by David Shobin
“But they were.”
“Not officially, they weren’t,” Dave said. “Which is precisely my point. The way I see it, Fitzpatrick, Johnson, and maybe someone like Lewis are acting on their own. I never use the term ‘rogue agent,’ but that’s exactly what they are. Someone got to them for freelance work, meaning you.”
“What for? Why pretend to arrest me?”
“That’s simple enough. The arrest was just a ruse. They were going to kill you.”
The way his friend said it, so casually matter-of-fact, was chilling. He looked at Dave oddly, searching for a hint of jesting or insincerity. But there was no levity in the serious mask of his friend’s face. After several seconds, the enormity of Dave’s words began to sink in. Throughout Jon’s life, not everyone had wished him well. Some people had tried to harm him, both physically and emotionally. But outside the jungles of Vietnam, no one had tried to kill him—until now.
“Any way they could have been acting on their own?”
“Get with the program, Jon. Look at the big picture. This is a well-organized plot that probably involves dozens of people. I’m more certain than ever that you’re one of them—I don’t mean a player, I mean caught up in it. This also involved the first lady, and maybe even the president.”
“How does he fit into it?”
“Just listen. Start with what we know, okay? We have a known Palestinian terrorist as Roxanne’s shooter. Then we have the missing California gun dealer, and his cousin the guest White House chef, also gone missing. Both Palestinians. And the chef, you remember, disappeared the day after Bob Meredith choked on some unusually spicy food. See what I’m getting at?”
“That everything’s connected.”
Dave pointed a finger at him. “You got it. The ‘whys,’ we don’t know yet. But as of today, the other thing that we know is that this isn’t limited to militant Muslims. Someone else, probably here in Washington, is part of this. Maybe behind it. Someone connected well enough to know the first lady’s schedule. Someone wealthy enough to buy off supposedly incorruptible FBI and Secret Service agents. So, the long answer to your question is, no, the agents weren’t acting alone. This is a coordinated, well-orchestrated effort. You got in the way of something, my friend. And they want you dead.”
“But you don’t know why.”
Dave shrugged. “Not yet.”
“On the way home after the crash, I kept wondering about that. All I could think of was that I must have been a threat to someone, enough of a threat for them to want me out of the way.”
“That goes without saying.”
“But how, and why? It can’t be me personally, as Jon Townsend. It’s got to be something I’m doing, wouldn’t you think?”
Dave slowly nodded. “Makes sense. You tell me. What are you doing that’s threatening?”
“The only possible thing has to be my work. But no matter how I look it, I don’t see what.”
“Then look harder.”
“Believe me, I am. But enough of my problems. Listen to what I just found out about the president.”
Special Agent Saunders’ ears perked up at the mention of the president. “Go on.”
“You know what I told you about his neurological symptoms, and how I thought it might be this prion thing?” Off Dave’s nod, “It turns out I’m wrong. I thought he’d contracted an Oriental form of something like mad cow disease from something he ate in Vietnam. But it’s not that at all.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s mercury, Dave. Bob Meredith is suffering from mercury poisoning.”
Saunders squinted. “What?”
“That’s the same reaction I had. But it’s true.”
“You sound pretty sure of that.”
“I am. It’s in his blood, in toxic amounts. I ran so many damn tests on him—urine, spinal fluid, blood, and saliva—and they were all fairly normal. But the very last test was an assay for heavy metals. The results just came in, and guess what? They’re positive for mercury.”
“Christ,” said Saunders, “you can get that ill from mercury? I thought you could just get a little sick from contaminated swordfish.”
“Too much mercury can kill you, Dave. It’s a major environmental pollutant, and it’s used in a lot of manufacturing processes. In acute, high-level intoxications, victims bleed into their guts and get kidney failure. But chronic mercury poisoning can also really mess you up. And it causes neurological problems just like Bob’s.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“As sure as I can be. I probably should’ve been more suspicious when I did his exam. His breath had a funny smell, but I couldn’t place it. Now I realize it was the odor of metallic mercury.”
Dave shook his head, perplexed. “How could this happen? Is it some industrial source he came in contact with?”
“I don’t think so. He has absolutely no history of industrial exposure. And I know he’s not eating huge amounts of contaminated seafood.”
“So, what does that leave?”
“Well, Roxanne didn’t have it, and no one else in the White House got sick…” He looked away with a frown. “Except maybe Mr. Phillips.”
“Come on, Phillips died of a heart attack. You were there yourself.”
“Yes, I was, and I’m sure that was the immediate cause of death. But Mireille mentioned that, for a few months, he had neurological and personality changes that were just like the president’s.”
“I still don’t see how an accident like that could happen.”
“Who’s talking about an accident?”
A twitch developed in Saunders’ cheek when he saw what Jon was driving at. “Now wait just a minute, Jon,” he said. “Think carefully about what you’re saying.”
“I am. I don’t like the conclusion any more than you do.”
“You’re suggesting the attempted murder of the president of the United States!”
“Are you forgetting that for the past fifteen minutes we’ve been discussing a conspiracy involving me, the first lady, and a couple of Palestinians? That two dirty FBI agents just got killed, and that a now-missing chef may have already tried to poison the president? Of course I know what I’m suggesting!”
“Keep your voice down,” Dave said, looking around. “I see your point. Now, enlighten me further. Just how is the president getting poisoned?”
“Food and drink are the usual routes. Mercury vapors can also be inhaled, but that’s getting complicated.”
“So, someone’s poisoning his food? I have to tell you, Jon, that’s pretty damn unlikely. Everything the president eats is closely scrutinized. Without going into tradecraft, suffice it so say that the Service has plans to protect against poisoning. All supplies and vendors are vetted, no strangers get in, and the kitchen is thoroughly watched and monitored.”
“The ways and means are your business. I’m just opening the door.”
Deep in thought, Saunders scratched his cheek. “Can mercury poisoning be treated?”
“Yes, it can. Most of its manifestations are reversible. That’s the whole point. The sooner the president gets treated, the sooner he gets well.”
“Great, Jon. Just what I need, some more job-related stress. You don’t do things the easy way, do you? This is a fucking bombshell. I’ve got to talk to my boss about this, and I know he’s going to want to get the best people on it, as of yesterday.”
“That better include you.”
“I’d like to think it would.”
“I hope your boss realizes the best people also have to be the right people.”
“I hear you,” said Dave, preparing to go. “All right, what are we going to do about you? We should get your ass someplace safe.”
“My first priority is to let the president know. Timing is critical now. Every passing hour jeopardizes his kidneys.”
“I hear you, but I don’t recommend going to the White House. People want you dead, and nothing has less value than a silent messenger. G
ive me a day or two, let me get the lay of the land. Then we’ll have a better idea what to do.’
“If not at the White House, you think you could arrange a private meeting between me and Bob?”
“I’ll work on it. Meanwhile, keep out of sight. You know the drill. Cash only, no credit cards, and stay off the phone unless absolutely necessary. Call me later, okay?”
To Agent Lewis, time was short. Dr. Townsend had to be found and eliminated immediately. Every minute Townsend remained alive was yet another opportunity for him to interfere with their plans. At this point, it was doubtful the doctor knew very much. But the longer he stayed around, the more he was capable of piecing things together. Townsend was an intelligent man, far more resourceful than they’d expected.
Precisely how he’d eluded Johnson and Fitzpatrick was a mystery. The two agents sent a coded message that they’d picked the doctor up, but they never arrived at their destination. Then, half an hour later, their car had been discovered by the Bethesda cops—off the road, smashed into a tree, and with two dead occupants. There was no sign of Townsend. Lewis had immediately sent a back-up team to the doctor’s house, but he wasn’t there. The local police were playing the accident as a weather-related mishap.
With the proper spin, the incident could be portrayed as a deadly assault by a homicidal fugitive.
Where had Townsend gone? There was no sign that he’d been injured in the crash, so they had to assume he’d escaped unharmed. He wasn’t at home, and he wouldn’t be foolish enough to go to work. Lewis considered it carefully. The doctor knew he was running for his life, but he was also an idealist who insisted on doing the right thing. That suggested he’d remain in the area. Thus, they’d continue the search, as discretely as possible. Very few people really knew what was going on, and it had to stay that way.
If he were Townsend, Lewis thought, where would he go? Near his daughter, to his ex-wife? Most fugitives relied on a support network of friends and family. That was worth checking out. Failing that, they’d have to convince him to come to them.
Jon finally risked calling Mireille. When they spoke, he stressed that she act as nonchalant as possible. Many people knew they were seeing one another, and she couldn’t afford to arouse suspicion. Fortunately, Mireille often took off at midday to check out fresh produce at local markets. For her to leave today would seem part of her normal routine. Jon told her where to meet him.
A weather front had come through from west to east, forcing the storm clouds out into the Atlantic. The strong westerly wind that remained whipped the fallen snow into swirling gusts that danced across the street like tumbleweed. For Jon, the weather was an ally. Hunched over, he wanted to seem like any other pedestrian braving the elements to get from one place to another. He left the coffee shop and headed north. Head lowered, he made eye contact with no one.
The Georgetown Park mall was a short distance from the John F. Kennedy recreation center. Jon went in and quickly mingled with the shoppers. The mall had over three hundred stores in which to lose himself. He pretended to browse, never lingering long enough in one place for anyone to notice. Nervous and impatient, the morning hours passed far too slowly. Finally, at noon, he headed toward the food court.
As he’d instructed, Mireille was already sitting alone at a table. Jon bought pizza and Cokes from one of the vendors and sat across from her. Her face had an intensely troubled expression. He gently took her hand and began his explanation. As he filled her in on everything that happened, her eyes never left his.
“You should leave, Jon. Go somewhere. Take a vacation. It’s not safe for you around here.”
“Believe me, I’ve thought about that. But I’m a doctor, Mireille, and President Meredith is my patient. How would it look if I just up and left?’
“Look? Who cares how it would look? Those men want to kill you!”
“And I won’t let that happen. I have no intention of letting them get anywhere near me. If I’m careful, they’ll never find me.”
“Then how are you going to help the president? To help him, you have to get near him. If these men are as ruthless as you say, they will shoot you on sight!”
“Dave’s working on that for me. Look, Mireille, the president is a sick man. He needs help, and I’m the only one who knows what’s wrong.”
Exasperated by his stubbornness, she shook her head. “I can see your mind is made up. But how did this happen, Jon? How did he get poisoned?”
“That’s what I need you to tell me. The most likely way of poisoning someone is in their food. But Dave thinks that’d be hard.” He went on to explain what Saunders had said about the kitchen’s security checks and balances.
“Everything he claims is true,” Mireille said. “They watch food preparation very closely. Nothing sneaks in. Besides, if someone poisoned, say, the veal, how would he know that only the president would eat it? It would never work.”
“What about what he drinks? Beer, soft drinks, coffee, even water?”
“The same as the food. Everything is checked. That includes snacks in the private residence and Oval Office. All the water is bottled. Even if he drank from the tap, I’m told the White House supply is specially filtered and monitored.”
Finishing his pizza, Jon scanned the crowd with a pensive expression. In the sea of passing faces, no one looked suspicious. “Well, it has to be getting into his body somehow. He’s not on any prescription medications, but maybe he’s taking something over-the-counter.” He paused. “I told you about his symptoms. What if he’s not the only one?”
“Are you thinking of someone else?”
“From what you told me, Mr. Phillips had some of the same problems as President Meredith. Could they have eaten the same food?”
Mireille made a roach-rolling gesture with thumb and forefinger. “Maybe they had the same taste in cigarettes.”
“Hmmm….” Jon squinted, looking into the distance. “The president smokes a pipe, you know.”
“Really? I never saw him smoke.”
“He doesn’t, in public. Same as Jackie Kennedy. Bad for his image,” he said slowly. His expression turned contemplative. “I wonder if that’s possible.”
“What?”
“I’ve been concentrating so much on oral intake that I forgot the inhalation route. But if someone inhales metallic mercury, it can be as toxic as if he eats it.” Jon reached into his pocket and removed the crumpled Marlboro packet containing the Phillips roll-your-owns. He unrolled one, picking at the brown shreds of tobacco. “Mr. Phillips had access to the private residence, right?”
Mireille nodded. “He was one of the main ushers.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if this is pipe tobacco. It’s easy for smokers who roll their own to try different tobaccos. I realize he died of a heart attack, but if he helped himself to some of the president’s stash…. You follow what I’m saying? That could account for some of his symptoms.”
“Can you get it tested?” she asked.
“That’s what I have in mind. But alone,” he said, lifting the pack, “this doesn’t prove a thing. We’d need a comparison sample from the President’s humidors. There are at least two I’m aware of, one in the Oval Office, and one in the study off the bedroom.” He looked her in the eye. “This could be risky, Mireille. But is there some way you could get me a sample?”
She gave a Gallic shrug. “Maybe. In fact, I’m serving dinner in the residence tonight.”
It was mid-afternoon before Agent Lewis heard from his contact at the NSA. The National Security Agency—the nation’s cryptographic organization headquartered at Fort Meade, Maryland—was charged with protecting U.S. information systems. Through its network of overhead satellites and land systems, it had a formidable ability to perform electronic eavesdropping. The White House, along with executive agencies like the CIA and the State Department, were its primary clients. Thus, when the request for surveillance came through routine channels, the NSA immediately complied.
Sin
ce it specialized in SIGINT, or signals intelligence, the NSA’s technicians had an unparalleled ability to intercept and evaluate telephone transmissions anywhere in the world. This included cell phones. Knowing Dr. Townsend’s cell phone number would have simplified Lewis’ job, but apparently the doctor was using a new number. Lewis had traced Townsend’s recent credit card purchases, and none of the charges matched a phone vendor. Moreover, the regional phone companies didn’t have a new listing for Townsend, suggesting he’d used a different name. Still, Lewis knew that if he was patient and the NSA computers did their job, they could decipher and locate the new number within twenty-four hours.
But twenty-four hours was more than Agent Lewis wanted to spend. There was, however, another method of locating cell phone users, one that relied on keywords. Spy satellites had the ability to listen in on cellular conversations anywhere in a given locale. These conversations were relayed to the NSA’s computers, where sophisticated voice recognition software programs sifted through millions of spoken words searching for matches, or hits. Of the several keywords Lewis had submitted, the one that proved successful was “Mireille.”
By three p.m., Lewis was inspecting a ten-page transcript of that morning’s conversations in which the word Mireille appeared. Lewis quickly found the exchange he wanted. Although the call had taken place four hours earlier, there was a remote chance that Dr. Townsend was still at the agree-upon location. Lewis quickly organized a team and headed for the mall.
His men scoured the shops, walkways, and open areas. By now the chef was known to have returned to the White House, but Lewis hoped the doctor had remained behind. But after a thorough search, nothing turned up. Still, by making the proper inquiries, Lewis learned that Townsend had been there. He also got a description of what the doctor was wearing.
It was now just a matter of time. Once they had the doctor’s new cell phone number, they could directly monitor the conversations in real time. Sooner or later, the phone would lead them to him. When it did, they would converge on his location, arrest him, and take him away.