Gabriel's Stand (12 page)

Downtown Seattle, 8:36 P.M.

The secure, top floor conference room in Edge Medical's corporate offices was open and stocked with coffee and snacks. Dr. John Owen glanced at the voice mail queue on his phone, spotted that Elisabeth had left a long message, and flagged it for attention…
as soon as this meeting is over
. Then he looked out the conference room window at the foggy, twinkling skyline. He had been pacing. “What the hell is keeping Lance McKernon?” he asked, turning to face the politicians at his table. “So where
is
your boss, Tom?”

John was looking at Tom Ballwell, a young man in a crisp, white shirt and tie. He was a political consultant working out of the McKernon's Seattle office. “The Senator can't be much longer.” Ballwell was obviously worried.

Gabriel sat impassively, his dress shirt and worsted wool suit framing the famous weathered face, leather bolo tie and long gray hair. “Lance is never this late,” he said quietly.

“We'd better start anyway, don't you think?” It was Utah Senator Thurston Smith, a compact blond man with wire rim glasses. Smith, a bundle of barely controlled energy, sat drumming his fingers on the table.

Dr. Owen gave an authoritative look to Ken Wang, a husky young man sitting at the end of the long table. Wang was John's long-time administrative aide and sole body guard and one of the kindest men he knew. “Shall I call the Senator's office?”

“Great idea,” Dr. Owen said, “and every other number until you get him.” Ken slipped out of the room.

John sat down heavily, his lips pursed in worry. He looked around the table sensing the growing tension, an invisible current that ran through the room. In less than three hours, three key Senators, including his old friend, Gabriel, would be flying back to DC to attempt to block a treaty ratification that could change the course of American history. This was hardball.
Hopefully three
, he thought.
Where the hell is Lance?

“Should we go over strategy one more time?” Ballwell asked.

“Fine,” Gabriel said, leaning forward. “We stress the danger to the constitution,” Gabriel said. “And we talk about extremists who don't care about real people.”

“Who still cares about the constitution these days?” Ballwell asked.

“At least thirty-four Senators better,” Gabriel snorted, “or we soon won't have one.”

“Excuse me. John?” Ken Wang was standing in the doorway, looking agitated.

“What did you find out?” John asked. Both Senators turned in their chairs, faces suddenly taut.

Ken Wang was holding a phone in one hand. “Senator McKernon left his Seattle office in a hurry. He does not answer his cell. That's all they can tell me.”

“When?”

“About two hours ago.”

Gabriel cursed quietly.

“We really need Lance,” Smith said. “He'll carry at least twelve votes.”

Gabriel scowled. “Give him another ten minutes? Then I think we better call the police.”

“Yes,” Ballwell said. “Although, sometimes the Senator gets sidetracked. Please go on, Senator.”

Gabriel looked at his friends in turn; then he carefully placed his hands on the table. “People said my Habitat bill would never be passed. But we did it.” He made a fist with his right hand. “I had no clue how extreme these European nuts were, how many good people they were willing to trample. The bottom line is that they don't give a damn about people at all. The Habitat will be wrecked. These idiots will get an unbalanced, unmanaged, unintegrated set of ecosystems. Rogue species will rule.
People
will be banned. It's nuts.”

“They're going to stonewall us—deny everything,” John said. “Maybe we should talk about the terrorist connection.”

“How much can we really say in public?” Smith said. “We know there is a worldwide terrorist network, the G-A-N, which stands for Gaia's Antibodies Network, we think. It probably started in Germany, with a huge budget that's not traceable to any one place or person. We also know there are G-A-N terrorists in the American movement. We're certain that some of them have access to the highest levels of power. There is more, but the best sources are anonymous and confidential.”

“I say you use everything you have right now.” Dr. Owen said. “There may not be a second chance.”

“I don't have the votes to release all the files. Most of my committee refused to tar some very prominent people based on anonymous tips.”

“What
can
you release?”

“My opinion and that of experts who cannot be named is that the G-A-N very much wants this treaty passed. That this whole thing connects to a cult that sees the planet as Gaia, a living being, the alpha earth god or goddess. To these lunatics, people are a flipping infection. The terrorists are the antibodies. At the G-A-N command center a small group of mercenaries and ultra-radicals are led by cultic-religious fanatics.”

“That's dynamite, Senator,” Ballwell said. “Surely you can use some of this in the debates.”

“And ask our fellow Senators to take it
on faith
that the G-A-N wants the Earth Restoration Treaty ratified? The polls say a majority of Americans want the same thing.”

“Exactly who among the treaty's supporters are these terrorists tied to?” John asked. “Surely you can ‘leak' that much to us.”

“Well?” Gabriel asked.

Smith hesitated.

“And why hasn't your Committee's final report on domestic terrorism come out yet?” John pressed.

Senator Thurston Smith raised his hands. “Yes, I know my committee is sitting on dynamite. If I had stronger proof, I would also have the votes to let it out. But we're not even close to finished with the investigation. We can't accuse sitting senators and large contributors without more hard evidence.”

“Sitting Senators? Large contributors? Who are they?” John pressed.

“John, Gabriel, I'm so sorry. I did leak some of the partly redacted draft report to friends I can trust.”

“All fifteen of us,” Gabriel said. “You need nineteen more friends, Thur.”

“What's in the rest of that piece, Gabriel?” John asked.

“European money was laundered. Unexplained transfers in suspicious amounts to certain officials, some of them my colleagues. Links to well-known contributors, some of them with ties to half the Senate. But no names.”

“We are out of time,” Ballwell said. “Public opinion now borders on hysteria.”

“Can you blame them after all that's happened?” Gabriel said. “One more disaster and
I'm
on board!”

“Remember, we don't have to carry the polls,” Smith said. “We just have to provide some backbone for thirty-four Senators. If they are assured that the truth will come out fairly soon, we might get them to stall the treaty vote. I just need ten days to finish the investigation.”

“The public is very frightened right now. You guys need to calm the waters somehow, and buy us those ten days,” John said. “Let the rational arguments sink in.”

“Won't happen,” Gabriel said, “not if they have the votes to cut off debate.”

“What's the count?” Smith asked Ballwell.

“As long you have Senator McKernon's vote, they can't curtail debate; he carries ten to fifteen senators on all the procedural votes, no matter how they intend to vote on the Treaty.”

Gabriel looked at his watch. “That does it. We're out of time.”

John stood. “I'm calling Lance's wife again and the cops. Ken, go personally with the police to check the Senator's office and call me. Gentlemen, we have a plane to catch.”

——

Meanwhile, one member of Berker's Operations team, a contract killer, stopped across the street, bent over and adjusted his running shoe. When he stood, he glanced up and down the nearly empty street, then produced tiny binoculars and scanned a brightly lit window—the targeted office. As car headlights approached, he deftly slipped the binoculars out of sight and touched a tiny mike attached to his baseball cap.

“They're still at it. Are you getting any audio?” His listened, then fiddled with the other shoe. “I will,” he said. After a moment, the man strolled casually across the street towards a small coffee shop.

——

Inside, Dr. Owen looked at his watch. “Gotta check in at Sea-Tac. Time to wrap this up, gentlemen,” he said. “Gabriel, you know Lance's wife?”

Gabriel speed-dialed. All three men watched as the call went through.

“Hi. This is Gabriel. We're still waiting for Lance in Dr. Owen's office.” Gabriel's face changed sharply. “He went looking for
Johnny
? When?” Gabriel looked at John bleakly. “Ken! Have you called the police yet? Good. Call us as soon as you know anything. Mary, could you hold on for Ken Wang?”

“Did I hear that right?” John asked.

Gabriel nodded. “She has also called the police.”

“You don't suppose somebody doesn't want him to vote?” Smith muttered. His face was a black cloud.

——

Far below the conference room window, the runner spoke into his mike. “Senator Gabriel Standing Bear is there. And I spotted Senator Smith earlier.” He paused. “I will, I will. As soon as Owen comes out.”

——

“Okay,” John said. “We're out of here. Ken, I want you to stay in constant contact with the Senator's wife and his office. Tell them I will be holding my personal plane for Lance right up until the vote. And call our pilot with that. And find me a ticket. I'll fly to Washington, commercial, with these guys. Mr. Ballwell, you might as well stay with Ken.”

As the door closed behind Ken and Ballwell, Gabriel stood. “I think Lance loves his son more than he loves his own life.” Gabriel felt a sharp pang.
Snowfeather.
Must call her again as soon as I reach DC.

John picked up his coat. “We got miles to go and promises to keep.”

——

On the sidewalk across the street from the Edge Medical building, the dark figure in nylon running clothes and a baseball cap stood, still holding the compact binoculars. The man spoke into his mike. “Light's out. They're leaving now. I'm relocating to Target One.”

A few blocks away, a female taxi driver spoke into her cellphone. “I have the quarry now.”

“Good,” he said. “Stay just ahead of them. We're monitoring their calls and their conversations in the car.”

Both phones disconnected as Dr. Owen got into the elevator.

Thirty minutes passed. One third of the 3,204 Vector Pharmaceutical's Seattle plant employees were busy getting out a rush shipment of critically needed antibiotics. VP's manufacturing facilities occupied two blocks in a newly renovated industrial park in South Seattle.

The G-A-N operative named Gaul was sitting a block away in an old Chrysler minivan. Earlier that evening, his team had temporarily closed the plant for a safety inspection and had exploited that visit with cool efficiency, installing explosive napalm devices at every entrance and exit in the five building complex.

The bombing had been scheduled for 9:39 P.M.

The inferno was on time.

From outside the buildings came a closely spaced series of dull thumping noises, as inside, every restroom erupted in gouting, dense fumes. An aerosol of carbon particles and volatilized jet fuel spilled into hallways and stairways and open areas near the bathrooms.

At 9:40, searing white, incandescent flashes lit all twenty-five doorways to the complex, followed a half second later by brilliant, billowing orange flames. The explosions were like a fire-fight on a battlefield. When the aerosol of carbon and hydrocarbon fumes from the bathrooms contacted the flames at the doorways, a smear of almost simultaneous explosions rocked the buildings from end to end in a continuous roar, blowing every window in a coruscating shower of glass and fire. The resulting firestorm created an updraft that generated temperatures well in excess of two thousand degrees Fahrenheit. A Porsche, parked at the main entrance, was reduced to glowing steel, its aluminum engine block a bubbling puddle in the gutter.

At the first explosions, Gaul threw the minivan in reverse, the tires shrieking as he sought to distance himself from the inferno. “Gaia's Kiss,” Gaul said into his radio; then he cut his wheel sharply to the left and spun the van around, facing the lane of oncoming traffic. Gaul shifted and gunned the engine, intending to slip into the opposite lane. But a garbage truck swerved into his path, its driver disoriented by the explosion. The truck plowed into the front of the van, crumpling the driver's side.

When the paramedics arrived, the truck's horn was still howling. The van's dashboard, steering column, wheel, ruptured airbag, collapsed, engulfing Gaul. His crushed body was trapped between the seat and the crumpled door-frame. Sirens and the hissing of two radiators competed with the sound of the firestorm.

——

Freelance reporter Max Cahoon was in Seattle for another story. He got to the scene in the first fifteen minutes with his photographer. He watched the police officials from a vantage point in the crowd held back by tape across the street while the news helicopters circled overhead like carrion-seeking birds. Within minutes, the media would be pouring in by bus, cab and plane by the hundreds. This was the single biggest industrial disaster in a decade. Federal authorities were rushing to close down access even as a few began to hear the dreaded assessment from the scene: It was a terrorist bombing.

Finally, one of the firemen who knew Cahoon from an earlier encounter checked his press credentials and waved him through. Two men in blue nylon jackets were so absorbed in conversation near a police van they didn't notice his approach.

“Not a single survivor?” The detective with SPD was a brooding gray presence. He stood at the edge of the smoking ruin chatting calmly with the fire department arson inspector, a hard-faced man in his thirties. The building that had housed the largest manufacturer of cutting edge antibiotics on the American continent was glowing rubble. From their conversational tone, the two men could have been talking baseball scores. Then Cahoon noticed their haunted eyes.

Vector Pharmaceutical was gone along with over a thousand people, burned alive and these men would have nightmares for weeks.

So will I
, Cahoon thought.

“Nobody made it out,” the detective said.

“The coroner's people will be very busy. We have temperatures exceeding two thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Even dental records might not be enough.”

“Who would do this?” It was Max Cahoon's question, asked as though he'd been there all along. The arson inspector glanced at Cahoon. Max could see the “Who the hell are you?” look on his face, but the man was more interested in the question. “What would anyone have against an antibiotic manufacturer?”

“We have a clue,” the detective said cryptically.

“What about the suspect in the van?” the inspector asked.

“Didn't make it,” the detective said. His tone was matter of fact.

“Did he leave anything?” the Max asked.

“You're Max Cahoon, right?” He nodded. “Thought I recognized you. Now don't quote me by name.” Max nodded. “We caught a break. Apparently the van was outfitted with a radio using a routinely monitored frequency. Homeland Security intercepted a send by one of the terrorists before the crash, a male voice, presumably the driver. He radioed something about ‘Gaia's kiss.' He was carrying a passport, probably fake, and some papers.”

“What were the papers?” Max asked.

“Quotes from the Manifesto of Ted Kaczynski.”

“Who is Kaczynski?” the arson inspector asked.

“The Unabomber,” Cahoon offered. “The guy who mailed bombs around the country to various scientists in the 1990's. He blackmailed the media into publishing his ‘Manifesto'.”

“Okay, okay,” the inspector said.

The older detective looked amused at the inspector's embarrassment. “He had the Manifesto in his pocket. Certain passages were underlined.” The detective paused. “I remember the phrase: ‘The factories should be destroyed.'”

——

At the time the police and fire personnel first arrived at the site of the VP explosion, John was sitting next to Gabriel and Thurston in the limousine that was taking them to Sea-Tac, his own cellphone on, with the ringer set to maximum.

Six minutes later, Dr. Owen's cellphone clanged.

“This better be Lance,” Dr. Owen muttered. He fished the tiny phone out of his jacket pocket, listening for a few moments; then his face froze. “Oh. My. God.” He put the phone against his chest, biting his lip.

“Is it Lance?” Gabriel asked. “What's wrong?”

There was a long silence. Dr. Owen whispered. “No. It was our Vector plant. They firebombed the whole building. Killed…the entire night shift. No one…”

“No,” Gabriel said. “No.”

John paused, choking on his own words. “No one got out. My very best. One thousand people working overtime to make medicine. My friends died. It was murder. God…Damn…Them.”

“Turn this car around,” Gabriel ordered. “We've got to get John to—”

“No!” John barked. “No. I can't allow this to get in the way of the vote. You guys get on that plane. I'll get a ride back from—”

“I'll call,” Ken said from the front seat.

“No. Wait!” John said. “Look. There is an empty cab right ahead of us. Get his attention. HONK! Get him to pull off at the next exit. I'll get out there.”

“Are you sure?” Ken asked.

“Yes. Honk at him. NOW.”

Ken leaned next to the limousine driver. The limousine began honking and the driver of the taxi pulled back into the right lane. Ken lowered the passenger window, waving wildly at the exit, holding a hundred-dollar bill. “She's signaling,” Ken said.

“Good move,” Gabriel said.

John speed-dialed his daughter. “Hi,” he said. “I'm sorry I didn't get back to you, hon. We have a crisis here. I need to talk to Josh.” He paused, looking sick. “He wasn't going by the plant, was he? Damn…” A beat later, Dr. Owen added, “Well, call when he gets in. He's still driving that Porsche, isn't he?” Another pause. “Big trouble at the plant, but I can't talk now. I need to go there and see for myself. I'll call as soon as I know something…”

“Everything okay with your family?” Gabriel asked.

Owen was pale and sweaty.
I think I've just lost my son-in-law.
“I hope to God Josh didn't go by the plant tonight…”
But it's just what he'd do.

Gabriel reached over and patted John on the shoulder. “Call me as soon as you hear.”

——

Three minutes later, John Owen was in the taxi headed back into Seattle. “There's a fire at Vector Pharmaceutical,” he said. “I must get there.”

“I heard on the radio,” the driver said. “I know where it is.” She was an attractive woman with short, blond hair. “But I'll have to detour, okay?”

“Do whatever you need to do.”

“Yes, Dr. Owen.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I follow the news.”

Damn! Elisabeth will hear about this before I can tell her.

The detour exit was near the Waterfront Hotel. John didn't notice anything unusual, until the cabbie drove into an unlit area next to a warehouse. “This is as far as I go,” she said. The cab stopped.

“The hell you say.” Fuming, Dr. Owen pounded on the Plexiglas barrier. “Hey!” he shouted. “Talk to me!”

Suddenly, the right passenger door jerked open. Another woman, stouter and older than the driver, was holding a semiautomatic weapon. It was trained at his chest.

“Your room is ready, Dr. Owen. Will you come quietly or should we just leave your body here in the lot?”

John was still furious. “If you really intend to kill me, what difference does it make?”

“Oh, we didn't
plan
to kill you. We have a business proposition in mind. Now get out of the car. K, give me a hand here!”

The cabbie turned to face John, pointing another handgun through the slot in the Lexan barrier. “She sometimes kills when she gets impatient, Dr. Owen.”

John slid across the seat. Just as his feet touched the pavement, he felt a sting in his arm. A heartbeat later, his entire world warped, and his vision swiftly narrowed to a tiny spot. Then, somehow, his knees were on the pavement.

“Catch his head,” someone ordered. Then Dr. John Owen was beyond hearing.