by Glenn Cooper
“Not much of a guess,” she admitted. “Will you call me later?”
“You know I will.”
The fallout from the G8 was seismic. The Bliss epidemic and the Inner Peace Crusade’s countdown clock were already big news. Now there was nothing else, as if every other molecule had been sucked out of the news cycle and all that remained was Bliss—and every news channel had the Inner Peace Crusade countdown clock on a screen crawl.
When Cyrus arrived at the Roosevelt Room at the White House the other task force members shook his hand and whispered private words of concern for his daughter but he was determined to keep his travails private and said as little as possible.
Bob Cuccio delivered the briefing on the G8 fiasco. A member of the Imperial household, a senior butler named Shunji Murakami, had spiked the water kettle with Bliss and then committed suicide. According to his wife, he’d been using Bliss since it first appeared in Japan and had become obsessed with it. A search of his computer found he’d been sending messages to the Inner Peace Crusade website and had offered his services for a “great deed.”
Despite what the public had been told President Redland was not back to his normal self. After leaving the Bethesda Naval Hospital, he was taken to Camp David where he remained in relative seclusion, functional, but in a state of agitated anxiety. The attorney general and the chief justice of the Supreme Court had been in consultations with the vice president and the cabinet but no one was inclined at the moment to invoke the Twenty-fifth Amendment. Redland was still compos mentis, at least legally, and the prevailing sentiment was that a transition of power would be seen as too disruptive in the midst of a crisis.
The same couldn’t be said for two other G8 attendees. The Canadian prime minister resigned from office citing psychological stress, and the French prime minister had attempted suicide when he returned to Paris, though news on that had been suppressed. The other world leaders seemed less affected, which, according to the government’s mental health experts, pretty well reflected the diversity of the Bliss experience among the general population.
The task force reiterated the urgency of tracking down Alex Weller and the group formally expressed their outrage at the kidnapping of Cyrus’s daughter. Cyrus bowed his head during the brief pronouncement then stood to give his report: The Inner Peace Crusade’s website was shuttling so fast from one proxy server to another that tracking down a physical location of Weller’s computer was impossible; the FBI’s hotline was inundated with purported Weller sightings but none had panned out. He concluded by saying, “It’s hard to imagine that anyone in the country hasn’t seen pictures of Alex Weller or Joseph Weller.” He lowered his voice, “Or my daughter.”
The group went on to discuss contingency plans to protect against the poisoning of other government officials and the need for the urgent development of a Bliss rapid-detection assay to efficiently screen water and food channels. The CDC and FDA were investigating an outbreak of putative nonintentional Bliss intoxications in New England, and the breaking news as of that morning was that beer from Meecham’s brewery well may be involved. A team of inspectors was en route to the brewery in Merrimack, New Hampshire, with the intention of a precautionary shutdown and emergency recall. The DEA was devoting its full resources to identifying the major suppliers of Bliss and decapitating the epidemic. At the end of the meeting, an assistant secretary of the Treasury made a brief presentation on a new ominous issue: the growing economic impact of Bliss usage. Some leading indicators of industrial productivity and consumer confidence were showing slippage and the markets were reacting badly. The Treasury and the Federal Reserve were following the situation closely and the assistant secretary promised to provide the task force with more data when available. On that note, the meeting was over.
Alex poked his head into Tara’s bedroom.
“How’s my girl?” he asked.
She was clutching Freddy the Teddy, watching a video on a portable DVD player. The room was littered with new toys that Erica and Jessie had bought her on their shopping trips to Ellsworth. Erica was sitting on an armchair, reading a book.
“Fine,” Tara said listlessly.
“That’s good; let me have a closer look.” He felt her pulse, checked her pupils and eye movements.
“When can I go home?” she asked.
“Soon,” Alex said. “Very soon.”
“Can I talk to Mommy?”
Erica’s lower lip trembled. “Not today, maybe tomorrow,” Alex said.
“Daddy?”
“Doctor Alex has to go now. You give our patient anything she wants, okay, Erica?”
Erica swallowed and nodded.
It was a long drive to New Haven, but Alex was happy to leave the house again. The brewery raid had been exciting and he’d been looking forward to more “direct action.” He assembled the same travel team as before: Sam and Steve up front, he and Jessie in the backseat. They arrived after dark at the warehouse of the Beaver Brook Water Company, a company that provided coolers and five-gallon bottles of spring water to homes and businesses in Connecticut and New York.
The parking lot was nearly empty. Steve got out of the van, stretched and slowly started walking toward a single car. A man got out of the sedan. “You Jason?” Steve called out.
“Yeah,” the man said nervously. “You with them?”
Steve nodded. “Everything cool?”
“Yeah. Pull into the garage behind me. I’ve got my truck in there. Will I meet him? Alex?”
“Definitely. He wants to shake your hand, man.”
Jason Harris, the Beaver Brook driver, closed the garage door after Sam pulled in. Steve got out first and checked the place out, his hand on the gun in his jacket. When he was satisfied they were alone he signaled it was okay for the rest of them to get out. When Alex emerged, Jason was rock star dumbstruck until Alex warmly greeted him and gave him a strong hug.
“Thank you,” Alex said. “This is going to help us a lot.”
“Whatever you need to do,” Jason said to them, “let’s get going with it—I’ve got to roll out of here at five A.M.”
“We’re ready to work.”
“I gave my crew the day off. You’ll be able to help me with the deliveries?”
“I’m a little recognizable,” Alex said, “so I’ll stay in the van with Jessie, but Sam and Steve are your guys. They’re trainable.”
Jason smiled. “They only need to push a dolly.”
They got down to the task. There were pallets of several hundred five-gallon water bottles laid out before them. They used syringes to draw up a concentrated solution of Bliss from a plastic canteen then injected a precise volume through the top of each plastic water bottle with large-bore needles. A spot of superglue was applied to seal the holes and each bottle was given a good shake.
They finished loading the delivery truck after midnight and crawled back into the van for a sleep. Jason napped in the cab of his truck. A little before 5 A.M., Jason woke them with a large sack of fast-food breakfast and a tray of coffees, and in the thin light of dawn he drove out of the garage with Sam following closely behind.
Beaver Brook serviced a number of New York investment banks and hedge funds. Jason made his first stop at 6:30 in midtown at the service entrance to Sproutt and Company, a large bond-trading operation. While Alex and Jessie waited in the van, Steve and Sam donned Beaver Brook baseball caps and helped Jason unload and stack the rectangular bottles on dollies.
On each floor of Sproutt they sought out the Beaver Brook watercoolers in the break rooms and kitchens, and systematically replaced the bottles in use with new ones. By the time they’d finished, the offices and trading floors were packed. At their last stop, a break room on the thirty-eighth floor, Sam nudged Steve to make sure he noticed a young man filling a jug with new water and pouring it into a coffeemaker.
Outside, they gave each other fist bumps and drove away to their next stop, a hedge fund on Sixth Avenue.
The managem
ent of Sproutt knew they had a problem on their hands by midmorning. Throughout the building, dozens of people who used water for coffee and cold drinks dozed unresponsively at their desks and computer terminals then awoke in varied states of agitation, confusion, and reverie.
A flood of 911 calls hit the system, ambulances started to arrive and by lunchtime all trading operations shut down. Emergency personnel on the scene and doctors in the crowded emergency rooms quickly made the diagnosis of mass Bliss intoxication. An army of police and public health officials descended on the quarantined building but by the time the bottled water was identified as the likely source, over 200 employees had been affected, many of them never to return to work.
Just when the authorities thought the situation was under control, the next wave hit at Paddington Ventures on Sixth Ave.; then another at Briggs Asset Management downtown on Broad Street; and a last at the Cantwell Bank on Wall Street.
Alex gleefully listened to news radio stations on their way back to New Haven. Mass warnings were broadcast cautioning against drinking from commercial watercoolers. At least a thousand people had been hospitalized and panic was sweeping the city.
With every breathless report Alex excitedly tousled the hair of Sam and Steve in the front seat and squeezed Jessie’s thigh. He couldn’t wait for the moment Sam could pull out his laptop and post an announcement on their website.
“This is a great day!” Alex exclaimed. “And it’s just the beginning.”
Earlier that morning, Jim Bailey drove his oil truck up the long driveway and brought the heavy vehicle to a stop at High Cliffs. The old man eased himself down from the cab and ambled over to the front door. The ocean breeze carried a sweet hint of spring but Bailey, a lifelong native of Bar Harbor, hardly noticed. It was just the beginning of another long workday. He pushed the buzzer with a thick finger.
When he heard the doorbell Joe Weller wondered if Davis Fox had locked himself out after his morning jog. He put his coffee cup down. He was alone on the ground floor. Everyone else was still in bed. He opened the door, expecting to see Davis, but there was the oil man instead.
“Oh yeah, hi there,” the old man said. “Bailey’s Oil. You part of the Parris family?”
“No,” Joe said, hesitating. “I’m a friend.”
“Any family about?”
“Erica’s upstairs, I think.”
“We got an automatic low oil alert back at the office. You weren’t due for a refill till later in the month. Thermostat must’ve been set higher than usual for the off season. I expect you want a delivery today, right?”
Joe was getting uneasy. “Let me get Erica. She can probably help you.”
He shut the door and silently cursed himself for being sloppy, roused Erica from her bed next to Tara’s and told her to take care of the situation. She shushed him not to wake up the girl, pulled on a robe, and hurried down where she chatted with the oil man and authorized a delivery. When the truck finally lumbered off, Joe relaxed and went for a walk and a smoke. When Davis Fox came jogging back up the drive Joe told him about the small drama.
Instead of making his next fuel stop, Bailey went back to his office, sat at his desk and rang the Bar Harbor Police Department. “Yeah, this is Jim Bailey over at Bailey’s Oil. I think I just seen one of the Bliss fellows everyone’s been looking for. Over at High Cliffs. Recognized his face from the news. Maybe I’m crazy but I’m pretty sure it’s him.”
Forty-four
14 DAYS
They were preparing a celebratory feast. Erica was roasting a leg of lamb and everyone was helping out with the fixings, even Joe Weller, who usually begged off kitchen duty. Alex was due back in a couple of hours and they wanted to welcome him with a great meal and good wine. The kitchen TV was just loud enough for them to be able to follow the breathless news flow from New York City, where the mass Bliss intoxication was wreaking havoc.
Joe had talked with Alex after lunch on their prepaid mobiles. The mission had gone flawlessly and Alex was ebullient. They were taking their time heading back to Maine, staying comfortably below the speed limit.
“Are you ready for the endgame?” Alex had asked Joe.
“You know I am.”
“Two weeks to go. We’ll be leaving Maine soon.”
“Do you know where we’re going?”
“Sam’s got a half a dozen offers on the net. We’ll sort through them and make a decision. How’s the girl?”
“According to Erica, sleepy but pouty,” Joe had answered.
“Tonight’s her night,” Alex had said softly so as not to wake Jessie. “I’ll do it after dinner then process her sample.”
“Looking forward to it,” Joe said.
“You won’t believe it. It’s amazing.”
It had been sunny most of the day but by five o’clock a sheet of clouds moved in and the sky whitened. In the kitchen, boiling pots were steaming the windows.
“I’ll get Erica to check on the meat,” Leslie said.
“You’re incapable of opening the oven door and checking yourself?” Davis joked.
“I have math genes, not cooking genes,” she replied.
The doorbell rang.
Joe put down his beer and unpocketed his gun. “Shit, what now? Vik, have a peek out the dining room.”
Vik scrambled off and was back in several seconds. “It’s the oil man again.”
“Christ. Go see what he wants.”
“Should we do anything?” Davis asked.
“It’s probably nothing,” Joe answered, but he clicked off the safety.
Vik opened the door. The Bailey oil truck was in the driveway. Jim Bailey looked at him for a moment like a scared rabbit and without saying anything bolted to his left.
In an instant, Pete Avakian was filling the doorway in full protective gear. The Hostage Rescue Team, hastily flown in from Quantico that morning, streamed in left and right from behind the truck.
Avakian pulled Vik outside by his sweater. Another agent immediately Tasered him to the ground before he could utter a word and three men dragged his slight body away. Two columns of agents entered the front door and Avakian radioed, “We’re inside.”
From the kitchen, Joe heard a noise and called, “Vik, everything all right?” He moved cautiously toward the front hall.
There was a crashing sound in the great room followed by a BOOM as a flashbang grenade broke through the glass and exploded. A second FBI team that had motored to shore on a Zodiac and scaled the cliffs burst in.
Through the kitchen window Joe caught sight of a flak-jacketed agent in the back yard and loudly swore. He ran up the rear kitchen staircase seconds before agents entered pointing weapons and shouting at Leslie and Davis, “FBI! Get your hands up and don’t move!”
In terror, both were thrown to the floor and handcuffed. “Where’s Tara O’Malley?” Avakian screamed at them.
“Don’t say anything,” Davis said defiantly, but Leslie began to cry and said, “Upstairs.”
Avakian shouted into his radio, “She’s upstairs. We’re going up the rear stairway.”
Cyrus was standing on the gravel drive next to Minot. Neither was wearing protective gear. When he heard Avakian’s transmission he rushed ahead, Minot shouting at his back, “For Christ’s sake, Cy! You agreed to hold off till they got her!”—but he was through the front door.
Joe ran into Tara’s bedroom. The girl had just awoken and looked dazed. Erica was standing helplessly in the middle of the room. “Joe, what’s happening?”
“Move that chest in front of the door!” She was frozen. “Do it!” he screamed, waving his gun wildly and pulling the cell phone out of his pocket with his free hand. When Alex answered he shouted, “The FBI’s here! Turn around!”
“Bloody O’Malley!” Alex said. “Where are you?”
“In the girl’s room.”
“Do what you have to do, like we discussed. And Joe, I’ll see you on the other side, mate.”
“I’ll be there wit
h fucking bells on.”
“I love you,” Alex said.
“You too.” Joe threw the phone down.
Erica still hadn’t moved. She stood between Joe and Tara, her jaw trembling.
“Move out the way,” Joe told her.
“Don’t, Joe. Leave her alone.”
“I said move!”
“No!”
Joe squeezed off a round. It passed cleanly through Erica’s heart and lodged in the wall behind her. She seemed to sigh as she dropped to her knees; Joe now had a clear line of sight to Tara. The girl cried out for Erica and began to climb out of bed.
Joe aimed for her forehead.
Avakian booted the door open and he and a second agent were in the room. They didn’t shout a warning. That instant they opened fire and put six bullets into Joe’s upper back, and when he pitched over, Avakian planted two in the side of his head to be sure the job was done.
Cyrus was at the doorway. Tara was screaming and spattered in blood. He rushed in, swept her into his arms and out the door. “Daddy’s here, baby! Daddy’s here.”
“We’ve got two suspects down in a front bedroom!” Avakian shouted into his radio. “The girl is safe. Repeat, Tara is safe.”
From the hall Cyrus called out to Avakian, “Is that Alex Weller?”
Avakian flipped the body on its back with his foot. “I think it’s his brother.”
From downstairs an agent came on the air. “There’s a guy in the kitchen who says Alex Weller’s not here, that we’ll never get him.”
No, we’ll get the bastard, Cyrus thought, squeezing Tara to his chest. I’ll get him.
Forty-five
14 DAYS
“Where are we going to go?” Jessie asked wearily, staring at the leafless trees along the highway.
“I’ve got a place we’ll be safe,” Sam said, and after batting it around for a while, Alex made the decision. They turned at the next exit and reversed direction, heading south, toward New York.
An hour north of the city, news of the Bar Harbor raid reached the radio. Joe Weller and Erica Parris were dead. Three others were captured. Tara O’Malley was rescued. Alex Weller was still at large. Cyrus O’Malley released a statement through the FBI thanking his colleagues for their courageous help in recovering his daughter.