Wendell Black, MD

by Gerald Imber, M. D.

  Panopolous listened intently to every word. “I stand corrected,” he said. “Please stay with us.” I knew I liked the guy.

  38

  On the way back to the apartment, I made a stop at the Dog House, retrieved my better half, and made for Central Park. The cab driver spoke English and didn’t complain about Tonto. I opened the window a crack as he sat almost calmly beside me, having his head scratched and watching the people in the cars around us watch him. I smiled. We both smiled. Things seemed normal again, at least for a few minutes.

  No beauty is more unexpected than the park materializing amid the bricks and mortar of New York City. A fresh breeze tickled the tops of the lazy old trees, still very green and still some weeks from turning. What a miracle. An 843-acre oasis that made Manhattan Island fit for humans. Dogs, too. On a Sunday it was wall-to-wall beasts. Where did all those dogs come from? Tonto was in sniff heaven.

  I was preoccupied and worried. How were they going to cover the bases? The counterterrorism divisions of every agency had been alerted to the heightened security risk, but for the moment, no public announcement would be made beyond the present Level Orange. The others at our meeting had gone to base to mobilize forces. Panopolous planned a quick turnaround to Washington to brief the secretary, who, in turn, would carry the message to the National Security Council and bear the burden of deciding at what point to alert the president of the United States. The government G-4 was scheduled to touch down at LaGuardia at nine this evening, with Panopolous and his crew, and we would reconvene at nine thirty. The NSC, the cryptographic service branch of the armed forces, and the Middle East and Pakistan desks of the CIA were probably alerted by now. New intercepts from the area would go highest-priority, and analysts would be scrutinizing old messages with a new focus. Great Britain was added to the list. MI5 and MI6 would be enlisted to sift through intelligence from agents on the ground who had infiltrated into the ranks of the radical Muslim underground in every British city. A full-court press would be instituted.

  They would be looking for a clue to the time and place of the strike. What was not in doubt was the nature of the attempt. Anthrax. All this didn’t give me a feeling of confidence, since no one knew better than I how flimsy the information leading to that conclusion was.

  Tonto and I meandered across Sheep Meadow and then the western limb of the park drive, which was closed to automobile traffic on weekends. We crossed the meadow again, to the east this time, and finally exited the park at Seventy-second Street and walked the ten blocks home.

  It was nearly six when we arrived, and Tonto and I were both famished. He banged his metal bowl around the kitchen until I got the point. I served up a bowl of enriched, scientifically formulated, dry dog food, full of organic, natural goodness, and topped it off with two shredded slices of American cheese. Processed cheese food, whatever. Tonto loved it. So did I. What could be more soothing and reassuring than a grilled cheese sandwich?

  I found four relatively fresh slices of packaged white bread, unwrapped four more slices of American cheese, and fried the two sandwiches in butter. I usually salve my conscience by frying in olive oil, but what the hell, who knew if there would be a tomorrow? The coffee maker sounded about the time the frying pan was getting a little smoky. I managed to slice the sandwiches into triangles, which is the only way to attack melted cheese, pour out a mug of coffee, top it off with Skim Plus, and get everything to the table without a disaster. There were newspapers and mail to glance through, and dinner passed pleasantly. Tonto played it smart and sat by my side. There was no way I could finish both sandwiches, and the remainder disappeared between his gentle jaws. He licked his chops and did a little hip-hop. It was a toss-up as to who was more satisfied.

  I kicked my shoes off and lay down on the sofa with the paper, fully aware that there was no chance of getting through so much as the front page. An incessant ringtone brought me back an hour later. I did the “where’s the phone” routine and quickly recognized the sound of the little black alarm clock. It was no less annoying, and I had confidence in its doing the job.

  The hot shower felt good. I brushed my teeth, tossed the clothes from the bathroom floor into the hamper, and put on fresh chinos and a blue oxford shirt. I grabbed my phone, wallet, and badge case and stuffed them into the pockets of the tweed jacket hanging on the doorknob. Tonto got a few words of apology for being left again, but he was already snoring. I was out the door and in a taxi by eight forty-five.

  The conventional wisdom is that taking a break helps one clear the mental clutter and see things more clearly. It didn’t seem to have helped me. Just then I realized that I hadn’t called Deuce to report on the big meeting. He answered his cell on the third ring and didn’t mention that he had been waiting for my call. The ploy was perfect, and I wanted to spill my guts out to gain forgiveness. Instead, I simply said, “I’m in a cab going back for round two.”

  “Who was there?” Deuce asked. I looked ahead at the driver, who did not appear to be paying particular attention to my conversation, but I decided to err on the side of circumspection.

  “Bureau, DOJ, and Homeland.” No names or titles. Deuce caught on.

  “Nobody from the job?”

  “Nope.”

  “There will be. Something like this can’t go down here without the NYPD. No chance of the feds going it alone. Rule number one, ‘Make preparations to share the blame if anything goes wrong.’ Got to have NYPD and the Port Authority boys.”

  “We’ll see. Nobody said anything about them joining us.”

  “So you’re on the task force?”

  “Apparently, but only just.” He laughed at that.

  “Call me later . . . when you can talk. Don’t forget this time.”

  “Will do.”

  39

  I arrived at the conference room fifteen minutes early, which was probably a good thing. Security at the FBI offices was tighter than it had been earlier. My ID and gold shield were hung over my neck on the standard NYPD tape.

  “May I see your identification, sir?” It wasn’t really a question. I slipped the tape over my head and handed it to the stiff Hispanic woman in an equally stiff dark blue federal uniform. She looked at the identification for longer than I thought necessary. There was just so much information in a picture, a name, family name first, a shield number, and NYPD gibberish. But she was letting me know who was boss. My face gave me away. “Just orders, sir. Be another moment.” She checked my name against a list on a computer out of view, typed something in, and waited for a response before looking up at me. “First elevator on the right, sir.”

  I tried to act like an adult and said, “Thank you.”

  A less intrusive version of the procedure was repeated at the executive floor before I was shown into the conference room we had met in earlier. By nine thirty all ten seats at the table were taken and a full rank of chairs along the wall were occupied as well. Another few minutes and it would have been back bench for me. The only familiar face among the new members was the police commissioner. We had met several times before, but he showed no sign of recognition and I didn’t feel like sucking up. Someone else would do the honors at the right time. There were two uniforms at the table. One was the chief of Port Authority police, and the other was an army general with a chest full of ribbons. I wondered if he was trying to impress us or trying to show he belonged. It didn’t take long to realize that neither was the case. He was in charge of U.S. Army counterintelligence, and he was probably the smartest guy in the room.

  Marks’s counterpart in Brooklyn and Queens represented the Eastern District. A petite fiftyish woman in a severe blue suit, she made a point of sitting beside Marks and chatting conspiratorially. He appeared only mildly interested, and I had the feeling Marks didn’t share well. Every agency important enough to have initials was at the table: DOD, DOJ, DEA, ICE, FBI, NYPD, and probably others that I missed. The back-row people had already started whispering into the ears of their masters, and the mee
ting hadn’t even been called to order. Panopolous didn’t waste a moment before making it clear who was in charge.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being prompt. At 1800 hours today, my boss, the secretary of Homeland Security, was ordered by the president of the United States to assign the highest national priority to the potential crisis at hand. Full cooperation by every agency—federal, state, and local—is required. Absolutely no territorial bullshit will be tolerated—my words, not his. None. Is that perfectly clear?”

  There were murmurs of agreement. Half the attendees didn’t know if they were senior enough to respond, and the other half agreed but were not accustomed to being spoken to so bluntly. There was a new alpha dog.

  “We believe the courier, the mule, will arrive at Kennedy Airport within the next twenty-four hours, thirty-six hours at the outside. This is based on information provided by Dr. Black, over here”—he offered a palm across the table. I had been here before. This was his dance. Disarming but not embracing. I knew to take it as a simple fact, no more than that. He went on, “As well as information secured by the British intelligence services and passed on to us this evening. Based on accumulated information, we believe the target will be the New York City water supply.”

  That surprised everyone, myself included. The buzz in the room was distracting enough to make Panopolous pause. “Here’s why. After the success of 9/11, any minor incursion would be a blip. They can’t follow it with something smaller, less impressive. The biggest hit possible would be contaminating the water supply of a large city. Which, in this case, has to be New York. It’s a real problem. Anthrax spores are not simple, susceptible microorganisms. They become dormant, and the spore coat protects them until circumstances favor germination. The spores can survive the standard chlorine concentration of drinking water, which is one milligram per liter. The spores also cling to pipes and pass through most existing filters. This has the possibility of becoming a crippling event.”

  Commissioner Carey raised his hand and spoke up. Half-schoolboy asking to be recognized, half–top cop reclaiming his ground. “We could turn off the water supply and hyperchlorinate. It’s not like the scenario hasn’t occurred to NYPD counterterrorism. We have the details in our playbook. It doesn’t have to be a disaster.”

  “Right. And how long do ten million people have to live on bottled water? And who gets Cipro prophylaxis to prevent the disease, since there is not enough available to treat the entire population? Who is left to die? Maybe the city should be evacuated until the water supply is safe to drink. One milligram of chlorine per liter kills most of the crap that lives in drinking water. But anthrax spores aren’t your average bugs. Over at the Aberdeen Proving Ground in Maryland they figured out you need ten milligrams of chlorine per liter of water to kill 99.9 percent of anthrax spores. That’s like drinking from a swimming pool. Any way you look at it, the economic toll would be enormous, which is exactly what the bastards want. Let’s not even talk about the loss of life. If they manage to do this, the fallout is not going away anytime soon. It could cripple our economy and destroy our morale.”

  Carey had no response. We were all silent. I’m not sure what possessed me, but I blurted out, “It’s too easy.”

  Panopolous snapped his head to his left and cast a withering stare in my direction. It wasn’t one of those “who farted?” moments where you could stare at other people to shift the blame. I was it, so I continued.

  “You can cut off access to the watershed. It’s doable and they have to know it. The water supply sounds like a red herring to me.” There was a bit of buzzing, but no one murmured approval or disapproval. There was certainly no groundswell.

  “Thank you for the benefit of your years of security experience, Dr. Black.”

  The room became unpleasantly still. Everyone froze and waited. Fuck him, and the horse he rode in on.

  “No need to be nasty, Panopolous,” I said. “Your guys don’t exactly have a sterling record interpreting intercepts. Let’s be grown-ups here. We all have something to offer, and we should all have the same goal. I, for one, don’t have to cover my ass.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not exactly covering mine being so cocksure. So, let’s start again.”

  I knew I liked the guy.

  We spent more than three hours free-associating. Despite a chest covered in fruit salad, General Pearson was the best of us at shedding his ego and thinking like the enemy. He and Panopolous batted ideas around the room, and pretty soon we were all chiming in. The Secret Service had no specific antiterrorism mandate within Homeland Security, but Dell had a broad experience, and once we stopped standing on ceremony, his insights were helpful. There were endless devastating possibilities to consider, and the NYPD Counterterrorism Bureau, which I actually knew something about, provided a wealth of information on targets and strategy. Once the turf-protection nonsense was behind us, we had become a very high-level functioning unit.

  The good news that we came to understand was that, given time to prepare, we could contain most anthrax attacks. The bad news was that we didn’t know what we were preparing for. Water supply, subway system, indoor gatherings, special events. Aerosolized anthrax spores were an effective all-purpose killer, and I made it my business to keep that tidbit on the table.

  By the time the meeting was wrapped for the evening, a reasonable delegation of duties was established under Panopolous.

  “Best-guess flight route is LHR to JFK. That’s what they have been practicing; that’s what they will do. We know they used Virgin at least once. That was the flight Dr. Black was on. They are familiar with Terminal 4. Best guess is that is where they will land. We have Virgin Atlantic, Continental, Delta, and Air India all landing at Terminal 4 from Heathrow. Isn’t that right, Port Authority?”

  The superintendent of the Port Authority deferred to the uniformed chief at the table. Panopolous didn’t seem to know either of their names. The chief responded.

  “Correct. Four is our primary international hub. It’s the old International Arrivals Building. Brought us into the twenty-first century. It was rebuilt about ten years ago and keeps evolving. We have seventeen gates and forty carriers operating out of Four, and Delta has pretty much moved all its international operations there from Three. Virgin has the most flights to Four from Heathrow. Five a day, I think.” He fished a pair of steel-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket, set them on his nose, and scanned a form in front of him. “No, six a day from LHR. First one arrives at 1220 military, last one 2010 military. That’s 8:10 p.m. So we have six flights over approximately eight hours.”

  “Thank you, Chief Zanko.” Panopolous surprised me again.

  Heathrow was on high alert. Every flight on every airline destined for JFK would be scrutinized closely. There were enough body-scanning machines at Heathrow to handle the traffic. The problem was encouraging scanning without causing a panic. Profiles were developed around what I had observed on the flight and the information given to me by Tahani. Genetic Asian males dressed like females, exhibiting female secondary sex characteristics. Breasts. Scans would be far more effective than pat-down techniques.

  Whatever was going to happen would take place in the forty-eight hours beginning with the 12:20 flight tomorrow afternoon. There was no plan beyond that, which was okay with me. Some general once said that great plans are adhered to until the first shot is fired.

  Panopolous organized us according to our expertise. With no particular skills to offer, I was assigned to the anti-bioterrorism group comprised of two other doctors, one from the New York State Department of Health and another from the army. Talk about having nothing to offer. These two were experts. But at least I was still in the game. We were expected to meet with our little committees and then present our ideas and information to the group when we next convened at ten, tomorrow morning. My new playmates and I decided to get some sleep before scratching our brains. We would meet at seven at the FBI building.

  It was almost midnight, and I ha
d had enough for one day. Probably everyone had. I just wanted to sleep. But before I could do that, I had to call Deuce and fill him in. Nothing secret had transpired, and if Deuce had been of rank and unit, he would have been with us. I guess what I meant was that he wasn’t excluded; he just wasn’t included. Talking to him wasn’t leaking secrets or talking out of school. Anyway, until a few hours ago he knew more about it than most of the people running the task force. I sent him a text to alert him to the impending ring of his phone, and I dialed thirty seconds later. The great detective answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, thanks for the alert. You gave me enough time to slip out of bed. Amy seems to think she has a right to a full night’s sleep on Sundays. What’s shaking?”

  “Same old shit. Panopolous thinks it will be somewhere in the watershed area in the next twenty-four.”

  “No way. What do you think?”

  “I actually agree with you. Too easy. And too easy to defend, or at least stall. Too many countermeasures. Costly ones, but countermeasures.”

  “Yup. Panopolous still in charge?”

  “Yeah, but we got a green light from the big guy. The really big guy. City agencies are quietly going to red alert, so by morning every cop in town will be decked out in Kevlar and hassling taxi drivers. Panopolous is a fucking steamroller. Takes no prisoners, and he’s really tough on himself. Anything new in the outside world?”

  “Word is starting to filter through the ranks. Probably won’t be a surprise tomorrow. How do the experts think the heightened alert will affect the bad guys?”