan knew, by holding it in their excited fingers as if their life depended on it . . .
When in fact their death did.
FIFTY NINE
Donovan, Manning, and Agent Cage raced up 23rd Street in a big FBI Suburban. Donovan watched their escort vehicles, two NYPD police cars, as they cornered onto Eighth Avenue. Their blaring siren and flashing lights forced traffic to the curbs like a snowplow. They were heading toward the James Farley Post Office in mid-town Manhattan.
“Death by IRS check!” Donovan said. “Hasham’s real attack all along.”
Manning nodded, looking angrier by the minute. “But we had to commit resources to ChocoYummy. Kids drinking it were dying!”
“And some may still be dying from it if they haven’t heard our warnings,” Cage said. “And if stores still haven’t cleared it off shelves!”
Donovan couldn’t stop himself from imagining the cruel, painful IRS-check deaths. A man looks at the IRS envelope, sees his name in the window, rips the envelope open. He takes o
ut the check and letter, grips them in his excited fingers for several seconds, afraid to let go as he admires his unexpected windfall. Then he rereads both. Maybe hands them to his wife. She grabs it to make sure they aren’t hallucinating. Their hearts beat faster. Their fingers moisten faster, the moisture pulls the VX-DMSO out of the paper into their skin and then into their blood stream faster!
Donovan watched them drive past a funeral motorcade. An omen of deaths to come . . .
“The question is - where are the IRS checks now?” Cage said.
“Assume they’re in the postal system,” Donovan said.
“But where in the system?” Manning said. ”If we’re lucky, still in post offices sorting rooms.”
“Or in mailbags being delivered?” Cage said.
“Or in homes being ripped open,” Manning said.
“Or in hands being gripped with joy,” Donovan said.
The driver stopped in front of the mammoth gray stone James Farley post office building. Built in 1912. The structure occupied an entire block, eight full acres, and its row of massive pillars dwarfed many Federal buildings in Washington DC.
They got out, ran up the steps, then along the row of gigantic pillars and through the entrance. Inside, Donovan saw a tall, hulking man waving them over.
“That’s Postmaster Burrell Jefferson. Good guy,” Manning said.
Manning introduced everyone.
Jefferson was fifty something, six-five, two-fifty, with a short Afro. He had massive shoulders, one of which sloped lower, probably from lugging too many heavy mailbags for too many years. His beige sweater had tan leather elbow patches.
Jefferson hurried them into a large mail-sorting room.
Donovan saw and heard thousands of letters chugging along conveyors, moving into sorting machines that spit them into long conveyor belts that somehow knew when to re-spit specific letters into specific plastic bins. Machines clicked and hummed through the room. Many workers wore earplugs or MP3 players.
He saw at least forty workers: processors, sorters, clerks, and others sifting through stacks of mail and boxes at long tables. Some workers pushed large canvas carts stuffed with parcel packages. He felt relieved to see many employees wearing gloves. Some wore facemasks.
Jefferson hit a buzzer loud as a prison alarm.