Lethal Dose (13 page)

27

It was 10:24 A.M. on Wednesday, August 31, when Jim Allenby took the call. It was patched through directly from the Department of Homeland Security to his office in the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was not a pleasant call.

“We've got a real problem, Jim,” J. D. Rothery said tersely. “The virus has reappeared. And this time we've got more than one infected person.”

“How many and where?” Allenby asked, holding his pen over a small pad of paper on his desk.

“Miami. An entire family is sick. Mother, father, and two kids. Only one death so far, but we don't think any of them are going to make it.”

“Shit,” Allenby said under his breath. This was going to be difficult to keep under wraps. And if the media found out…“What do you need from us?”

“Get down to Miami and liaise with the local authorities. You can have jurisdiction if you want. It may look better with the FBI involved rather than DHS. We'll stay in the background.”

“Okay. Where are the victims right now?”

“The three still alive are in their home.” He recited an address. “The father's body is already en route to Fort Detrick for autopsy.”

“Who's in charge at present?”

“Local cops, but they don't know what's going on. Let's try to keep it that way.”

“This is going to be difficult, J. D.,” Allenby said. “Christ, an entire family.”

“I know, Jim, but do your best. And keep me in the loop.”

Jim Allenby hung up, then dialed again. He requested a company jet on standby at Reagan within the hour, then called the Miami field office. Arthur Wren, Special Agent in Charge, took the call. Allenby and Wren went back twenty years, and he was glad he was dealing with a veteran agent on this one.

“How are things in science, or counterterrorism, or whatever it is you do?”Wren asked. He was a likable man in his late fifties who had been decorated twice for bravery. Both medals were under a bunch of socks in his underwear drawer, and his office walls were covered with pictures of his grandchildren.

“They've got me stuck right in the middle,” Allenby said. “Anything relating to science or drugs and I'm the guy they call. That'll teach me to pick a career with the Bureau after getting a science degree.” His tone shifted as he moved to the reason for the call. “We've got a problem, Arthur, and it's in your backyard.”

“What's up?”

“Local cops are all over an incident in Olympia Heights, but we're going to be taking jurisdiction on this one. And quick.”

“It came through on the scanners about twenty minutes ago. How do you know about it?”

“Let's just say I'm in the loop on this one. I'm leaving D.C. immediately and flying down, but I want you to personally take charge until I get there. And Arthur, don't let anyone in that house without full protective gear. I'm talking lethal virus here. Very scary stuff.”

“Holy shit. What's going on?”

“You control the scene and I'll tell you when I get to Miami. Just keep the press away if possible. DHS will be around, but they're going to stay in the background. When the victims die, the bodies will be wrapped and moved to Fort Detrick. DHS will handle that.”

“Department of Homeland Security? What's going on, Jim? Have we got an act of terrorism on our hands?”

“I'll fill you in when I get there. The longer I spend on the phone with you, the longer it'll take for me to get to Miami.”

“Okay, Jim. I'll take care of things on this end.”

“Thanks.” Allenby hung up, clipped his cell phone on his belt, grabbed his briefcase, and moved quickly to the elevator. A car was waiting on parking level one, and he slid into the backseat. The driver already knew they were heading for Reagan and was en route within seconds. Jim Allenby made a few calls, ensuring he had the right resources, both people and equipment, in place. By the time they reached Reagan, the cell phone was back on his hip, his emergency team in place or on their way to Miami.

Jim Allenby's position in the Bureau was unique. He was the only special agent in charge who didn't report directly to one directorate. He floated between the Counterterrorism Division and the directorate for Criminal Investigations. His knowledge of drugs, diseases, pharmaceuticals, and research techniques made him a specialist with skills that worked for both divisions of the FBI. And he was a favorite of DHS as well, especially when they had a virus or a bacterial strain on the loose. This wasn't the first time J. D. Rothery had requested that Allenby coordinate a response to a viral threat. But by the looks of things, this one was the most serious.

Allenby boarded the Gulfstream and settled in for the flight. The fax machine beeped three minutes after they were airborne and he ripped the page off once the transmittal was complete. A full dossier on the stricken family was included, plus their movements for the past week, courtesy of Miami Dade police. It took all of eight seconds for Allenby's gaze to land on one line and stay there. The entire family had eaten at TGIF, a family restaurant chain with franchises across the country, four days ago. The time frame worked, as did the locale. His suspicions ran to either the food or the cutlery as the method of delivering the virus. Since only one table of diners were sick, his best guess was that someone had replaced the cutlery with tainted forks and spoons, which the family used to eat their dinner. That would account for how the virus was ingested and why all four of them were sick, but no one else. He placed a call to his counterparts in Miami and advised them to quarantine the restaurant immediately. Confiscate every knife, fork, and spoon, and identify the booth the family had sat in. Check it for any traces of the virus.

It was a long shot. The virus had probably been planted four days ago, and every piece of cutlery would have been put through the commercial dishwashers on site, probably killing any remaining virus. That was good and bad. Good in that the virus, once dead, would be unable to infect additional people. Bad in that without proof they would never be one hundred percent sure TGIF was the source. He glanced at the pictures of the family that had come through with the fax. A nice-looking family, probably of Cuban descent, the boy about twelve and wearing a Florida Marlins ball cap. The girl was younger, with a beautiful smile. He shook his head at the waste.

The Gulfstream landed at Miami International and a government-issue Crown Victoria whisked him off the tarmac and onto the freeway system. Traffic was reasonable for two in the afternoon, and the trip to the district of Olympia Heights took twelve minutes. He grimaced as they pulled onto the street. Numerous police cars, a few nondescript Bureau vehicles, and four television crews were present. Add in every nosy neighbor for a square mile and the place was as busy as the Orange Bowl on game day. He cursed silently as the car pulled up to the barrier. The driver showed his creds and they proceeded through.

Arthur Wren came out to meet him. “Believe it or not, this situation is controlled,” he said before Allenby could say a word.

The SAC out of Washington glanced about. “How's that, Arthur? It looks kind of busy.”

“The father is someone in the Cuban community. He's big in the local church and ran for political office last municipal election. It's hitting the fan, Jim.”

“Yeah, it's in my dossier,” Allenby said. “What's the status of the victims?”

“Three dead, fourth won't last another hour.”

“The bodies?”

“Two already bagged and en route to Fort Detrick. We're holding the third body until the last family member dies so we can send them down together.”

“What spin are you putting on this?”

“That they contracted a strain of bacteria at the restaurant four days ago. The press is going to put two and two together and figure out that the quarantine on TGIF is related, so we gave it to them. No sense appearing uncooperative.”

“Anybody asking why the Bureau is involved?”

“No serious questions yet. They'll clue in sometime soon. Miami Dade is all over the place right now, so that keeps the camera crews busy filming the local cops. We're trying to stay in the background.”

“Who's here from DHS?”

“One guy, one woman.” He motioned with his head without pointing. “That's them over there.” An average-looking couple, dressed in summer clothes and watching the event from just outside the yellow tape, nodded back at him when he made eye contact.

“Everyone going inside that house protected?” Jim Allenby asked.

“Fully suited. Portable HEPA filters. They're okay.”

Jim Allenby stood and watched the scene unfold. This was going to be a public relations nightmare. It was containable as long as they kept to the infectious-bacteria story and assured the public the source had been located and destroyed. That meant getting the press on side, and that was his job. He created the new strain of bacteria in his head, gave it a cellular structure and an antidote, then headed across the street to the nearest camera crew. He was good at this stuff, but one thing gnawed in the back of his mind.

What would happen the next time the terrorists unleashed the virus?

28

Jennifer Pearce glanced at the clock. It was after ten Tuesday evening, and she wasn't expecting anyone. There was a second knock on the front door, and she walked through her living room to the foyer. She stuck one eye up to the peephole. It was dark out, but she recognized Gordon Buchanan's face in the shadows. She opened the door, feeling bewildered.

“Hello, Gordon,” she said, moving aside so he could enter. “Now, this is a surprise. Never in a million years would I have expected you to be standing on my doorstep.”

He gave her a grin of sorts. “If this isn't okay, I'll leave and call you tomorrow.”

“No, no, come on in,” she said, closing the door behind him. She waved at the front room. “Have a seat. You want some coffee or tea or something?”

“Water would be nice,” he said, sitting on the love seat next to the baby grand. “What a beautiful piano.”

“Thanks. You play?” Jennifer asked as she disappeared into the kitchen. She reappeared a half minute later with two glasses of water.

“No. Always wanted to start but never found the time. Wish I had.”

She handed him the water. “So what brings a logger to Richmond? No trees left in Montana?”

He laughed. Her easygoing nature had taken any edge off the situation. “I've done a lot of thinking since Saturday. In fact, I've done more than just think. I took a trip to St. Lucia and had a look about.”

“Kenga?” she asked, sitting on the sofa a few feet distant, facing him.

Gordon nodded. “I know a few people on the island, and I got one of them to pull the police file. He drove me to the crash site, and I had a look around.” He sipped his water. “I'm not a forensic investigator, but if I had to guess, I'd say that the car Kenga was in when she went over the cliff was pushed.” He explained to her the series of switchbacks and tight corners at and close to the crash scene, and the gash he had noticed in the tree. “Another week and that evidence will be covered over with moss and lichens.”

“So whoever murdered her is going to get away with it,” she said bitterly.

He shrugged. “I doubt if the Lucian police will do anything, if that's what you mean. But maybe there's something we can do.”

She tilted her head slightly and looked at the man, this time staring into his eyes and seeing inside him. She saw pain and anger tempered with patience and cunning. And she saw an inner strength. Buchanan had lost his brother, and he saw Veritas as the responsible party. Instead of sitting back and complaining, he was going on the offensive. Her type of guy.

“What would that be?” she asked.

Gordon held up the water glass. “This isn't cutting it,” he said. “If that offer for coffee is still on, I'll try some.”

“Sure,” she said. “Come on in the kitchen.”

They talked about her new house, Gordon complimenting her on the wooden plank flooring, which she disliked, and asking why anyone would have a white kitchen, which she liked.

As the coffee perked, he asked about restaurants, the Richmond theater scene, and what driving was like in the city. When they were each settled in at the kitchen table with a hot, fresh mug of coffee, he took some time to explain things to her.

“I suspected right from minute one that the antibalding drug had altered Billy's body chemistry somehow. Both of us have suffered cuts over the years, it's just part of working with saws, and he'd never had a problem with his blood clotting before. Things like that don't just change overnight.

“The only variable was Triaxcion. So I went to a local law firm and had them dig into what legal avenues were open to us. What we found pointed to the possibility that Veritas could be responsible for Billy's death.”

“What did you find?” Jennifer asked, cupping her coffee mug, the warmth comfortable on her palms.

“There are a few other people out there who have had a family member die and have retained legal counsel. All of them are looking at possible tort suits against Veritas.”

“But none have been filed yet. Why is that?”

“No definitive proof. My lawyer pushed pretty hard but couldn't get any sort of positive response from Veritas. In fact, they were adamant that if we filed, they would defend Triaxcion to the Supreme Court if necessary. My lawyer, Christine, advised me that Veritas could wear me down financially, destroy me unless there was some sort of massive tort action taken against them. And that doesn't look like it's going to happen.”

“So it would have been David against Goliath, except this David would have been overrun with lawyers.”

He nodded. “I'm not one to run from a fight, but I'm not one to start a scrap that I don't stand a chance of winning. So as the picture began to come into focus and I realized the legal route wasn't going to work, I changed my approach.”

“You talked Kenga into getting you information on Veritas,” she said.

He hesitated. Then he swallowed. “In one way, I suppose I'm responsible for her death. But I never thought Veritas would go to such lengths to protect themselves.”

Jennifer shook her head vigorously. “You are not responsible for her death,” she said. “If the company discovered she was passing privileged information to a third party, they should have fired her and had her charged criminally. Killing her was not a normal reaction.”

“I would never have asked her if I'd known this would happen,” Gordon said, his eyes wet. “She was a nice kid.”

“How did you meet her?” Jennifer asked.

“Her parents are still in Romania, and her dad has a Web site he uses to post family stuff on. When I was searching the Web, looking for hits on Veritas, the search engine found a hit on his site. He mentioned his daughter was in America working for Veritas Pharmaceutical. I used the information on the Web site to locate her, talked to her a few times, then offered her money to get what she could on Triaxcion.” His eyes teared up again. “Christ, I never thought they'd kill her.”

Jennifer moved across to the love seat and sat beside him, her hands on his arm. “It's okay, Gordon. What happened isn't your fault.” They sat in silence for a minute or two.

“Thanks,” he said. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and continued. “I had an inside source with Kenga, but I wanted more. So I hired a private investigator to dig into Veritas. Among other things, he found some questionable accounting practices.”

“Veritas is in trouble financially?” she asked.

“I'm not sure. But they've stretched themselves pretty thin. Haldion was their first FDA recall, and the tort suits drained a lot of money out of the corporate coffers. Triaxcion was looking like it was going to follow suit, and that's probably why they decided to defend it so vigorously. Stop the bleeding before it starts. A successful tort suit could have cost them in excess of five hundred million dollars. That's money Veritas doesn't have right now.”

“What about the new drugs in the pipeline?” Jennifer asked. “Veritas is close to getting FDA approval on three new chemicals.”

“One for reducing blood pressure, one an antiviral, the other for cholesterol. But not one of the three is there yet. From what I saw, they're stuck in Phase III trials.”

“But if any one of those drugs is approved, the money will be flowing again. These aren't orphan drugs we're talking about here.”

Gordon looked confused. “What are orphan drugs?”

“Sometimes a major pharmaceutical company will develop a drug that works against a serious affliction that only affects a few people. Without the numbers to generate the sales once the drug is FDA approved and on the market, there's no upside to manufacturing it other than some R&D credits. Orphan drugs are very much a goodwill gesture by the company.”

“No, they are certainly not orphan drugs.”

“What else did your PI uncover?” she asked.

“Another dead Veritas employee. Albert Rousseau. He died back in late April when his gas stove exploded.”

“You think Veritas had something to do with it?”

Gordon finished his coffee and set the mug on the kitchen table. “What are the chances of a gas explosion? Natural gas is about the safest form of energy on the market. These things just don't happen every day. If I had to guess, I'd say the explosion was planned. The private investigator I hired is on his way to Richmond to see if Rousseau was planning any big purchases or trips.”

“You think he was blackmailing someone at Veritas?”

“No idea. But it's suspicious, his dying like that.”

Jennifer finished her coffee and poured both of them another cup. “It's decaf,” she said, pouring a touch of cream into her mug. She offered him the cream and he topped off his coffee.

“This isn't my life, Jennifer,” Gordon said. She looked confused, and he said, “People dying and corporations killing their employees. I'm completely out of my element here. I'm comfortable in a flannel shirt with a chain saw in my hand. This is so alien to me. I don't know what to do.”

“You seem to have done pretty good so far,” she said. “You found the pills, talked to the doctor, brought in legal counsel first and then a private investigator. And when that wasn't working, you searched out Kenga. You've certainly adapted to this whole mess quite well.”

His face wore a dejected look. “But we have nothing. Veritas is probably guilty of some horrific things, but we can't prove it. So far, they're winning.”

“So far,” she said. “You look tired. I've got a guest bedroom set up. Want to spend the night?”

He shook his head. “No, thanks. It's not proper. I'll get a hotel room. In fact, I've already got one. Left all my bags there before I came over.”

She nodded, knowing he had just told her the first lie of the night. “Okay, if you insist.”

“I do,” he said, rising from the kitchen chair. They walked through the living room, and he stopped. “Would you do me one favor?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Play for me. Just one or two songs. I love the piano.”

“Of course,” Jennifer said, a little taken aback by the request. It had come out of left field. “Just relax on the couch and get comfortable.”

Gordon stretched out on the sofa, his legs overhanging the armrest. Jennifer sat at the bench and the gentle sounds of Enya spilled through the darkened room. Every key she touched was as it should be, and her cadence was perfect. He felt the notes blurring together into a silky wall of sound. His thoughts drifted to the woman at the piano, and how she had taken the incentive to search him out and speak with him about Kenga. She was a well-educated, intelligent woman, and he admired her strength of character. Perhaps together they could give Veritas a run for its money.

The notes washed over him, and his breathing became more and more rhythmic.