“We have to assume that, Art,” Hidalgo said.
“Enough for two of those cylinders?” Frankie inquired.
“Or containers of similar size,” Orwell answered. “But that thing had to be specially made, so there’s no reason to think there wouldn’t be more.”
Art filtered all the information that had just filled his mental data banks, trying to place what was most important in the forefront. In the lead was a question. “If this VZ stuff is more deadly, why did King make VX at all?”
Frankie seized on a possibility almost immediately. “Maybe as insurance against exactly what we think Allen was going to do.”
That made a hell of a lot of sense, Art realized. “Freddy goes there to do away with King, after the VZ has already been delivered. King had to sense that something was up.”
“And Freddy probably played the tough guy,” Frankie surmised. “Remember the surveillance tape from that liquor store he robbed last year? He didn’t even pull the gun at first. You could hear him on the tape saying, ‘Give me the money so I can kill you.’ Then he did. Just shot the clerk in the face.”
“So he may have been equally as cocky with King,” Art continued the line of thought. “Telling King what he was going to do without even pulling the gun.”
“But King was prepared for that,” Frankie said. “There was a bathroom right off the hallway where we found King. He might have retreated that way when Allen confronted him.”
“And the cylinder of VX could have been right there,” Art agreed. “King just had to reach through the doorway.”
Orwell listened to the exchange with intense interest, wondering how the agents could process the possibilities so quickly, how the imprecise could be funneled into a combination of probabilities that one could almost see as reality.
“This investigation just became priority number one, Art,” Hidalgo said.
“Clearly,” Art said. “Captain, you said this stuff is more potent than VX. How much?”
“The effectiveness of chemical agents is measured as LD-50. That’s the amount of the substance, measured in milligrams, released per minute within a cubic meter that will kill half of those exposed without protection. VZ has twice the LD-50 of VX when inhaled, and four times when absorbed percutaneously.”
“What’s the dose?” Art asked.
“For VZ you’re talking point-two-five milligrams if inhaled, and four milligrams if absorbed through the skin. But VZ, unlike VX, mists extremely well into minuscule droplets, which means that anyone unprotected will almost certainly breathe in a lethal dose before they absorb it.”
Art tried to imagine so small an amount, but couldn’t grasp it effectively. “And how much is in one of those cylinders?”
“My estimate is about fourteen ounces,” Orwell answered.
“And how many people could that much VZ kill?”
“That would depend on a lot of factors,” Orwell said. “Environment. Dispersion.”
“A ballpark figure,” Art said. “Assume that there are lots of people and everything goes just right.”
The captain thought for a moment. “Figuring that half the agent would be wasted as it spread, a guess would be four to five thousand.”
The number, spoken clinically as just a combination of digits, floored the three agents.
“Five thousand people?” Frankie asked.
“In the nightmare scenario your partner gave me, yes,” Orwell affirmed.
“If someone of Allen’s kind has it and is planning to use it, you can bet they envision the nightmare scenario,” Art said.
“So how do we stop them?” Hidalgo wondered for the group.
“Well, pardon my French, but Jerry’s fuckup may have given us a little edge,” Art observed. “Everyone knows that there was a release of VX thanks to him, and they also think that that was it. The fact that we’re investigating just goes along with the incident.”
“So whoever has the VZ might be feeling more secure because they think we think there’s nothing more out there,” Hidalgo said. “And the fact that we’re still checking around to tie together loose ends might not spook them either.”
“Not if they were as careful as I bet they were,” Art said.
“If King was insulated well,” Frankie began, “just imagine how tight the folks behind this are wrapped up.”
Hidalgo considered the proposition that his lead agents were laying out. “So we press this without actually saying publicly what our real focus is?”
“I think that’s our edge,” Art said.
“But what about public safety?” Hidalgo asked. “If something happens…”
“There’s no way you can protect anyone from this,” Orwell said. “I may not be a cop, but what Jefferson is saying is logical. The only way to protect the public is to get this stuff away from whoever might use it.”
Secrecy was not uncommon in an investigation, but Hidalgo could just imagine the media and the civil libertarians crying “cover-up” if something happened before the Bureau could find and secure the nerve agent. But experience told him that a wide-open investigation might simply push the bad guys deeper into hiding, or, worse, into using their trump card before it could be taken from them.
“Do it, Art,” Hidalgo said. “You’re senior on this. Find it.” Find them.
“Will do,” Art promised, seeing the added desire in the A-SAC’s eyes…along with the fire.
“Captain,” Hidalgo said. “Thanks for digging this up. You may have saved some lives.”
“I hope so.”
Hidalgo excused himself and headed back up to Jerry Donovan’s office, leaving Orwell with the two agents.
“If you need anything…” Orwell offered.
“I’m sure we will,” Frankie said. She looked to Art. “Early morning tomorrow, partner?”
“Tomorrow, and the next day, and the next… We’ll figure a split between us tomorrow.” Art glanced at his watch. This very late dinner with Anne could end up being his last for a while. He wanted to get going, but there was one thing still nagging at him. “Captain, you said we never made VZ for our inventory, even though it was more deadly.”
“But not on the battlefield,” Orwell repeated from earlier. “Just because you can make something doesn’t mean you have to.”
“Did anyone else know how to make it?” Frankie asked, picking up on her partner’s line of questioning.
“Yes.”
“Did anyone actually produce it for their military?” Art pressed.
“Yes.”
“Who?” Art asked.
“The Russians,” Orwell answered. “Why?”
He didn’t get an immediate answer from the agents, who were locked in a suspicious, almost knowing stare.
“King, huh?” Art said, repeating his doubts from earlier.
“Da,” Frankie agreed.
The West Executive Avenue entrance gate to the White House grounds swung open an hour shy of midnight as a light snow dusted the nation’s capital. Three white Ford vans, windowless from the cab rearward, pulled in behind a government sedan, which led the small caravan around the executive mansion to a spot near the East Wing. There they stopped, met by a tall, serious-looking Secret Service agent who went to the lead car, brushing the snow off his shoulders as he walked.
“Who are the drivers?” Secret Service Agent Ted O’Neil, head of the presidential detail, asked.
Fellow agent Larry Price, stepping from the warmth of the Service Buick, pulled the collar of his overcoat up. “Tenth Mountain Division from Fort Drum. All louies.”
“Good.” O’Neil, the man charged with keeping the president alive for the four or eight years he was in office, walked to the back of the first van with Price at his side. The driver already had the twin doors open.
“Where are these going?” the lieutenant, wearing nothing even remotely Army, inquired.