Дэвид Балдаччи - Walk the Wire

“Go on,” said a suddenly calmer Daniels.

“Was there someone there you met named Ben Purdy, he was a sergeant with the Air Force?”

Daniels didn’t answer right away. Finally, he said, “Is he dead, too?”

“No, but he is missing. So you did meet up with him?”

“What the hell is going on up there?”

“I’m trying to find that out. Did you mention to Purdy that the London facility was used to work on biological and chemical weapons?”

“That’s classified, dammit. You said nothing you asked me would make me reveal classified information. You’re a big, fat liar, you are.”

“I know all about the program that went on up here and at other facilities around the country. Pine Bluff, Rocky Mountain Arsenal, Fort Detrick.”

“Camp Detrick, least it was back then.” He fell silent. “So, you been read in, I see.”

“I have been. I have top secret security clearances.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“I’m not sure. But it seems that a lot of people are interested in it enough to kill other people. So it wasn’t a radar facility back then?”

“Not exactly.”

“But you worked with radar and such. Why would they send you there if it involved working on chemical weapons? You had no expertise in that.”

Decker heard a long sigh, and then Daniels said, “It was supposed to be a radar facility, so they had to have radar people stationed there. Otherwise, it would look funny. So I was one of those guys. You know, keeping up pretenses.”

“Did you know that going in?”

“I didn’t know anything. I went where I was told.”

“Did you have anything to do with the work there?”

“Not really. Us radar guys learned pretty quick that something was up. I mean we weren’t running a radar facility, for starters, and we had been sworn to secrecy, even beyond what you normally are. We had to sign papers and stuff. Now, we knew the commies were in a nuke race with us. But we also knew the Germans had been making chemical weapons during the Big One and we had to play catch-up. That wasn’t a huge secret. So when we started seeing some of the stuff being brought into London? Well, I saw enough boxes marked with skulls and crossbones to know what was going on. And then they recruited us to do some stuff with what they were doing. I don’t mean making the shit. But I’d seen some of the labs they had down there.”

“You mean in the lower level of the pyramid building?” Decker asked.

“Yeah. They usually didn’t want us down there. We mainly worked on security and keeping up the facility, stuff like that. But occasionally, as time went on, we were sent down there to do some tasks. And we had to put on masks and special suits and crap like that.”

“Did you see any of the stuff that came out of there?”

“Yeah, we helped put it in these special storage rooms in these bombproof containers. Scared the crap out of me, I can tell you. They had warning signs all over the place: ‘Highly toxic,’ ‘Do not touch,’ ‘Never take your masks and goggles off,’ stuff like that. Even with that some of the guys got sick. I mean inadvertently. They never tested stuff on anybody, nothing like that. This is the good, old U.S. of A. We don’t do that shit.”

“Anything else?”

Daniels didn’t answer.

“Mr. Daniels, anything else? It’s important.”

Daniels didn’t respond and Decker decided to just let the silence linger. He wanted Daniels to feel the moment, to let him understand that something momentous was happening and he could be an integral part of it. If he would just open up.

Daniels said, “Then, sometime in the late sixties, it all went away. They closed up shop and then we started using the facility as a radar station. I got to do what I was trained to do. It was really exciting stuff. We were protecting our country from the commies.”

“So they took all the ‘stuff’ away?”

“That’s right.”

“Now, can you tell me about your talk with Purdy, the young man you met at the event?”

“He was a nice young guy. Stationed where I had been. He had proper security clearances. We had a lot in common. We hit it off. We had a couple drinks even. Made me feel young again.”

“And then what?”

“And then, well, I told him about some of the stuff that we had done up there.”

“And he was interested?”

“Yeah, asked a million questions. I answered what I could.”

“Did you ever tell him about Mary Rice?”

“No, I never did.”

“How did you leave it with him?”

“I didn’t leave it any way with him. If he followed up on any of it, I didn’t know nothing about that.” He paused. “You said he’s missing. He was a right nice young fellow. Proud to serve his country. You think he’s okay?”

“I’m hoping he is, Mr. Daniels. But in my business sometimes hope isn’t good enough.”

Decker filled Jamison in as they left the facility.

“So Ben Purdy did learn about the WMDs from the same source that Irene Cramer did — Brad Daniels.”

“Yep,” replied Decker. “But we still have a lot to figure out.”

As they passed the land ringing the installation, Jamison pointed out a large John Deere combine that was kicking up dust in an adjacent field.

“Do you think the Brothers have anything to do with this?”

“I can’t say one way or another,” answered Decker.

Jamison pointed in the other direction. “At least that’s a positive.”

Decker looked in that direction where there was an operating oil rig. “What?”

“The pipe over there. No methane gas flare. They must be piping the gas out instead of wasting it, or maybe separating the bad stuff out like Stan was talking about.”

“Will miracles never cease,” replied Decker, smiling.

His phone buzzed the next instant.

Decker said, “Hey, Kelly, what’s up?”

“Decker, we have a situation here,” said Kelly, the strain quite clear in his voice.

“What situation?”

“Stuart McClellan has been found dead.”

“Dead! How? Where?”

“In a car at one of his storage facilities. Looks like he committed suicide.”

“Give me the address and we’ll be there as fast as we can.”

It was the perfect place to off yourself, thought Decker as they drove up to the old wooden building that was about the size of five large barns melded together. In a fenced-in area were remnants of what looked to be broken pieces of drilling equipment. Three police squad cars and Kelly’s SUV were parked by the entrance.

Yellow police tape fluttered and crackled in the stiffening breeze that heralded the storm system marching on them.

Kelly met them outside and led them into the building. In the center of the sprawling space was a late-model black Cadillac sedan with its driver’s-side door open. They eyed the hose running from the tailpipe to the rear passenger window, which was open a crack, allowing the hose to fit through.

Kelly pointed to the driver’s-side door. “We opened the door to check the body.” Decker and Jamison stepped forward.

Stuart McClellan lay across the front seat, his head on the console separating the front seats, with his feet on the floorboard. His eyes were closed, and his face was the trademark cherry red. Inhaling a tank full of exhaust fumes caused carbon monoxide atoms to piggyback on red blood cells, jettisoning oxygen atoms in the process. The cells traveled throughout the body but arrived at their destinations without the oxygen needed to keep the body functioning, resulting in both death and the cherry-red color.

“He suffocated, clearly,” noted Kelly.

Decker said, “Any signs of a struggle, defensive wounds, bruising to the body to show that he was knocked out and then placed here?”