by J. B. Turner
Blake leaned back in his seat and shook his head. “In the name of God.”
A few moments later, once the enormity of what they faced had sunk in and everyone had composed themselves, Horowitz answered a few more technical queries about the virus and when the anti-virals and vaccine would be ready, Meyerstein took questions for another fifteen minutes, most focussed on the whereabouts of Scott Caan. The tone was business-like and brisk. No one was panicking or pointing fingers. It was just a matter of let’s find this guy, let’s neutralise his threat and let’s destroy the organisation and people behind this attack. A media blackout was agreed, as no one wanted widespread panic.
“One final thing,” Meyerstein said. “We need to shut down the Washington Metro system. We can blame electrical faults. But we’ve got to close it down until this threat has passed.”
Blake shook his head. “That’s not gonna happen, Martha. If we closed it down the word would leak out why the whole Metro had ground to a halt. You could guarantee it. And then all hell would break loose.”
“I’m sorry, sir, and with respect, but we cannot have people riding the Metro until this threat is over.”
“The Pentagon is of the belief that if this gets into the hands of the transport authority, then it will definitely leak out. Mass panic guaranteed.”
Martha struggled to contain her fury. “Then it should be on a need to know basis. We need the cooperation of the Metro Transit Police. But we need to close down this threat.”
“Martha, the decision has been made. Fine, let one person at the transit police know. The chief. He’ll cooperate. He’s ex-army. But the Metro has to stay open or this whole thing will come out.”
“You can’t think about it like that. The risk of people being infected is huge. And the personnel within the Pentagon. You can’t risk this.”
“Martha, the decision’s been made. Let’s find this Scott Caan and neutralise him now.”
After the Gulfstream landed at Dulles, Meyerstein and her team were whisked the short distance to Arlington and then underground into the Pentagon Metro Station. She saw plain clothes FBI Special Weapons and Tactics operatives in evidence on the platform as she was taken to an office, which overlooked the platform.
A burly man stepped forward. It was Lester Michaels, chief of the Metro Transit Police. “What the hell is going on?” he asked. “I was told you might have answers.”
Martha stared back at him. “I’ve checked your resume. You have classified clearance, you’re former army intelligence; you know the drill, right?”
“That’s right.”
“If this leaks out, you will be hung out to dry. Do you hear me?”
“Do you mind telling me what the situation is?”
“The situation is, we believe a man with bioweapons is planning to release them at this very station. We don’t know when. Or even how. Now, have I got your attention and absolute cooperation?”
Michaels just nodded, expression neutral. “Most certainly. What do you want from us?”
“I believe you have counterterrorism officers on your team?”
“Twenty.”
“I want them all assigned to only the line through Pentagon Metro. I want them to work alongside the FBI on this very sensitive operation. Can you do that?”
“I can do that.”
Meyerstein handed him a printout of Scott Caan, before and after. “This is the guy. He’s white. In his thirties. Has had non-invasive surgery in the last forty-eight hours.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Botox injections, collagen filler around his cheeks, nose job. Should be noticeable, although he might be wearing a hat, maybe a wig, makeup. We need to neutralise him. He may be carrying containers of biomatter which he intends to release in carriages, perhaps on the station concourse.”
He looked at the photos and shook his head. “Is this for real? This ain’t some dumbass training exercise is it?”
“Sadly, this is as real as it gets.”
Her cell phone rang interrupting the conversation and she signalled that she needed to take the call. “Yeah, Meyerstein speaking?”
“How are you?” It was Reznick.
She placed a finger in her ear to block out a train pulling up. “I’m sorry, this isn’t a good time.” A rumbling sound in the background. “Jon, where are you?”
“In Washington, the same as you.”
Meyerstein froze. “What are you talking about?”
“Why don’t you come out and ask me?”
Meyerstein looked at a monitor showing the platform and gasped. Staring back up at her was Jon Reznick, cell phone pressed to his ear.
THIRTY-ONE
Two Feds both sporting dark overcoats walked up to Reznick as a phalanx of officers surrounded Meyerstein. The taller of the two Feds stood in front of Reznick. He had to be at least six nine and weighed over two hundred and twenty pounds.
“We need to search you,” he said.
Reznick put his hands on his head. “Go right ahead.”
The man expertly patted the angles and rifled through Reznick’s jacket pockets. He produced the miniature GPS receiver and the cell phone. He handed them over to his colleague who bagged the items. “Now, I’m going to search you once again for hidden weapons. Are we OK with that?”
Reznick nodded but said nothing.
Again, the man patted the angles and rifled the jacket pockets, patting around the ankles for knifes. Then he patted the chest and back for hidden guns. But Reznick wasn’t packing.
The huge Fed turned around as Meyerstein approached. “He’s clean.”
Meyerstein brushed past her colleagues and stood staring at Reznick. “I thought we were done.”
“So did I.”
“You mind explaining why you’re here?”
“Does it matter why I’m here?”
“Jon, let’s quit playing games. How the hell did you find me?”
Reznick shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal? Trust me, it is a big deal. So, you wanna explain yourself?”
Reznick said nothing.
Meyerstein stepped forward, her face within a few inches of Reznick’s. The smell of her fresh perfume again. “Look, either you tell me how you found us or you’ll be hauled away in handcuffs, your call.”
Reznick let out a long sigh. “You have a secure cell phone, right?”
Meyerstein nodded.
“It also has GPS. I know a guy who provides a service to private detectives. If he has a cell phone number, he can pinpoint a cellular call to within a twenty-five metre to a hundred metre radius of the caller. He just pings the cell phone. Even secure cell phones. Should try it some day.”
Meyerstein stood, face impassive. Nonplussed, big time. He found her very attractive. Her simmering anger was controlled, which he liked. And he could see she wasn’t scared of him. He liked that. A lot. “I assume you know that is illegal.”
Reznick said nothing.
“Look, Jon, I’d have thought you’d want to spend time with Lauren.”
“There’s nothing more I can do at the hospital. She’s coming out of the coma.”
“Don’t you want to be there for her?”
“It’s not a question of wanting to be with her now. It’s a question of making sure she has a safe future. You heard the threats against my family. Well, I want to try and help you. In any capacity I can.”
“Jon, that’s not going to happen. This is not your fight.”
Reznick stared back at her. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Meyerstein stared him down.
“Do you mind if I put my hands down?”
Meyerstein nodded.
Reznick lowered his hands and felt acutely conscious that all eyes were on him.
“Look,” she said, “we are dealing with a very serious situation here, but it’s all in hand.”
“Is it? I’m offering to help in any way I can. Advice, situational awareness, you name
it.”
“We have our own experts, Jon. Besides, the FBI has rules.”
“You know the first rule I ever learned when I joined Special Forces?”
Meyerstein shook her head.
“The first rule is that there are no rules. You’ve got to use your initiative. Like you did down in Key West. Don’t be restricted by some dumbass rules and regulations. Are you serious about finding the people behind all this?”
“Jon, look, I don’t have time for this.” Meyerstein signalled to the huge Fed to take Reznick away. The guy reached out to grab Reznick’s arm, but he easily shrugged him off.
Meyerstein nodded to the Fed to hold off.
Reznick said, “OK, answer me this. Did you manage to trace the guy who called me on the hospital phone?”
Meyerstein shook her head. “We’re working on it.”
“What about the bio-terrorism threat? They’re targeting Washington, aren’t they? You’re trying to track them down, right here and now. Is that it?”
“Look, I can’t say any more.”
“You don’t have to. I can help you.”
Meyerstein let out a light sigh.
“Look, I handed over the scientist to you. And you let me get my daughter. But don’t shut me out now.”
Meyerstein looked at him long and hard as if trying to figure him out. “Jon, I have specialist FBI units who train for this kind of thing.”
“You don’t think I know that? You wanna know who trains them?”
Meyerstein said nothing.
“Guys like me. I’ve trained countless teams at Quantico or down at the Farm down the years. I’ve trained SWAT teams, you name it.”
Meyerstein’s cell phone rang. “Don’t move,” she said, and walked towards the rest of the Feds on the platform. She put her cell phone into an inside pocket and was handed another cell. She nodded as she listened to whoever was on the line and glanced round occasionally to check on Reznick. Five minutes later, he heard her say, ‘Yes, sir, right away.”
She handed the cell phone back and approached Reznick, flanked by four Feds.
“There are two ways we can work this,” she said. “The smart way or the dumb way. The smart way you go with my men to an FBI mobile command center in the parking lot of the adjacent mall. The dumb way… The dumb way, well, let’s not go there, Jon, what do you say?”
Reznick said nothing.
“Look, this isn’t your fight, Jon.”
“Isn’t it?”
Meyerstein ran a hand through her hair and he saw the steely expression on her face. “I don’t know if you’re just nuts or what.”
“I aced all my psychological tests. I work better than almost anyone on the planet under extreme stress. Look, any fucking malcontent can kill or pull the trigger. But it takes a certain type of person with real expertise to make sure you get the right target. Can’t you see what I’m saying? I can help you.”
“Goddamn, what’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me? I don’t know when to quit, that’s what’s wrong with me. Never have. And not when my family’s involved.”
“This is personal now with you, isn’t it?”
“Someone kidnaps my daughter and you ask if it is personal. What do you think?”
“I’m having a real bad day, Jon. This doesn’t help me one iota. It’s only given me another headache.”
“Look, I didn’t come all this way just to kick my heels. So, do me a favour. Let me in.”
Meyerstein shook her head and smiled. Then she turned and walked away as her team of Feds surrounded Reznick.
THIRTY-TWO
It was a seven-minute drive under leaden December skies from Arlington across the 14th Street Bridge to the FBI’s HQ in downtown Washington. Meyerstein sat up front in the passenger seat beside the experienced driver, Will Collins, with the three of the most senior members of her team, including Stamper, crammed in the back. No one spoke during the short journey and Meyerstein welcomed the quiet time to think through the fast-moving investigation. She thought of Caan. Then she thought of Reznick.
They were nearing the end game and Caan was somewhere in America’s capital city. She knew her team were closing in. But she couldn’t help wondering if they had covered all the bases.
She noticed her hand, which was resting on her lap, shaking, but maybe that was down to caffeine and lack of sleep.
The traffic was bumper-to-bumper as they crawled through the downtown traffic. Eventually they pulled up at the security booth at the entrance to the FBI’s parking garage. She flashed her plastic ID badge to the armed security officer who scanned it with a mobile reader. Then the rest of her team did the same. A beep from the reader confirmed their identities and they were waved through to her designated parking space.
Meyerstein and her team took the elevator straight down to the command center on the fifth floor. The air of tension was palpable. Ninety per cent of the team were on the phone, some were ringing unanswered, printers churning out the paper, updates being shouted across the room, tasks being given, TV stations on the news channels.
“OK, people,” she said, clapping her hands to get their attention, “let’s try and keep it down. We need to focus. First, can we bring up the map of the Washington Metro network on the screens?”
A Metro expert, James Handley, who’d been brought in, clicked a computer mouse and it duly appeared.
“OK, James,” Meyerstein said, taking her seat. “Gimme an overview and we’ll take it from there. And keep it broad-brush.”
Handley got to his feet and pushed back his chair. “The Metro network includes five lines, eighty-six stations and one hundred and six point three miles of track. The system makes extensive use of interlining – running more than one service on the same track. There are five operating lines and one line under construction.”
Meyerstein interjected. “And we’re not just talking about one jurisdiction, right?”
Handley nodded. “There are forty stations in the District of Columbia, fifteen in Prince George's County, eleven in Montgomery County, eleven in Arlington County, six in Fairfax County, and three in the City of Alexandria. About fifty miles of the Metro is underground.”
“How many stations are underground?”
Handley cleared his throat. “Forty-seven of the eighty-six stations. Track runs underground mostly within the District and high-density suburbs. The Metro system is not centered on any single station, but Metro Center is the intersection of the Red, Orange and Blue Lines, the three busiest lines. The mezzanine level of the station contains side platforms for Red Line trains traveling towards Glenmont and towards Shady Grove. Orange Line and Blue Line trains traveling in both directions share a center platform on the station’s lower level.”
Meyerstein stood up again. “OK, that’s enough, thanks. So, the Metro Center is the hub. That may or may not be important.” She turned and looked at the screen showing the network layout. “Bring up Metro Center, facts and figures and maps, entrances, whatever.” She scanned the details and something jumped straight out at her. “Hang on, hang on.” She focused on the Metro Center layout on the huge screen, in particular an adjacent area of the building’s plans showing a hotel. Her twenty-five years within the FBI had honed her analytical skills. But there was something else. Intuition, perhaps. Then again, maybe it was just a hunch.
Handley asked, “What is it?”
Meyerstein looked around at the group and pointed at the map. “This is The Grand Hyatt. A rather nice hotel in the Penn Quarter. A rather nice hotel with…” She let the words hang in the air.
A few puzzled faces again.
“What’s so special about the Hyatt? Haven’t you been there, guys?”
A few shrugs and pensive faces.
Meyerstein looked around the group and smiled. “The Grand Hyatt, apart from being a rather upscale, also has…” She again let the words hang in the air. “Come on, people.”
Stamper put up his hand. “The
Grand Hyatt has lobby access to the Washington Metro system.”
Meyerstein nodded. “That’s absolutely correct. You can enter the Metro direct from the lobby of the Hyatt.” She pointed across at Freddie Limonton. “Run the face recognition program for the cameras in and around the Hyatt. How long will it take?”
Freddie punched in some keys on his laptop and nodded. “If he’s been there, a few moments.” The few moments seemed like a lifetime to Meyerstein. “OK, we got something.” He pressed a couple of keys and three images appeared on the screens.
A casually dressed man with collar length blond hair wearing a button down pale blue shirt, slacks and tan shoes, a brown satchel slung over his shoulder, and carrying a quilted navy jacket. He clicked another button for a close-up shot.
“Scott Caan, leaving the Hyatt, forty-two minutes ago.”
Meyerstein felt herself grinding her teeth. She moved closer to the screens to get a better look. “Shit, he’s on the move, people! Get this image out to all our guys. He’s probably wearing the navy coat.” She looked across at Freddie. “Get on to the Hyatt. What name has he been signed under? When did he arrive? We need to search his room. We need a team on the ground at the hotel now. OK, run this image for all stations on this line.”
Freddie punched a few buttons. A minute later another image appeared on the screen. “This is Scott Caan getting off the Blue Line train at Crystal City.”
Meyerstein stepped within a few feet of the huge screens, the image of Caan looming large over her. He was now, as she thought, wearing the blue jacket and still carrying the satchel. “Damn. That’s two stops further down the track than the Pentagon Metro. What the hell is he playing at?” She turned and looked round at her team. “Crystal City is home to numerous defense contractors and satellite offices of the Pentagon. Is that what this is about? Is this a stopping off point? A base camp. Let’s open this up, people. I want your take on why Crystal City. Are we missing something?”
Jimmy Murphy, a senior all-source analyst, who analyzed threat information from multiple sources spoke up. “Well, as you’ll know, a lot of Crystal City is underground. They’ve got a huge underground mall. Look, this guy is going to extraordinary lengths. He’s having his face changed. He’s got a new look. Maybe he’s done the run through of the station. Is he checking that there’s nothing out of the ordinary en route? This is meticulous detail. Does he suspect a tail?”