“We don’t know who our enemy is, and it’s too late to worry about it.” He bounced his pen a few times. I kept waiting for it to fly across the table, but he was in a zone and the repetitive action was hypnotizing and remarkably well timed. “As I said, we expect them at JFK in the next day or so. So, at the very least, we’re looking for a gay guy with big boobs . . .” There was spotty laughter around the table, and Panopolous wore a big, Cheshire Cat grin, then more laughter. “Not PC, and my apologies to the ladies.” He bounced his pen again and almost regained his composure. Even Humphreys smiled broadly. “Okay, okay, not a joking matter, but imagine the headlines. The Post will have a field day.
“We do know that the only mule so far identified was an Asian partial transsexual, though the fine points are beyond my pay grade. I think that once the sex-change surgery begins, the transsexual designation is appropriate. The persons involved are believed to be domestic workers employed in Saudi Arabia or the Emirates. We have no reason to assume this pattern will change. In fact, there is evidence that it will continue. We assumed there was an Iranian connection. But the nature of the potential attack has al-Qaeda written all over it. Particularly agents allied to the AQAP bunch in Yemen.
“More pressing than knowing the mastermind, we need to figure out who to look for and where they are heading. I still believe the water supply is a great method to distribute anthrax. Deaths aside, and there could be hundreds of thousands, the chaos and economic upheaval would be unimaginable. Even with the new filtration system for the Croton branch, there is no assurance it would filter effectively enough. If we close the entire system and raise the chlorine content, there is no definite all-clear date for the water. Even if nobody dies, the fish are gone and we’re fucked. I say it’s the water, and we can’t let it happen.
“Among other good guesses this morning was Grand Central Station. Just drop a bag of anthrax and walk away. You don’t just sweep it up. That would be a good one. Any indoor arena would work the same: thousands of people in a confined space is where anthrax attack is most effective. The American Banking Association has its fall meeting at the Javits Center starting on Thursday. That would be symbolic. Then, there’s the big target: the United Nations. The opening session of the General Assembly begins Thursday. One hundred and ninety-two heads of state will be in town. The commissioner tells me his security detail is virtually the entire New York City Police Department, and Dell says the Secret Service pulls people from all over the country for the event. For the moment, it is only at the ambassadorial level. All that changes in seventy-two hours. The only way that target is feasible is an inside job. Somebody on the staff of a delegation. Dell, fill us in on that.”
Panopolous had been speaking without interruption, without notes, and without a filter. Battlefield conditions, and he did it well. Dell took a sip of coffee from the paper cup in front of him, and stood. He fidgeted and straightened his red necktie before beginning; obviously less at ease than Panopolous, he was no less confident and organized.
“Good morning,” said Dell. “Not too much to go over here. We have responsibility for protecting visiting bigwigs. Heads of state, foreign ministers, people of diplomatic status. You all know the drill: black SUVs with D.C. plates and guys in suits with automatic weapons hanging out of the windows on high alert while the president of the Ivory Coast speeds to the Four Seasons for dinner. Nothing we can do about it. But internally, at the missions and in the UN, and in the private cocktail parties and meetings, we are on the outside. Nobody frisks heads of state, ambassadors, counsels general, and deputies, and their assistants get a free ride as well. We are definitely outside the delegation. They are simply above the law. The NYPD lines the streets, keeps the traffic going, provides sharpshooters and anti-terror squads, but it doesn’t get inside. We are inside restaurants, stores, and nightclubs, all the public places, but not diplomatic functions.
“People living anywhere near the UN can’t even get home. Security is that tight. But that’s for outsiders trying to get in. Without a tip or blind luck, there is no way we would be able to contain an inside effort.” Dell stopped speaking and scanned the room. He remained standing, anticipating questions, and the varied pitch of all the voices starting simultaneously was the human version of an orchestra tuning up. Humphreys was among the speakers. The floor was yielded to him the moment his voice was heard. It was impressive. The tall man did not bother to stand. Dell quietly took his seat.
“I would like to take a step back, if I may.” He did not look to anyone for permission. “There is a Homeland Security office at every international airport in Europe. And there are backscatter or millimeter wave scanners at every airport as well. Particularly Heathrow. There are about thirty flights a day from Heathrow to New York. How hard would it be to be all over them for a few days?”
“What about flights from Gatwick or Stanwick and flights to Newark Liberty?” asked the chief of the Port Authority Police. His question turned a few heads—for interrupting Humphreys, if nothing else. Humphreys raised an eyebrow and seemed to be framing his response when Panopolous spoke.
“Forget about Gatwick and Stanwick, chief. Those flights are mostly charters cheapies, not business flights. They’re for working-class Brits, usually ticketed long in advance. It’s Kennedy because that is what they know. Newark Liberty? Who the hell ever used that name? Jesus.” That brought more smiles.
“They pay my salary, Mr. Undersecretary.”
“You got it, chief. Newark Liberty,” said Panopolous, yielding to Humphreys, who observed the exchange without apparent amusement.
“Mr. Panopolous is correct,” Humphreys began. “The pattern is Heathrow, and it should be easy enough to blanket. It may require that every passenger is screened, patted down, and interrogated, but we can stop this. We can ensure that no passenger with breast implants boards any of the flights in question. That’s easy enough.”
The civil rights argument was quick to rise. Not necessarily in support of the inevitable ACLU stance, but aware of it. I have to admit I couldn’t give a shit what they said. Inconveniencing a small number of people to save tens of thousands of lives is a no-brainer. Humphreys felt similarly. “I will take responsibility for whatever inconvenience the screening causes,” he said, to the nodding of heads.
“Director Humphreys,” I said. “I’m Wendell Black, a police surgeon with the NYPD, sir. I think we all agree with your position on screening, but if airport personnel are involved in the cell, then screening won’t be enough. We need a system to check the screened passengers against every person on the plane. And that has to be after the doors are closed. Otherwise we have no assurance that they haven’t gone around us.” I thought I was restating the obvious, but apparently Humphreys didn’t dismiss the thought. I figured I was on a roll, so I continued my stream-of-consciousness remarks. “And if we can ensure compliance, how seriously do we deal with protecting possible targets?”
“The water supply?”
“Among others, yes.” Panopolous tapped the director’s sleeve for attention. Humphreys raised his eyebrows as if he was surprised to have been touched. “Constantine, what’s on your mind?”
“Sir, if I may respond.” Panopolous rose. “We have to work on the theory that they can elude us at the airports. Or possibly change their port of entry. I do not think we can effectively protect the enormous city watershed from the Catskills to Croton to the Bronx. The rivers and reservoirs are exposed for a hundred miles. Sure, we might be able to guard the treatment facilities in the Bronx and the pumping stations, but the rest is open territory. Think of how poorly we patrol our borders. We can make a show of restricting access to the watershed areas, and we can rely on minute-by-minute testing and prepare to shut down and dump chlorine into the system at a moment’s notice and hope for the best. That’s the best we can do. Then we make a list of other targets and do whatever we can to protect them. But the director hit the nail on the head. Our best efforts have to be spent on preventi
on.”
A few minutes more and we began reentering the same circle, probably because we didn’t know what else to do. Homeland, MI5, and the Special Terrorism Task Force would screen every passenger boarding flights to New York City from Heathrow. At our end, Homeland and customs would head a beefed-up welcoming committee, beginning with flights scheduled to arrive this afternoon.
Something still didn’t seem right. It wasn’t just the frustration of an unknown enemy. The target was too obvious, and we were too confident about being able to intercept the perpetrators. I felt very uncomfortable. But what it was about was too vague to express. It was just that—a feeling. Even in the face of intuition, whatever that really is, scientifically trained people think in logical sequence. I was sure some of the others shared my discomfort, but no one spoke up.
Two hours into the meeting, Panopolous laid out the plan for deployment of security forces, most of which he would oversee directly. Humphreys would manage relations with MI5 and MI6. Police Commissioner Carey would be on the horn with the chief of the London Metropolitan Police, 24/7, and General Pearson would be our liaison with the rest of the world. How often the head honchos would meet was undetermined, or at least not announced to the rest of us. We were issued new, plastic ID badges, complete with photos and bar codes, to be worn on fresh HS lanyards. Amazing how efficient we could be when we wanted to.
It was half past noon. I headed home to collect Alison and catch a bite. It was unclear how much I would share with her, but the reality was that the only new insight was based on the idea of airport workers’ involvement, and that was her idea. I called the office before checking my messages. It took an effort not to scan the list.
“We are surviving without you, Dr. Black. The guys divided up sick call, and nothing pressing to report.”
“Calls?”
“The usual. Rodriguez, sounding wild, and Lieutenant Secondi.”
“Do I have to call them?” I was hoping for a no. Instead, I got “Rodriguez immediately, and Secondi whenever you can.”
No surprise. Fucking Rodriguez.
42
The beautiful morning had clouded over with my mood. Time was flying by, and the barriers to attack seemed like a rake with broken teeth. I got to my building quickly enough and stood outside, trying to get through to Alison on my cell phone. When she didn’t answer, I headed in to the elevator. I must have been a bit distracted because I missed whatever it was that the doorman was saying to me. I had the phone to my ear and waved. Just then, the elevator doors slipped open, and Rodriguez and Griffin came out at a full run. The big guy slammed into me as he tried to take the corner around the concierge desk. He went low, gracefully righted himself like a speed skater, and kept moving. Rodriguez was ten feet ahead of him and shouting, “Go right.” And then they were gone. Not a word to me—I was invisible. There wasn’t much doubt about where they had been, but I didn’t know where they were going.
I lost my footing and fell back against the concierge desk, using it to stay on my feet as both Griffin and Rodriguez raced for the street. Instinctively, I followed. It didn’t take long to get up to speed. They split right and left. Predictably, I went left and found myself closing ground on Rodriguez. Pulling my shield from my pocket, I slipped the lanyard over my neck as I ran. It’s hard to tell the good guys from the perps in street clothes. Particularly the way young cops dress. I didn’t have a gun drawn—I didn’t have a gun at all, and Rodriguez would know me anywhere. But he was a loose cannon. Identifying yourself as a police officer is lesson one in staying alive in street action.
At the corner of Fifth Avenue, he stopped, looked both ways, then again to his right when he saw me. I ran toward him, and he swung around, grabbed my shoulders, and tried to turn me around face-first into the limestone façade of the apartment building on the corner. Instinctively, I resisted.
“Don’t fucking move. You’re under arrest.” He tried to wrestle my arms behind me, and then he reached behind his back for his handcuffs. This time I spun around, drove my left shoulder into his chest. As he staggered back, I put my left leg behind his knees, my hands on his shoulders, and pushed with all my weight. He went down like the sack of shit that he was, and I was all over him. I tried to pin him, but he was too strong. He couldn’t reach his gun because I was sitting on his midsection and blocking his movement.
“Stop it, God damn it, stop it, stop it,” I screamed in his face, but he kept squirming, and I was beginning to lose my seat on the bucking bull. I raised my butt a foot or so over him, and before he realized he was free, I dropped my full weight on his belly, knocking the breath out of him. Then I rose higher and quickly did it again, bouncing a hundred and eighty-five pounds on his midsection before he could inhale. As Rodriguez struggled for air, I levered the pistol out from behind his back and tossed it along the sidewalk to the building wall. I moved my knees to his shoulders, grabbed his throat with my right hand, and was about to go wild when my better judgment kicked in.
“I could kill you now. Don’t make me do this. Settle down. I outrank you here, you dumb fuck. Don’t forget it. You want to be a cop? You like being a cop? Then stop this shit.” I might have been getting through to him, but the adrenaline rush was definitely over for me, and I was getting shaky.
“I’m getting off you now.” I stood over him. “Get up slowly.” Which he did, moving tentatively and looking for his gun. Before he could start scrambling, I moved to the wall and had the gun in my hand. Just then, Griffin came around the corner and was trying to process the situation. The pistol was in my pocket and Rodriguez was up and making exaggerated motions of cleaning himself and straightening his clothing, which was so grungy to begin with that it was difficult to tell the difference.
“Hey, Griffin? Your pal here just slipped on his butt. Better come and help him.” Griffin seemed to buy it. No reason he shouldn’t. He didn’t come at me or pull his gun. I was watching every move, ready to react. Rodriguez was humiliated—that’s the only way I can explain his acquiescence. He rubbed the top of his head and didn’t mention his pistol.
“What are you guys doing here?” I asked Griffin.
“We know she was at your apartment, so don’t be cute. I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that.” His tone was sarcastic, and he had every reason to be.
“No, I don’t. Was she up there?”
“Yeah. She was there all right. At least, a woman answered the phone, but when we got in, she was gone.”
“How did you get in?”
“Building manager. Where is she?” Rodriguez hadn’t said a word. I wasn’t accustomed to Griffin doing the talking. He hadn’t said much since our first meeting. He was blunt and direct but not provocative, not even intimidating. The little guy, his partner, was the nasty bit of business.
“Did you have a warrant to enter my apartment?”
“Where is she?” Griffin snapped.
“Enough. Let’s stop this right now. First, you have to show a warrant or good reason to suspect illegal activity, or a clear emergency, to enter uninvited. You know that. No warrant, no entry, and it’s too late to document a line of bullshit. I’m not letting this go. I want some answers and some respect.”
They were about to protest the technicalities of when police surgeons can pull rank, but I was more certain of my ground than they were. It lowered the pitch of the moment. I had my hands stuffed into the pockets of my sport coat, the right hand around the handle of what felt like a Glock. I wasn’t sure if it was ready to fire, and I had no intention of finding out. The good news was that Rodriguez was too embarrassed about losing his weapon to challenge me.
But I wasn’t getting any answers. “Let’s bring this matter to your captain. I don’t like being accused, and I don’t think you have any evidence to sustain invading my home and harassing Dr. Withers.”
Griffin looked to Rodriguez.
“Get the car. I’ll stay with him,” Rodriguez said sharply. He was sounding like himself again. When G
riffin’s back was turned, I stood between him and Rodriguez, took the pistol from my pocket, and looked at it as I handed it over, barrel-first. It was a Glock. Nice weapon. Rodriguez took the pistol and stashed it in the waistband holster behind his right hip.
“That bitch is involved in this horse-dealing, and you know it.”
“Listen, sergeant, this is not about heroin trafficking. This is about bioterror. Bioterror in New York, not some minor drug deal that you think you know something about. Try and get that through your skull, okay? Now I’m going up to my apartment. Get off my case.”
“She’s a bad apple, doc. Mark my words. We’re going to get her, and you better not be involved, that’s all I can say. You’re obstructing a legitimate investigation, and that doesn’t smell right.”
Alison’s position in this was fair game for suspicion, but like I told Rodriguez, there was a lot more at stake here than a simple drug bust, and I had to keep my priorities straight. I could no longer care about one more minor heroin scheme when the lives of millions of people might be at risk.
I was about to give the building staff hell for allowing the two goons to enter my apartment without a warrant, but having just reminded myself how unimportant this sideshow was, I decided to let it slide.
“Dr. Black, I was trying to tell you about your friends who . . .” The doorman was in midsentence when I interrupted and waved him off.
“Not important, Henry. See you later.”
When I got to my apartment, I found the door wide-open. “Fuck!” I said out loud, to nobody, and walked in and looked around. Nothing was disturbed. “Alison, it’s me, Wendell. You can come out.” There was no answer. I kicked the door closed. And where the hell was Tonto? My question was answered soon enough. Tonto’s leash was gone and the service door at the back of the apartment was unlocked. I rang for the service elevator. Thirty seconds later, our much-loved AA operator, who was probably fifty and looked seventy, greeted me with a smile. “How y’all, doc.” Billy Joe’s jack-o’-lantern smile was hard to appreciate. Usually I would look away, as though I was trying to see who “y’all” was, to avoid staring. But I wasn’t in the mood for my own silly humor, and his smile didn’t bother me all that much today.
Wendell Black, MD Page 20