Robin Cook - Vector

Curt let out an exasperated sigh. “Suddenly there seems to be so many loose ends.”

“It’s not going to be a problem,” Yuri said. “And we had to test the product. There’d be no sense in releasing it if it wasn’t pathogenic.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Curt said in a tired voice. He stood up and started for the door. “We’ll be in touch. Some of the boys will come by late tonight to deliver the pest control truck.”

“What if I’m not here?” Yuri asked.

“You’d better be here,” Curt said. “You’re the one making all the ruckus about this goddamn truck.”

“But I have to take care of Connie,” Yuri said. “I’ll have to call emergency after she’s had her fit. I might be at the hospital.”

“Oh, yeah,” Curt said.

“I know what I’ll do,” Yuri said. “When I go out with Connie I’ll leave the garage door unlocked.”

“Perfect,” Curt said. He waved and went out the door. Steve followed closely behind.

The two firemen trooped out of Yuri’s house and climbed into the Dodge Ram without talking. Once the doors were closed Curt pounded the steering wheel with a closed fist. “We got ourselves involved with a goddamned fruitcake,” he snarled.

“I’m not going to say I told you so,” Steve said.

“Jesus Christ, he’s out to kill civilians, not government people,” Curt complained. “Here we are, patriots, trying to save the country, and we’re forced to deal with a terrorist. What’s this world coming to?”

“I think his wish for the Soviet Union to get back together involves a lot more than wanting to protect the nukes. I think he’s a Commie.”

Curt started his truck and pulled out into the lane. It was like a slalom course trying to avoid all the trash cans. “Maybe he is a Commie. But whatever he is, he has no concept of security. It’s too bad, because if the authorities get even a hint of what’s coming, we’ve got to reevaluate the whole operation. When we first started planning this, it seemed like it would be so easy.”

“What are we going to do about him?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know. The trouble is we’ve got to play along in order to get our hands on the bioweapon. He made that pretty clear with his threat to sabotage the whole setup, which I suppose means he’d trash the lab.”

“So we’re going to get him the pest control truck?”

“I don’t see where we have much choice,” Curt said as he pulled out onto Oceanview Avenue. “We’ll get him the truck, but we’ll also keep the pressure on him to come up with the eight or so pounds of anthrax powder as soon as possible. The sooner we can launch Operation Wolverine the better.”

Monday, October 18

6:45 p.m.

Jack scooted across First Avenue at Thirtieth Street just before the light turned green for the traffic heading uptown. He coasted to the medical examiner’s office loading dock and nodded to security as he carried his bike into the building. He waved to Marvin Fletcher, the evening mortuary tech, who was busy in the mortuary office getting ready for the evening’s body pickups.

After locking his bike in its usual spot, Jack got on the elevator and headed up to the second floor toxicology lab. It was later than he’d planned on getting back to the office. Going through all the Corinthian Rug Company’s records had taken much more time than he’d expected.

John DeVries, the chief toxicologist, had already left for the day. Jack was reduced to asking a night tech if the deputy chief had called about putting a rush on David Jefferson’s specimens. David Jefferson was the prisoner-in-custody death Calvin was pressuring Jack about. Unfortunately, the night tech had no idea about the case.

Back in the elevator, Jack went up to the DNA lab on the sixth floor. Ted Lynch, the director, wasn’t available, so Jack left his collection of culture tubes from the Corinthian Rug office with a technician. In the morning he wanted Ted to search for anthrax spores with the PCR.

Taking the stairs to the fifth floor, Jack ducked into the histology lab in hopes of encouraging Maureen O’Conner, the supervisor, to speed up processing Jefferson’s microscopic sections. Jack had a good working relationship with Maureen, one he didn’t share with John DeVries, but it made no difference. Maureen had also left for the day.

En route to his own office, Jack looked into Laurie’s, expecting at the very least to find out the “when and where” for the evening’s long-awaited dinner party. But Laurie’s office was dark and deserted. To make matters worse, her door was locked. Jack knew that was incontrovertible evidence that she, too, had gone home.

“For crissake!” Jack said out loud. Feeling thwarted in all directions, he grumbled under his breath as he walked the rest of the way down the corridor. For a brief moment he entertained the idea of being unavailable for the rest of the evening so that Laurie would not be able to get ahold of him. But he quickly gave up the idea. It wasn’t his style, and besides, he was genuinely curious.

Jack turned into his own office. At least Chet was still there, busily writing on a yellow legal tablet.

“Ah, the adventurer has returned,” Chet commented as he caught sight of Jack. He put down his pencil. “I guess I can cancel the missing persons report I filed.”

“Very funny,” Jack commented as he hung up his bomber jacket.

“At least you arrived back in one piece,” Chet said. “How was it out there in the field? Any attempts on your life? How many fellow civil service workers did you manage to enrage?”

“I’m in no mood to be teased,” Jack stated. He plopped himself down heavily in his desk chair as if his legs had suddenly given out from under him.

“It doesn’t sound like you enjoyed yourself,” Chet remarked.

“It was a bust,” Jack admitted. “Except for the bike ride.”

“I’m not surprised,” Chet said. “It was a doomed mission from the start. Did you learn anything at all?”

“I learned that it takes a long time to go through a company’s records,” Jack said. “Even a small company. And after all the effort, there was no payoff. In a perverted way I was hoping to find that some of the rug company’s latest shipment of Turkish hides had been sent out so I could rub the information in flinty old Clint Abelard’s face. But no soap. The whole shipment is locked up tight in the Queens warehouse.”

“At least you meant well,” Chet said with a self-satisfied chuckle.

“If you so much as whisper I told you so, I’m taking you out of my will,” Jack warned.

“I wouldn’t stoop so low as to say I told you so,” Chet laughed.

“Yeah, but I could hear you thinking it,” Jack said.

“I do have to say you were missed. But not to worry. I covered for you. I used your old quip about that group of nuns you’ve been expecting. I said they’d come to town for a bowling convention, and you’d stepped out to welcome them.”

“Who was asking for me?”

“Laurie for one,” Chet said. “In fact, I was just writing you a note.” Chet tore off the top page of his tablet and balled up the paper. Holding the ball between thumb and index finger, he arced it cleanly into the communal wastebasket.

“What was the message?” Jack demanded.

“I was to tell you that tonight’s dinner is at Elio’s on Second Avenue at eight-thirty.”

“Eight-thirty!” Jack commented irritably. “Why so late?”

“She didn’t say. But eight-thirty doesn’t sound late to me.”

“It’s later than she likes to eat,” Jack commented. He shook his head. The mystery kept deepening. He remembered her making the comment that morning about whether she’d be still on her feet that evening, suggesting she anticipated being tired. Why then would she make plans to meet late?