by Steve Richer
If everything went smoothly, in a year’s time she’d be named vice president of research. Most importantly, she would finally deserve to live in their grand Mercer Island house. She would be her own person able to stand toe to toe with Dr. Handsome.
Using the remote control, she cranked up the volume a little because Beethoven was a good study companion. She flipped a page and returned to the passionate tale of viral quasi-species relating to the replication of cellular enzymes.
And then she heard a sound.
She perked up and lifted her glasses. Crunching gravel maybe? No one could be coming here this late at night, right? She waited a few seconds before diving back into her reading.
The same sound again!
Must be a boat on the water, she decided. She returned to a table of numbers estimating mitochondrial volumes when the security alarm went off.
Weee-huuuun!
What was going on?! She brought her book down and sat squarely, turning toward the foyer. She could see the alarm panel flashing but everything seemed otherwise normal.
Weee-huuuun!
Then there was movement to her right. It was her husband, disheveled and only wearing his pajama bottoms now.
Weee-huuuun!
“What’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” Janalyn replied. “Did you forget to pay the bill this month or something?”
He ignored her and headed for the foyer to see about resetting the alarm.
“Do you think you should go get your gun, babe?”
Weee-huuuun!
That’s when the front door came crashing in.
Janalyn was scared senseless and she stood up, dropping her glasses and the book. Six men in blue tactical gear rushed inside the house, their gleaming black machine guns aimed forward.
“Police! Police!”
“Stay where you are, don’t move!”
She wouldn’t have been able to move if she’d wanted to. She was terrified, rooted in place.
Two of these cops seized her husband and threw him on the floor before cuffing him with zip ties. Simultaneously, two more were grabbing her.
“Wait!” she screamed. “This is a mistake!”
Weee-huuuun!
“You have the wrong house! Please, let us go?”
“Janalyn Taibbi, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit terrorism.”
The next thing she knew her face was pressed against the hardwood floor and she was being handcuffed.
The door to the austere interrogation room needed to be lubricated and as such it opened loudly, startling Janalyn. She shifted on her seat and her handcuffs looped through the ring on the table made an ominous sound.
Frankly, Rogan loved having this effect on suspects because it gave him something to work with. He felt naked now though, his weapon off, just like his jacket and tie. He had his sleeves rolled up. There was a small pink stain from the pineapple chicken on his shirt.
“Dr. Taibbi, I’m Special Agent Rogan Bricks, FBI. So kind of you to join us for a late chat.”
“A chat? You arrested me!”
“Oh yes, I keep forgetting!” Rogan grinned at her as he paced across the empty table. “But can you really blame us? It’s kind of our job, stopping terrorists and all.”
“Terrorist? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a medical research director at Beem Archwood Biotech. I’m not a Muslim, I’m Christian!”
“And there have never been any Christian terrorists, now has there?”
“What? I wanna see my husband. I wanna see a lawyer.”
Rogan winced. “Getting a lawyer gets tricky in terrorism cases. We have wide berth when it comes to circumventing your constitutional rights. Let me tell you, they dwindle pretty fast after you arrange for the sale of weapons of mass destruction. I’ve seen guys be sent to Guantánamo for much less.”
“Guantánamo? What are you talking about, sir? I’m not a terrorist, I swear!”
“Okay, I can see this is gonna be a long night.” He looked at his Rolex and sat down on the uncomfortable metal chair. “It’s three in the morning, not exactly when I do my best work.”
“There’s been a mistake, Agent Rick.”
“Bricks.”
“I’m sorry, Agent Bricks. Just ask me what you want to know and I’ll clear everything up. I swear I’m not a terrorist, I have nothing to hide.”
“All right, I’ll play. You work at Beem Archwood Biotech?”
“Yes, I’m a medical research director.”
“And what does that job consists of? What do you research?”
“Antiviral therapy. We’re looking at new ways to deliver vaccines.”
“Okay, and in that capacity you have access to a number of viruses, right?”
The woman squinted, unsure where he was going with this. “Of course.”
“And as director you have access to hazardous materials. You have access to these viruses.”
“Wait a minute. I mean, there are security protocols. You can’t just take vials out of the labs without going through many checkpoints and security sweeps. What does this have to do with me?”
“Do you drive a champagne-colored 2013 Buick Verano?”
“What? Uh, yes.”
“Anyone else ever drive your car? You ever lend the keys to anyone?”
“No, my husband has his own BMW. What’s this about, Agent Bricks?”
Rogan was exhausted and he didn’t feel like continuing. A proper interrogation could last ten hours when you really wanted a confession out of someone. He was certain he couldn’t last 30 minutes tonight before collapsing.
“Here’s the deal, Dr. Taibbi. We have video footage from Kenyon Industrial Park of you passing sensitive material to a known smuggler named Calix Hargrove. We have reason to believe you were giving him a virus of the order Mononegavirales and that’s classified as a biological warfare agent.”
“But…”
Rogan stood up again, planting his hands on the table, towering over her. “This lines you up for terrorism and espionage charges, and that’s if the US Attorney is feeling generous. So please, for your sake, tell us everything about your plan and who else is involved.”
The woman stammered for a moment, her eyes darting all over the room. And then she stopped moving. Gradually, a smile crept across her lips.
“You think this is funny? You think a life sentence in a federal prison is something to laugh at?”
“There’s been a mistake,” she said. “A terrible misunderstanding.”
“No, no misunderstanding. We have evidence of what you did.”
“Here’s the thing, I remember what you’re talking about. It was a prank.”
“Excuse me?” Rogan said, sitting down once more. “A prank?”
“Well, maybe not an actual prank. But my boss ordered me to deliver a package to someone the other day. A joke for a friend, he said.”
Rogan perked up. He didn’t have a notepad but the conversation was being recorded anyway.
“And you don’t think that was strange to be delivering hazardous materials in a dark industrial park in the middle of the night?”
“That’s why I know it was a prank. My boss said it would help my case for becoming VP so I went with it. The job comes with stock options, there’s no way I could turn it down.”
“A promotion is important enough to pass along deadly viruses to terrorists?”
“Just hold on,” Janalyn said. “I didn’t pass any deadly viruses.”
“But you do admit you gave a package to Calix Hargrove.”
“Yes, if that’s his name, but it wasn’t a virus or any bio agent.”
“Save it for the trial.”
“You don’t understand, it’s physically impossible that I was handling any sensitive material that night. The container was a plastic box from Costco. There was foam inside and an acrylic vial from some child’s chemistry set. The safety protocol alone told me whatever was in the vial was inoffensive.
Probably a saline solution with green food dye.”
“What?”
“I’m telling you, no virus sample has ever been taken out from our labs. We’re on the brink of an IPO, no way any of us would jeopardize this. Plus we get regular visits from the Army, security sweeps and questioning and such, because of the military research grants we have. No one walks out with a virus, ever.”
“Jesus…” Rogan exhaled, leaning back into his chair.
He believed her. The worst part was that this raised even more questions.
The government had acted to stop weapons of mass destruction from leaving the country by killing innocent civilians, something that could, in a warped moral way, actually be justified.
But what if there had never been any weapons of mass destruction in the first place?
Chapter 31
Shiloh was surprisingly alert as she woke up. The prospect of finally putting this thing behind her put a spring in her step. She showered, got dressed, and spent almost an hour wiping every surface of her motel room. No one should be able to trace her back to this place if something went wrong.
She left from a rear door and once in her car she changed again from clothes carried in her purse. She put on a black dress with a loose skirt, cinched with a wide belt. It was sexy but still allowed her to move her legs, not like a tight dress would. On her feet were canvas espadrilles which gave her a youthful appearance.
The final touch was the auburn wig she’d purchased the day before. It was cut in a pageboy style and it passed for genuine hair at first glance. She put on blue eyeshadow and exaggerated the red blush on her cheek.
She looked like a prostitute and that’s exactly what she was going for.
As she drove off the motel parking lot, she considered calling Rogan. What she was about to do was risky and in this kind of work there was always a possibility of not getting away. She was perfectly aware that she might never get to speak to the man of her life ever again.
Yet, she decided not to call him. She needed to stay focused on the mission at hand. She couldn’t let herself be distracted by something as trivial as love.
San Diego was currently in the throes of rush hour but fortunately she didn’t have to get on the highway. She had seen what morning commute looked like on TV before leaving, 10 interstate lanes of traffic, bumper-to-bumper. Five minutes in this situation and she might have killed herself instead of going through with her operation.
She went down Fern Street and controlled her breathing, going over her plan. All she had to do was gain access to the suite, ensure that she was alone with the senator, and choke him to death. She would arrange the crime scene to suggest erotic asphyxiation.
She was wearing a nice and simple disguise which immediately identified her as a hooker but it wasn’t gaudy enough to call attention to herself. Afterwards, anyone interviewed would think of her as an anonymous prostitute.
Investigators would put two and two together and it would make a lot of sense. A sleazy politician, a hotel room, a cheap whore. They would look no further.
And what if they did? Senator Stoll’s assistant might mention the planned meeting with one Denise Staples from the Southwest Long-Haul Truckers Association but such a person didn’t exist. It would be a dead end.
It would be a perfect murder.
Shiloh turned east on Broadway, running through the plan again and again. Under normal circumstances, she would have rehearsed this for days, if not weeks. She would’ve conducted heavy surveillance on her mark, finding out what he was into, sexually speaking, to make it even more believable.
This said, she was under the gun, pressed for time. She had to make the best from what she had. She drove east again on Market Street and found a parking spot on the curb, far enough from a coffee shop to avoid being scrutinized.
She walked four blocks north and quickly spotted the Conroy Hotel. It had been built within the past decade but its style evoked an earlier age with its tall windows and stylish arches. It had 14 floors and cars were coming and going in front.
She walked demurely to keep from drawing attention to herself and thankfully her hair framed her face in such a manner that one had to be standing directly in front of her in order to recognize who she was. She turned to the right and went to the side of the hotel where there was guest parking.
Just as she thought, guests were coming out with their luggage, ready for another day on the road or perhaps they were salespeople going out for a presentation. In any case, she hurried to the side door and caught it before it closed completely. A handkerchief in her hand would keep her from leaving fingerprints.
She was assaulted by a curtain of air conditioning as she came in and struggled not to shiver, especially considering her revealing outfit. On the other hand, her anxiety was building and she was growing hot. She walked past a couple of vending machines and found the stairs. She went up.
She got out on the second floor and headed for the elevators. She waited several minutes since most cars were going down instead of up but ultimately she found an empty elevator. She pressed the button for the 12th floor.
Keeping her head down to remain anonymous to the surveillance cameras, she made her way to Suite 1214 and knocked. She took a deep breath and held it before exhaling. It was better than Xanax.
The door opened. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Senator,” she replied, this time with a southern drawl.
Patrick Stoll looked older than his official photographs but it was definitely him. He looked shorter as well, maybe five-six. His hair was thin and fluffy, his face creased with wrinkles. He was wearing chinos, New Balance sneakers, and a green golf shirt. The spitting image of a suburban dad.
“Ms. Staples?”
“Why yes! Were you expecting someone else?”
“Uh, no. Come in, come in.”
He moved out of the way and she came into the room. It was bright with the curtains open and this high in the building the ocean could be seen in the distance. There was a door to the left and Shiloh assumed this led to the bedroom proper.
There was a sitting room with two couches and easy chairs, and further back was a working area which the politician was currently using if the papers and computer were any indication.
She felt Stoll’s gaze on her. She was unquestionably not the image of what he’d been expecting. She was self-conscious of her appearance and considered that she may have gone overboard with the bright red lipstick and eyeliner. She’d been so focused on picking the right look for her getaway that she’d forgotten to tone it down for her entrance.
“This is a spectacular place,” she said, placing her hands in the small of her back as she strolled around the suite.
“Only place I can get some work done when I’m on the West Coast. Better than home.”
“Why?” she asked, spinning on her heels toward him. “Aren’t you getting what you need at home?”
She hadn’t intended to be sexual when she’d first hatched the plan and now she was going with the flow. She could tell the senator was conflicted but also intrigued. Now that he had the door closed – with the Do Not Disturb placard hanging outside, she noticed – he ushered her to the sitting area.
“Please, sit down.”
“Thank you, Senator. I’m such an admirer of yours, you know. I’m looking forward to hearing your views on a bunch of things.”
She sat on the couch, crossing her legs seductively. She would’ve preferred wearing stilettos for this but the man didn’t seem to mind. He took a seat on the wing chair. She observed that he was wearing a leather belt. It was perfect to strangle him later.
Maybe he would even volunteer to take off the belt himself if she played her cards right.
“Let’s cut the crap,” he barked.
“Excuse me?”
Shiloh bristled. She hadn’t expected this.
“Why are you doing this? What’s your agenda, lady?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea what
you’re talking about, sir. I’m here to discuss matters relating to the Southwest Long-Haul Truckers Association and your participation in our banquet tonight and…”
“You’re despicable. No, you’re evil!”
“Senator, you should explain yourself because I think there may be a misunderstanding involved.”
“There’s no misunderstanding, Ms. Staples or whatever the hell you name is. Why are you here? Who sent you?”
“Sir…”
“I’ve heard enough,” he said.
He stood up and walked toward the bedroom door. He opened it and Shiloh nearly had a heart attack.
In her line of work, she was trained to expect the unexpected, to prepare for the worse. But never in a million years had she anticipated the bedroom to be filled with cops.
It was an ambush.
Chapter 32
The coffee was terribly weak, Rogan thought. Wasn’t Seattle supposed to be Nirvana for coffee aficionados? Wasn’t it the birthplace of Starbucks and Seattle’s Best? He pushed his paper cup away and decided that this was definitely not Seattle’s best.
He was still in the field office’s situation room, writing his report. He’d caught a few hours of sleep at the hotel and he probably could’ve gotten away with not coming into the office at all today, but being alone at the hotel was too depressing to even contemplate.
He had a flight booked for Anchorage but it wasn’t until two. He figured he would come back to the office, do the paperwork, and get the whole thing behind him. He hadn’t even bothered putting on a suit. Instead he was dressed casually in jeans and a khaki T-shirt. His bomber jacket was hanging on his chair.
With Hargrove caught and given his semi-official orders to stand down, he had nothing left to do. There were still unanswered questions and a motherfucker of a political football but it was above his pay grade.
He absentmindedly took another sip of coffee before realizing why he had pushed it away in the first place. The thought of spitting on the ground occurred to him though he didn’t. He glanced at Castro who was at the workstation next to his.