The Dandelion Conspiracy
by
Kirk Mustard and Leon Stern
©2004
Chapter 1
A cab zigzagged its way through the traffic on north Michigan Avenue, honking as it went, lurched into the loading zone of the InterContinental Hotel and screeched to a stop.
Sid Bruenell and Arty Edinger got out quickly and looked up at the sky. Neither liked what they saw – bulging, mottled gray clouds everywhere, dripping with moisture and looking about to burst.
“What the hell happened to the sun?” asked Arty, a tall, meaty man with dark-blonde hair, as he buttoned up his beige suede raincoat. “It looked so promising at O’Hare.”
Sid focused his intense blue eyes on the clouds as though he believed he could stare back the rain by willpower alone. “Never count on promises, Arty, especially by a woman as fickle as Mother Nature.” Sid stood with abnormally straight posture, as if conscious of his below-average height. His black trench coat and stiff demeanor gave him a military air, but his expression was relaxed and without malice.
The cabbie got out and walked to the trunk.
Arty took out a silver money clip stuffed with bills. “Well, by God, if he gets away from us again, I’m going to find out what religion he belongs to and join it!”
“Why’s that?” asked Sid.
“Because anyone who has the weather on his side as often as he does must belong to the right bunch of bible thumpers.”
“He won’t slip away from us this time,” said Sid tightly, “I guarantee it.”
The cabbie pulled several mismatched suitcases out of the trunk and put them on the sidewalk.
“Smell that?” asked Arty excitedly, putting the clip in a pocket and his nose in the air.
Sid slammed the cab door that Arty had left open. “Smell what?”
“Coffee. French Roast, I bet.”
“You’re imagining it. Only things I smell are bus fumes, expensive perfume, and rain.”
“Maybe.” Arty smiled and let out a yelp. “God, is it going to taste good.” He turned to the cabbie. “I just went ten days without coffee, can you believe that? And that means I haven’t had a good crap since a week ago Tuesday.”
The cabbie made a sour face and lifted out another bag.
“Nobody wants to hear about your digestion,” said Sid, lining up the suitcases on the curb.
“You’re right,” Arty said to Sid. “Sorry,” he said to the cabbie. “Don’t pay any attention to me. We’ve been on a brutal trip to a country where they don’t serve coffee. Christ! No wonder they’re so frickin’ backward.”
The doorman rushed over. “Gentlemen, welcome. I’ll have a bellhop take your bags, immediately.”
“Perfect,” said Sid. “We’re already registered. Room 817. But the luggage needs to stay with us. And we’re in a hurry.”
“Yes sir,” the doorman said as Sid slipped him a tip.
Arty paid the cabbie the exact fare and then held up a ten in front of the man’s face. “Where’s the closest coffee house?”
“About a block,” said the cabbie, pointing down the street to the south where towering buildings, both old and new, created a deep, dark canyon. “It’s just this side of the Wrigley Building, that big white wedding cake by the river.”
Arty nodded and handed the cabbie the tip. “Yeah, the Wrigley Building. I know it well. The crown jewel of Chicago.”
“You from here?”
“Yeah, sort of.” To Sid, Arty said, “I’m going to run for a cup of coffee. You want one?”
“You don’t have time. We’ve got to get set up fast. It’s two o’clock already. We’ll order coffee from room service.”
“Damn it. Okay, you’re right.”
The cabbie heard this and hustled into his cab as if he expected Arty to ask for the ten back. A small, anemic bellhop magically appeared in a crisp but oversized uniform and piled the luggage clumsily onto a velour and chrome cart. Then he ushered Sid and Arty ineptly through the hotel’s main door and into a small elegant lobby with glistening marble floors and an Egyptian motif.
When they reached room 817, Sid knocked and a skinny young man with frizzy platinum hair opened the door. “Arty, Sid, thank God, am I glad to see you two! I’m having all kinds of trouble.” He paused, seeing the bellhop.
“Hold that thought, Donovan” said Sid turning to the bellhop. “Just pile those inside the door here. That’ll be fine.”
Arty stood in the hall and Sid stood in the foyer inside the double-door as the bellhop lined up the bags, took the tip Sid offered him and left.
Arty came into the hotel room, mouth agape, and closed the door behind him. “My god, this is a palace compared to the room we slept in yesterday.”
“Why do fancy hotels always smell like new cars,” complained Sid.
“They use the same new-car spray,” answered Arty. “Donny, you’re sure living it up. The International Terrorist Taskforce isn’t a resort club, you know.”
“You said you wanted a place with a clear view of the target,” Donovan said defensively.
“It’s fine, Donny,” said Sid. “ITT can afford it. Are things set up?”
“Almost, but I’m having trouble getting the damn computer to split the view,” Donovan replied. He walked over to a dining table at one end of the large room, near a well-equipped, immaculate Pullman kitchen. On the table sat a 36” LCD computer monitor, six 15” LCD monitors, and a laptop computer. Dozens of cords were twisted and tangled with each other, piled up on the table and spilling down onto the floor, connecting electronic boxes and other flotsam.
“Give him a hand, Arty,” Sid said walking to a sideboard and dialing room service.
Arty tossed a package at Donovan, and shouted, “Short pass up the middle, Donny.” The package hit Donovan in the head before he could throw his hands up to catch it.
“Christ!” said Donovan, picking up the package.
“Hell of a football player you’d make,” said Arty, removing his coat and tossing it on a couch. He came over to Donovan. “I never dropped a pass in college.”
“Of course, how can you drop a pass when you’re sitting on the bench.”
Arty laughed. “Open it up, it’s the solution to all your problems.”
Donovan used a penknife on his key ring to open the box. He reached in and pulled out a white metal box.
“It’s a new kind of splitter, made it myself,” Arty said, taking the box from Donovan. “Here, let an expert show ya how it’s done.” He kneeled next to the table and fished through the tangle of wires. He found a beat-up white box, unplugged the numerous wires hooked to it and plugged them into the new white box.
“So, where are the idiots from Bio-Response?” Arty asked as his fingers pulled and twisted wires.
“Right behind you, bright boy,” said a humorless voice from across the room.
Arty twisted around and saw two men in plain gray suits and military hair cuts sitting at the far end of the room at a small, circular table covered with maps. One was wearing reflective, green sunglasses, the other was fingering a message into a cell phone that was connected to his wrist by a cord.
“Say, it’s Burt and Allen, my favorite comedy team,” Arty shouted out. “Heard any good jokes lately?” He gave several connectors a final twist, got up from the floor and sprawled on the nearest couch.
“Well, you’re here,” said Allen Wodworth, the man with the sunglasses, obviously irritated.
Sid walked over to them. “Burt, Allen, thanks for coming,” he said, shaking their hands as they half rose. “We definitely need you guys from Bio-Response on hand today.” He gestured to the map on the small table. “Is everything ready?”
“We’ve got fifty men out on the street, spread all around the area,” said Burt, his eyes still glued to his cell phone screen.
“Fifty! I specifically asked for no more than thirty men.”
“Instructions from Bob,” Burt said.
“Fifty, Christ! We might as well put a marching band down the middle of Michigan Avenue!”
Burt pursed his lips and frowned. “Bob’s determined to have Anzler extradited, and according to you, the briefcase and its contents can be traced directly to him this time, so Bob wants to make sure everything goes smoothly.”
“Everything always goes smoothly,” said Sid. “In fact, comically smoothly, as though these terrorists are absolutely inept. But somehow the evidence we gather is never enough.”
Burt looked up from his cell phone. “It’s hard to get the cooperation of our Eastern European allies. They want rock solid evidence. And as far as the extra men, don’t forget, bio-response needs to have enough men on hand to contain any biological pathogen that might get loose if the exchange goes awry.”
“Well, Bob may be in charge of ITT, but I’m in charge of this operation,” Sid said, frowning. “And we don’t have time to argue. I want no more than thirty people to actually enter the area, understood? The others have to stay back, way back, out of sight.”
“We already have them hidden,” said Burt, pointing his cell phone at the map of downtown Chicago on the table, which was dotted with Xs. “Each x represents three men.”
Sid examined the map and stabbed a finger at an x. “These three men are too close. Isn’t this bridge right down the road from the Wrigley, our target building?”
“Yeah. Immediately south, the Michigan Avenue Bridge.”
“Put those three guys down by the water, on the south side of the river. If our targets try a water escape I want eyes on the scene.” Turning, he called out, “Arty, do people still ever fish down there below the Michigan Avenue Bridge?”
“Probably,” said Arty, yawning and rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
“Donovan, get us three fishing poles and slickers or raincoats,” ordered Sid. “I want those guys to look like they belong.”
“Okay,” said Donovan, picking up a phone book off the floor.
“And coffee,” Arty yelled, “I need coffee. Get us a couple pots of coffee from room service.”
“I already ordered it,” Sid said.
“Well, if it takes too long, I’m going to explode,” said Arty.
Picking up the hotel phone, Donovan asked Arty, “Wasn’t there coffee on the plane?”
“We hitched a ride on a military plane, only way we could get here in time and a taxi met us on the tarmac.”
“Need any food?” Donovan asked.
“Get a bunch of sandwiches, with lots of meat,” Arty said.
Sid took off his trench coat, hung it in the foyer closet and walked to a window. “Did you find us a crack microbiologist, Burt?” he asked.
Burt pushed a speed-dial button and held his phone up to his ear. “Taking a nap.” He pointed to the bedroom door. “Just flew in, like you. Probably did two graveyards before that. Looked like hell.” He turned away and started talking into his phone.
To Arty, Sid said, “I don’t like having to work with a new guy on a job this important. I don’t know why Bob had to insist on sending our regular guy overseas at the last minute.”
There was a knock at the door. Allen walked over to it, lifted up his sunglass and looked through the peephole for several seconds, then opened it. Two men and a woman greeted him briefly and came into the room.
Burt introduced everybody. “Martha, Ross, Bill, this is Sidney Bruenell of ITT’s Bio-Weapons Investigations team.” He gestured to Sid. “I don’t know who already knows who. Sid, this is Ross Matson and Bill Moss, CIA, and this is Martha Birmington with the FBI.”
“Martha and I did some training together,” said Sid. “It’s been a long time,” he said to Martha, a short, feisty-looking middle-aged woman wearing a Panama hat and safari-style clothes.
“Yes, it seems like a very long time,” said Martha. “I keep running into Arty, but somehow you and I never seem to cross paths. Ever learn how to shoot a gun?” she asked arching a brow and smiling.
Sid smiled and shook his head. “I’ve mastered cleaning and reloading, but I still can’t hit a damn thing. Luckily I only occasionally have the need to carry a gun, and I’ve never had to shoot at anybody.”
“Well, at least you have that famous uppercut.”
“I’m afraid I retired that thing after one punch.”
“Damn shame. The way I hear it, that uppercut could knock anyone on their ass.”
“That’s just a myth perpetrated by Arty. He likes to exaggerate.”
“I know all about that. Every time I talk to him he keeps telling me you guys are going to run in Anzler any day.”
“Martha, you might as well write out that check right now,” Arty shouted to her from across the room. “This time it’s really going to happen.”
Martha explained to Sid, “We have a bet on about when and if you guys will actually catch Anzler. If you don’t catch him by next July, Arty owes me five hundred dollars. If you do catch him by then, I have to pay up.”
“I’ve already picked out a new suit I’m going to buy with your money,” said Arty.
“I’ve heard that before,” she replied.
Sid moved to the semi-circular couch in the center of the suite’s living room and a half-dozen men followed him and took a seat. Another dozen people were scattered around the room looking at charts, maps, and chatting amongst themselves.
Martha walked over to the window, pulled the curtain aside, took a small pair of binoculars from one of her cargo-pants pockets and used them to gaze out the window. “So, fill us in, Sid. Exactly what’s going to happen here?”
“We got an email from Bixby,” said Sid, pulling a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. “We know that there will be an exchange today on or about 5:00 p.m. near the north side of the Michigan Avenue Bridge in front of the Wrigley Building. It says that one man will be carrying a briefcase containing five-million dollars in bearer bonds and the other will be carrying a briefcase containing what we have reason to believe is the most lethal bio-weapon ever created.”
“Do you suppose it’s the bio-weapon to end all bio-weapons that Anzler has been threatening to make for years?” said Martha, coming to look over Sid’s shoulder.
“Let’s hope not,” said Sid.
“What about Mr. Dobins, our elusive black marketeer?”
“He remains elusive.”
“Did he arrange the sale of the bio-weapon that we are trying to intercept today?”
“As usual.”
“You think you’ll ever catch him?”
“That’s a good question. A damn good question. Every time I get a tip on where Dobins is, we get there just after he’s left. Twice it was less than an hour.”
“What, as though someone is tipping him off?”
“That would be my first guess.”
Burt, still on his cell phone, looked offended. Without covering his phone’s mike he spoke to Sid. “But that would mean that it has to be someone in ITT. I don’t think I like the idea of you calling one of our ITT coworkers a traitor.”
“I’m not calling anyone anything. I’m only evaluating the facts and making obvious deductions. Freddie Dobins is either getting tipped off about our coming for him each time or he’s clairvoyant.”
Martha asked, “Where does your man Bixby get his tips? They’ve always been perfect.”
“He gets them from Anzler’s personal assistant.”
“You mean the mysterious and rarely photographed Sophia Zuben?” Martha asked with a smirk.
“No. Sophia Zuben is believed to be his financial manager and girlfriend. His personal assistant is Don Johnson.”
“And why would Anzler’s assistant sell him out?”
“Rumor has it that Don Johnson is an alcoholic, womanizer, and gambler. When he gets low on money, he comes to Bixby and tells him about an upcoming exchange of an Anzler bio-weapon. Don gets paid a sizable sum in return.”
There was another knock.
“I’ll get it,” yelped Arty as he rushed to the door. He flung it wide open and a bellhop pushed a food service cart into the foyer.
“Here, I’ll take it,” said Arty. He gave the bellhop a tip, sent him away, and rolled the cart into the room.
“I can smell the onions and turkey on that sandwich from over here,” said Donovan.
Arty poured coffee into a porcelain cup from a silver coffee service. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.” He took a sip and moaned. “Oh, Jesus this is good stuff! You guys better stand back because my bowels are gonna take off like a rocket.”
“That’s not a good metaphor,” said Donovan from under the monitor table. “Rockets fly up into the air.”
Allen pulled his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose and rolled his eyes. “I remember when we used to require people in intelligence to have a little class,” he said loud enough for Arty to hear. Arty looked like he was going to respond to the remark, but Sid shot him a look and Arty poured some more coffee and went back to hooking up wires under the table, shooing Donovan away.
“What do our terrorist and black marketeer look like?” Martha asked Sid, as she pulled a note pad and pen from her shirt pocket.
“Don’t know,” said Sid.
“What will they be wearing?” asked Burt.
“Don’t know.”
Martha, Burt and the others looked at each other. Various expressions crossed their faces, each a different combination of confusion, anger, and alarm.
“Anything unusual about the briefcases?” asked Martha. “Colors, stickers, shoulder straps, pockets?”
“Don’t know.”
Arty strolled toward them, his third cup of coffee in one hand, and a huge turkey sandwich in the other.
“How the hell are we going to spot them if we don’t know what they look like?” asked Burt, sitting forward on the couch.
Before Sid could speak, Arty, a clot of Dijon mustard clinging to one lip, jumped in with, “One of them will be carrying five million dollars and one of them will be carrying something that might be able to kill millions. We’ll spot ‘em.”
“That’s your whole fucking plan!” Burt said in astonishment, flipping his cell phone closed with a snap of his wrist. “Hoping to spot two guys with briefcases walking in downtown Chicago in rush hour?” His head jerked from Sid to Arty and back. “Do you have any idea how many people will be walking with a briefcase at rush hour?”
“I’d estimate about two-hundred a minute will walk by that corner at rush hour,” said Arty. “That’s the beauty of making the exchange there.” He took another huge bite of the sandwich.
Martha asked, gesturing, “Why the hell don’t these guys just make the exchange in a hotel room? Why out in public?”
“Because they distrust each other,” responded Sid, reasonably. “And for good reason. The only way they can be sure that one of them doesn’t shoot the other is to make the exchange in a place where they couldn’t get away with shooting anyone. A police car with two officers always sits in the passenger drop-off driveway in front of the Wrigley Building, throughout the rush hour.”
“They’re going make the exchange in front of the policemen?” asked Burt.
“Can you think of a safer place?”
“But the police are not to be involved,” Martha added.
“Right, they haven’t been told anything,” said Sid.
“How do we know your information is correct,” asked Burt, flipping his phone open again and looking at the screen intently.
“Bixby has always been a hundred-percent reliable,” said Sid.
“Bixby is good man,” said Martha. “But maybe someone else sent the email. How secure was it?”
“Plenty secure,” said Sid.
Arty blurted out, “Sid! You’re in charge! Why are you letting these guys grill you like this? Just tell ‘em their orders!”
Ignoring Arty, Sid said calmly, “Bixby and I use an encrypted code that changes daily. Only he and I know it. This message had the right code on it.” Sid handed a printout of the email to Martha.
Arty snorted in disgust, slurped more coffee loudly and went back to the food service cart for more.
Martha looked at the email as Burt came up and snapped a picture of it with his phone. “The note stops mid sentence,” Burt said.
“I assume he was interrupted,” said Sid. “That’s why we have so little information. He’s in a situation where he only has a few moments to get off an email and erase it without getting caught. Can’t use his cell phone.”
“And what’s the connection with Anzler?” asked Martha.
“The briefcase with the bio-weapon is Anzler’s,” said Sid. “We have evidence to prove that it was filled at his lab. The only key to it was sent to the man who is going to buy it. The messenger does not have a key. If we get the case before it’s opened, and the lock hasn’t been tampered with, we know that its contents came from Anzler. We’ll have him, we’ll have all the proof we’ll need to act against him.”
“Thank God,” said Martha. “Anzler has been a public relations nightmare. The press is eating the FBI, CIA and you guys in ITT alive. We need this, Sid.”
“But we need a better plan!” said Burt, flipping his phone open and closed repeatedly as if it was helping him think. “It’s too damn important. Anzler is openly supplying the terrorists of the world with the most god-awful stuff. And he boasts about it constantly. He’s the most hated man in the world right now, and it would be a real feather in all our caps to finally be able to pin something on him in court.”
“And what exactly did you have in mind?” asked Sid.
“Surround the whole area with men and run in every damn person inside the area.”
Sid shook his head. “What if the exchange is late? What if you close off the area before they arrive? And what if the guy with the bio-weapon tosses his case into the river. What if the weapon is a microorganism and it gets out and kills millions in Chicago?”
“Sid’s right,” said Martha. “We have to make sure they can’t tell we’re watching.”
“Okay, okay,” grumbled Burt. “So, Sid, what’s the rest of your plan?”
“We’re going to have twenty men pass by the point of exchange in pairs. We have it worked out that at any given moment there will be at least four men within twenty yards of the central revolving door of the Wrigley Building. Each man will continue down the street, go into a building, change his attire slightly, you know, take off his jacket, put on a hat, stick on a mustache, that sort of thing, and come out and make another pass.
“In here, Arty and Donovan will have our big monitor rigged up so that we can see six different views of the exchange site from cameras mounted on different locations. All cameras can be controlled from one joystick run by Arty. We’ll have one person watching each view. Arty can zoom, pan, whatever is necessary to see what’s going on. And, of course, all our men on the street will be watching, and the minute they spot anything unusual, they’ll call in.”
“God, I don’t like this,” said Burt, shaking his head once again and pushing buttons on his cell phone and staring at its screen.
“Nobody likes it,” said Martha. “But I think Sid’s plan makes sense.”
Burt said, “The whole world wants Anzler’s head. God! He’s creating new bio-weapons every day and we haven’t been able to stop him. It’s crazy. It’s embarrassing. With that shit he’s turning out he could cripple us. Hell, he could destroy us.”
“Speaking of which,” Sid asked Burt, “what did Bob work out with the Mayor regarding emergency response in case the bio-agent somehow gets let loose?”
“He hasn’t told the Mayor about the exchange yet.”
Sid was stunned. “Why the hell not?”
“Doesn’t want to have to play politics. It’s easier to secure the area with ITT personnel than negotiate with a Mayor that’s hard to work with.”
“Still, I’d think the Mayor should know what’s going on here so he can have his security forces on alert,” said Sid.
Martha added cynically, “Let’s face it, the only way the Mayor could protect the city from Anzler’s bio-weapon getting loose today is to evacuate everybody ahead of time, and he’s probably not going to do that, and if he did, we’d lose our shot at catching the terrorists.”
“Plus don’t forget, Bio-Response has it covered,” Burt said smugly. “That’s our job. If any germs get loose today from that briefcase, I guarantee we’ll stop them cold.”
“How?” asked Martha.
“With a special sprayer system our guys created. Uses big honking-ass sprayers. Sprays a fine mist of sticky particles up to fifty yards. Nothing can escape it.”
“How does it work?”
“Any plague or anthrax that’s in the air gets trapped in the sticky mist and falls to the ground. Then we just vacuum up the goo and take it away to be destroyed.” Burt walked over to the window and pointed out. “We have six stationary sprayers set up around the drop site and four mobile ones just down the street.”
“So what’s the worst case scenario with a brief case containing bio-terror weapons?” asked Martha.
“The worst is that the black marketeer realizes he’s about to be caught and he blows up his briefcase. We’re ready for that scenario. Four of our stationary sprayers are mounted on the tops of nearby buildings. The instant an explosion occurs, they spray up above the explosion and as the mist descends down it captures the germs. The other four sprayers spray from the ground. For most of a block, the air will be full of spray.”
“What about breathing?” asked Sid. “Is your misty goo harmful to breath?”
“Fatal if you breathe if for more than a few minutes. But we have a thousand masks on hand and those would be passed out right away. That’s one of the duties of those extra men that you objected to.”
“But realistically, some citizens would die, wouldn’t they?” asked Sid.
Burt shrugged his shoulders. “There could be collateral damage. But remember, if something like the bubonic plague or anthrax were in the briefcase and it was blown up and we didn’t do anything, hundreds of thousands could die.”
Arty went into the bathroom just as an attractive, slender woman came out of one of the bedrooms, dressed in baggy blue jeans and a loose-fitting windbreaker. Her short curly red hair was matted from sleep and she rubbed her eyes gently as she walked. Several men followed her with their eyes as she came toward the couch where Sid was sitting.
“Oh, you’re up,” said Burt, seeing her approach. To Sid he said, “Sid, this is Susan Chandler. Goes by Nikki. She’s a microbiologist with Bio-Response. Nikki, this is Sid Bruenell, Bio-Weapons Investigation’s Team Leader for this operation.”
Sid turned around and froze for a moment when he saw Nikki. They stared at each other for a several seconds, Sid transfixed by her bright, golden-brown eyes.
“You know, the tomboy clothes aren’t doing the trick,” said Sid as he stood up.
“What trick,” Nikki asked, puzzled.
“Hiding your beauty.”
“What makes you think I have anything to hide?” she responded, shaking her head, looking perplexed.
“Forgive me,” said Sid, offering his hand. “Just a bad attempt at social chit-chat.” They shook hands.
“You have something against working with women?” she added, letting go of his hand.
“Not ugly ones, I don’t, Ms. Chandler. They’re not the least bit distracting.”
“I’ll paste on a few warts if you want,” she said with a slight scowl.
“Let me introduce you to the others,” said Sid, obviously now uncomfortable. Those who had not met Nikki stood up and shook her hand and sat down again.
As Nikki took a seat, Sid asked her, “Did they fill you in on the situation here?”
“Yes. You’re about to make a capture of a new bio-weapon.”
“What’s your experience with them?”
“If it’s lethal, I am familiar with it.” She spoke with a slightly husky voice and a hint of a Russian accent.
“We suspect this one is new. Maybe so different from anything else, it may be hard to identify as a threat.”
“I doubt that. It is just a matter of testing, which should not take more than a couple of weeks.”
“We’d like to find out in hours. At most a day.”
“A day?” she gasped in surprise. That’s crazy. You can’t expect clear results in only a day. Any new biological weapon could be hard to identify in one day. Why do you need confirmation so quickly?”
“Yeah, why the time crunch?” asked Martha.
“Anzler was put in jail a few hours ago. And will probably be out within forty-eight hours.”
Within seconds the whole room was abuzz from the news.
“That can’t be,” Nikki blurted out.
“Why’s that?” said Sid.
“I saw a blurb about him on the internet this morning,” she answered. “He was reported to be in the Middle East.”
“The report was wrong. He’s still in Ukraine.”
Arty came out of the bathroom.
“What’s Anzler charged with?” asked Burt.
“Bringing a pet into the country without a license,” said Arty. “And I’m not joking.” He patted his stomach and let out a sigh of relief. “Ah, that’s more like it.”
“Where is that son of a bitch Anzler?” asked Allen, pulling the curtain aside and looking outside. “We’ll send a fighter and blow him to kingdom come.” The outside light caused a bright reflection to bounce off on his sunglasses.
“I wouldn’t suggest it,” said Sid. “He’s in a jail in Ukraine. Relations with the present government there are already dicey.”
“Isn’t that where his lab is?” asked Martha.
“Sometimes. We assume he moves it frequently around Eastern Europe to avoid detection. We’ve never been able to pinpoint it, but we’re sure he’s often in Ukraine. Usually we can’t get a speck of cooperation from the Ukrainian government, but this time they are uncharacteristically helpful.”
Burt was agitated. “You haven’t been able to do anything about Anzler all this time, and now they’ve got the world’s most dangerous man in jail for transporting a pet across the Ukrainian border?”
“Crazy, I know,” answered Sid. “They’ve been having trouble with diseases spread by pets and Anzler recently bought a dog in from Germany without making sure it had all its shots. But, of course, obviously the pet thing was just an excuse to hold him.”
“How the hell does that help us?” snapped Burt.
“If we can send evidence that the briefcase contains an extremely lethal pathogen or chemical agent before he is released from custody, they are willing to extradite him to America for trial.”
“That’s a surprise,” said Martha. “Ukraine is usually unwilling to extradite terrorists.”
“I know that too well,” said Sid. “I was shocked when I got the call. Especially since the man who jailed him is a police chief known to be Anzler’s friend. They often dine together.”
“Must have had a falling out,” mused Martha.
“The only thing I can figure is there’s been a lot of pressure lately on them to stop harboring terrorists and to help stop Anzler. They’re been asking for UN support to protect their country from rebels. They probably think turning over Anzler might help. But no matter what their reasons, I know they won’t hold him long, so we only have a small window of opportunity. And it will all hinge on what you can tell us about what’s in the briefcase, Nikki.”
She thought for a moment. “Obviously, we can take samples of any microorganism we find in the briefcase and test it on a lab animal. If the animal dies in a few minutes or hours, we can consider ourselves lucky, we’ll at least know it’s fatal. On the other hand, some microorganisms are slow to work. If that’s the case with this, it will take days, possibly even weeks to know if it really is something dangerous. And, of course, some symptoms are harder to measure in animals, like blurred vision, indigestion, and fatigue. Mostly I’d look for rashes, high fever, trouble breathing and the like.”
Sid shook his head in acknowledgment. “But all we need is proof that it’s dangerous and easily spread.”
“Well,” Nikki replied thoughtfully, “I will, of course, test for things such as toxicity and acidity, for causing coagulation or stopping coagulation. But I would need a large supply of reagents.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you have everything you need.” Sid turned toward Donovan who had been helping Arty test the rewiring of the monitors and computer.
“Donovan!”
“Yeah?”
“Nikki is going to tell you everything she needs to test the bio-weapon. Make sure you have it ready for her at the lab no later than six tonight.”
“Gotcha,” said Donovan as he walked over to the map table and took out a notepad and pen. “Here, have a seat, Nikki.” She walked to him and sat at the table. “Okay, shoot,” he said.
Sid moved over by Arty, who was again sitting on the floor.
“How was the coffee, Arty?” he said in almost a whisper.
“Great. And now I see why Western society is so frickin’ superior. Jesus, it’s the coffee.”
“Is the split screen ready?”
“Any second.” Arty plugged a thick black cord into the back of the screen-splitter box.
Sid signaled to Donovan, who acknowledged with a nod. Donovan picked up a 3’ X 5’ Masonite board, put it over one of the windows and secured it in place with duct tape. He did the same to the other windows as Sid said to the group, “Listen up people. From now on, no can look out the windows. Either of our two targets might come hours early to check the situation out, to look for signs of a set-up. Obviously, people standing right in hotel windows with binoculars tend to stand out. We’ll have an excellent view of the area from our cameras.”
“Why the boards?” asked Allen, leaving his sunglasses on despite the fact that the room was noticeably darker. “Why not just keep the curtain closed?”
“I don’t want anyone forgetting themselves and rushing to look out the window.” Neither Burt nor Allen looked convinced. Sid checked his watch. “It’s about two-thirty. By four I want every one of us to be a pro on how this camera thing works.” To Arty, he said, “How we doing’?”
“I think we’re there,” said Arty. He pushed a “six way split” button on the box and the big monitor lit up with six different views of the sidewalk by the Wrigley Building, each with a small number on the bottom of the view, one through six, corresponding to the different views from the six 15-inch monitors on the tables. “Just a few adjustments and we’ll be ready.”
“Perfect,” said Sid. Into a walkie-talkie he said, “I want you to send someone out to walk past the exchange point. Make sure something about them is different. Subtle, but clearly wrong.”
“Tell him I’ll bet him fifty that he can’t slip anyone past me,” said Arty.
“He says you’re on,” Sid said to Arty. To everyone he said, “Gather round, everybody, we’re going to show you how this system works.”
Nikki, Martha, Allen, Burt, Ross, and Bill came up and took seats at the table full of screens, with Arty behind the computer at the far end and Sid standing in front of the big monitor on the other side. A few other agents gathered around.
“Martha, you’re one, Bill two, Allen three, Ross four, Burt you take view five, and Nikki will take six. Okay, now, I think the best way to get oriented here is to just watch your view on your monitor and look for someone on the street that doesn’t look right. If you want your camera to do something, just call out your number and say zoom, or move left, or whatever you need, and Arty will move the camera. Let him know what you are trying to get a better look at, so he can see it and move the camera accordingly.”
There was silence for a half minute, all eyes focused on the various screens.
“Three, zoom up on the fat man,” said Burt.
“Fat man, got him,” said Arty, pushing “3” on his keyboard and using the joystick. On the big monitor, view three filled the entire screen, showing a balloon of a man bobbing along the sidewalk in a brown suit that was much too small for him. Arty zoomed the view to close-up.
“Triple view,” said Sid.
Arty pushed a couple keys, used the joy-stick, and two other cameras swung around on the fat man, who was now being seen from three angles on the big monitor.
“Full view,” said Sid. Arty hit a key that caused the other three cameras to aim at the fat man, and all six views of him were now on the big monitor.
“We got him covered from almost every angle,” pointed out Arty.
Sid said, “Arty has this thing rigged so each camera knows where the other cameras are aimed. He can make all six follow the same person. If one of you thinks you’ve spotted our targets we can get him from all angles almost instantly.”
“Why don’t we each have our own joystick to control our particular camera?” asked Burt.
“Because zooming up on a moving person in a crowd is very hard to do,” said Arty crossly.
“I don’t see anything unusual about the fat guy,” said Martha.
“No, I guess not,” admitted Burt. “I thought he was carrying something strange.”
Arty zoomed in camera two, which showed that the fat man had a can in his hand. He took a drink. Arty zoomed more and froze on the shot of the can and made it full screen.
“It’s SlimFast,” said Arty. “He’s drinking SlimFast.”
“Like that’s gonna help,” said Burt.
Sid said, “Anyway, that’s how it works.”
“I’m impressed,” said Martha.
“Damn straight,” said Arty, reaching down and patting the side of the white box on the floor. “It’s the eye of God. Nobody can hide from this baby.”
“But I don’t think the fat guy is our test subject, so keep looking,” said Sid.
Arty touched a few keys and instantly the big monitor went back to showing six different wide views of the exchange spot.
“And don’t be analytical or hesitant,” said Sid. “If you see anything, anything at all, that strikes you as odd, just shout it out.”
“Marine,” said Nikki, “zoom camera six.”
Arty said, “Marine. Got him.” He zoomed view six up on to a marine in dress uniform.
“Full view,” said Sid. All six views caught the Marine.
“What’s so odd about him?” asked Allen.
“Close up on his hair,” said Nikki.
Arty zoomed up on the man’s head. The view from the camera located on a pole behind the man revealed a ponytail hanging six inches out of the back of the Marine’s cap.
“Suppose he missed basic training?” joked Ross.
“Good eyes,” Sid said to Nikki. “The Marine is the guy we were looking for.”
“Well, hell, she spotted the hair because she’s a woman,” said Allen.
“No, I bet you were in the service,” Martha said to Nikki.
“No,” she said defensively. “I’m strictly a scientist. Observation skills are a must.”
Into his walkie-talkie, Arty said, “We caught your Marine, first pass. That was lame. That pin-on ponytail stood out like a sore thumb. You owe me fifty, guy.”
To the group, Sid said, “If anyone needs a break, shout ‘break’ and your number, and Arty will turn the big screen into a five-view screen while you’re gone. We have overkill with six views anyway, so that gives us room for people to take breaks. But only one at time, okay?”
Martha said, “May I add something, Sid?”
“Please do.”
“We all know that the various branches of the ITT and the CIA and FBI and so on, don’t always get along. There’s some schoolboy competition that just won’t go away. But today I think we should all just think of ourselves as being the eyes of the world. A world that wants to catch Henry Anzler before he causes the worst catastrophe in history. Before he kills hundreds of thousands of children and adults with some unbelievable new horror.”
The group nodded in agreement.
“And on top of that,” Arty added, “I don’t want to lose my frickin’ job.”
