by David Grace
“We’ll have product in quantity in twelve to sixteen weeks,” the contact finally answered.
“Three months? What the hell am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“My employer will continue to make payments on the same schedule until the first shipment is ready. Tell your man to keep a low profile. If we have new work for him we’ll contact you in the usual way.”
The train began to slow. The contact stood and without a backward glance edged toward the door.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Of course, the s-Methyl-6 groups could, theoretically, be attached to any one of, well, dozens of common, relatively common, industrial chemicals to form all sorts of nasty compounds.” The chemist gave Kane a quick nervous smile. Smoker, Kane thought, noticing the pale yellow streaks in the valleys between his teeth where the drugstore whitening strips couldn’t reach. There was almost no odor on his clothes and no nicotine stains on his fingers so he probably wore gloves. Secret smoker. Probably less than five or six cigs a day or the gloves would be too much of a pain to put on every time. When they first met Kane had noticed a faint industrial peppermint smell infecting the chemist’s breath. A heavy mouthwash user, he probably kept a bottle in his desk and one in his car, no, probably Binaca in the glove box. The gold band on his skeletal hand was moderately well-worn so he had been married maybe ten or twelve years. He doesn’t want the wife to know he smokes.
“Now, next on the list is dihydrophenyl–”
“Uhh, hold up a second, Dr. Lammerman.” Kane held up his hand like a traffic cop. “Let’s see if we can shortcut this process. Instead of going through every substance covered by the proposed new regulations can we just zero in on the most dangerous ones?”
“Well, they’re all dangerous. If they weren’t they wouldn’t be on the list, would they?”
“Certainly some have a higher potential for harm than others.”
“That depends on what you mean by ‘harm.’ Is your, ummm, suspect, looking for materials that have the highest potential for effecting mass casualties, creating abusive drugs, easy weaponization, making incapacitating agents . . . ?” Lammerman flashed Kane another of his nervous smiles.
“We don’t have a suspect. We were hoping that we could figure out what chemical the individual wanted access to and then use that information to work backward to a pool of suspects.”
“Oh,” Lammerman said, in the tone someone might use after being told that his disease was incurable. “I’m afraid I can’t help you then. Every substance on the proposed list is, by definition, dangerous. They all have the potential to create vast harm, which is exactly why they survived the comment process and ended up on the final list in the first place.”
“Comment process? How does that work?”
“We’re supposed to call it the ‘comment process’ but I think of it more as the objection process or perhaps the appeal process.” Lammerman noticed Kane’s tightly clenched hands and hurried on. “We post an initial list for public comment. Anyone can object to the inclusion of any item. We review the objections and then we certify the final list. When it’s approved by Staff it goes to the Director. He either approves it or sends it back to Staff for further revisions. Director Brownstein had informally approved this list and was scheduled to sign the final draft when, you know, he disappeared. That’s why I say that everything on the list deserves to be on the list.”
“There must be some way to narrow it down.”
Lammerman held up his hands in defeat. “There’s no way I can filter the list without knowing what the . . . person is looking for. Of course . . . .” Lammerman cocked his head to one side. “Well, I could sort the list for you if that would help.”
“Filter? Sort? What’s the difference?” Kane asked, thinking, I’m a cop not a scientist, moron!
“Filtering,” Lammerman began as if conducting a freshman lecture, “is the process of using some criteria, in this case degree of dangerousness, to separate out a subset of data that matches the desired criteria. Sorting is the process of reordering the data to group items by shared attributes.” The chemist looked hopefully at Kane for some sign of understanding then leaned away from Greg’s angry scowl.
“In English!” Kane snapped.
“Ahhhh, I could group the items based on the kinds of threats they pose.”
Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Kane wanted to scream.
“Which are?” he demanded.
Lammerman paused for a moment then picked up a marker and turned to the whiteboard behind his desk.
“(1) Waterborne mass casualties,” he wrote. “Vector: Rivers, Municipal Water Supplies.
“(2) Airborne mass casualties. Vector: aerosol spray or fine powder in enclosed spaces – buses, trains, airplanes, sports stadiums, theaters and the like.
“(3) Contact contamination/illness. Vector: doorknobs, handrails, envelopes, product packaging.”
“(4) Ingestion contamination/illness. Vector: food items – restaurants, food carts, supermarkets, catering companies.
“(5) —”
“Hang on,” Kane called out. Lammerman paused with the Sharpie in mid-stroke and turned around.
“Yes, Agent Kane?”
“How many categories are we talking about here?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Ten? Twelve?”
“And all the items on this list can be divided into any of a dozen different threat categories?”
“Yes, but not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, it’s not that digital a result.”
“What the hell does that mean!” Kane half-shouted while thinking Kill Me Now!
“An item isn’t necessarily in just one category. It could be in two or three or even four.” Reading Kane’s confusion Lammerman rushed on. “Processed in one way a substance might be weaponized for distribution in water. Treated with a different process it might be incorporated in a powder that could be distributed as a semi-aerosol. There’s a cross over you see. . . . Should I continue?”
Kane stared blankly at the board and tried to think. “Fine. Send me the final sorted list as an email,” he said at last.
“Is there any particular order in which you’d like the threats grouped?”
“Surprise me,” Kane snapped and turned away.
In the car with the windows rolled up and the radio on Kane found himself screaming, “Stupid, fucking, idiots! Morons! The whole fucking world is filled with morons!” and pounding his fist on the steering wheel. From the corner of his eye he noticed the driver in the next lane staring at him. Kane gave him the finger and hit the gas leaving the guy stuck at the light while Kane jumped the yellow.
Fuck! Jason’s killer, that asshole Farber, was walking around out there someplace and Kane had no idea where. Brownstein had disappeared like some kid on a milk carton. Eustace was dead and the fucking Secret Service wouldn’t let him within a hundred miles of Hopper’s daughter. What else could go wrong? And then he thought about Allison Varner.
He had wanted to call her, had planned on calling her, had almost called her but . . . . Shit, I don’t need any more frustrations in my life, he told himself, knowing that it was a lie. It had been a week. If he didn’t call her soon . . . . Halfway back to the office he pulled into a Burger King lot and took out his cell.
“Hello.”
“Allison, it’s Greg Kane. Do you have any plans for dinner tonight?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Kane waited. Nothing. What did she expect him to say now – ‘How about tomorrow night? How about the next night? Is there any time in the next month when you can squeeze me into your fucking schedule?’ Screw that!
“Sorry to hear it,” he said in a tone that dropped about ten degrees. A heartbeat went by then another, then another. Ball’s in your court, sweetheart, he thought.
Allison glanced around her office. Most of the staff were pounding their keyboards or on the phone. A couple of the interns were
laughing, exchanging glances that had nothing to do with work, all of them as oblivious to her as if she were a desk or a chair.
“Nine o’clock,” she said in a voice that caught in her throat.
“What?”
“Same place as last time. Nine o’clock,” she said then hung up before she could change her mind.
“Son of a bitch!” Kane muttered and smiled. For a moment at least Lammerman and Jason and Eustace and Brownstein were all forgotten.
* * *
All the way back to the office something Lammerman had said nagged at Kane. What was it? What was it? For a moment he thought he had it and then it slipped away. As he was pulling into the employee lot he finally realized what was bothering him. The proposed regulations had been posted for public comment. Would the person behind Brownstein’s disappearance have tried to get whatever substance they were interested in removed from the list?
Kane didn’t think that a terrorist would draw attention to himself by asking HHS not to ban the chemical he planned to use in an attack but it wouldn’t hurt to review the list of persons who had posted comments. And, Kane realized, there was another reason for reviewing the public comments – they might point to somebody who could give him a better understanding of the relative risks of the items on the list. God knew they couldn’t be less helpful than Dr. Lammerman. That was something Danny could handle. As for Kane, he had a date to get ready for.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Kane thought she might be waiting for him in her room but a call on the house phone produced only a series of unanswered rings. He located her, as before, in the bar. The fact that she was sitting in the same chair at the same table he found disquieting on some primal level.
“Hi, Allison,” he said, hoping that his smile didn’t look as uneasy as it felt.
“Hi, Greg. Have a seat.” The glass at her elbow contained something cloudy and vaguely red and her face held the expression of a woman who had resigned herself to an uncertain fate. She finished her drink while he was pulling out his chair and waved to the cocktail waitress for a refill.
“Another of these,” she told the girl.
“What can I get for you sir?”
“Screwdriver.”
The girl tapped the order into her iPad and disappeared.
Allison stared at Kane like a gambler handicapping a horse for the next race. Or a breeder evaluating a stud, Kane thought. Tonight she wore a crisp, pale yellow dress, a gold bracelet and matching earrings. He couldn’t see her shoes but he bet that they matched the rest of her outfit.
“Is something wrong?” Kane asked in response to her blank stare.
“No. Is something wrong with you?”
“Yeah.” Kane barked a bitter laugh. “Lots of things, but that’s life, right?”
If Allison had planned to answer her reply was smothered by the girl’s arrival with their order.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?” She asked only because she was required to.
Allison shook her head and the waitress vanished.
“You look lovely,” Kane said, more to fill the awkward silence than because of any real interest in flattery. Allison stared at him a moment longer and seemed to come to a decision about a question he had not asked.
“You’re looking very dashing yourself,” she said and gave him a somewhat reluctant smile. “Have you caught any bad guys lately?”
“Unfortunately, it’s been the other way around.” Kane frowned and downed half his drink.
“What happened?”
Kane knew he wasn’t supposed to discuss work with civilians leastwise say anything depressing to a woman he was hoping to have sex with but almost against his will his frustration all came boiling out.
“My partner was murdered,” he told her and took another gulp.
“That’s awful. Do you have any leads?”
“I’m not allowed to know. Verboten. Don’t go there!” He felt his control slipping away and waved the empty glass at the guy behind the bar.
“Because he was your friend? They’re afraid that you’re too emotionally involved?”
“With Grant Eustace? That would be the day! No, I was banned from the case because the Secret Service took it over and froze me out.”
“I don’t understand. Wasn’t your partner with Homeland Security? Why would the Secret Service be involved?”
“Because my moron partner was off the reservation checking out a possible threat to Mr. Justice Hopper when he got himself killed and the Secret Service called ‘dibs’ . . . . Thanks.” Kane handed the girl a bill and picked up his new drink.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Allison replied once the waitress had left.
“Nothing to say.” Kane looked at the drink then put it down without taking a sip. “I’d better slow down. You didn’t come here to spend the evening with a complaining drunk. Sorry.” Kane pushed the glass away. “So, how’s your week been?”
How’s my week been? Allison thought. Compared to having your partner murdered? Boring? Drab? Empty? Numb?
“Pretty ordinary, I suppose.”
“What do you do?”
“Nothing very exciting,” Allison said in an offhand tone and briefly glanced away.
“Come on. I told you about my job. Fair is fair.”
She thought about dodging his question again, then gave in.
“I work for Senator Denning. . . . I’m his chief of staff,” she added finally in response to Kane’s stare.
“You’re the chief of staff for a United States Senator? That doesn’t sound like an ordinary sort of job to me.”
“You’d be surprised. It’s mostly just paper pushing.”
“That sounds more like what I do.” Kane laughed.
“I’m sure your job is much more interesting. What else are you working on?” Kane’s eyes seemed to lose focus. “Nothing secret, just in general?” Allison asked to fill the silence.
Kane’s thoughts seemed to return from wherever they had fled.
“Another case that’s going nowhere.”
“What can you tell me about it?” she asked and Kane found himself looking at a different woman from the one who had been sitting across from him only a few minutes before. Her expression of vague insecurity and cautious distrust had melted away and Kane felt himself responding to this attractive woman who now seemed sincerely, amazingly, interested in him. His blood began to quicken in his veins.
“It started out as a disappearance,” he began, “but now I’m convinced it was a murder.”
“Murder?” Her eyes seemed to glitter and she leaned forward in interest. “Who was the victim?”
“A mid-level bureaucrat responsible for keeping drugs and weapons of mass destruction out of the country.”
“Oh, my God. Do you think he was killed by terrorists? Were they trying to pressure him to let them bring something in?”
“I don’t know. I should but I don’t.”
“Do you have any suspects?”
“I can’t get into any details. We have some leads that we’re pursuing. That’s all I can say, more than I should have said actually. Besides,” Kane reached across the table and took Allison’s hand. “I don’t want to talk about murders and terrorists or any of that stuff. I came here to be with you. You are beautiful. You know I meant that, right?” Kane rubbed his fingertips across the back of her hand.
Until that moment Allison had been telling herself that she was just going to meet Kane and see how it went, that if he started getting clingy or needy or controlling or possessive or demanding or, or, or, then she was going to tell him, what? That he was the wrong man? That she wasn’t ready for that? That she just couldn’t be with someone like him? Maybe she was just going to tell him ‘No.’ But that was all a lie. From the instant that she had taken his call, deep inside she had known where this was going to end. Wordlessly, she stood and led him to the elevators and up to her room.
Tonight they took their time, more a g
rowing heat than a flash fire. Once their clothes were off she retrieved a tube of gel from the dresser and they took turns massaging it into each other’s skin. Something in the formula made it heat on contact and Kane felt as if he was being dipped in warm, scented oil that left a trail of sparks in its wake.
When they were finally done he caught his breath and noticed her staring at him, shadows filling the hollows of her eyes. It had been at about this point the last time that she had turned cold and seemed to want nothing more than to have him gone. Now he looked away, closed his eyes, and kept his mouth firmly shut. After a couple of minutes he heard her whisper: “Well?”
He felt like a man contemplating a fresh minefield.
“That was perfect,” Kane said, figuring it was a safe answer.
“Any other thoughts?” Allison asked a few seconds later.
“Life is good.” Let her try to make something out of that, he thought.
“Do you want to stay the night?”
There it was. A question with two wrong answers and no right ones. Stall.
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Well, do you?”
“I want to do whatever you want me to do,” Kane said hoping that she would tire of trying to trap him into giving her an excuse to cut him out of her life.
She was silent for a full minute then, out of the blue, asked, “Do you ever think about simplicity?” Since the question totally confused him, Kane said nothing. “I do,” she continued. “I think about it all the time. I want things between people to be simple, black and white, yes and no. No wondering, no complications. You just meet someone and you know exactly how it’s all going to go.” What was she getting at?