“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.