by J. R. McLeay
“In the storage room for the raw materials and on the labels for the empty drums. We found the previous labels had been overlaid with counterfeit ones. But it looks like the perp got sloppy—we found woolen fibers and saliva spatters on some of the fake labels, and similar ones on the storage room floor.”
“Have you run it through CODIS?”
CODIS, the Combined DNA Index System, was the FBI’s aggregated database of DNA profiles collected at federal, state, and local crime laboratories across the United States.
“No match. It’s obviously someone without a criminal past.”
“What about the fibers? What type of material was it?
“Fine wool, dyed dark blue. Our fabric specialist says it’s likely from a business suit—an expensive one.”
“Just as I thought,” Inzucchi said. “An inside job. Can we match it to anyone working at Endogen?”
“That’s the problem. There’s over twenty thousand employees working at that site—and Legal won’t let us run everybody through for sampling.”
“If the fabric is from a business suit, don’t we just need to focus on white collar employees?”
“That’s still almost ten thousand people—this is their head office. As you know, we’ve got to have just cause to conduct a search, or demand samples.”
“How many employees wear an expensive dark blue suit?!” asked Inzucchi, growing increasingly exasperated. “Can’t we narrow it down any further?”
“Unfortunately, blue is still the predominant color in the business world, and I think we’d be on pretty tenuous ground singling people out based on their clothing designer.”
“What about the DNA sample?”
“Not much help. The profile comes up white male.”
“Great—that ought to narrow it down,” Inzucchi said sarcastically, knowing full well over half of Endogen’s employees fit that profile. “Let’s focus on motive then.”
Director Inzucchi had been reading the news reports of Calvin James’s various acts of civil unrest with interest for some time.
“What about that church pastor who’s been demonstrating against the GLI? I understand he was arrested recently for a disturbance at the hospital—the local police would have taken his DNA when they arrested him.”
“Already checked,” Sanchez affirmed. “It didn’t match our sample. And he claims to have no involvement in the Endogen matter.”
“Of course not,” Inzucchi said, plopping his feet on his desk. “What about his followers—I understand many of them have also been quite active in protesting against the U.N. initiative. Do any of them have connections at Endogen?”
“We secured a warrant to search Dr. James’s church records, and we cross-referenced three members of his congregation who work at Endogen. But they all came up clean on the DNA testing.”
“And the Director of Quality Control, who quit so soon after the tampering?”
“No connection to the Garden of Eden church, as far as we can tell.”
“Any progress on his whereabouts?”
“None. The doorman at his apartment has reported no sightings in the last couple of weeks, and there’s been no activity in either his phone or email accounts since he disappeared.”
“What about his bank records and credit cards?”
“He withdrew all the funds from his bank and investment accounts a couple of days before he disappeared, amounting to a little over a hundred thousand dollars, and he’s not used his credit cards since Tuesday.”
“Any suspicious transactions on the cards before then?”
“None.”
“Did you check airline and shipping records to see if anyone matching his description left the country recently?”
“Yes—nothing on the official record.”
“What about Interpol—have they got anything on this guy?”
“Nothing. Wherever he is, he’s covered his tracks very carefully.”
“He’s obviously somebody with means,” Inzucchi declared, “or he’s getting a lot of help. Somebody of his stature wouldn’t last for long on a hundred grand without access to credit.”
“Unless he got a payoff for turning a blind eye,” Sanchez suggested.
Director Inzucchi nodded, as he mulled Sanchez’s theory. “And the video cameras in the storage room—I suppose they came up blank too?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Isn’t access to that room tightly restricted—how did the saboteur get in there?”
“There are three access points: a main loading door, an inside door leading to the operations area, and an outside emergency exit door.”
“Are they not all monitored?”
“The main loading door was monitored by a fixed cam, the inside door can only be opened with an authorized employee access card, and the other door was equipped with an emergency alarm.”
“And…?” Inzucchi asked impatiently, looking Agent Sanchez directly in the eye.
“Neither the videotape nor the access records show any unauthorized access. We believe the perpetrator likely disabled the emergency exit, then propped the door open to gain entrance from the outside.”
“It had to be an inside job then,” Inzucchi stated. ”Who else would have intimate knowledge of the security system and be able to disarm it from the inside?”
“It would seem so,” Sanchez offered.
“So all we’re left with is a mysterious white male wearing a dark blue suit—and a missing employee?”
“So far.”
“Christ, that’s not a hell of a lot. The Director isn’t going to be pleased with this. We’re going to have to find some stronger leads, or one or both of our heads will be on the block. I want you to start interviewing every suit in that place who has access to, or knowledge of, that part of the business—I don’t care if you have to question every Goddamn employee! Get on it,” Inzucchi said, “and report back to me daily.”
“Yes sir,” Agent Sanchez replied, backing slowly out of the Director’s office.
42
Eva Bronwen peered from her limousine’s window as it slowed to a stop under the dramatic cantilevered projection of Alice Tully Hall. The jutting overhang protruded several meters beyond the edge of the glass façade of the building, supporting three stories of seemingly weightless exhibition space extending the entire length of the block at Broadway and 65th Street. In anticipation of the gala event at Lincoln Center, a large crowd of curious onlookers had formed behind police barricades lining the sidewalks opposite the hall, and the staccato burst of camera flashbulbs from the assembled press illuminated the recessed courtyard on Saturday evening in a frenzy of strobe-like pulses.
Eva and the other Queens were the guests of honor at the annual United Nations Tribute Gala at Lincoln Center, an exclusive event that attracted the city’s most famous and powerful celebrities. She watched as familiar dignitaries and entertainers emerged one by one from the caravan of polished black Mercedes to a fusillade of flashes, before heading down the red-carpeted stairway leading into the giant atrium lobby. Politicians and other U.N. notables received a polite response from the crowd, and popular entertainers, many of whom would be performing later in the evening in the Starr Theater, elicited enthusiastic hollers and requests for autographs, but by far the greatest attention was focused on the Queens.
Perhaps it was the fact that few ordinary citizens ever saw the reclusive adult females in person, or that they stood a full head taller than most other persons attending the ceremony, but Eva suspected the newly acquired reverence was because many of the onlookers suddenly recognized, with the surprising turn of events in the past couple of weeks, that the Queens held a special and critical role in preserving the legacy of the human race. Whatever the reason, whenever they emerged from their limousines—all the more eye-catching in their long silk taffeta dresses and glittering diamond crowns—a spontaneous and hearty round of applause rose from the assembled throng.
“Don’t worry, Eva,
” Mike said, noticing her glance up at the large abutment looming over her head, “it won’t fall on you.”
“I’m not concerned so much about that,” Eva said to her escort, “as all this commotion. It’s a much bigger crowd than in previous years, and a lot more press. I still haven’t gotten entirely comfortable at these events, with all the special attention.”
“You’ll be fine—you look absolutely stunning this evening. Soak it up, I’ll protect you from the paparazzi.”
Eva smiled at her companion. She’d grown closer to Mike over the course of the last few weeks, and was glad to have somebody familiar to distract her from the constant glare of publicity.
“I feel ridiculous wearing this pretentious crown,” she said, adjusting the scratchy headpiece in her perfectly coiffed hair.
“It’s only for this special event. You can take it off in a couple of hours, but I must say—I think it rather becomes you.”
Eva was about to protest when somebody opened the car door from the outside and extended a white-gloved hand into the limousine.
“May I assist you, madam?” the curb-side porter asked.
Eva took the attendant’s hand and carefully stepped onto the red carpet as Mike followed behind. Suddenly, a burst of flashbulbs erupted in her face, and various members of the press called for her to pose for the cameras. Grasping Mike’s arm tightly, she smiled politely, while rising applause grew from the gallery.
“Funny how it takes a crisis to be appreciated,” she murmured to Mike as she descended the stairs, trying not to trip over her gown.
When she entered the busy atrium lobby, Eva noticed the Gala attendees were loosely clustered in packs around each of the Queens. Strange, she thought, how nobody gave her and the others much mind except at these infrequent official functions. Nevertheless, she had to admit that she occasionally enjoyed being treated like a queen, and she resolved to enjoy the evening as best she could.
“I’ll have one of those!” she chirped, as a waiter approached with tall glasses of Champagne on a silver platter.
Taking a quick sip, she noticed Rick and Jennifer on the far side of the room, making their way toward her.
“Eva,” Rick said as he approached, “you look smashing, as always. It looks like your new Endocrinologist has been taking good care of you.”
“It must be that magic elixir she’s been giving me,” Eva replied, smiling at Jennifer. “It certainly has had a stimulating effect.”
Rick looked at Eva’s companion awkwardly.
“Excuse me,” Eva said. “This is my escort for the evening, Mike Binnington. You remember Mike, of course, Jennifer.”
“Yes,” Jennifer replied, “it’s good to see you again, Mike. I’m happy to see that Eva hasn’t been entirely rejecting your advances.”
“She’s been a perfect lady—befitting a queen,” Mike answered, looking at Eva warmly. “It’s my supreme honor to accompany her tonight.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mike,” Rick said, extending his hand. “Though I admit I’m a little jealous I wasn’t asked to be Eva’s date for this event.”
“I knew you had someone else in mind this year, doctor,” she said, winking at Jennifer. “And I couldn’t be happier for you both.”
“To fellowship and fraternity!” Jennifer said, raising her glass.
“Cheers to that!” Eva agreed.
“Good evening, Majesty.” Eva turned in the direction of an unfamiliar voice, and almost dropped her glass. She recognized Tian Yin immediately from the many official functions they’d attended together previously, but this time Tian looked very different—and not at all well. It was immediately obvious to Eva that Tian had been one of the unfortunate recent victims of the tampered patch, for she had grown several inches taller since they’d last met—and both her voice and her figure had matured appreciably. Even more alarming were the appearance of mottled brown splotches on Tian’s usually impeccable skin, which Eva could make out under the heavy application of makeup.
Eva had been keeping carefully abreast of the daily press reports concerning the effects of the tampered patch and she knew that almost five percent of the general population had been affected, but she hadn’t expected the Secretary-General of the U.N. to be one of its casualties. From her own experience taking concentrated doses of hormones, she felt a certain degree of empathy with the Secretary-General—though she knew that Tian’s case was a more serious matter, with far more wide-reaching implications.
“Madam Secretary,” she said, pretending not to notice the change in Tian’s appearance, “how lovely to see you again.”
In an effort to break the tension, Eva turned to introduce the others in her group.
“May I introduce my friend, Mike Binnington? You know Dr. Ross, of course. And this is Dr. Jennifer Austin.”
Tian quickly recognized Jennifer as the doctor who had treated her at Mount Sinai after her initial reaction to the defective patch. She also noticed that she was standing intimately close to Rick.
So this is the woman who’s been stealing Rick’s attention, she thought. What a coincidence—though she is very pretty.
A softly tinkling bell thankfully broke the awkwardness, and Tian signaled that it was time to enter the adjacent reception hall, where they were to be seated for a formal dinner. Tian led the party to the large round head table, where the other four Queens were already being seated with their guests, along with the Mayor and his wife. As they took their seats, Tian coordinated the introduction of all the guests, and everybody immediately resumed their polite chatter.
The hall was arranged in a long rectangular shape, with scores of sumptuously decorated white-linen-covered dining tables looking like bejeweled daisies on the rich green broadloom. Each place setting was adorned with an abundance of polished dinner- and silver-ware, plus crystal wine goblets of different shapes and sizes. The guests were seated according to rank and importance, with the guests of honor and the Secretary-General seated at the head table, followed by ambassadors and other high-ranking political figures in near proximity, then presenters and entertainers who were to perform later in the evening, and lastly by corporate executives and other wealthy patrons, who had paid thousands of dollars a plate for the privilege of attending, seated at the rear.
The menu, handwritten on a feathered linen place card in the middle of each diner’s gold-embossed charger plate, listed a sumptuous seven course meal with dishes originating from around the world. Starting with a Russian caviar canapé appetizer, followed by Spanish tomato gazpacho soup, then Italian arugula salad with baby beets and pistachios, potato-crusted Chilean sea bass, Japanese Kobe bacon-wrapped filet mignon, and Madagascar chocolate mousse with Rwanda Coffee ice cream—the meal finished with an assortment of American and European cheeses, accompanied with twenty-year-old vintage Port wine. After every serving, waiters dressed in crisply pressed tuxedos dutifully removed the used plates and refilled empty wine glasses.
When everyone had completed the main course and their dinner plates were removed in preparation for dessert, two waiters arrived at the head table and began pouring Champagne from opposite sides. Rick thought it was odd that their uniforms looked a bit rumpled and that they didn’t open the wine bottles at the table as was normal etiquette, but he didn’t think it was his place to criticize this minor breach of protocol, especially since he knew Tian had more than enough on her mind than to deal with such trivial issues. When the waiters had finished their round of the table, requiring two magnum bottles to fill everyone’s glass, Tian raised her flute in a toast.
“Although we will be officially honoring our guests of honor with presentations and entertainment when we transfer to the Starr Theater in a few minutes—” she began, “I’d like to make an unofficial toast to our five leading ladies, whose grace and elegance have been a beacon of hope for civilization and for all the people of this world. Here’s to our Queens!”
Everyone immediately raised their glasses, and took a hearty sip of
Champagne.
“That’s a little different,” the Asian Queen remarked, looking inquisitively at her champagne glass, “—a rather odd buttery taste.”
“Yes,” the Latin Queen said. “Almost nutty.”
“Like almonds,” agreed the Indian Queen.
Rick pulled the unfinished bottle of Champagne from the icy water in the silver-plated bucket the waiter had provided at table-side to keep it cool, and looked at the label.
“Dom Perignon, vintage 2102,” he said, “Normally, it’s quite dry and crisp-tasting.”
Suddenly, he noticed the Asian Queen breathing irregularly, and her skin became flushed.
“What is it Madam?” Rick asked, alarmed. “Are you all right?”
Two seats to the left, the African Queen suddenly clutched her stomach and took a sharp breath. Within seconds, four of the Queens were shaking violently in their chairs and gasping for air. Rick flew to his feet immediately and went to the side of the Asian Queen’s chair, followed soon after by Jennifer, who attended to the African Queen. Rick looked into the Queen’s eyes and noticed her pupils were severely dilated, then he placed his finger over the carotid artery on the side of her heavily perspiring neck and felt her heart rate racing at over one hundred and fifty beats per minute. Looking up at Jennifer for confirmation, they quickly nodded at one another.
“They’ve been poisoned!!” Rick announced, catching the attention of a passing waiter. “Do you have Syrup of Ipecac in your kitchen?” he asked, referring to the tonic commonly used to induce vomiting.
“Syrup of wha…” the waiter bumbled.
“Call 911,” Rick interrupted. “Get an ambulance here—immediately!” Then, taking a moment to consider the magnitude of the situation, he added: “Make that five ambulances!!”
As the waiter ran off, many of the guests in the room rose from their seats and began approaching the head table in a state of alarm.
“Mike,” Rick said, quickly looking up, “help me move the Queens onto the floor. We may need to resuscitate them—they’re not receiving enough oxygen!”