“Only that eyewitnesses reported seeing a glow over the northwest corner of the base.”
“That’s where Op-Center is,” McCaskey said.
“Which is why I phoned,” she told him. “I tried calling Bob Herbert and Paul, but I only get a recording from the phone company saying there is a problem with the number I dialed.”
McCaskey thanked her and tried calling them himself. He got nothing. He phoned the office of Brigadier General Chrysler and was told about the explosion. It appeared to be an electromagnetic pulse weapon. Everyone was still there except for Rodgers. McCaskey decided not to return. If there were a plot against Op-Center, it was best to keep the resources disbursed. If there were a plot against the investigation, McCaskey refused to let this stop him. He had called in a favor with Sarah Hubbard, a friend at the Company’s Central Intelligence Crime and Narcotics Center. McCaskey wanted to see a medical director at the Directorate of Science and Technology. There was an aspect of the murders that troubled him, and he needed answers. Hubbard said that Dr. Scot P. Allan was the man he wanted. She set up the appointment for four P.M.
McCaskey parked and went to the main entrance of the new headquarters building, a commanding white brick facade topped by a high, proud, hemispherical archway. The roof of the enclosed arch was made of panes of bulletproof glass. Compared to this showplace, Op-Center was downright homely. McCaskey went through the security checkpoint, where he was given a color-coded day pass to stick on his lapel. Then he waited for someone to come and get him. The former FBI agent felt a stab in his soul when he saw the sun slanting through the glass. The white stone gleamed, and there was a healthy sense of purpose to the men and women who moved through the corridors beyond. McCaskey thought of Op-Center and how badly the building and its occupants must have been wounded. He was glad, then, that he had not gone right back to Andrews Air Force Base. He needed time to process the fact that his home for the last six years had been invaded and disfigured.
A clean-cut young man arrived promptly to take McCaskey back to Dr. Allan’s office. There was no conversation as the two men made their way along nondescript white corridors. This was the Central Intelligence Agency. People were trained to listen, not to speak.
Dr. Allan’s book-lined office was toward the rear of a wing that included several laboratories, computer centers, and offices. Sports memorabilia was tucked between the volumes and hung on the wall between the diplomas. There were family photos in hand-painted frames, probably made by a daughter or son decades before. Compared to Matt Stoll’s little tech hut, this was Mount Olympus.
Dr. Allan was a powerfully built, outgoing man in his late fifties. He had a long gray imperial beard at the end of a long face, full white eyebrows, and longish gray white hair. His brown eyes were dark with purpose. He looked like Uncle Sam dressed in a white lab coat with red stains on the sleeves. The all-American icon covered with blood.
“It’s toluidine,” the physician apologized, noticing McCaskey’s gaze. “Working on a red dye.” He did not tell him what it was for; this was the CIA. Allan motioned McCaskey to have a seat. He shut the door, then sat behind his desk. “I don’t have a lot of time, Mr. McCaskey, but our mutual acquaintance said this was urgent.”
“Yes, Dr. Allan. Thank you for seeing me.”
“I had no choice,” Allan informed him. “Ms. Hubbard wields a great deal of power here.”
“She does?”
“Your friend controls the block of Redskins tickets.” Allan smiled. “It’s important to stay on her good side.”
“She always had an angle.”
“That is what government service is all about,” Allan remarked. “Access and control. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Sir, I believe that Ms. Hubbard forwarded verification of my security clearance,” McCaskey said.
“She did. She also told me that you were investigating the murder of William Wilson for the NCMC.”
“That’s right,” McCaskey said.
“Speaking frankly, why did you want to see me? Do you suspect that someone here was involved?”
“Not someone who is presently employed here,” McCaskey said.
“Good,” Allan said. “I never discuss coworkers without their knowledge, especially with outsiders.”
“We are part of the same team,” McCaskey reminded him.
Allan just smiled.
“Doctor, I recall reading a top secret white paper about Company assassination policy in the 1960s,” McCaskey went on. “It discussed the twenty-five-year-long moratorium instituted after the failed attempt to kill Fidel Castro using toxins in a cigar and poison in his beard.”
“That is commonly known,” Dr. Allan remarked.
“Yes. But there was a footnote I found interesting. It said that all of the Company’s past and recent chemical attempts on high-value targets involved cyanide-based compounds. I need to know if that is true.”
Dr. Allan suddenly seemed less relaxed. “Mr. McCaskey, the Redskins have a shot at the Super Bowl this year.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I do not want to jeopardize my chances of seeing the game in person. That said, you are poking a finger in extremely sensitive areas.”
“Sir, I know this is a very difficult question—”
“Difficult? You’re asking me to explain what I may or may not do to abet murder,” Dr. Allan said. “That is not a routine question.”
“I appreciate that, but there is some urgency involved. Someone just attacked Op-Center—”
“What do you mean, attacked?” the doctor asked.
“They hit the place with an explosive device of some kind,” McCaskey told him. “I have not been able to talk with my colleagues to get specifics. I’m guessing it relates to this investigation, and I need to find the people who are behind it. Any information you can provide may help.”
Dr. Allan tapped his fingers anxiously on the desk for a few moments. Then he folded his hands. “Mr. McCaskey, I really wish you had not dropped this at my feet.”
“I’m sorry, sir. But there it is.”
“Yes,” Allan said. He thought for another long moment. “Aw, hell. We’re on the same team, Mr. McCaskey, and if you ever try to quote me, I’ll deny everything. I think you are on the wrong trail.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, the lethal injection described in the news accounts of Mr. Wilson’s death. Potassium chloride is not a compound that we use for the purpose you just described.”
“Do not or would not?”
“Both,” Dr. Allan replied. “It just isn’t anywhere on our radar. For the purpose of incapacitating an enemy, potassium chloride is too unpredictable. Individuals have different levels of tolerance. A dose that would kill one person might end up giving another nothing more than an irregular heartbeat.”
“If that’s true, why would someone have used it on William Wilson?” McCaskey asked.
“Three reasons. First, the compound is readily available online. Doctors routinely prescribe is as a counteragent for potassium depletion caused by high blood pressure medications. Finding out who ordered it, and from what national or international source, will be virtually impossible. Second, as you saw, potassium chloride is far more difficult to detect than cyanide. Third, the killer obviously had time to make certain the compound worked.”
“Would you think a military medical technician would be familiar with its use?” McCaskey asked.
“Almost certainly.”
“Do you happen to know, Dr. Allan, where on the human body field agents are told to give lethal injections?”
“In the muscles,” he said.
“Not in veins?”
Allan shook his head.
“Why?”
“Muscle fiber has a very dense network of blood vessels and delivers drugs in just a few minutes,” the physician told him. “The entry point is clearly visible, but that is the trade-off to a quick, efficient injection. That’s another reason I do not believe your killer is a Company alumnus.”