Alison was crouched against the exterior wall not far from the door, trying to get her breath. I don’t remember having exhaled, but my lungs were collapsed and running on empty. The first few breaths almost hurt, and then they felt good. Really good.
“You surprised me,” I said to Alison.
She nodded, still breathing deeply and not looking at me. “It had to be done.” That may have been true. That was true. No time for negotiation, but we could have made a run for it, turned off the power, and let the team deal with two trapped terrorists and five hundred grams of anthrax. That was not in the cards.
“You did great. Quick reaction and really good shooting. You saved the day, and a lot more than that.”
“Thank you,” Alison said, still sitting on her heels.
I was starting to dial Philos when I saw the emergency vehicles. There were a lot of them making a noise-and-light show. They were visible from a mile away. If I was in a normal state, I would have seen them the minute I opened the door, but this wasn’t normal. Anything but normal.
The hazmat unit was not the first to arrive, and none of the responders exited their vehicles until the fully protected hazmat team pulled up, exited their truck, and dressed us in isolation suits and surgical masks. We had become part of the problem. Philos was at the end of the parade. I had already told most of my story to Rizzo, the hazmat lieutenant, when Philos began debriefing me like a suspect or, at best, an underling.
“Why were you in that building? Under whose orders?” He had only begun to wind up.
“Hey, man,” I said, stopping him in mid-sentence. “We just saved the whole fucking airport, so don’t give me any attitude.” Philos was thrown by my response. He was meant to be. But to give credit where it is due, he recovered and smiled.
“Well, since you put it that way, sorry, and thanks.” His smile was broad and genuine. “Now, it’s important that you answer my questions. Yes, we are on the same side, and yes, you have been key to preventing the apocalypse, but we have accumulated a lot more background intelligence than you need to know. My questions need to be answered the way I ask them. I can’t worry about hurt feelings or being PC. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Representatives of every imaginable agency were on site, but none rushed to stake out turf. No one was comfortable with the possibilities, and a little knowledge bred wholesale fear. Once it was determined that we had not had direct contact with the anthrax source, the isolation suits were abandoned. In the unlikely event that we could have inhaled anthrax spores, we were ordered to begin a course of Cipro, which was gingerly handed to us without making contact. I swallowed the big white pills without water and offered my thanks without telling the team I had been self-dosing for days.
Philos picked out three members of his team, who disappeared into the red truck, emerged suited up in protective gear, and were dispatched with the hazmat team into the HVAC building. Alison was standing two cars away. She had gained control of herself and was speaking in a very animated fashion to Homeland examiners. Every once in a while I glanced over. This time her movement caught my eye as she surrendered her pistol to the agents. It was protocol after a shooting-related incident—justified or not—and they carefully bagged and identified the weapon.
As it turned out, we were questioned for barely ten minutes, which was ten times the duration of the event. Then they did the musical-chairs bit. We stayed in place and the interrogators switched. There was no opportunity for us to speak to each other. It was good policy, but it made me laugh. There was really nothing whatever to laugh about.
The government has a protocol for everything. After the anthrax attacks a decade ago, a decontaminating procedure was spelled out for every situation. In this case, there was no evidence that we were contaminated, infected, or otherwise compromised. The disease, anthrax, is contracted through breaks in the skin during direct contact with the infective agent. That didn’t happen. Pulmonary anthrax, potentially the most lethal form of the disease, is contracted by inhaling anthrax spores. I don’t think that happened. Human-to-human transmission is virtually unheard of. It requires significant surface contamination, followed by one of the previous two situations. That wouldn’t happen, either, but decontamination it was. In its simplest form, this entails disposing of potentially contaminated clothing and showering. Not too onerous a procedure.
The events of the evening still had a pulse of their own, and Philos and company were not about to send us home. The options for showering were a make-do arrangement in the hazmat truck, the locker room in the terminal, or the airport medical facility. But that was as public as transferring us to any of the local hospitals ten minutes from the airport. If they were going to control the flow of information, it had to start with limiting the circle of information. With all the preparation and training, there was no accommodation for a proper clothing wardrobe, particularly for women.
Alison and I were escorted back to the terminal by two babysitters. All incoming and outgoing flights had again been put on hold, and Terminal 4 was in lockdown for the second time in four hours. This time it had been evacuated . . . totally. Shop clerks were not given time to lock up, food was still on steam tables, newspapers were there for the taking, and breaking news on television was seconds from being obsolete. The arrivals hall didn’t look all that different from the interval between planes, but the undercovers weren’t in character. They were manning posts and watching doors. The Homeland office was a beehive of activity. All the buzzing around stopped precipitously when we walked into the room. No one backed away, but no one rushed up to high-five us or shake our hands. All conversation stopped. Every voice disappeared in mid-sentence. I could feel the eyes on me, and the only voice was the incessant Wolf Blitzer on CNN, and then all hell broke loose. My ears were ringing with congratulations. The enthusiasm of the feds for the NYPD would be short-lived, but this was our moment. I looked around for people on the job to share the glory. No foot soldiers, no suits, no brass, no Deuce.
Alison had a sweater with her bag, and one of the female agents contributed jeans and sneakers that looked right. She wore a men’s T-shirt under the thin sweater, but there was no disguising the braless look, and we both knew that would change what the boys were chattering about really quickly. The men’s locker room had the look of a secondhand clothing store, and I had my choice of a dozen shirts and nylon jackets, as long as I could live with being a walking billboard for Homeland or ICE. Finding pants that fit was easy, and I was all set. Our clothes were bagged and tagged by our hazmat keepers. Wallets, badges, money, phones, anything that was not conceivably a resting place for floating spores, remained private property. The rest was bound for the incinerator.
Alison grabbed her leather-trimmed canvas shoulder bag from the cubby in the office where she had stowed it, and we were ushered into Philos’s office. A videoconference with Panopolous was already underway. Philos made it clear that the private portion of the conference was over by announcing our presence.
“Here they are now, Mr. Secretary,” which made my ears twitch, since he usually referred to his boss as Connie. Panopolous sounded weird. He was anything but spontaneous, which was unlike him, and I was surprised that he wasn’t already en route. I felt like a winning quarterback getting a congratulatory call from a president who had been rooting for the other team. There was no reason I could think of for this sudden formality, unless the conference was being recorded, in which case everyone in government was always in CYA mode. Panopolous finished with serial platitudes, also very much unlike him, and thanked us for our service to the country. I was waiting for the bit about the gold watch. It was that bad. He wasn’t my boss, and I liked the guy enough to call him out on his peculiar behavior, but those were the same reasons I decided not to push the issue. We accepted the thanks of a grateful nation and the offer of a ride into town, but I had already called for a car and I needed a drink.
I told Alison my plan, and we headed for the eeri
ly deserted gate area. We strolled slowly and quietly through our private terminal, making nearly the entire circuit in twenty minutes, looking for a suitable bar. The big laugh was Panopolous, a restaurant at gate A5.
“Do you think he knows?” I asked Alison.
“I was thinking about one of those dopey sports bars without the sports or the dopes, but we can’t pass this up.”
“Why do I think we might regret this?”
“Come on, it’s just a drink.”
The place was more a restaurant than a bar, but the cocktail lounge was adequate, and with the lights low it wasn’t particularly unattractive. I had fun working the bottles with Alison sitting across the bar. From the bartender’s vantage point, it was easy to see why she would get instant service. I poured an ice-cold Pinot Grigio from the fridge and set about the elaborate ritual of shaking up a martini for myself. I filled the bathtub-sized glass with ice and water to give it a chance to frost up while I added a few drops of vermouth to the filled shaker, swirled and discarded it, added a generous pour of Belvedere over the ice, capped the shaker, and lifted it over my head.
“Twenty-five shakes. Pro-style,” I said, smiling. At nineteen my hands were frozen to the shaker and I quit.
“Wimp.”
I rimmed the cold glass with lemon peel, filled it halfway, and admired my beautiful creation. “Here’s to you, Annie Oakley.”
“And you, partner. Good work.”
“Good work.”
56
At eleven the terminal reopened and flights resumed. I had no more than three or four sips of my drink. That was enough for the medicinal effect I needed. I did not want to lose my edge, not yet. Alison got through most of her white wine, and we were sitting side by side on reasonably comfortable bar stools when the restaurant manager returned. He was surprised to see us. He was a slick, middle-aged restaurant type and figured pretty quickly that we had to be official. He told us we were his guests, and we had about half an hour while they closed up around us. There were two guys with the manager. I took the other men for busboys, based on their quiet demeanor, Hispanic features, and the fact that they did all the work. We stayed a few minutes longer, but the mood wasn’t the same. We both thanked our host effusively and headed out.
Coming up on midnight wasn’t the busiest hour for air travel. The only crowds were at gates servicing late-night flights to Europe. The nine- and ten-o’clock flights had been delayed, so there were pockets of action, but it was still an airport at midnight. I stopped at one of the television monitors we were passing just in time to hear that the airport had been shut down, and Terminal 4 evacuated in response to a bomb scare. No mention of anthrax or the shooting. I wondered how long that would last.
We went out front to look for the car. Even at that hour the curb was lined with black Lincoln Town Cars. Some had signs with the car number on white plastic boards bearing the name of the service; other drivers were standing at the exit trying to hustle fares. It did not appear that any of the cars in the first rank were privately owned vehicles; nor were any from Empire Limo. I had to find the number for Empire on my contact list, which consumed my attention. Alison had her phone out as well and walked under the canopy away from the terminal exit. Though I saw her wander off, I have to admit it simply didn’t register danger.
Maybe it was the screech of tires that brought me back, but for the second time tonight I saw Alison assume a combat position with both hands around the grip of a pistol. It looked just like the Beretta 84FS automatic that had materialized earlier. My mind was fixed on how she got another gun and not why she had that gun drawn and was prepared to use it on the arrivals drive of John F. Kennedy International Airport. A black SUV had turned and skidded to a stop, nose to the curb. The passenger door swung open and a man exited low, using the open door as cover. He was wearing blue jeans and a dark hoodie and was firing before his shoes hit the pavement. Not much of him was visible. He looked white, and he was professional. Alison returned fire, each of four semiautomatic muzzle flashes followed by the peculiar thud of lead into a hollow steel door, and the tinkling of ejected shell casings on the cement. Then the head went very low, and the pistol nosed around the bottom of the door.
“Alison, low,” I shouted. As I said the words, two shots rang out and Alison dropped to her knees in slow motion. I knew immediately that she was done, even as I began to run to her. The way she was hit in the chest and the way she folded. It takes a devastating injury with a large-caliber weapon to stop a human cold. It was bad. I hadn’t taken three blind steps when I heard shouting.
“Drop it. Drop the fucking gun, Rodriguez. Now.” The voice was Deuce’s. No question. Before he could say it again, the SUV sped off, grazing the front fender of a parked car and leaving Rodriguez, the man in the hoodie, in the open. He raised his pistol to fire. He was completely exposed, unprotected, and undisguised. It was over, and he began firing wildly. Two more shots rang out from behind one of the parked Town Cars. Rodriguez spun out and wobbled along the driveway. Another shot and another hit somewhere on his upper body, and he began to cry.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. I’m hurt. Don’t shoot. Call a bus, call a bus. I’m hurt.”
“Drop your weapon,” Deuce commanded. Rodriguez threw the pistol down and raised his hands.
“All right. All right. Call the bus. Can’t you see I’m hurt? Please. Officer down. Officer down.”
“Fuck you,” Deuce shouted, coming out into the open.
Deuce had his pistol on Rodriguez, and as he approached, I thought he was going to fire again, but he didn’t. Before Deuce could cuff Rodriguez, I was on the ground with Alison, but it was more for me than for her. Her face was peaceful and beautiful, but there was nothing left.
She was dead. I lifted Alison’s head onto my thighs and stroked her hair. I cried. I didn’t make a sound. I just cried and stroked her hair, and cried. And when her face was wet with my tears, I said, “You done good, kiddo, you done good.”
Epilogue
It was more complicated than I had expected. Isn’t it always? Bear with me, and I’ll tell you what I know, which probably isn’t everything. It has been a month now, and I feel more attached to the memory of Alison than I should. That’s the way it happens. I was never sure I was in love with her when we were together, but I’m mourning her like I was. Maybe I was. Worse things have happened.
There was no time for boredom or banality in a relationship with Alison. She was mysterious, brilliant, and beautiful. She was warm, and hot, and she was a criminal.
Panopolous and Deuce were on to her before I had an inkling. I never really suspected anything until she pulled that handgun at the airport and was so quick to kill the two terrorists. Not that it was a bad thing, but it was not a natural reaction. That is, not unless you had been involved in drug-smuggling with them and couldn’t afford to have them taken alive.
Deuce actually worked it out first. There had to be a New York connection. A doctor to remove the breast implants. They couldn’t simply kill the mules. That might work in the final play, but as an ongoing business, the NYPD would take serial murders very seriously. Alison was the one. She was a perfect fit for MI6, and they put her into the case. At first it was just information-gathering, and she used Farzan to facilitate it. She was doing her job. Then she became the New York connection. She removed the implants and handed them off to Rodriguez and Griffin. Two bent narcotic cops. Two wealthy, bent narcotics cops. Rodriguez bought her act in every way. Alison became a partner until she wanted out. Rodriguez thought MI6 was his partner. That made him feel safe. Then Alison must have found God. She broke with them some time before she took up with me. At least I think it was before. The dates get fuzzy in my head. Anyway, Rodriguez played rough, and Alison was frightened. When the terror connection surfaced, they all wanted to distance themselves from it. Alison was a dangerous loose end. Rodriguez set the stage by dropping hints about her involvement. It all looked like it was going to break right for h
im. Alison had been quick to off the two baggage handlers. They were American-born and true believers, and they were the last two people who could have connected her to the drug ring. That could look bad for her. And even the shootout that eliminated her might have made Rodriguez a hero.
But then there was Deuce. He and Panopolous were isomers, mirror images, and once they got used to it, they made quite a team. They were smart, rough around the edges, secretive, and well connected. Between them, they had half the English-speaking world looking for Tahani. He was the key. And when they pulled him off a flight to Tehran, he gave Alison up. It was Deuce who convinced Panopolous to let her tag along on the airport operation. I have no idea who else was in on the secret, but I wasn’t. I’d like to think that Deuce was joking when he said he wasn’t sure of me, but I wouldn’t blame him if he had doubts. He was missing for much of that final day and a half, trailing Rodriguez. It was a one-man operation. Good as it is, the NYPD has more leaks than a rusty faucet. The only way to run a quiet sting on a guy on the job was to hand it off to Internal Affairs, and no street cop would do that. Especially not Deuce.
In the end, Alison just wanted it all to go away. She was certainly no terrorist, but self-preservation came first. Probably always did. She may have loved me. I’d like to think so, but it didn’t matter. It was over.
Wendell Black, MD Page 30