Jeff Buick - Lethal Dose

Against the far side of the industrial bay was a series of five glass-enclosed tables, each one covered with radically differing types of glassware and three Acculab scales. A number of polarizing microscopes lined one table and two Eberbach shakers and a Turner spectrophotometer were among the highly technical electronic equipment. A HEPA filter was attached to each of the five glass structures. Adjacent to the five enclosed labs was a series of unprotected tables, some piled with black containers about one cubic foot each. Standing alone and in front of one of the tables was Ismail Zehaden. At least thirty guns were trained on the man.

“Ismail Zehaden?” Allenby asked as he walked into the open area between the SWAT troops and FBI agents and the terrorist.

“Yes, I am Ismail Zehaden,” the man said. “What is going on here?”

“Good question,” Allenby said. “What’s with all the equipment?”

Zehaden glanced over his shoulder at the lab, then back to Allenby. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen this stuff before.”

“Do you own this warehouse?” Allenby asked.

“Yes.”

“Then who else would have set up this operation?”

The man’s response was angry. “I don’t know. I have nothing to do with any of this. And I want your men to stop pointing their guns at me immediately.”

“What you want is quite unimportant right now,” Allenby said. “Step away from the table.”

“What is all this stuff?” Zehaden said. “I demand to know what the hell is going on.”

“Step away from the table,” Allenby said. “Now.”

“I’m not moving until someone tells me what this is all about.” Zehaden turned and looked over the containers piled on the table behind him. “Where did all this equipment come from?”

“Mr. Zehaden, it’s imperative you move away from that table and put your hands over your head immediately.”

Zehaden reached over and made a motion to pick up one of the containers. Allenby yelled for him to stop, but the man was intent on grabbing the closest box.

“It could contain the virus,” Allenby yelled. “Don’t let him pick it up.”

There was only one option open to the SWAT team. No one could get to Zehaden before he reached the containers. At least ten SWAT team members opened fire simultaneously, each with a single killing shot. Zehaden took every bullet in the chest, his body jerking spasmodically as the slugs tore through his flesh and ripped into his heart and lungs. The shots came from different angles, pushing his body one way then the other, the impacts canceling each other. The net result was a corpse, still standing where a live person had stood two seconds before. The gunfire, which sounded almost like a single shot, diminished and the echoes inside the warehouse died out. For another second or two, Zehaden remained upright, then gravity went to work and he collapsed in a bloody heap a couple of feet from the table with the containers.

Allenby was the first agent to reach the body. He stared down at the Arab with disgust and gave the corpse a nudge with the toe of his shoe. There was no movement. Blood was spreading out on the concrete, and he moved back so the thick brown liquid didn’t soil his shoes.

“Secure the area,” he said to the leader of the SWAT team. He turned to his second in command. “Get the experts in here and let’s find out if we’ve got the right place. I want to know if the virus is here, and if it is, in what quantity.”

“Yes, sir,” the agent said.

Allenby let his eyes run over the glass-enclosed lab. The operation was definitely high-tech. The tables were polished steel, with solid tubular legs and one stainless-steel chair in each enclosure. The equipment was clean and well organized, with rows upon rows of tubes and beakers, culture dishes, and state-of-the-art centrifuges. Including the HEPA filters, millions of dollars in hardware.

Millions of dollars spent with one goal in mind. To kill innocent people.

Jim Allenby turned his back on the scene and walked out. His people could clean up. He would wait for the experts to determine whether they had the right lab, then he would make a phone call. And right now, one man sat next to his phone in L’Enfant Plaza, wondering when that call would come, and when it did, what would be the news.

He was expecting the call, but when it came, he hesitated before picking up the phone. The next few seconds were crucial. The country was embroiled in severe crisis, fighting a horrific disease with a new wonder drug, but would they still be wondering where the production facilities were or would they know? That was the question this call would answer. Slowly, he closed his hand on the phone and lifted it to his ear.

“Rothery,” he said. At least to him, his voice sounded weak.

“We got it,” Jim Allenby said. “We got the lab, J. D.”

Rothery let out a long breath. “Are you sure, Jim?” he asked.

“Positive. The CDC guys are all over it. They’ve identified traces of the virus and have confirmed that the setup is correct for viral production. They’ve quarantined the building and will be dismantling the operation and moving it to the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases at Fort Detrick. They’ll put it in storage and keep it for evidence. Not that we’ll be pressing charges against Ismail Zehaden.”

“Why not?” Rothery asked.

“Zehaden showed up just as we were getting ready to go in.

He made a move for a container we thought may contain the virus. The SWAT team took him out.”

“He’s dead?”

“Very. Took at least ten bullets to the chest.”

“Okay, it shouldn’t be hard to sell that to the general public. This guy is ready to dump a ton of lethal virus on us, and when we catch him in the lab we shoot him. Pretty cut-and-dried.”

“Yeah,” Allenby said. “But we do have one small problem, J. D.”

Rothery stiffened. Jim Allenby didn’t play stupid games. Something was wrong. “What is it, Jim?”

“There’s no stockpile of virus in the lab. Whatever was manufactured here has been moved.”

“Christ Almighty,” Rothery said. “So whatever plan Zehaden had in mind could potentially still play out. He’s sure to have other members inside his cell that are responsible for getting the virus out into the community.”

“I would think so.”

“Jim, get every man and woman you have on this. Find out what’s been going on around the warehouse in the last couple of weeks. Have there been delivery trucks, unmarked half-tons, or vans pulling in or out? Was there more human activity than normal? Were they working odd hours?Whatever. Find out if anyone noticed anything. We need to find out where that virus went.”

“Yes, sir,” Allenby said. “I’ve got a full contingent of agents with me. We’re already on it.”

“Thanks, Jim,” Rothery said, hanging up the phone. He hit the intercom button and his receptionist came on the speakerphone. “Get me Barry Flath at the Food and Drug Administration.” He was getting impatient waiting for Tony Warner to get back to him with the results of his conversation with the FDA employee. Less than two minutes later, the phone buzzed.

“Barry Flath on line two, sir.”

“Barry,” Rothery said. “How are you this morning?”

“Well, thank you,” Flath said. “How can I help you, Mr. Rothery?”

“How are things going on approving Zancor?”

“I have a problem with that, Mr. Rothery. I’ve already discussed this with Tony Warner.”

“What problem?” Rothery asked. The ice in his voice could have frozen the fiber-optic cable that connected the two men.

“Well, there are side effects to the drug that concern me. I’m not going to get technical with you, sir, but they can be quite serious at times.”