Andrew Grant - Even

“I thought warfarin was rat poison.”

“That’s one use. Bait is doused with the drug, and if rats ingest it in high enough concentrations they die from massive internal bleeding. It’s a hideous way to go, even for vermin. The same thing happened to this victim. But in his case, the drug was administered intravenously. And it had been altered to increase the potency. Probably by a factor of many thousands.”

“Would Taylor have known what was happening to him?”

“Most likely. He probably would have seen the first traces oozing out through his pores before he lost consciousness.”

“Human ingenuity never ceases to amaze me, Doc. So, down to your last point?”

“Yes. Well. This is where it gets difficult. We just don’t have sufficient data. All I can definitely tell you is this. There was more going on in the clinic than illegal organ transplantation. But exactly what? I need time in the lab to be certain.”

“Best guess?”

“No guesswork. But I can tell you that we found components from miniature detonators. The kind that are activated by radio signals. We’re still looking for traces of explosives.”

“Any sign of a transmitter?”

“None. But it doesn’t look like the usual cell phone-based type. We’re thinking in terms of Wi-Fi.”

“So we’re looking at an Internet bomb factory?”

“That seems likely. We need to confirm the volatile material involved, but it would appear that someone has used the place to construct a series of compact devices. And given the presence of the victim and the lack of anyone else, there’s a strong likelihood the devices have already been planted. Or are in transit.”

“And you’re only telling me this now?”

“We need time to analyze. Rushing helps no one. A false conclusion can be more dangerous than-”

“Any indication as to targets?”

“Nothing. But we’re still looking.”

“David, what about Taylor? Think back. Everything he said. Was there anything that could give us a clue?”

“No,” I said. “But he may not have known. He said the people from Iraq took over the organ smuggling a few weeks back. They brought their own doctors. This murder, the drug, the explosives-it could all be their doing.”

“Damn,” Varley said. “And we can’t ask him now. Look, are there any bombs out there, or not? We need to know. And if so, where? And how many? And how big? Doctor, this is your top priority. Put everyone on it. I don’t care about anything else.”

“What about Tanya?” I said.

“I’m sorry, David,” Varley said. “We need a handle on this first.”

“Then why not start with the memory stick?” I said.

“What memory stick?” Varley said.

“The one from the OR,” I said. “Left where we couldn’t miss it. Now we know bombs are involved, I bet it’s some kind of warning. If you want the target, that’s where I’d look.”

“Doctor?” Varley said.

“I agree,” Maher said.

“And you were going to tell me, when?” Varley said. “Christmas? When the bombs have gone off? When I’m up to my ass in casualties?”

“I’d be at the lab right now, analyzing it,” Maher said. “If I wasn’t here, answering premature questions.”

“Where is it?” Varley said. “The stick.”

“Right here,” Maher said. “In my case.”

“Hand it over.”

“No.”

“Right now, Doctor, please.”

“I can’t. There’s a dozen reasons why not. It would compromise the chain of evidence, for a start. And there may be prints, which would be lost if you started pawing at it. The chip could contain viruses, or other malicious code. Untold damage could be done. You can’t just blunder in.”

“What brand is it?” I said.

“I didn’t note that,” Maher said. “Why?”

“It could be significant. Is it all bagged up?”

“Of course.”

“Can I just have a peek? For a second? Through the plastic?”

Maher sighed. Then he flipped open his metal case, took out a two-by-three-inch evidence bag, and gingerly handed it to me.

“Sandisk,” I said. “One gigabyte. Probably came from Radio Shack.”

“Is that important?” Maher said. “What does it mean?”

“That you should get out more,” I said, tossing the package across the table to Varley.

Time was, you wanted to threaten someone, you’d leave them a note.

You could use a pen and paper, and write with your “wrong” hand. Or you could type. Or cut the letters out of newspapers. If it was for a whole community, you could phone a radio station with a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.

But now we have computers.

The application of technology really is universal.

Varley told Weston to dig out a stand-alone laptop, and as soon as it had booted up he slotted the memory stick into a USB port at the side of the machine. The end of the stick flickered blue, and after a moment a dialogue box opened on the computer screen. The title bar read REMOVABLE DISK (E:). A note said the disk contained video files, and a series of options was listed underneath.

“Click on the bottom one,” Maher said. “ Take no action. Then give the thing back to me and let me take it to the lab.”

Weston chose OPEN FOLDER TO VIEW FILES. Another window opened. It contained a single icon. The image looked like a quarter of a DVD superimposed over a strip of movie film. Beneath that was a file name. Or rather a number: 320. There was no extension. The description was InterVideo Media File, and the given size was 10,082 KB.

“That’s a chunky file,” Weston said. “Shall I play it?”

“No,” Varley said. “Let’s absorb the information via ESP.”

Weston double-clicked on the icon and an image appeared like the front of a 1950s television, filling the screen. It was blank. At first it was silent, but after a moment you could hear a soft heartbeat. It sounded human. It started quietly, almost subliminally, and grew louder by the second.

“Like Dark Side of the Moon,” Lavine said. “Cool.”

The figure three appeared. Then a two. Then a zero. The digits were white. They swelled up until they filled the screen and shrank back to the center in time with the steady pulse. Out and in, out and in, hypnotically, for fifteen seconds. Then the numbers were replaced by images. A one-legged child leaning on an improvised wooden crutch. Burned-out cars strewn by the side of desert roads. An old lady cowering in the shattered remains of her home. A filthy hospital corridor crammed with listless amputees on stretchers. Each new scene emerged from the center of the last as if pushed out by the relentless throbbing heartbeat until at last the screen faded to red. The number 320 returned. And then text started to appear, scrolling from left to right, one letter at time like an old vidiprinter display.

Each day that passes, you crush a little tighter the heart of our nation.

Now, we strike back in symbolic vengeance.

Leave our soil, or more shall drown in their own blood.

“David was right,” Varley said. “It is a warning. But it’s the weirdest one I’ve ever seen.”

“Talk about cryptic,” Lavine said.

“Strike at the heart of our nation?” Weston said. “Symbolic vengeance? That can only mean one thing. An attack on D.C.”

“That gives them hundreds of targets,” Lavine said. “Which one? Or ones?”

“No need to panic,” Varley said. “We have contingencies for this. They’re well rehearsed. All we need is an idea of the time frame.”

“What about this number?” Weston said. “Three twenty? Why does it keep flashing up all the time?”

“I don’t know,” Lavine said. “Three twenty. That’s the area code for Minnesota. Could that be what they take as the heart of the nation? It’s kind of in the middle. East to west, anyway.”