Dead Promise

by Linda Wells

  Somehow, Max got to the steps. He held tight to the bannister, making his way down to the foyer. He didn’t remember turning the lights on. But then again, he didn’t remember much after the talk in the van with the redheaded FBI chick and her friend, whatever their names were. Not even the drive home. But right now what he had to try to focus on was the loud noise, so loud it had woken him from his drunken semiconscious haze. He smelled coffee; he knew that much.

  He walked down the center hall by the staircase, back toward the kitchen. The light was on, and the first thing he saw was the shattered window. He stepped onto the tile floor, feeling pieces of glass under his bare feet. The man’s body was facedown on the floor, and the back of his head was missing.

  “Jesus Christ, what the…” thought Max.

  The red stuff was spreading all over the floor. He froze. He backed up to the wall and switched off the light. Max wasn’t sure he was absorbing all that was going on. What the hell had happened here? Keeping his head low, he approached the body slowly, his bare feet feeling the crunch with every step. He bent down, knew this guy was dead. The guy’s left hand was extended outward, palm down, and Max saw the distinctive gold ring, just like the one he was wearing. Then he saw the Glock in the waistband, and he knew who this man was.

  “No!” Max screamed, as he bent over Greg, trying to find a pulse. Nothing.

  He felt tears running down his face as he knelt over the still body, placed his hands on his face, head down. He didn’t know how long he stayed there before he dialed HQ. He slid down the wall, not certain what was real anymore. He felt as if he had been punched in the gut. Again.

  “Damn it to hell, this should have been me!” he cried. “Where are you, Suzy? I fucking need you. God damn it, I have no life without you!”

  Max was shaken, still on the floor next to his friend, when the NCS agents and EMTs arrived. Everything became a blur as people filled his kitchen. Max was led to the living room sofa, treated for cuts to his feet, and given some coffee by someone who looked familiar, but he wasn’t sure how or from where. There were some uniforms, and then an NCS guy whom he had seen before. He must be a friend of Greg’s. Maybe he had seen him at Greg’s office, Max thought. The guy kept talking to him, asking questions that he couldn’t answer. Max wasn’t quite getting it. Everything was surreal. All he wanted was to wake up from this fucking nightmare, but he knew it wasn’t going to happen.

  18

  Georgiana was reeling from the news of Greg Hammond’s murder. The Organization wanted Max dead. No surprise there. He was a threat.

  “Damn!” she thought. “I should have placed Max in a secure location. Or at least kept him under surveillance. How could I have been so stupid?”

  The FBI had to keep Max alive to fill in the blanks on Suzy. George and Fran had agreed to keep an FBI presence at his house. Fran had contacts at the NCS. They were involved because of Hammond. The agencies were sharing information, except for one thing: that Suzy Chen was alive. Georgiana Reed wanted to keep it that way. And she wanted to personally question Colonel Maxwell Graham. She would do that later.

  George led the way back into the lab. Her plan was to check with the technician about the videos and learn as much as possible about the delivery of the avian flu samples and the switch of the vials. The FBI needed to know who planted the phony vial and whether that person had accomplices. The delivery personnel could have made the switch at the other end. Until they had hard evidence, they had to keep all possibilities open. Adams could be involved. The idea that Chen could have acted alone was a stretch. With her position at the lab, she could have gotten help without anyone knowing. Maybe even Adams.

  “Wally, anything on Adams?”

  “No, he’s seems to be in shock by this whole thing and super pissed. He admitted he screwed Chen over, which explains why he thinks she set him up.”

  “Where is he?” asked George.

  “He’s sleeping in the employee lounge. We aren’t going to take him in, not yet anyway,” answered Wally.

  “Any prints on Adams’s laptop?” asked Mark.

  “Only Adams’s. Looks like it was wiped clean. Our guys found some info on Beth’s laptop. Chen’s assistant. Guess she was another notch on Adams’s belt. She had it in for him, too, according to some personal e-mails. Maybe she wanted to set him up. She and Chen both had motive.”

  “Man, when did this guy have time to work?” asked Mark.

  George ignored the remark. “Let’s talk to Hank,” she said. “Maybe he saw what we need on the video.”

  She followed Wally to the small storage room where the video media were kept.

  Hank looked up when they walked in. He had been up all night, looked worn, but was still at it.

  “I think I have something,” he said.

  “Can you run it?” asked Wally.

  “Sure, I’ll run this one slowly. It’s not clear-cut, but I think this is when the vial switch occurred,” he said, setting up the video to the accurate timeline.

  They stared at the monitor, watched Chen pushing the cart with the vials and entering the lab. Then she appeared to dismiss the guards.

  Hank said, “She probably said something like, ‘Things are fine now; you guys take a break.’ Notice they were stationed outside the lab entrance leading to the containment room, where the H5N1 vials were to be stored. Watch Chen in the containment room. She leans over the vials, her back to the camera, and for an instant her head lowers, as though she’s looking at her shoes. Then she secures the case of vials and leaves the storage room. That’s when she could have made the switch.”

  Mark said, “Run it again.” After several more views, he said, “Freeze it, right there!”

  They all stared at the screen.

  “Looks like it could have happened then,” agreed Wally.

  “Makes sense, but we need something more concrete. But I agree. The switch probably took place then,” said George.

  “What about the delivery guys who brought the samples? Did they check out?” asked Mark.

  Wally said, “Yeah, they’re squeaky clean.”

  George said, “Mark this for evidence, Hank. Nice work. We need to send this to Quantico along with the computers. Wally, you’ll take care of that. I want background checks on everyone who works here, even the custodial and maintenance crew. If she had an accomplice, we’ll find him or her.”

  Mark said, “What about bank accounts?”

  George said, “Yes. Everyone who works here. You run with that, too, Wally.”

  “Will do.”

  “Can you handle things here?” she added.

  “Sure,” Wally answered. “What about Adams?”

  “Let him sleep for a while. We can decide what to do about him later. Mark and I are going to Georgetown.”

  19

  The Director was pacing in the living room of his elegant apartment, with the expanse of windows overlooking the Thames. The newly built high-rise was located in the trendy East End of London called the Docklands. He was too distracted to notice the two boats, the rowers nearly side by side, practicing for the upcoming regatta held in central London every summer. Normally, he was captivated by the speed and efficient, graceful turn of the oars. But not today. He kept playing with his necktie and collar, checking his watch, waiting for the call.

  The burner phone in his coat pocket rang. He answered and listened to the familiar voice. After a few moments, he responded.

  “No explanation is acceptable,” he said. “You blew it.”

  The person on the other end, his voice low and demanding, said, “I want one more chance.”

  The Director responded, “Only one.”

  He hung up. He had trusted this specialist to handle a removal, and he had failed. The Director was almost certain that Chen had told Graham nothing. But he couldn’t take any chances. Colonel Maxwell Graham had to be eliminated. Hopefully Graham would be dead within the week. Now, with the FBI and CIA involved, it would be more difficult.
But that wasn’t his problem. He’d given the specialist one more chance to eliminate the colonel. He knew the assassin would do his job correctly and expediently, now that it was his last attempt. If he wanted to get paid.

  The Director turned on the BBC. The news reporter was standing in front of the Wall Street sign in New York City. The street looked almost empty as he described the plummeting Dow; trading had been halted. Hospitals were starting to fill in the affected cities, and airline flights were being cancelled as the virus continued to spread. His Chinese friends must be pleased seeing their greatest rival scramble to control the deadly pandemic. The Director smiled and turned off the set. His plan was coming together, and this was only the beginning.

  He glanced at his watch. Chen’s sister should be arriving in Hong Kong very soon. The Chinese had kept their part of the bargain. They had also given him a huge sum for arranging the terrorist attack that would bring the US economy to a halt. Getting rid of Graham would ensure the protection of the Organization. He was feeling more than concerned that the matter had not been settled. The Director began pacing again. Damn the bitch! Her involvement with the colonel was a coincidence that he hadn’t expected.

  The Director hadn’t achieved his powerful position by accident. An extremely generous campaign contribution to a personal friend and US presidential candidate opened all the doors. And Dr. Suzy Chen had been the perfect choice. She had been easily convinced after she’d found out she had an identical twin sister living as a prostitute in Shanghai. Chen had been willing to do anything to rescue her sister. Especially after she’d seen the photo of Lee. The resemblance was remarkable, even to him.

  He walked into his study, richly decorated with brocade draperies, oriental carpet, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. He loved having a separate residence, which allowed him to keep his personal life personal. He sat in his leather chair, opened the center desk drawer, and unlocked the secret compartment. He took out the photo and stared at the image. Suzy was beautiful; if only she could have been his. That was his greatest regret. But she hadn’t been included in his plan. Too bad she’d had to be eliminated. He put the photo away and locked the compartment.

  The Director was looking forward to the celebratory dinner with his friendly business associates. Maybe it would distract him from the lingering worry he couldn’t quite shake. He was hoping for a special dessert at the end of the meal. The last time, he had gotten to sample two exotic young Chinese beauties whose advanced skills in pleasuring him brought such happy memories. His professional and social standing, not to mention striking good looks and bachelor status, opened many doors.

  He realized he’d better check in with his office. He picked up the landline on his desk.

  “Margaret, any messages?” he asked when his assistant picked up.

  “Nothing imperative, Mr. Ambassador,” she said. “I called for your car. It should be waiting.”

  “Thank you, my dear. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

  “You’re welcome, sir. Have a pleasant evening,” she said cheerfully.

  Margaret was a treasure. Not only was she detail oriented and officious, but she was discreet.

  He grabbed his raincoat from the stand by the door, stopping to look at his reflection in the gilded oval mirror above the foyer table. He straightened his pale-green tie, almost a perfect match to his eyes. As he waited for the elevator, he fantasized about what tonight’s dessert might be. But, hard as he tried, he couldn’t suppress his anger when he thought of Colonel Maxwell Graham. He hated loose ends. He wanted this one dead.

  20

  Chris needed to see Dave, but she knew she shouldn’t go into the isolation unit. She walked into the nurses’ lounge to get some coffee and said hi to the nurses and other staff who were on break. The room was quiet, everyone worn out from the stress of treating a steady stream of patients; many panicked, thinking they had been exposed to the deadly virus. Some of the nurses were staring at the television, a twenty-four-hour news station. A local reporter stood outside another NYC hospital, armed guards at the locked doors. The reporter was wearing a protective mask as she described the frightened, mob-like scene of patients and family members who couldn’t believe that they were being turned away because of overcrowding. The public’s fears were mounting as this unknown contagion continued to spread.

  Chris went into Dave’s private office, located at the rear of the lounge, closed the door, and sat down at his large, cluttered oak desk. Seeing his half-empty coffee cup brought back memories of last night. They had spent it together, making love and holding each other. She started to cry. Chris had controlled her emotions, until now.

  She grabbed the phone and dialed the isolation unit’s extension while wiping her eyes, which were burning with fatigue and reddened from crying. One of the nurses answered. Chris asked to speak to Dr. Frank Edwards, who had been unlucky earlier that morning, unknowingly admitting to the ER the first patient with the H5N1 virus. Frank had to remain in the unit, in charge of those admitted with the acute symptoms of the deadly flu.

  “Edwards here,” he answered, sounding impatient.

  “Frank, it’s Chris,” she said. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I need to know how Dave is doing.”

  “Chris, we don’t know anything yet. We did the blood draw, and we’re waiting for results. He has flu-like symptoms, fever, cough, but he’s strong, with no known health issues. All we can do is keep him as comfortable as possible.”

  “Can I see him?” she asked.

  “He said to keep you out of here,” he said.

  Frank knew about their affair. Everyone in the hospital knew. If she put herself at risk, she would lose all credibility as head nurse of the ER. Not to mention, she would risk her life. She’d been exposed already, and God knew if she was going to be next.

  “I know, Frank,” she said. “Please tell him…” She hesitated, trying to find the right words. “Tell him that things are under control in the ER and that I’m fine and wish I could be with him,” she said.

  “Will do, Chris,” he answered. “We’re doing all we can. Guess it’s a war zone out there.”

  “Yes, there are always some assholes causing problems, looting pharmacies and grocery stores. And the virus is spreading. Many local hospitals are beginning to fill, and we’re on lockdown. Some other hospitals are, too. Jim’s checking on supplies.”

  All Saints Hospital was near the epicenter of the attack, the subway platform where the deadly vaporous biologic agent had been released. Some of the first victims had been brought to All Saints. Chris was worried, but she couldn’t say any more. She and Frank both knew the feeling of helplessness, but they were professionals doing their jobs. The supply issue was going to become a problem, and they didn’t know what they’d be facing when deliveries stopped.

  “Hang in there, Chris,” he said.

  “You, too, Frank. Call me when you know anything.”

  How long could this pandemic last? Chris had read the alarming statistics from the CDC. And this was an unknown bioweapon, a mutated airborne virus. She had to stop her racing thoughts. What if more attacks occurred, and what if they ran out of supplies and food?

  She shook her head. “Stop!” she told herself. “It doesn’t matter. Bad things happen.” She had learned a lot, being on her own most of her thirty-six years. She knew she had to deal with what came. She had seen enough in her life to understand that she had to keep moving forward.

  She sat for a few moments, knowing what she had to do. Rest would come later. Slipping on fresh gloves, Chris picked up Dave’s coffee cup. After locking his office, she stopped for a moment to ask those in the lounge how they were doing and whether they needed anything. Then she went back to the ER. Chris dropped the cup and gloves in a hazmat container and walked past the nurses’ station into the adjacent hallway filled with patients waiting to be seen.

  After grabbing fresh gloves and mask, she stopped at the first stretcher and stood by one of the ER doct
ors, who was listening to the chest of a young boy who appeared to be unconscious and short of breath. His mother stood on the other side of the stretcher, staring down at her son with worried eyes. Chris reached for his small, warm hand and squeezed it gently. When he held tightly to her hand, her eyes filled with tears.

  21

  Captain Elliott Washington was sitting in a chair next to the bed when he saw her pale eyelids flutter. The anesthesia was wearing off. She seemed to be trying to focus in the darkened room. He checked the monitor, her pulse steady but rapid. She was making a slight moaning sound, her brow furrowed with pain. He injected the prescribed dose of pain medication into her IV, then called the nurses’ station to report her status to Dr. Ahmed, neurosurgeon in charge of her case.

  “Good sign,” Elliott thought.

  Within minutes, the other staff nurse, Colonel Heath, appeared. “What’s going on?”

  “She awoke for a moment, and I heard her make some noise, like a whimper. Then she drifted off again. I gave her the pain med, and she seems to be more comfortable. Her breathing is even now. She must have a whopper of a headache,” he said, his eyes on the monitor.

  Heath said, “Dr. Ahmed will be in soon. He’s with another patient.”

  Right after she said that, a dignified, dark-haired man in a white lab coat entered the room and approached the patient. They filled him in on what had happened, as he listened to her chest. Suddenly she awoke and stared at him, her dark eyes questioning, trying to understand.

  “Where am I? What’s happened?” she asked, touching her head, feeling the bandages.

  Her speech was perfect, and she was asking the right questions. Nurse Heath was making notations on the computer in the corner of the room, and Captain Washington was standing on the other side of the bed from Dr. Ahmed.

  “What’s your name?” asked Dr. Ahmed. He waited, but she didn’t answer. “You’ve had a head injury and are recovering from surgery. You’re safe and in a hospital. Can you remember what happened?”