Robin Cook - Vector

“I’ll pass the tip along,” Chet said. “What about Randolph Sanders? Have you let him know about the botulinum toxin?”

“I did,” Jack said. “And I’m embarrassed to say I enjoyed making him writhe.”

“I’ll be curious to hear the fallout,” Chet said, shaking his head. “Deciding not to do an autopsy and then finding out the patient died of botulism is a medical examiner’s worst nightmare.”

“I’m curious too,” Jack said. “In fact, while you make your calls, I think I’ll see what I can find out.”

Jack phoned the Brooklyn office and asked for Dr. Sanders. Since the ME wasn’t in his office, Jack had him paged. While he waited, Chet got through to Colleen and got a positive reaction. Chet gave Jack a thumbs-up sign just as Randolph Sanders came on the line.

“Sorry to bother you,” Jack said into the phone with the same breezy style he’d used earlier when he’d spoken with the man. “Chet and I have been talking about the Davydov case. We’re curious as to what’s going on.”

“It’s a nightmare,” Randolph said.

“That’s just how Chet characterized it a moment ago,” Jack said. He winked at Chet, who was waiting for Dr. Simsarian to pick up.

“I can’t believe the luck,” Randolph said. “Right after I spoke with you this morning, I called the Strickland funeral home, and they gave me a bit of bad news.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jack said.

“The body has been cremated.”

“Oh!” Jack moaned with feigned sympathy.

“There wasn’t much I could do at that point other than turn the situation over to Jim Bennett.”

“And what’s he done?”

“Nothing yet,” Randolph said. “But I know he has a call in to Bingham. This whole mess is going to have to be handled by top brass, specifically Harold Bingham.”

“I guess you must feel pretty bad,” Jack said. In spite of his dislike for the man, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of true sympathy.

“Nothing like this has ever happened to me before,” Randolph said.

“You’ll get through this,” Jack said. “In jobs like ours, it’s impossible to catch everything. And you’re doing the best you can at this point.”

Jack and Chet hung up from their respective calls almost simultaneously. They turned and faced each other.

“You first,” Chet said. “What did you learn?”

“There’s no fallout,” Jack said. “At least not yet. Bingham’s in the loop but hasn’t been, told yet. The real problem is that the body’s gone. It was cremated.” Jack shook his head. “It’s a mess. The only thing I know is that it’s out of my hands.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Chet said. “And let it stay out of your hands! As far as Dr. Simsarian is concerned, he wasn’t excited about your suggestion, but he said that he’d give it a try.”

Jack threw up his hands. “Well, that’s all we can do.”

“Absolutely,” Chet said.

Jack turned to his desk. In the center of his blotter was a slide tray with a Post-it attached. On it was a note from Maureen. The slides were the skin samples from Connie Davydov.

After getting his microscope out, Jack slipped one of the slides under the objective and took a look. Now that he had the diagnosis of botulism, the slides were superfluous. He’d taken the slice of skin to make sure the woman’s swollen eye was from trauma and not infection, and that was what he saw.

Putting Connie’s slides aside, he reached for David Jefferson’s folder. He thought he’d polish off the case a day early and surprise Calvin. While he worked, he happily anticipated the thought of spending an evening with Laurie and Lou after an invigorating pre-dinner run on the B-ball court.

Wednesday, October 20

5:05 p.m.

“See you tomorrow!” Bob King called out as Curt emerged from the front of the firehouse.

Curt responded to the rookie with a wave that was more a wave of dismissal than acknowledgment. They were going in opposite directions on Duane Street after the shift change. “Come mid-morning tomorrow, I’ll never have to see you again,” Curt mumbled under his breath.

As the afternoon progressed, Curt had grown increasingly excited about Operation Wolverine. At last, all the planning and all the effort was about to pay off; the operation was now on the launch pad in the final countdown for a blastoff in less than twenty-four hours! The only remaining skirmish involved Jack Stapleton, and that snag was to be dealt with in the next hour or so.

Curt glanced at his watch. Since it was after five, he fully expected the mission operatives would all be at the rendezvous in Pete’s bar. Steve had not called during the afternoon: a sure indication that everything had to have gone as planned.

As Curt rounded the corner he saw a plain, dark blue van parked in a loading zone close to the bar. On the driver’s side door panel was stenciled the name of a Brooklyn plumber. Curt smiled. Undoubtedly it was the requisitioned vehicle.

The bar was practically empty. The whining country music that had provided the background earlier had been replaced with the harsh sounds of a group called Armageddon. Curt smiled again. It seemed so fitting.

The music was emanating from a boom box perched on a table in front of Carl Ryerson. In the smoky half-light of the bar, Carl’s crooked grin and the swastika on his forehead gave him a particularly satanic aura.

“You like the sounds, Captain?” Carl asked. He’d caught Curt’s smile.

Curt liked the troops to call him “captain”; it was appropriately respectful, and it promoted discipline. He squeezed into the booth and eyed his squadron. Carl was sitting directly opposite. Next to him was the redhead, Kevin Smith. Then there was the diminutive Clark Ebersol, followed by Mike Compisano. Steve was to Curt’s immediate right. Every one was in T-shirts with their tattoos visible, except for Curt who was still in his class B fireman’s uniform. The table was littered with a forest of beer bottles.

“Let’s slow up on the drinking,” Curt said.

“Hey, what else is there to do in a bar?” Kevin said. “We’ve been here for a good half hour.”

“I didn’t want to be late,” Steve explained.

“Is that the van out front?” Curt asked.

“Yup,” Steve said. “Thanks to Clark.”

“What about the ordnance?” Curt questioned.

Steve leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There’s three Kalashnikovs and two Glocks in the truck. I figured that would be more than enough. Hell, if the guy is on a bicycle, all we have to do is run over him.”

“But then we shoot him just to be sure,” Curt said.

“Well, we certainly have more than enough firepower,” Steve said.

“Where’s Yuri?” Curt asked. It was the first moment Curt realized the Russian wasn’t there.

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “Maybe he got hung up in the traffic.”

Curt looked at his watch. “We told the bastard to be here at five.”

“Why don’t we use the time to set up tomorrow morning?” Steve suggested. “I mentioned to Mike we might need him for a quick mission.” Mike was the least enamored of the skinhead style and the most responsive to Curt’s urging to tame its outlandishness. Now that his blond hair had begun to grow out, compared to his fellow militiamen he could almost pass for normal.

“Good idea,” Curt said, but before he could elaborate the waiter appeared to take his order. Curt ordered a Bud Light.

“Listen up,” Curt said to Mike after Curt’s beer had arrived. He leaned forward. “We want you to put on business clothes in the morning: jacket, tie, the works. It’s got to be early because we want you in front of the Jacob Javits Federal Building on Worth Street no later than nine-fifteen.”