Mr. Stevens indicated a grouping of seats. The boat was making about fifteen miles an hour, which I think is about two hundred knots. Maybe a little less. It was a bit breezy up top, but quieter away from the engines. The mist was burning off and sunlight suddenly broke through.
I could see into the glass-enclosed bridge where the captain stood at the steering wheel, aka helm, talking to the mate. From the stern below flew an American flag, snapping in the wind.
I sat facing the bow, with Beth to my right, Max to my left, Stevens across from me, and Nash and Foster on either side of him. Stevens remarked, “The scientists who work in biocontainment always ride up here unless the weather is really foul. You know, they don’t see the sun for eight to ten hours.” He added, “I asked that we have some privacy this morning.”
To my left, I saw the Orient Point Lighthouse, which is not one of the old-fashioned stone towers built on a headland, but a modern steel structure built on rocks. Its nickname is “The Coffeepot” because it’s supposed to look like one, but I don’t get it. You know, sailors mistake sea cows for mermaids, porpoises for sea serpents, clouds for ghost ships, and on and on. If you spend enough time at sea, you get a little batty, I think.
I looked at Stevens and our eyes met. The man really had one of those rare, never forgotten wax faces. I mean, nothing moved but the mouth, and the eyes bored right into you.
Paul Stevens addressed his guests and said, “Well, let me begin by saying that I knew Tom and Judy Gordon. They were well regarded by everyone on Plum—staff, scientists, animal handlers, lab people, maintenance people, security people—everyone. They treated all their fellow workers with courtesy and respect.” His mouth made a sort of weird smile. “We’ll sure miss them.”
I had the sudden notion that this guy could be a government assassin. Yeah. What if it was the government who whacked Tom and Judy? Jeez, it just hit me that maybe the Gordons knew something or saw something, or were going to blow the whistle on something…. As my partner, Dom Fanelli, would say, “Mama mia!” This was a whole new possibility. I looked at Stevens and tried to read something in those icy eyes, but he was a cool actor, as he’d shown on the gangplank.
Stevens was going on, “As soon as I heard about the deaths last night, I called my security sergeant on the island and tried to determine if anything was missing from the labs—not that I would suspect the Gordons of such a thing, but the way the murder was reported to me … well, we have standard operating procedures here.”
I looked at Beth and our eyes met. I hadn’t had a chance to say a word to her this morning, so I winked at her. She apparently couldn’t trust her emotions so she turned away.
Stevens went on, “I had one of my security patrol boats take me to Plum very early this morning, and I did a preliminary investigation. As far as I can determine at this point in time, there is nothing missing from any of the stored micro-organisms or any stored samples of tissue, blood, or any other organic or biological material.”
This statement was so patently self-serving and idiotic that no one even bothered to laugh. But Max did glance at me and shake his head. Messrs. Nash and Foster, however, were nodding as if they were buying Stevens’ baloney. Thus encouraged, Mr. Stevens, aware that he was among fellow government-employed friends, continued to put out the line of official crap.
You can imagine how much bullshit I have to listen to in my professional life—suspects, witnesses, informants, and even my own team, like ADAs, brass, incompetent subordinates, low pols, and so forth. Bullshit and cowshit, the former being a gross and aggressive distortion of the truth, while the latter is a milder, more passive crock of crap. And that’s the way it is with police work. Bullshit and cowshit. No one’s going to tell you the truth. Especially if you’re trying to send them to the electric chair, or whatever they’re using these days.
I listened awhile as Mr. Paul Stevens explained why no one could get a single virus or bacterium off the island, not even a case of crotch itch, if we were to believe Pinocchio Stevens.
I gripped my right ear and twisted, which is how I tune out idiots. With Stevens’ voice now far away, I looked out at the beautiful blue morning. The New London ferry was inbound and passed us off our left side, which I happen to know is called the port side. The one and a half miles of water between Orient Point and Plum Island is known as Plum Gut, another nautical term. There are a lot of nautical terms out here, and they give me a headache sometimes. I mean, what’s wrong with regular English?
Anyway, I know that the Gut is a place where the currents get bad because the Long Island Sound and the open Atlantic sort of smack together in the Gut. I was with the Gordons once, in their speedboat, when we got into a situation right about here with the wind, the tide, and the currents slapping the boat around. I really don’t need a day like that on the water, if you know what I mean.
But today was okay, and the Gut was calm and the boat was big. There was a little rocking, but I guess that can’t be helped on the water, which is basically liquid and nowhere near as reliable as blacktop.
Well, it was a nice view from out here, and while Mr. Stevens was flapping his gums, I watched a big osprey circling. These things are weird, I mean totally crazy birds. I watched this guy circling, looking for breakfast, then he spotted it, and began this insane kamikaze dive into the water, shrieking like his balls were on fire, then he hit the water, disappeared, then shot up and out like he had a rocket up his ass. In his talons was a silver fish who’d been just paddling along down there, chomping minnows or something, and whoosh, he’s airborne, about to slide down the gullet of this crazy bird. I mean, the silver fish maybe has a wife, kids, and whatever, and he goes out for a little breakfast and before he can bat an eye, he is breakfast. Survival of the fittest and all that. Awesome. Totally.
We were about a quarter mile from Plum Island when a strange but familiar noise caught our attention. Then we saw it—a big white helicopter with red Coast Guard markings passed us off our starboard side. The guy was going low and slow, and leaning out the door of the helicopter was a man, secured by straps or something. The man was wearing a uniform, a radio helmet, and was carrying a rifle.
Mr. Stevens commented, “That’s the deer patrol.” He explained, “As a purely precautionary measure, we look for deer that might swim to or from Plum Island.”
No one spoke.
Mr. Stevens thought he should expand on that, and said, “Deer are incredibly strong swimmers, and they’ve been known to swim to Plum from Orient and even Gardiners Island, and Shelter Island, which is seven miles away. We discourage deer from taking up residence or even visiting Plum Island.”
“Unless,” I pointed out, “they sign the form.”
Mr. Stevens smiled again. He liked me. He liked the Gordons, too, and look what happened to them.
Beth asked Mr. Stevens, “Why do you discourage deer from swimming to the island?”
“Well … we have what’s called a ‘Never Leave’ policy. That is, whatever comes on the island may never leave unless it’s decontaminated. That includes us when we leave later. Big items that can’t be decontaminated, such as cars, trucks, lab equipment, construction debris, garbage, and so forth never leave the island.”
Again, no one spoke.
Mr. Stevens, realizing he’d frightened the tourists, said, “I don’t mean to suggest the island is contaminated.”
“Fooled me,” I admitted.
“Well, I should explain—there are five levels of biohazard on the island, or I should say, five zones. Level One or Zone One is the ambient air, all the places outside the biocontainment laboratories, which is safe. Zone Two is the shower area between the locker rooms and the laboratories and also some low-contagion workplaces. You’ll see this later. Then Level Three is the biocontainment labs where they work with infectious diseases. Level Four is deeper into the building and includes the pens where diseased animals are held, and also where the incinerators and dissection rooms are.” He looked at each
of us to see if he had our attention, which he most certainly did, and continued, “Recently, we have added a Level Five capability, which is the highest biocontainment level. There are not many Level Five facilities in the world. We added this one because some of the organisms we were receiving from places such as Africa and the Amazon jungle were more virulent than suspected.” He looked at each of us and said, sort of sotto voce, “In other words, we were getting blood and tissue samples infected with Ebola.”
I said, “I think we can go back now.”
Everyone smiled and tried to laugh. Ha, ha. Not funny. Mr. Stevens continued, “The new laboratory is a state-of-the-art containment facility, but there was a time when we had the old post–World War Two facility, and that wasn’t, unfortunately, as safe. So, at that time, we adopted the ‘Never Leave’ policy as a precaution against spreading infection to the mainland. The policy is still officially in effect, but it’s somewhat relaxed. Still, we don’t like things and people traveling too freely between the island and the mainland without being decontaminated. That, of course, includes deer.”
Beth asked again, “But why?”
“Why? Because they might pick up something on the island.”
“Like what?” I asked. “A bad attitude?”
Mr. Stevens smiled and replied, “Maybe a bad cold.”
Beth asked, “Do you kill the deer?”
“Yes.”
No one spoke for a long moment, then I asked, “How about birds?”
Mr. Stevens nodded and replied, “Birds could be a problem.”
I asked my follow-up question, “And mosquitoes?”
“Oh, yes, mosquitoes could be a problem. But you must remember that all lab animals are kept indoors, and all experiments are done in negative air pressure biocontainment labs. Nothing can escape.”
Max asked, “How do you know?”
Mr. Stevens replied, “Because you’re still alive.”
On that optimistic note, while Sylvester Maxwell contemplated being compared to a canary in a coal mine, Mr. Stevens said, “When we disembark, please stay with me at all times.”
Hey, Paul, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
CHAPTER 8
As we approached the island, The Plum Runner slowed. I stood, went to the port side, and leaned against the rail. To my left, the old stone Plum Island Lighthouse came into view, and I recognized it because it was a favorite subject of bad watercolor artists around here. To the right of the lighthouse, down by the shore, was a big billboard-sized sign that said, “CAUTION! CABLE CROSSING! NO TRAWLING! NO DREDGING!”
So, if terrorists were interested in knocking out power and communications to Plum Island, the authorities gave them a little hint. On the other hand, to be fair, I assumed Plum had its own emergency generators plus cell phones and radios.
Anyway, The Plum Runner slipped through this narrow channel and into a small cove which looked artificial, as though it had been called into being, not by God Almighty, but by the Army Corps of Engineers, who liked to put the finishing touches on Creation.
There weren’t many buildings around the cove, just a few tin warehouse-type structures, probably left over from the military days.
Beth came up beside me and said softly, “Before you got to the ferry, I saw—”
“I was there. I saw it. Thanks.”
The ferry did a one-eighty and backed into the slip.
My colleagues were standing at the rail now, and Mr. Stevens said, “We’ll wait until the employees disembark.”
I asked him, “Is this an artificial harbor?”
He replied, “Yes, it is. The Army constructed it when they built the artillery batteries here before the Spanish-American War.”
I suggested, “You may want to lose that cable crossing sign.”
He replied, “We have no choice. We have to let boats know. Anyway, it’s on the navigation charts.”
“But it could say, ‘Freshwater pipe.’ You don’t have to give the whole thing away.”
“True.” He glanced at me and was about to say something, but didn’t. Maybe he wanted to offer me a job.
The last of the employees disembarked, and we went down the stairs and exited the ferry through the opening in the stern rail. And here we were on the mysterious Island of Plum. It was windy, sunny, and cool on the dock. Ducks waddled around the shoreline, and I was glad to see they didn’t have fangs or flashing red eyes or anything.
As I said, the island is shaped like a pork chop—maybe a baby lamb chop—and the cove is at the fat end of the chop, as if someone took a little bite out of the meat, to continue the idiotic comparison.
There was only one boat tied up at the dock, a thirty-something-footer with a cabin, a searchlight, and an inboard motor. The name of this craft was The Prune. Someone had fun naming the ferry and this boat, and I didn’t think it was Paul Stevens, whose idea of nautical humor was probably watching hospital ships being torpedoed by U-boats.
I noticed a wooden, weather-faded sign that said, “Plum Island Animal Disease Center.” Beyond the sign was a flagpole, and I saw that the American flag was at half-staff here also.
The employees who’d just disembarked boarded a white bus that pulled away, and the ferry blasted its horn, but I didn’t see anyone boarding for the trip back to Orient.
Mr. Stevens said, “Please stay here.” He strode off, then stopped to speak to a man dressed in an orange jumpsuit.
There was a weird feel to this place—people in orange jumpsuits, blue uniforms, white buses, and all this “stay here” and “stay together” crap. I mean, here I was on a restricted island with this blond SS look-alike, an armed helicopter circling around, armed guards all over the place, and I’m feeling like I somehow stepped into a James Bond movie, except that this place is real. I said to Max, “When do we meet Dr. No?”
Max laughed, and even Beth and Messrs. Nash and Foster smiled.
Beth addressed Max. “Which reminds me, how is it that you never met Paul Stevens?”
Max replied, “Whenever there was a joint meeting of law enforcement agencies, we’d invite the Plum Island security director as a courtesy. None of them ever showed. I spoke to Stevens once on the phone, but never laid eyes on him until this morning.”
Ted Nash said to me, “By the way, Detective Corey, I’ve discovered that you’re not a Suffolk County detective.”
“I never said I was.”
“Oh, come on, fella. You and Chief Maxwell led me and George to believe you were.”
Max said, “Detective Corey has been hired by the Town of Southold as a consultant in this case.”
“Really?” asked Mr. Nash. He looked at me and said, “You are a New York City homicide detective, wounded in the line of duty on April twelfth. You’re currently on convalescent leave.”
“Who asked you?”
Mr. Foster, ever the peacemaker, interjected, “We don’t care, John. We just want to establish credentials and jurisdictions.”
Beth said to Messrs. Nash and Foster, “Okay, then, this is my jurisdiction and my case, and I have no problem with John Corey being here.”
“Fine,” said Mr. Foster.
Mr. Nash did not second that, leading me to believe he did have a problem, which was also fine.
Beth looked at Ted Nash and demanded, “Now that we know who John Corey works for, who do you work for?”
Nash paused, then said, “CIA.”
“Thank you.” She looked at George Foster and Ted Nash, and informed them, “If either of you ever visits the crime scene again without signing in, I will notify the DA. You will follow all procedures, just as the rest of us have to, understood?”
They nodded. Of course they didn’t mean it.
Paul Stevens returned and said, “The director is not available just yet. I understand from Chief Maxwell that you’d like to see some of the island, so we can drive around now. Please follow—”
“Hold on,” I said, pointing to The Prune. “Is that yours?”
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“Yes. It’s a patrol boat.”
“It’s not patrolling.”
“We have another one out now.”
“Is this where the Gordons docked their boat?”
“Yes. All right, please follow—”
“Do you have vehicle patrols around the island?” I asked.
He obviously didn’t like being questioned, but he replied, “Yes, we have vehicle patrols around the island.” He looked at me and asked impatiently, “Any more questions, Detective?”
“Yes. Is it usual for an employee to use his or her own boat to commute to work?”
He let a second or two go by, then replied, “When the ‘Never Leave’ policy was strictly enforced, it was prohibited. Now we’ve relaxed the rules a little, so we sometimes get an employee who takes his or her boat to work. Mostly in the summer.”
“Did you authorize the Gordons to commute by boat?”
He replied, “The Gordons were senior staff and conscientious scientists. As long as they practiced good decontamination techniques and observed safety and security regulations and procedures, then I had no real problem with them commuting with their own boat.”
“I see.” I inquired, “Did it ever occur to you that the Gordons could use their boat to smuggle deadly organisms out of here?”
He considered a second or two, then answered obliquely, “This is a workplace, not a jail. My main focus here is to keep unauthorized people out. We trust our people, but just to be sure, all our employees have gone through background checks by the FBI.” Mr. Stevens looked at his watch and said, “We’re on a tight schedule. Follow me.”
We followed the tightly wound Mr. Stevens to a white mini-bus and boarded. The driver wore the same light blue uniform as the security guards, and in fact, I noticed he wore a holstered pistol.
I sat behind the driver and patted the seat beside me for Beth, but she must have missed my gesture because she sat in the double seat across the aisle from me. Max sat behind me, and Messrs. Nash and Foster sat in separate seats farther back.
Mr. Stevens remained standing and said, “Before we visit the main facility, we’ll take a spin around the island so you can get a feel for the place and better appreciate the challenges of securing an island of this size with about ten miles of beach and no fences.” He added, “There’s never been a breach of security in the history of the island.”