The White Iris

by Susanne Matthews

  “Eden being this country and the vermin being us?” Brad asked.

  “Most likely, but we can’t dismiss the fact he could be looking at a global disaster. If he planted the bomb in the right place, say in a foreign nation, our enemies would gladly burn us right off the map for him.”

  Julie stood, too upset by his words to sit any longer. “Then you have to stop him. You’re talking a nuclear device. He’s insane.” Visions of an atomic holocaust à la Hollywood fueled her vivid imagination. No way could Trevor allow that man to succeed and kill innocent men, women, and children—babies, like the one she’d wanted but would probably never have.

  • • •

  Trevor watched Julie’s trembling hands as she reached for the carafe of water on the edge of Brad’s desk and poured herself a glassful. Her fingernails were painted a soft blue, no doubt to match whatever she wore under the voluminous lab coat. Applying nail polish at the end of a hectic day was her way of relaxing. As she put it, with each stroke of the brush, she pushed an incident to the back of her mind, cataloguing it where it belonged. No matter where he was, the smell of acetone brought her vividly to mind.

  Where had she stored him?

  Discovering she was the one he’d see today had raised his spirits, but he hadn’t been prepared for her apathy. He should’ve been. He’d known this would upset her—she was always on the side of justice and fair play—and there was nothing fair about the Prophet.

  “I agree,” Trevor continued, trying to suppress his emotions. This case ate at him—hell, he was fairly certain he’d developed a damn ulcer. “The man is certifiable, but we can’t dismiss this possibility as an idle threat. There are a number of countries with nuclear capability that are just waiting for an excuse to nuke us. And, while that’s a possibility, I believe he wants to preserve the country—he calls it Eden—so he may be talking about a strategically placed dirty bomb.”

  Julie sat back in the chair and raised the glass to her lips. The relief on her face was palpable and it surprised him.

  “If that’s what he’s got in mind, you’re worried about nothing,” she said, stunning him with the matter-of-fact tone in her voice.

  “Why would you say that?” he asked. “What about radioactivity?”

  “Despite the public hype, a dirty bomb isn’t going to kill a lot of people because of the radiation,” she stated in her coolest professional tone, the one that always made him feel he was back in school. She was brilliant, and he was so-so at best.

  “A radiological dispersal device, the fancy term for a dirty bomb, isn’t even considered a weapon of mass destruction. The health risks are no worse than those faced by a four- or five-pack-a-day smoker. An RDD creates psychological, not physical, damage from mass panic and terror. Plus, containing and decontaminating victims and the affected area is costly and time-consuming, causing economic damage. There’s never been a successful attack involving a dirty bomb. If your prophet is hell-bent on killing millions, that’s not what he’ll use.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, he’d have to get the necessary radioactive material by stealing it or buying it through legal or illegal channels. And yes, it can be purchased legally, but he’d need a lot of it. RDD material can come from literally millions of radioactive sources used in industry, for medical purposes, or even in academic research, but only nine reactor-produced isotopes are suitable for an RDD. According to the U.S. Nuclear Regulatory Commission, one of these sources is stolen or vanishes every day in the United States, but of those lost or stolen, less than 20 percent would be a significant danger if used in an RDD.”

  “What the hell? Are you saying this stuff just walks off, and nobody worries about it?”

  “It’s not that big a deal. The Russians use strontium 90, the most radioactive isotope, to power the generators in some of their remote-location lighthouses. An RDD powerful enough to do significant damage would be huge, heavy, hard to move, and, if he wanted to kill millions, he’d need a lot of them.”

  “So, if it isn’t a dirty bomb, what would you suggest?” he asked. Julie was as honest and forthright as they came. She couldn’t lie to save her soul. If a dirty bomb wouldn’t do it, what would?

  “If it were me and I wanted to wipe out as many people as possible, I’d consider a chemical weapon of some sort. Chlorine gas is highly poisonous and transported in tankers on a regular basis. A bomb derailing a train might do it. Of course, there are even easier ways. Nerve agents like sarin, used in the Tokyo subway attack and more recently in Syria, are probably one of the most lethal poisons. It’s man-made and comes in a gaseous or liquid form. While you can use a bomb to deliver it, you don’t need to.”

  “Explain,” Trevor said tersely. She wouldn’t take offense; she was on a roll. Maybe he should ask the director of the CDC to release her to work with his task force. She could be an invaluable asset. If the Prophet wanted to use science to kill, who better than a scientific expert to stop him?

  “Once sarin gas is released into the air, people absorb it through skin contact, eye contact, and breathing. As a liquid, sarin is odorless and colorless; it mixes easily with water. You could infect millions in a very short period of time. For example, introduce a condensed gas into the air-filtering system in a large mall or movie theater, and you’ve wiped out everyone in the place without any danger to yourself. As a bonus, you’ll kill your first responders, too. Toxic enough for you?”

  “Can you do anything for someone who’s been exposed?”

  “Well, if the level of exposure is low enough to get them to a medical facility, and it has the antidote on hand, it can be treated successfully, but I don’t know too many places that stockpile huge amounts of sarin antidote.”

  “Do you?”

  “You mean the CDC? We have some on hand, yes, but probably not enough to save millions. We could manufacture more, but it would take time.”

  “How easy is it to get that stuff?”

  She frowned and wrinkled her nose, a familiar gesture that tugged at his heart. He missed her.

  “A lot easier than you might think. It’s like meth—cooked up in a lab. If the Prophet has access to one, he could make his own. All he’d need is expertise and money.”

  “Which he apparently has. Can you think of any other way to follow through on his threat?”

  “Worst-case scenario…” she eventually said. “He could use a two-pronged attack. In addition to the nerve agent, he could unleash any number of viruses—Ebola, anthrax, even some of the flu viruses could kill thousands, but he’d need access to some live virus to do that, and research facilities are damn careful with that stuff, more careful than they are with radioactive isotopes. If you’re right and he’s got pharmaceutical connections, there are thousands of poisons out there that would do the job. Putting them into a major city’s water supply could kill millions without damaging anything else.”

  “Wow. You’ve given me more to consider than I imagined. I’m not dismissing anything. He’s moving his followers to a remote place somewhere in the middle of the Rockies to keep them safe, so I think we’re looking at whatever will make people suffer the most but do the least amount of permanent damage to the land. Some of those gases and poisons would do the trick, but I don’t think he’ll waste any of his people in the process, so a bomb detonated while everyone is safely out of the way makes sense. That probably takes viruses out of the equation, right?”

  “Maybe, since most of them need host-to-host contact, but if he were to find some expendable cult members, it would be a great way to do away with as many as he wanted to. America has lots of enemies who’d be only too happy to see us destroyed from the inside, and if this guy’s got money, he might be able to buy himself some martyrs, as well as his own personal version of Dr. Mengele, Hitler’s Angel of Death. For what it’s worth, I’d target Washington, D.C., first. One of the easiest ways to destroy a nation is to knock out its leadership.”

  Before he could comme
nt, Brad spoke.

  “Given everything Julie’s told you, what more can the CDC possibly offer you?”

  “Ongoing aid with this. Once I learn exactly what we’re up against, I’ll contact you again, and we can work together to stop him.”

  “Absolutely. Julie and I stand ready to offer whatever help we can give.”

  The surprise on Julie’s face conveyed “like hell I am,” but she didn’t contradict her boss.

  “When I get back to Boston, I’ll send out a memo to the various research labs and pharmaceutical companies that might have any of those toxic gases, poisons, or nerve agents on hand, as well as any viruses. They can beef up security and make sure nothing goes missing like those isotopes. If something does, we’ll have a heads-up, and that might be enough to give us an edge.”

  He didn’t want the meeting to end. He needed to speak to Julie alone, maybe clear the air—well, some of it—and ask her whether she’d be interested in working this case in Boston with him. He’d appeal to her patriotism. He could go behind her back and have her seconded to the FBI. He was going to have to bring in an expert on cults; why not a scientist?

  “Assuming one of those scenarios you mentioned pans out, I’d like some information on how bad it could get.”

  “How bad it could get, Special Agent Clark?” She shook her head. “Your worst nightmare wouldn’t come close.”

  “Julie,” Brad said, “why don’t you take Trevor down to the library and give him some of our information sheets? Maybe you can give him a tour of the facility, too, and show him we certainly won’t be having any thefts.”

  “Of course. My pleasure. This way.”

  Trevor got the impression she felt like she was heading to her own execution.

  So much for burying the hatchet and working together.

  Chapter Two

  As soon as they were alone, Julie’s bravado slipped. The smell of his aftershave filled the elevator, reminding her treacherous body of other times. She folded her arms across her chest, knowing he couldn’t see her puckered nipples under the lab coat, but needing to close herself off from him and all the emotions flooding her.

  “I know you’re mad at me, Julie, and you have every right to be. This is probably the last thing you want to do right now, but it’s important,” Trevor said, his voice bouncing off the mirrored walls.

  Of course it is. The job comes first. It always has, and it always will.

  Ellie was right. If Julie had seen him two years ago, after she’d sent back the ring, she could’ve been happy by now—might even have fallen in love again and started a family. Dr. Dalton Rush, a visiting oncogenomics expert from the White Iris Foundation, had asked her to consider working with him on a joint virology-oncology project. The thought of working on a cure for something instead of a preemptive measure appealed to her, but it would mean leaving Atlanta for Nevada. Maybe it was time to bite the bullet and accept his offer. If this Prophet nutcase did deliver a bomb, the last thing she wanted to do was be with the CDC working with Trevor as Brad had decreed.

  “You’re right,” she said, keeping her voice steady, accepting the inevitability of the situation. “A crazy man with whatever the hell he has in mind is far more important than our past.”

  “That’s not true,” he said. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I volunteered to come down here. I’ve missed you.”

  “Then you have a funny way of showing it.” She couldn’t hold back the fury in her voice. “Not one phone call in two years, not even an acknowledgment that you received the ring or my request to talk…”

  “I wanted to call, but I didn’t know what to say, and I knew what you wanted to talk about. I didn’t think there was anything left to say, but I’m sorry I hurt you…”

  “That’s always been your problem.” The words erupted from her mouth, her frustration and pain too great to stop them. “For a smart man, you just don’t think. You didn’t know what to say? Ha! You could’ve told me the real reason you wouldn’t come to Carson Creek, the reason you lied to me time and time again. But it doesn’t matter anymore.” The emotional storm blew itself out as quickly as it had arisen. “That’s water under the bridge. As far as coming here, considering the level of secrecy involved, who else could’ve done it? But I’ll bet you didn’t count on having to see me.”

  “Count on it? No, but I’d hoped. I’m really sorry about the way things ended between us. If anything could’ve been different—if I could’ve told you … You have a right to be angry…”

  “And I suppose you still can’t.” She shook her head when his face told her she was right. “Fine. I’m not angry, Trevor, not anymore. I was furious, then hurt, and finally disappointed, but I’m over it. We got lucky. We learned that we weren’t compatible before we made a mistake that would’ve been costly.”

  Liar, her conscience screamed, but she wouldn’t listen. Shutting down her emotions, just as he’d shut down his, she retreated into the science that served her well, giving him a quick tour and outlining the safety protocols for the most dangerous virus samples they had on hand. Mechanically, she ran through the radiation handouts, discussed what could be done in the event of exposure, and showed him the necessary gear while the words, he’s only here because of the case, repeated themselves in her head.

  The chemistry between them had been reactive, and she’d assumed that meant they suited, but her hypothesis had been as flawed as her experiment, methods, and conclusion. Reactive chemicals didn’t always produce something good. Trevor didn’t care. All she’d been was a good lay and a way to pass the time. If he’d loved her, he’d have found a way to come to Colorado.

  With each impassive word she spoke, using the science she trusted, she added an inch or two to the wall he’d forged between them. She discussed chemical poisoning, including sarin and chlorine. When she’d finished, she led him back to the reception area and held out her hand for one final handshake.

  “That’s it. As Brad said, the CDC stands ready to assist the FBI should the Prophet make good on his threat. My money’s on you to get him first. You were born a hero. You’ve always gone the extra mile for those who needed you, counted on you even when your own life was at risk.”

  Except when it came to me.

  “You put 100 percent into all of your cases. Take care. Leon will show you out.”

  His face blank once more, he reached for her outstretched hand. “That’s a hell of a testimonial,” he said grimly. “No man can live up to something like that. I’ll be in touch if anything changes. In the event your worst nightmare happens, would you consider coming to Boston to help out the task force?”

  You son of a bitch. Rub salt in the wound, why don’t you?

  She stood as tall as her five-foot-four-inch frame allowed and smiled as if he hadn’t just stabbed her in the heart. “If you get information that this is a credible threat, I’ll do whatever Brad tells me to do. I work here. He decides what I do and where I do it. Goodbye.”

  She turned with a finality she’d never expected and stepped into the elevator before Trevor could reply.

  If she’d needed proof that whatever love he’d had for her was dead, she’d just gotten it in spades.

  Stiffening her spine, she pressed the button for level four. She wasn’t even angry with Ellie. Seeing Trevor had shown her how foolish she’d been to hope there was a remote chance they could work things out. The experiment was over, and she knew what had gone wrong. Without trust, there couldn’t be love. There it was—hypothesis and conclusion in six little words.

  She brushed away the lone tear creeping down her cheek just as the elevator doors opened. Ellie stood there as if she’d been waiting.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Well, nothing. Trevor was here for a job.”

  “But you talked?”

  “About the case, yes. About us, he apologized. So, for the record, I forgive you, but this is dead. I never want to hear you bring up Trevor’s name again. Now, with you
and Brad making nice-nice in the tent, where the hell am I supposed to sleep tonight?”

  • • •

  Trevor stared at the closed elevator doors, annoyed with himself for feeling as lost as he’d been the day he’d signed for the package and found the ring and her note. He’d wanted to get into his car and drive to Atlanta, beg her to reconsider, but she’d have insisted on the truth, and as much as she hated him now, she’d despise him if she knew what a coward he really was.

  Talk, talk, talk. That damn habit she had of picking things apart, getting down to the nitty-gritty, finding out why this worked and that didn’t, drove him crazy. Analyzing why their relationship had failed would’ve only caused more pain. Instead of acting on his impulse two years ago, he’d gone home, locked the ring in the small safe he kept for important papers, and gotten rip-roaring drunk. Monday morning, he headed to Quantico.

  Seeing Julie had been hard, but hearing her mouth the hero worship that went back to the day his life had changed forever had been worse. He wasn’t anybody’s hero. He was all too human and fallible. He’d screwed up plenty of times, but he tried to do his best. Sometimes his best just wasn’t good enough. He needed to make up for what he’d done back then, prove he was as good as his word. This time, he had to be. He’d stop the Prophet or die trying.

  While Julie was as beautiful as ever, the happy glow in her sapphire eyes was gone, replaced by deep sorrow. There were faint circles under them that hadn’t been there before, and she was sarcastic, bitter, unlike the friendly, open, fun-loving girl he remembered.

  He’d done that to her—he was sure of it—but even though she said she wasn’t angry at him, part of him knew she’d never forgive him. Why should she? He’d broken promises, lied to her, and let her down when she’d needed him most. Why? To salvage his pride and keep the secret he’d probably carry to his grave. Some hero.