“What time is it now?”
“Three.”
“Three in the morning?”
“That’s the one.”
Rhoads heard Fallscroft release a long sigh. “We can take off at four o’clock straight up.”
“I’ll be there.”
“T.R., you’re not drunk, are you?”
“Not yet. You in?”
“It’s what they pay me for.”
87
New York
A stock quotation from the Wall Street Journal:
Closing price, Old Carolina Tobacco, Inc.
182 –2 1/4, Volume 11,162,000.
Second most active stock
88
From the Cincinnati Star:
Terrorist Stole Vending Machine Keys from Delivery Van
VIRGIL FILLS BUS TERMINAL VENDING MACHINE
WITH CYANIDE CIGARETTES
Four Cincinnati Fatalities Bring Death Toll to 385
89
The national news editors of USA Daily sat around the huge budget table and tried to figure out how to handle the wild reaction to Virgil’s $1.5 billion demand.
The publisher, an obnoxious, self-absorbed country-clubber who forced his inane twice-weekly conservative column on the paper and its readers, came late and disrupted the meeting in progress.
“We want to be super careful that how we handle this does not encourage Virgil to up the ante,” he said.
“Any more than we already have,” a senior reporter added.
The publisher ignored the remark. “Let’s see the headline candidates,” he said.
An assistant held up an oversized sheet.
Authorities Believe Surrender Offer Is Legit
VIRGIL TO GIVE UP IF CIG FIRMS DONATE $1.5 BILLION TO RESEARCH
Staggering Sum “Pocket Change” for $45 Billion Industry
The publisher read it and looked at the picture of the FBI press conference announcing the demand Virgil made in an interview with a Washington Post reporter. The publisher nodded. The assistant held up another headline.
Killer Made $1.5 Billion Demand via Washington Post
A DYING VIRGIL WANTS TO GIVE UP
IF CIG FIRMS ‘DONATE’ TO RESEARCH
Experts Say Virgil’s Cancer Is Likely Weakening Him
The publisher rolled his eyes. “You’re plugging the Washington Post? Are we going to include one of their subscription forms, too?”
90
Event Response Center
FBI Headquarters
The room was filled with FBI agents, terrorism experts from the United States Army and CIA, state police representatives, technicians, and other specialists.
Franklin, Brandon, Rhoads and a dozen others sat and stood around a conference table.
A huge map depicting all CYCIG crime scenes hung on the wall behind them.
Franklin, at the head of the table, held up a newspaper. “I take it everyone has seen this. The early edition of today’s Washington Post.”
The Washington Post’s Exclusive Interview with Virgil
VIRGIL: “I WILL QUIT FOR $1.5 BILLION”
Money to Fund Medical Research
“We’ll get to specifics of that situation later,” Franklin said. “But first, let’s get caught up on exactly where we are.”
Rhoads had finally come through and delivered what he claimed were the secret Midas files. They were exactly what Franklin had been looking for, and they corroborated the information Benedict had mailed to the DOJ. They probably wouldn’t help catch Virgil, but he was already looking past the CYCIG case to a major prosecution of Old Carolina and Pratt.
Franklin knew Rhoads had kept some of the best information back as a kind of insurance, but he had learned to trust him. Rhoads had delivered them the best lead so far, and if he wanted to make sure he got his payday, Franklin didn’t blame him. The guy had been a good cop, and now he was a private citizen with a family to take care of. Franklin didn’t see any problem with making it a win-win for both of them.
“It’s been twenty-three days since Event Day One, we have three hundred and eighty-seven dead, including three school-age kids,” said Franklin. “And about one hundred hospitalized, most with permanent respiratory damage. Plenty of them will die. There have been victims in thirty-six states. But the concentration of fatality sites, not including the FedEx barrage at the beginning, has been focused more heavily in the northeast corridor. We’ve had a total of two verified sightings. The man can walk into a crowded bus terminal in Cincinnati, refill a cigarette vending machine, and no one can say what he looks like. He’s Mr. Average, Mr. Unremarkable, the Invisible Man. Not even a consistent physical description, as you can see from the sketches.”
Franklin indicated a series of oversized wall-mounted posters. “You all have tapes and transcripts and reports of all of Virgil’s telephone calls, both to us and to other individuals and organizations. As a bonus, we’ve now had a total of twenty-one copycat incidents, mostly pranks just to frighten people, and none lethal, not even any serious injuries. For most of this period, our primary suspect has been Loren Benedict, a former scientist at the Old Carolina Tobacco, Inc. facility in Denver. Benedict disappeared from Old Carolina on 17 January, two years ago. Five days before that, someone, presumably Benedict, called the Department of Justice and then mailed in three pounds of files claiming that they were proof of Old Carolina’s conspiracy to covertly increase the nicotine levels in three of its major cigarette brands.
“As a bonus, Benedict included a copy of a secret internal report showing that Old Carolina held indisputable scientific evidence linking cigarette smoke to a dozen types of cancer. No one has heard from him since. And Virgil uses a gruff articulation to disguise his voice, so no one who knows Benedict can say Virgil is or isn’t Benedict. For what it’s worth, we’ve played the tapes for his mother and sister, and they’re convinced the caller is not Benedict. This is in line with what we’ve concluded independently. As of now, Benedict is no longer our prime suspect.”
Franklin took a sip of water from a coffee mug.
“Now,” he continued, “it’s time for reports on the most recent incidents and evidence. Assistant Section Chief Danny Maharis of the Forensics Unit will update us on the briefcase. And I should point out that much of this evidence is due to the efforts of our consultant, Mr. Rhoads.”
Franklin sat down and Maharis, a sandy-haired man with wire-rimmed glasses, rose.
“The evidence,” Maharis began, “was recovered from a dumpster in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, following a sighting of Virgil on Saturday, four days ago. Initially we believed that he had been pressured by some circumstance into abandoning the briefcase because of fear of apprehension, but subsequent events,” he said as he shot Rhoads a dark glance, “lead us to believe that the briefcase was, in fact, a plant intended, apparently, as communication of some sort. But we are not certain about that. However, thanks to the outstanding efforts of Frank Galton, we believe we’ve recovered two items of substantial forensic value that Virgil, we’re praying, doesn’t know he let us have.”
Maharis clicked a slide projector’s remote. An enlargement of a partial fingerprint appeared.
“The first of these items is a partial print, still unidentified, which all but eliminates Benedict as Virgil. Frank had the good sense to take apart the three-reel combination lock and scan partial prints from the unexposed surfaces of the reels. Virgil hadn’t wiped those surfaces clean. Then Frank compared them with known Benedict prints. Not even close. The second item…”
He clicked the remote again, and an image of a Bengal house cat appeared.
“… was a single cat hair. We traced it to a rare and exotic breed of house cat known as a Bengal. This turns out to be the most significant lead we have so far. There are fewer than thirty approved breeders of Bengals in the U.S., and maybe fifty or six
ty who are unregistered. As we speak, we are talking to every Bengal breeder we can find. And an additional item that was in the briefcase…”
Maharis leveled a scowl at Rhoads.
“… a videocassette, will be discussed by Dr. Myron Sorken, who is working in conjunction with the Behavioral Science Section.
“Based on analysis of the videotape and what the subject recorded, we are confident that the images were indeed recorded in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. We also think the date and time noted were at least fairly accurate, based on our study of the angle of the sun and shadows and the visible flora.”
Sorken rose slowly and walked to the podium, adjusted the microphone, and began. “Due to the attention focused on the suspect Benedict, my involvement with BSS in this investigation had, unfortunately, been limited prior to the recovery of the briefcase. We had been developing a profile that has been further enhanced and revised in light of the videotape. We are prepared to state positively that the perpetrator is a white male, of mid- to late middle age, perhaps of genius level I.Q., almost certainly afflicted with a terminal lung condition. His latent tendencies toward paranoid schizophrenia have been amplified considerably by his medical condition. He is, we believe, in a partially or wholly dissociated state and believes himself to be a kind of Messiah or avenger who is above human morality. To put it more simply, he believes he’s doing the right thing.”
A murmur, then someone whispered something about a Spike Lee movie.
“And,” Sorken continued, “his determination is fueled by that conviction. The content of the videotape is hopeless, forbidding, threatening. From the little we have to work with, Virgil appears to be planning a mass murder event modeled on the Nazi gas-chamber atrocities. The scope of which…” Sorken said with high drama in his voice, punching out each word with a finger jab to the table, “… we do-not-know.”
Franklin nodded to Sorken and raised the newspaper he had previously exhibited. “Dr. Sorken, how does the Washington Post demand fit into your profile? Is this consistent?”
“As a manifestation of the overall delusion, his seeing himself as divine, or nearly divine, he affirms it to himself, and to us, through acts of control and intimidation. It is not nearly so important what the demand is, but that we obey it, as the unfortunate follow-up to Mr. Pratt’s failure to make the required broadcast on 6 October makes clear.”
“If I can cut through some of your language here, you’re telling us he’s on a divine mission and he can’t be reasoned with, and he won’t stop until he’s had his holocaust,” Franklin said.
Sorken was pleased. “That’s right.”
“But he’s dying. Won’t it catch up with him at some point?”
“It’s always a possibility he’ll just expire, but many schizophrenics are capable of extraordinary feats of physical endurance regardless of their actual state of health. And if, as may well be the case, he is resorting to chemical stimulants, these will have a concomitant effect, increasing the psychosis and thereby further increasing both physical strength and stamina. At present, our judgment is that he is an exceedingly dangerous and formidable person and far from running out of gas.”
Franklin turned from Sorken and addressed the rest of the ERC. “The demand issued through his Washington Post interview was, of course, targeted at the tobacco companies, and Mr. Thomas Rhoads, chief security consultant at Old Carolina, will report on the steps being taken in those quarters.”
Brandon cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. He had confronted Franklin earlier and said, “What I’d like to know is why Rhoads is here and not in a cell charged with obstruction of justice, destruction of evidence, and accessory to first-degree murder.”
Franklin said, “You’re out of order, Brandon. Rhoads is here because I made the decision to include him, and because he’s helped us make significant inroads in the case. Understood?”
“Understood,” Brandon said.
Rhoads grinned and winked at Brandon before rising to speak. “Nicholas Pratt and the CEOs of the other seven leading cigarette manufacturers will be holding a joint press conference later in the week to announce how best to meet the terms and conditions for the transfer of one point five billion dollars to the research organizations Virgil specified. Their plans will be closely coordinated with you guys. I’m the go-between. Now, there is something that I’d like to say about the way you all have interpreted the evidence.”
Several agents sat up to listen, but many more shot each other mocking looks.
Rhoads let them settle down and said, “You are still underestimating him.”
“Oh come on!” Brandon said, slapping his palm on the table and looking toward the ceiling.
Rhoads enjoyed the outburst but didn’t register it outwardly. “A.S.C. Danny Maharis said the cat hair is the most important lead we’ve come up with. No way. If we have a cat hair,” he continued, “it’s because Virgil gave us a cat hair. The worst mistake we can make is to kid ourselves that we have any advantage over this guy. He’s made fools of all of us, every step of the way. I appreciate Director Franklin recognizing my contribution, but what have we really learned? We’ve learned that Virgil is feeding us information. He’s leading us. All I discovered is that fact. He intended for us to find the briefcase, and we now know that he intended it to tell us something about the evidence it contains. Every bit of it is part of his plan.”
Rhoads sat down. No one said anything.
Franklin walked to the podium. “There are differences of opinion in every investigation. The hardest thing for all of us is to remain objective. What we need to do is keep open minds about the evidence. We have two primary approaches at this point—first is that we have legitimate, solid leads on how to find Virgil, and that we are still a step behind. We may not like the second option—I know I don’t—but Mr. Rhoads has a point. One thing we can all agree on, just by looking at the map, is that Virgil is heading west. Okay. Thank you everyone, that is all for this meeting. Starting tomorrow, we will convene here each morning at oh-seven-hundred hours until further notice.”
The room cleared out with the exception of Franklin and Rhoads.
“Thanks for getting Deputy Fife off my ass,” said Rhoads.
“Brandon’s a good agent. You may not see eye to eye, but you’re both developing solid leads, so give him a break.”
“Oh come on, I got Jeeter’s videocassette to you within five hours. And you wouldn’t have gotten that tape at all without me. I’m sorry the Benedict angle didn’t pan out. But now you’ve got the Midas files, so no matter what happens, Pratt’s in your sights.”
“Some of the Midas files, maybe most. Thank you for that. You’re going to let me have the rest when this is over, right? Unless you have something to hide.”
“When you tell Pratt I did my part in solving the case and I get my money, you’ll get it all. And you won’t find anything that points a finger at me.”
“Good enough, then,” Franklin said.
Rhoads started out the door.
“One more thing, Rhoads. Something for you to think about. If Benedict isn’t Virgil, then I have to start thinking that Benedict is dead. That means, after we’ve stopped Virgil, a few folks at Old Carolina are going to have a lot of questions to answer about Midas and the missing scientist. You’re sure you don’t want to let me in on anything now, something that might make things swing your way later?”
“I told you—it wasn’t me. You need to be looking at Pratt and Valzmann. Hell, if it were me, I’d have people on Valzmann already.” Rhoads had read the rest of the files on the way to the FBI meeting as Fallscroft flew the helicopter. The specific details were missing, but it was clear to any trained investigator that Valzmann had been paid to make Benedict disappear. He had delivered the paper files, minus the most damning parts, and was happy that the disks were hidden at his house.
“You know we’r
e stretched thin as it is,” Franklin said.
“I know. Look, I’ll tell you most of it now. When they sent me to find Benedict, they gave me $200,000 to pay him off, to keep him quiet. When I didn’t find him, I gave Pratt the money back. But what happened to the money? When you get the rest of the files, you’ll see what I mean.”
91
Asheville
The jet-black limo eased up silently to the curb. Valzmann stepped out of a shadow and leaned his head in as the tinted window slid down.
“Nothing to worry about, sir,” Valzmann said, patting an envelope inside his jacket. “Rhoads didn’t disappoint us. He’s still as big a fuckup as ever. It took me two minutes to find the disks. They were just sitting out on his kitchen table under a pile of unopened bills.”
“You just took them?”
“There are four disks, none labeled. I had to leave, go to an office supply store in the mall and buy the same brand of disks, same color, and come back and switch them.”
“You sure the disks you took are the ones we want?”
“I’m going to go check right now, but I’m sure they’re the ones.”
“Good,” said Pratt. “Next step—find out if they have other copies.”
“That will require… personal interviews and, in all likelihood, application of pressure.”
“Let’s change the plans slightly. Instead of one at a time, you go get Rhoads and Dallaness. You go get them both as soon as you can set it up. Any minute one or the other will get the idea that there’s no time like the present to let the media have the disks. It’s important you get them together in the same room. And be careful, he’s so damned stupid, he might get… heroic. But you get them and bind them in chairs, turn Rhoads so he can’t see what you’re doing to her. Then you go to work on her with the pliers. Pinch a bit of the flesh along the underside of her arm to the thickness of tissue paper, and she’ll react. I know what that feels like. Rhoads will soon volunteer to answer your questions.”
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