“What do you mean?”
“Tell me you didn’t want to shoot the bastard.”
“Yes, I did, I certainly did. But it wouldn’t have solved anything by losing our star witness.”
As Bennie, Buster, and I chatted, we heard four shots ring out from inside the building. Instinctively, we all pulled out our guns. A uniformed cop came running out the door with his gun pointed high.
“There’s been a shooting while a prisoner was being escorted,” said the cop. “I think the commissioner was hit. Please stay put here and keep your weapons handy.”
A couple of minutes later, a man in a suit appeared at the door. “Please come this way, gentlemen.” He motioned us to an office near the rear door of the building.
“I’m Deputy Commissioner McDonald. Commissioner Yates has been shot and killed, along with the prisoner he was escorting.”
“Who was the shooter?” Buster and I yelled simultaneously.
“I’m embarrassed to say this,” said McDonald “but at this point, we don’t know his identity. The guy wore a Chicago Police uniform, but nobody recognized him after the shooting. After he shot the commissioner and the prisoner, he then killed himself. I know you guys are here on some high-level assignment, but please understand that we have some questions for you.”
“And we have some questions for you,” I said loudly.
Shit. The most important lead in the entire investigation is now dead. Somebody obviously knew what we were up to. Somebody knew we were interested in Pushkin for more than an immigration violation, somebody who put out a hit and ordered a suicide to keep Pushkin quiet.
“I’m calling my guy at the White House to let him know what happened,” said Buster.
After he got off the phone, he looked at Ben and me. “Any thoughts?”
“We’ve got to raid that place in Baltimore—now!” I said.
Chapter 50
On May 24, Jack and Bonnie Logan had breakfast in one of the main dining rooms. Life on the ship was settling down after the sprinkler incident two days ago, but something seemed wrong, something extremely wrong.
“Jack, is it me or are people acting weird?”
“No, it’s not you. I bumped into that nice guy we met yesterday, Phil from Milwaukee. He didn’t recognize me. Hell, we must have chatted with him and his wife for an hour yesterday, but it’s like he never saw me before. And what about that cute little kid we spoke to? We were amazed that a six-year-old could be so talkative and friendly. I saw him this morning. Not a word out of him. He just stared, not recognizing me at all. Maybe people are having a hard time adjusting to the fresh sea air?”
“Does that explanation satisfy you, Jack?”
“No, it doesn’t, hon. I don’t know what the hell is going on. Half the people I saw this morning looked like friggin zombies. We met dozens of people while we were boarding. Now they’re wandering around like space cadets. Let’s take a walk and see what’s up.”
Jack and Bonnie walked from one group of people to another. The people, including the kids, broke down into two separate groups, those who acted normally and those who seemed to have a far-away stare.
“Good morning, friend,” Jack said to one of the ship’s officers. They had met the guy yesterday and had a long chat. He was from Philadelphia, and they enjoyed a few minutes of “you must know so and so.”
The officer appeared confused. Bonnie noticed that his shirt hung out of his trousers, not a normal sight on an officer aboard a Royal Caribbean ship.
“I don’t speak English,” said their Philadelphia friend in perfect English. He walked on, without an apparent direction in mind.
They walked up to a Canadian guy they had a brief chat with two days before.
“Peter, if I recall,” said Jack as he offered his hand.
“Yes, and you’re the FBI guy. Hey Jack, what the hell is going on here? Half the people I meet are zoned out. Do you think something was in the food?”
“Let me ask you a question, Peter,” said Bonnie. “When that sprinkler thing happened the other night, were you out on deck?”
“Yes, I was. Do you think the sprinkler may have had something to do with what we’re seeing?”
***
“Mr. and Mrs. Logan, report to the bridge, please,” came an announcement over the ship’s speakers.
Jack and Bonnie gave each other a “what the hell?” look.
“This is becoming an interesting cruise, Bon. Let’s go to the bridge.”
“Jack, let’s stop by our stateroom and get our guns and vests first.”
Jack put on his Kevlar vest with a large “FBI” stenciled on the front and back. Bonnie put on her “Philadelphia Police Department” vest. They both put their guns in holsters on their belts.
When Jack and Bonnie entered the bridge, the first thing Jack noticed was an absolute lack of security. Since 9/11, and especially since 10/15, a ship’s bridge was guarded as closely as the cockpit on an airplane. They noticed Captain Thorssen sitting in a chair. He looked at them, smiled, and said, “God morgen.” (“Good morning” in Norwegian.)
A young, fit looking man wearing a white officer’s uniform strode up to them with his hand extended. He recognized them from the photo database on the computer system. He was an American officer.
“I’m Bill Rugirello, the ship’s third mate. My job is basically assistant navigator. Thank you both for coming up to the bridge. I know from Royal Caribbean that you folks are investigators, and that you, Mr. Logan, are an FBI agent. The company keeps track of any law enforcement people on a cruise.”
“Please call us Jack and Bonnie, Mr. Rugirello. May we call you Bill?”
“Of course. To crack a stupid joke, I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve gathered you here this morning.”
“Yes, we are wondering just that, Bill. But do you mind if I first ask you about the captain. He doesn’t look well,” Jack said in a soft voice.
“You’ve heard the captain on the ship’s public address system, yes? And you probably remember that his English is almost perfect with only a slight Scandinavian accent. Well here’s the story. The captain appears to have forgotten every word of English. Not only that, but he doesn’t recognize me. I’ve noticed that a number of the other officers are acting strangely as well.”
“Bill,” said Bonnie, “Jack and I feel like we’re on the set of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. We’ve met a lot of people, people we’ve become friendly with, who now simply don’t recognize us. And it started this morning.”
“Bill,” said Jack, “why don’t you give us your take on the situation.”
“This may sound crazy, but it’s why I asked to see you two. With all the news lately about that crazy disease they call The Syndrome, I’m having a suspicion that it may have hit the ship. From what I’ve read and heard, the disease has only struck young women, and the apparent weapon is a water bottle. It usually takes effect within 48 hours. Remember the sprinkler mess from two days ago? It was a spray, very fine, almost like a fog. Sort of like a gigantic water bottle. I just thank God that I was outside on deck when it happened. I know the FBI is on top of this. Any thoughts?”
“Oh, my God,” said Jack. “I need to place a call to New York. Do you have a way for me to do that other than my cell phone? The reception isn’t too great.”
Rugirello handed him a phone from the console on the bridge.
“This is Agent Logan from the Philadelphia FBI office. I need to speak to Rick Bellamy. It’s urgent.”
“Hi, Jack, it’s Rick. I’m in a car on the way to O’Hare airport in Chicago. My secretary just patched you through. What’s up?”
As a trained FBI agent, Jack gave Rick Bellamy a crisp but detailed review of what happened on the Ocean Ecstasy in the past two days.
“Jack, I agree. It sounds like The Syndrome. The jihadis have apparently expanded their list of targets to include men and children. How many people are aboard?”
“I’m putting you on speaker,
Rick, so Bill Rugirello, the ship’s third mate, can fill you in.”
“Fine, but I’d like to speak to the captain.”
“Rick, check your email. I just sent you a photo of the captain. It will explain why you can’t talk to him. Besides his physical appearance, you’ll be interested to know that in two days he’s forgotten the English language. He speaks only Norwegian, when he speaks at all.”
“Mr. Bellamy, Bill Rugirello here. In answer to your question, the ship is carrying just shy of 6,200 passengers, and a crew of 1,000. I can’t give you exact numbers, but most of the passengers and crew were affected. A few hundred people, including the Logans and myself, were on exterior decks when the sprinklers went off. Bottom line is that we have a few thousand people wandering around like zombies.”
“Bill,” said Rick Bellamy, “do you know how to drive that thing?”
“Yes, sir. I’m not a captain, but I, along with a few of my fellow officers who weren’t affected, can get this thing into port. Besides, I’ve alerted Royal Caribbean and they’re sending another ship to meet us.”
“Rick, it’s Jack. I won’t even ask you because I don’t have a need to know, but I hope to hell you guys in counterterrorism are closing in on these bastards. Have you ever seen a cute little kid with obvious signs of dementia? It’s not pretty. I hope everything is okay, or at least stable, with your wife, Ellen. Rick, this is one ugly fucking war.”
“That it is, my friend. That it is. Jack, as of right now, the Ocean Ecstasy is an FBI crime scene, and you’re in charge. Wear you’re badge and make sure you carry your gun. I’m deputizing Bonnie as a provisional FBI agent. I’ll contact the White House, and a helicopter will arrive shortly. I want you both to interrogate any people who haven’t been affected by the spray.
“Okay, folks, I’ve got to call the White House. Please be safe. Jack, you and I will be in touch quite a bit in the next few days. I’m going to give you to my secretary in New York who will take down the contact numbers, including your exact position. I think President Reynolds made an understatement when he called this thing World War III.”
Chapter 51
I turned off my phone after speaking to Jack and Bonnie Logan on the Ocean Ecstasy. I had put my phone on speaker so Bennie and Buster could hear the conversation.
“Are you authorized to do what you just did?” asked Buster.
“I don’t know, but I just did it.”
“You’re getting as bad as me.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, Buster.”
I called Barbara Auletta to let her know about the Ocean Ecstasy. I told her she’d be hearing from Jack Logan on the ship.
“So the jihadis have figured out a way to mass produce the shit that causes The Syndrome,”
said Bennie. “The scumbags have expanded their market to include men and children.”
“Looks like a new front in this fucking war has just opened,” I said. “Okay, let’s get back to our conversation about Pushkin.”
“Here’s the way I see it,” said Bennie. “They know what we’re after, and they knew that Pushkin could have tipped us off. Nobody commits murder and suicide—in a police headquarters of all places—unless the stakes are big.”
My cell phone rang. “I gotta take this call, guys.”
After I hung up, I looked at Ben and Buster.
“That was McDonald, the Deputy Commissioner in Chicago. They traced the shooter. He comes from Saudi Arabia. He was on the FBI watch list as a known terrorist. How the guy obtained a Chicago PD uniform and simply walked into headquarters is beyond me. It’s also beyond the Chicago PD brass. McDonald sounded embarrassed as hell, and he should be. This was an al-Qaeda or ISIS operation; but more important, it tells me they’re on to us, big time. What scares me is that we hardly have time to plan a raid. That takes a lot of time and coordination. I can hear that stuff being flushed down toilets in Baltimore now.”
“Rick, your lack of faith upsets me. I’ve been planning a raid ever since we first saw the place in Baltimore. I used my credentials as a deputy FBI Agent. I’m sure you understand. There’s an FBI SWAT team with 12 agents on location across the street from 128 Walton Street as we speak. I also arranged for Doctor Frank Buchannan to be there to supervise the gathering of the substances. They should be good to go tomorrow. And that guy you’ve met before, Lieutenant Leo Burton, who used to be with the Navy SEALs, is in command of the operation.”
Bennie and I looked at each other and cracked up. Buster, the Action Figure, was on the case as usual.
“It’s great that Burton will be in charge of the attack,” I said. “He was the guy in charge of raiding the place where Ellen and the MacPhersons were held hostage. He is one smart and tough hombre.
“Gentlemen,” I continued, “this Baltimore raid can’t come soon enough.”
***
Lt. Burton addressed his men in a room across the street from 128 Walton Street. His group consisted of 12 highly trained FBI SWAT team officers.
“This operation is going to be tricky because we’ll all be wearing bulky hazmat suits. Our objective is to grab any bottle or beaker containing a liquid. As you’ve been briefed, we think the stuff we’re after is the substance that’s been causing dementia. We know what the inside of 128 Walton looks like, and we even have a live video feed.”
Two nights before, Burton had one of his men drill a hole in the skylight and drop a surveillance video camera into the building. He flashed the camera feed onto a monitor.
“As you can see, there are two long tables that appear to be for assembly of some sort. Over there toward the right appears to be a tank. Doctor Buchannan, do you have any thoughts or questions?”
“Well, first I have to tell you guys something,” said Buchannan. “That call I just got was from Rick Bellamy at 26 Federal Plaza. I’ll summarize. The enemy has figured out how to produce the substance in huge quantities. They probably did it right here in the building you’re about to raid. They attacked a cruise ship, spreading the substance with the ship’s sprinkler system. That was two days ago. Now thousands of people, including men and children, have come down with The Syndrome. You guys are about to launch the most important attack since Jimmy Doolittle’s raid over Tokyo in 1942. Now to get back to Lieutenant Burton’s question about my thoughts. We have two objectives, Lieutenant. We want to grab every piece of paper you can lay your hands on, and collect as much of the substance as possible. That means you guys will have to be careful if shooting starts. We don’t want to waste any of the substance.”
“You mean when the shooting starts, Doctor. This is going to be a firefight. I’ve gone over lines of sight with my guys here, and we know we have to try to keep the bullets away from any equipment.”
“I’ve heard that you guys are tough,” said Buchannan. “Now I’m seeing it with my own eyes. We don’t know how long the substance remains viable in the atmosphere, so make sure you have your hazmat suits zipped tight. Another thing: Please take as many prisoners alive as you can for interrogation. Is that possible?”
“Doc, we think of ourselves as the ‘72 Virgins Dating Service,’ but we’ll do what we can. If any man has a gun or is wearing one on a holster, we’ll engage him.”
“Engage?”
“Yes, we’ll kill him.”
“And they say that scientists talk funny,” said Buchannan.
“See that man in the white lab coat, Lieutenant?” said Buchannan pointing to the monitor. “He’s holding a clipboard. If at all possible, we’d like to take him alive.”
“Again, Doc, we’ll do what we can. From our days of surveillance, we know that a lot of these men leave the building at night. Usually, only four or five remain behind, including the lab coat guy. We have FBI agents stationed all around this building. When one of these pricks takes off for the evening, he’ll be stopped on the street.”
“What time will the raid begin, Lieutenant?”
“Two a.m., Doctor. We do our best work at the we
e hours. Have you arranged for the hazmat truck from CDC?”
“Yes, it’s parked around the corner.”
“Anything else you can think of, Doc?”
“Yes, remember to grab any piece of paper and take it with you. Don’t forget to check file cabinets.”
***
At 2:00 a.m. on May 25, two SWAT team sharpshooters aimed their rifles at the security cameras that lined the roof of 128 Walton Street. Within 20 seconds, all the cameras were blind. As they had counted, four men left the building by nightfall, leaving five behind. All of the agents were dressed in hazmat suits. On command, two agents broke down the door with a battering ram. The interior consisted of one large room and two smaller office spaces. The agents already knew this from the interior surveillance camera. Two men rushed to the offices, kicked in the doors and opened fire. Agent Arnold Groner tackled and handcuffed a tall man in a lab coat.
Two other agents shot two men who stood by a table in the large room. The planning for the raid included careful line of fire coordination to avoid shooting any bottles or beakers that may contain the substance. Within three minutes, four enemy personnel were dead and one was in custody. According to instructions, two of the agents packed up every file folder and piece of paper they could find.
Frank Buchannan walked up to the table that was covered with glass beakers and spray bottles.
“Great shooting, men. Not one of the pieces of evidence was hit.”
A medium-sized hazmat truck pulled up to the rear of the building. Buchannan supervised the removal of all materials from the factory. The truck, escorted by four police cars with sirens blaring, proceeded on its way to the nearest Centers for Disease Control facility in Washington. The main headquarters was in Atlanta, but Buchannan thought it was too far to travel with the substance, especially since he had no idea about its shelf life.
The Baltimore raid was a success.
***
Bennie, Buster, and I fidgeted in our seats in my office. We had been told that the Baltimore raid would go down at 2 a.m., and we wanted to be ready to receive a briefing. Our stomachs were in a collective knot.
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