by DB Carpenter
Carl chuckled.
"We also went to see old man Andleman. Do you want to know what he told us?" Carl asked.
Pell stared back at him blankly, waiting.
"Nothing!" Carl said. "We found the poor old bastard on his floor, almost dead from a stroke."
"What?"
"That's right. It seems like where ever you went yesterday you left a body."
"He was fine when I left there."
"What did the two of you talk about?" Carl asked.
He thought about this revelation for a moment. If they couldn't talk to Maurice, they didn't know about Camilla Haywood. Chris would have more time now. "The weather."
Carl bared his small teeth in a feigned smile. "You're a funny guy, Pell – a real fucking comedian. You agree, Irving?"
Irving nodded.
Carl continued, "This isn't the time for jokes. We've got to assume this virus is real and that they are about to release it. We need to do something. Fast. Right now, we're at a dead end. Maurice Andleman was our best hope for some answers."
"Then I guess you either better start doing some more digging and hope you come up with something, or you might want to let me get my lawyer, and we can all sit down and talk," Pell said.
"You think we're going to deal with garbage like you?"
"Yes, and you know what, Carl?"
"What?" Carl said through clenched teeth.
"If I do talk, it's not going to be to you. I want to talk to Arthur Kent. I'm sure he would like to know how you handled this thing. You forced me to take matters into my own hands. You let a twenty-year-old grudge hinder an investigation that could be the most important that the Bureau has ever worked on. I'm sure Director Stevens will be interested in this."
Carl scowled as he grabbed Pell by his thin hospital gown, and pulled him up to a sitting position. The wires attached to his heavily bandaged chest under the flimsy garment fell off. Alarms immediately squealed from the stacks of equipment. "You're done, Pelletier. Nobody's going to believe you. You're going to die in jail, buddy."
On the verge of losing consciousness, Pell could distinctly see Irving's face. He stood off to the side, but this last exchange had brought an undeniable smile to his normally stone cold facade. Odd, Pell thought as the nurse burst into the room accompanied by a doctor.
"What the hell are you doing!" The doctor screamed.
Carl let Pell's limp body drop back down onto the bed.
"He came at me," Carl said.
"That's ridiculous. Look at the state of him. Get out and do not enter this room again unless you have direct approval from me."
The nurse quickly reattached the monitoring equipment and evaluated Pell's condition.
"This is just great," Carl said to Irving. "I want you to stay here until he comes to again. As soon as he does, let me know."
Again Irving nodded as they stormed out of the room.
Pell watched everything unfold. He felt detached from his body, as if he were having an out of body experience. No doubt Carl would be back. This time Pell was not going to let him get the better of him. He was not going to walk away silently. He was going to bring the fight to Carl. As soon as he could get out of this hospital bed that was.
10:54 am FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC
Arthur was scheduled to have a lunch briefing with the Director of the Cyber Division but Carl's call had forced him to cancel lunch. He was never able to plan anything ahead of time – crises always cropped up. Anyway, he didn't know Carl to cry wolf.
Nestled behind wooden panels in the walls of his richly appointed office were several different telecommunications devices, each capable of providing instant and absolutely secure communications. The panels were operated by a master control located on his desk. With everything shut, the office resembled what you would expect in a typical Fortune 500 CEO's office – thick Oriental rugs, a heavy oak desk, real oil paintings of his FBI predecessors – including the great J. Edgar himself – a credenza with pictures of his wife, kids and grandchild. When he opened up all of the panels, it looked like mission control. He sat in front of the personal video-conferencing unit. Several lamps illuminated the office. The shades had been drawn, as they were most of the time. Why Executive Directors got offices with windows was beyond him. Spying wasn't always high tech bugs, or moles, sometimes it was a simple set of binoculars. The view out his window wasn't so great anyway – unless downtown DC could be considered scenic.
He entered his passcodes. The retinal scanner on top of the unit scanned his brown eyes, confirming his identity. The split-screen came up and he could see himself on one half. The other half was blank until he connected. There was an option to only view the person he was calling, but he liked being able to see himself. He stared into the tiny camera mounted on top of the monitor, and made sure that he looked presentable before selecting the remote unit for connection. His dark brown hair was starting to fleck grey. Time for another visit to his barber for some dye. It was a running joke at the Bureau – behind his back of course. Fifty–six-year-old men don't naturally have thick, grey-free hair but then again, most men his age couldn't bench press two hundred forty pounds.
He waited patiently while the link was established. Carl Moscovitz's image appeared in a window on the blank side of the screen. The image froze until the 'synched' icon appeared at the bottom of the screen and Carl spoke. "Hi, Arthur. Sorry for the short notice."
"That's okay, Carl. What's up?"
"Agent Paul Pelletier. We caught him last night. Actually, he showed up at a local emergency room. Wounded, damn near dead."
"So did he shoot that cop?" Arthur received daily summaries of Bureau activity, ordered by importance from the bevy of analysts squirreled away on the second floor. He had read about agent Pelletier earlier this morning.
"Yeah."
"Jesus Christ, how is he?"
"Pell?"
"No, the cop," Arthur said. How the hell did one of his agents do something like this? He could see the headlines, "Rogue FBI agent shoots local cop." More bad PR.
"He'll make it. Probably get to take an early retirement," Carl responded. "But it gets more bizarre."
Arthur's expression didn't change. He had learned years ago to control his emotions. "Go on," he said.
"The brains behind this virus, Sarah Burns, her college mentor lived in New Hampshire. That's why Pell was there. He was the only lead we had. The old guy stroked out after Pell talked to him and before we could. He's not going to make it. If he does, he'll be a vegetable."
Arthur shook his head. His empty stomach twisted – not from hunger.
Carl continued, blinking too frequently. "I think he told Pell something."
"You've talked to Agent Pelletier?"
"Yes, we got a few minutes with him."
"Did he say anything insightful?"
Carl's normally nasally voice rose an octave. "While we were in his room with the doctors, Pell was babbling, in and out of consciousness. He blurted out bits and pieces of the story."
"Bits and pieces of the story?" Arthur didn't like the sound of this at all. Carl was obviously being evasive and in this business, evasive would lead to disaster because the truth always comes out. In this day and age, hiding the truth was damn near impossible. "Look, Carl, cut the bullshit. What exactly are you saying? Did the doctors hear anything?"
Carl swallowed hard. His eyes flicked away from the screen briefly and Arthur's heart sank. This was about to go tits up. "Yes."
"For fuck's sake," Arthur moaned as he pressed his hand to his forehead. "Spit it out."
"When they heard the word virus, they wanted to start containment protocols. They were going to lock down the ward or even the hospital! I had to act fast or everything would have been exposed and we don't even know if it's real yet. Can you imagine that? Jesus, I had to contain the situation at all costs."
"So how many people were in the room?"
"Excluding myself and an agent, two. Dr. Epstein,
the Head of Critical Care and his intern."
"And what did they hear?"
Carl recounted the conversation.
"And where are they now?"
"I assume they're in the hospital."
Arthur shook his head in disbelief. "You mean you just let them carry on with their day?"
"What was I supposed to do, Arthur? This guy is a senior staff member of a major medical institution. We detain him over something like this and we'll have their lawyers all over us."
"So what makes you think they're going to keep their mouths shut?"
"I told them this is a national security matter. Any leaks could be considered treason. The Patriot Act is broad and sweeping, certainly nothing they want to get wrapped up in. I got the message across, loud and clear. They won't talk."
"And what if they do?"
"Then we bring them in immediately but they won't."
"You shouldn't have done that, Carl."
"I needed them to bring Pell around so we could properly debrief him but they weren't budging, Arthur. Epstein is a tough bastard. We had to push him hard to get time with Pell. He almost threw us out. Duty to his patients and all of that righteous medical bullshit but I got him over the hump."
"Okay, so we can't undo it but I want those doctors to know that we're serious. Have agents remind them, tail them, let them know we're serious."
"Already done," Carl replied.
"So where does it stand now?"
"I've got a man stationed outside Pell's door at the ready to speak to him if he comes around again."
"Alright but, for the future, you should have called. I could have gotten to the director of the hospital through political channels and we could have achieved the same thing without having to involve anyone."
"But Pell told them –"
"I don't care about that. You should have called me."
"I know, I know. There just wasn't time. It's not the way I wanted to do it but we needed to talk to Pell."
"How many men do you have working on this?" Arthur asked.
"Right now, only three. I just sent one up to northern Maine to handle that end. I'm going to need to put more out there, but I wanted to talk it over with you first. We need to reprioritize and I'll need bodies. Fast."
"How do you know that this virus really exists?"
"I don't. It's a gut feeling, Arthur."
"I don't like gut feelings. I like facts."
"You and me both but there's just too many coincidences happening in a normally quiet state."
"But where's the proof of a connection? What ties them together?"
"Chris Foster."
"Who is he?"
"The guy who saw the plane go down and who contacted the Bureau."
"So maybe he's up to something. Have you thought of that?"
"He's just some guy. There's no way he's orchestrating all of this. What could he be up to?"
"How the fuck do I know? That's your job. All I'm saying is that I'm not hearing anything that shows me this virus even exists," Arthur said as he leaned back in his chair and stared at the SAC. It was a little interrogation trick he had learned years ago. Most people don't like prolonged direct eye contact, particularly when there was nothing else happening. Getting people uncomfortable was always a good thing. He did it all the time, generally as a way to think something through. Why look at the ceiling or close your eyes – it was more effective to use the moment to unnerve your opponent while formulating your thoughts. "Okay, Carl. This is what I want you to do. We don't want to put too many agents on this thing until we get more solid corroboration because the word would get out. If the press gets a hold of this..."
He didn't have to finish that thought, they both knew what would happen if something like this leaked. He continued, "Put together a package of all the facts that you have. I'll need to know the information sources, the databases, and every tool that you've used so far. We don't have time to be duplicating effort here. If what you told me is true, we're going to have to move fast on this one. When can you have the information for me?"
"In a few hours. I'll have to bring in the agents that were doing the work."
"Excellent. I'm going to send my Tiger Team up to Boston. They'll be at your disposal but reporting back to me. They'll be in your office in a couple hours. And, you need to put additional resources on this until we know if it's real or not."
"Thanks, Arthur. I will," Carl said as he jotted something down. "When you say that they'll be reporting back to you, what do you mean?"
He understood where Carl was going, and he couldn't blame him. This could be a huge case, and Carl wanted to keep it under his control. Giving him the illusion of control would be okay for now. If things blew up, Carl would take the fall. Political astuteness was like a gift and Arthur was one of the best. "Don't worry, Carl. They will be keeping me informed, but they'll be under you."
"Great. I could use the manpower."
"Okay. Then I'll expect to see that report by the end of the day today. We'll talk after I analyze it."
7:24 pm PDT Eureka, California
Chris was getting tired. He had been following Albert for almost ten hours. At first it had been exciting – tailing another vehicle, keeping out of sight but after doing it for most of a day, he found that it wasn't exciting at all – it was tedious. He needed to stretch his legs, not to mention get some food. The only stop had been at a massive truck stop four hours earlier. The place was big enough that he had filled up on the other side of the station without Albert seeing him.
They had driven north from Malibu, past San Francisco, and now were in the northern part of the state. Albert drove at an irritatingly slow sixty-two miles an hour, and Chris found himself creeping up behind him frequently. He was certain that Albert was clueless about the tail as they drove into a small town, Fresh Water.
Albert pulled into a strip mall and Chris took the opportunity to stop at a gas station across the street. He filled his tank as he watched Albert fiddling with his phone. They must be getting close. His tank was almost full when Albert suddenly started to drive away.
Chris yanked the nozzle, spilling gas down the side of the rental car and ran to the small kiosk. A trashy looking girl and the cashier were arguing over a problem with her credit card. He leaned around her, flicked a couple twenties through the slot at the bottom of the window, and said, "Keep the change."
Credit-card girl said something to him that he didn't catch as he sprinted back to his car. Albert took a right at the next lights as Chris pulled out and raced after him. After taking the same turn he spotted the SUV about a quarter mile in front of him. Not so bad. He eased off the accelerator.
Soon they were off the main road and driving down a rural street. Albert pulled over again, this time into a little country store. Chris was forced to drive by. As he passed, he could see Albert talking to the clerk inside the small, wood-framed building. He continued down the street, watching the rearview mirror to see if Albert got back on the road.
A truck's horn blared into his consciousness. He snapped back to the road. An enormous, fully loaded lumber truck barreled toward him. He had drifted into the oncoming lane of traffic.
He cursed as he cut the wheel sharply to the right. The truck careened by him with its horn blasting. It missed slamming head-on into his car by inches. He skidded toward the ditch and cut the wheel in the opposite direction. Again he went over the centerline and into the other lane. After several more barely controlled weaves, he managed to pull over. Heart pounding furiously, he turned around and looked back down the road. Black skid marks sliced across the tar leading to swaths of disturbed dirt along the narrow, ditch-lined shoulder. Jesus Christ!
If he didn't start paying attention he was going to end up dead. Albert would drive by any second now. He whipped a U-turn and headed back toward the store. As he passed it he saw the store was now empty. No-one was around.
"What the...?" He muttered as he stepped down on the accele
rator. Albert must have reversed direction. As he raced along, he noticed several dirt roads off to the sides. He could have gone down any one of those. Around the next turn was a lengthy stretch of empty blacktop. Albert must have pulled off the road back there someplace.
He turned around and counted the number of dirt roads until he got back to the store. Three. He decided to take the one that looked most traveled. It would be dark soon. The bloated sun hung low on the horizon just above the tree line looking eager to go down – as if it had some better place to be. The easterly sky was starting to glow. After driving for twenty minutes, he realized exactly what he was up against – dozens of splits and side roads. It was a maze. Just finding his way back to the main street was going to be difficult.
Maine was full of lumber roads just like this one. From the air, they would look like the veins on a drunkard's face – no particular reasoning behind their placement; they just were.
"Damn," he muttered as he pulled onto a smaller road that bore off at a ninety-degree angle. Dusk had solidly settled in and he clicked on his headlights.
After another half an hour, he concluded that it was useless. He came to a stop and stared into the darkness. What now? His options were limited. Driving around out here in this wilderness was pointless. None of the roads were marked, and even if they were, he had no idea where he was going. Maybe the time had come to call Carl Moscovitz back in Boston and dump this whole thing in his lap.
"That's it," he said as he spun the car around. "I'm done with this."
The dust from the spinning tires on the dirt road clouded his vision briefly, and then it cleared again as he accelerated down the road. Maybe after giving this back to the FBI, where it belonged, he'd take a week or so and drive up to Seattle. A little time alone, not playing 007, would do him some good. He kept envisioning the look on Karen's face as he burst into their bedroom – the instantaneous change from passion, to fear, and then to realization. It was so vivid. Let it go. Let it out. Move on. He tried to refocus on the present and future but it was pointless. Karen's face, her laugh, their dreams, shared memories, good times – it all swirled together in his mind threatening to break him down, to shatter his mind into a million pieces.