Derek said, “I was trained in the Level 4 facility at USAMRIID. I spent the Gulf War on the front lines as a Bio and Chem Warfare Specialist, then I spent a year or two afterwards defusing biowarheads in Iraq. Then I joined UNSCOM as a weapons inspector until Saddam Hussein kicked us out in ‘98.” He paused. “I’m qualified. I’m going in. And with all due respect, Doctor, you don’t really have all that much say about it right at the moment.”
He turned to Spigotta. “I’ve got an underwater camera in my GO Pack. I’ll get pics so you can see things. Send in the Detrick people when they get here. In the meantime, there are a few things you might consider.”
Stillwater held up a finger. “One, I want to see the local security cameras.”
He added a finger, counting off his points. “Two, I suggest you start a team of as many as you can getting every traffic cam, ATM camera or security tape in a five-mile radius of this facility. See if we can get a look at the people in these vans.”
Another finger. “Three, somebody with an ID badge and somebody who knew or had access to the entrance codes to HL4 is involved. Better find out—”
”We know that,” Spigotta growled. “James Scully. It was his ID. He called in sick today. I’ve sent a couple agents to his house.”
“He’s not involved in this,” Halloran said. “Jim and I came here together from USAMRIID. He’s completely trustworthy.”
“He’s sure as hell involved, Doctor,” Spigotta snarled. “It was his ID badge that gave them access.” Ignoring Halloran further, Spigotta turned to Derek, his face twisted in skepticism. “Anything else, Stillwater?”
Derek turned to Liz Vargas. “The language the two men spoke to each other. Can you repeat any of it?”
Liz sighed. “I… I don’t know. It sounded Asian.”
Derek sat in the chair next to her. “Close your eyes. Think back. Listen.”
Liz did as he said. A flurry of emotions flitted across her heart-shaped face. Then… recognition. “‘Polly… kind of… Pah-Lee,’” she said. “And the other said something like ‘Yee ruin… something, something… see duh rule…’ Or something like that.”
Derek looked up at Spigotta. The FBI agent shrugged. Halloran shrugged too. Derek, thinking for a moment, said, “How about: ‘Pa-Li’ and, hmmm…’Yi-Ru-Han Kyoung-Wu-E-Neun Seo-Du-Reul Su-Ga Up-Seum-Ni-Da?’ How’s that?”
Slowly Liz nodded. “Yes. Yeah, I think so.” She tried out the words. ”Yes, that sounds about right. I guess.”
“Okay, Stillwater. Spill it.” Spigotta looked, if possible, even crankier than before.
“Korean,” Derek said. “The first guy said, ‘Hurry,” and the other guy said, ‘You can’t hurry this.’”
“You speak Korean,” Spigotta said, not really a question, more a statement of disbelief. Or suspicion.
“Not much. But I spent some time in Korean along the DMZ when I was in Special Forces. I’m good with languages and picked up a few words and phrases.”Derek cocked an eyebrow at Spigotta. “Korean.”
Liz Vargas, Frank Halloran and Agent Spigotta led Derek Stillwater to the second floor staging area to HL4. An armed soldier stood guard at the locker room door. Derek thought: barn door — locked; horse — gone; Halloran’s career — over.
Halloran said, “I still think this is a bad idea. What do you expect to find in there?”
Derek shrugged. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have to go in.”
Spigotta said, “Take pictures. Don’t mess around.”
Derek frowned. “Is the HMRU on their way?” HMRU was the FBI’s Hazardous Materials Recovery Unit.
“Yes.”
“Good. They can deal with this crime scene. USAMRIID can deal with this crime scene. But aside from that… I’m the only one here who can deal with this crime scene. You’ll have to live with it.”
“Don’t fuck it up.”
“I’ll go in,” Derek said, “look around, take pictures. When the USAMRIID and HMRU people get here they’ll be able to use my pics to make a plan for clearing the evidence and retrieving Michael Ballard’s body. That’s going to present quite a logistical problem all in itself.” He looked pointedly at Halloran. “You might want to start thinking about that.”
Liz let herself into the locker room first. The guard remained stoic, but Spigotta whipped out his cell phone and started punching keys, demanding updates from whoever he talked to. Within five minutes Liz knocked on the door and Halloran used his badge to let Derek in. Derek was glad to leave Halloran’s numb shock and Spigotta’s frenzied organizing behind. Liz’s face, however, was the same color as chalk dust. She bit her lip. “You and Jim Scully are about the same size. You can use his suit. Ever wear a Chemturion?”
“Yes,” Derek said. “I also have a field suit in my duffel, but it’d be better if I didn’t have to use it. By the way… why aren’t you dead?”
Liz sighed. “Are you familiar with the latest model Chemturion?”
“Not really. They make a new model?” Derek crossed over to a bench and dropped his gear. “Scrubs?”
She found him a pair and turned her back, giving him a modicum of privacy.
“No peeking now,” he said, and began to change into the green scrubs.
Not responding to the lightness of his tone, she said, “The new Chemturion was designed to be multi-purpose — air hoses or a portable air supply. So they reinforced the back and shoulders with Kevlar to prevent the air tank or straps from cutting the suit.”
“You’re lucky.” Derek walked over to her so he was right behind her. “I want to see your back.”
“What?!”
“Your back,” he repeated. “Please raise your shirt so I can—”
She spun to glare at him. “Are you nuts?”
Derek shook his head. “Does your back hurt?”
“Yes, of course!”
“Getting shot at, even with Kevlar, leaves a hell of a bruise. I want to document it.”
She stared at him, her barely controlled composure beginning to crumble. “You don’t believe me?”
He gripped her shoulder. “Dr. Vargas, I wouldn’t be going into a hot zone with you if I didn’t believe you. But when Spigotta gets his priorities straightened out he’s going to wonder whether you were an insider on this assault. He’ll want some sort of proof that they actually shot at you and that you just got lucky. Let’s give him the proof before he comes looking for it.”
Tears slowly rolled down her cheeks. Reluctantly she turned away from him and raised her scrub shirt. Derek whistled at the black and blue and orange and yellow and purple discoloration that ran from about mid-back up to the nape of her neck. “You’ve got a lovely back, but that’s got to hurt like hell.”
She laughed ruefully. “It does. Believe me.”
“You should get into a hot tub as soon as you can or you won’t be able to move tomorrow. You got a Jacuzzi at home? Hold still, I’m going to shoot a couple pictures.”
She stood still. “No, no Jacuzzi. You?”
“No. I live on a boat. No bath, just a shower.”
He snapped a couple pictures. “Okay,” he said. “Onward.”
She turned and saw that his own composure seemed to be slipping. The skin on his face seemed stretched over his cheekbones and his forehead was damp with sweat. She pointed to his neck. “No jewelry.”
Derek pulled back his shirt so she could see. Around his neck were two necklaces. One was a string of dark-colored beads; the other was a heavy chain from which dangled a gold four-leaf clover and a St. Sebastian’s medallion.
“It’s not jewelry,” he said. “And I’m not taking them off.”
She stared at him. His color seemed to be getting worse, taking on a grayish-green tinge. “What are the beads? Is that a St. Christopher’s medallion?” she said.