“Why am I not surprised?”
“I also wanted to let you know that I’ve been following this toxicology issue very closely. For reasons of my own safety.”
Jack was reaching for his beer, but that halted him. “What kind of danger are you in?”
“I don’t know. That’s the problem. I’ve been thinking a great deal about that night on Lincoln Road Mall. Something wasn’t quite right-from a medical standpoint, I mean. There’s no doubt that Mr. Chang went into cardiac arrest, but the medical examiner states that it was induced by asphyxiation. Suffocation, in layman’s terms.”
“Someone strangled him?”
“No. Suffocation induced by a toxin.”
“What kind of toxin?”
“The toxicology report says it cannot be identified.”
“That sounds weird.”
“To say the least. And I have a theory for that. Have you seen the mall’s security tape where Chang has that brief encounter with someone who’s probably just pretending to be blind?”
“I haven’t seen it, but I heard about it.”
“Action News loaded the key frames on their Web site about an hour ago. I’m sure all the networks have it up by now. Check it out. Chang clearly gets stuck in the leg with the white mobility cane. An hour a later he was in convulsions and dropped dead. I believe that something was administered at that point of contact.”
“But the initial autopsy showed no sign of injection.”
“That’s what has me so worried. It must have been a toxin that’s lethal even if just a small amount comes in contact with the skin. Possibly a synthetic, like VX, or-”
“Nerve gas?”
“In liquid form, yes. A ten-milligram drop of VX can kill you. A raindrop is eighty milligrams.”
“But it doesn’t just fall from the sky like rain.”
“Look, I know I must sound paranoid, but I researched this. Terrorists in Japan used sarin to kill commuters on the Tokyo subway back in the 1990s. VX is even more deadly, but there are ways to get it. You steal it. You buy it from some Russian mobster who smuggled it out of the former Soviet Union. Whatever.”
Jack paused, as the conversation was getting a little flaky. “Did you say you researched this?”
“Yes, don’t you see what’s going on? Surely the medical examiner knows what kind of toxin was involved. This report is a cover-up. Maybe the government doesn’t want to send the public into a panic over fears of chemical and biological warfare.”
A retiree with time enough to dream up conspiracy theories. Great.
“Doctor, I’m not saying you’re paranoid, but-”
“Please, I need help. I don’t know why the medical examiner won’t say what killed Ethan Chang. The point is that if I came in contact with the same toxin when I was helping that man-or even if I just breathed in the fumes-I need to start on an antidote.”
His voice was becoming increasingly urgent, and Jack needed to reel him in. “Okay, I hear your concern. But let’s think about this for a second. If you were exposed, wouldn’t you be dead already, or at least showing some kind of symptoms?”
“Not necessarily. Chang got a direct application and died in an hour. Depending on how much I got and how it got into my system, it could take weeks to see the effects.”
“All right,” said Jack, trying to keep him calm. “Let’s look at this another way. What would be the downside of starting yourself on a nerve-gas antidote as a precaution?”
“For some of these synthetics the antidote is itself a toxin. I can’t just be self-prescribing willy-nilly. I need to know exactly what kind of toxin was involved.”
“What have you done so far?”
“I’ve plied every professional contact I’ve made over the past forty years, and I can’t get anywhere. I’ll be honest, I’m no fan of lawyers, but I know when I need one. You seemed like the logical choice. You’re plugged into this already with the work you’ve done for Jamal Wakefield.”
It still sounded flaky to Jack. “So you want a lawyer to go into court and get a judge to force the medical examiner to reveal the toxin that killed Ethan Chang. Is that what you’re asking?”
“Bingo. If the son of a former governor can’t cut through red tape, who can?”
Jack glanced at Neil, who was finishing his tea and trying to get Theo’s attention.
“Mr. Swyteck?”
Jack heard the doctor’s voice, but he was thinking. It had all started with a Gitmo detainee who spoke no English. Several bodies later, Jack was now discussing nerve gas with the second potential client of the day who was-in someone’s eyes-nothing more than collateral damage in one hell of a cover-up.
That, or the crazy conspiracy theorists are coming out of the woodwork.
“Refill, Mr. Goodwrench?”
Neil handed Theo his empty cup, and Theo poured more hot water. It was a simple thing but a pivotal moment for Jack: the man who’d mentored him at the Freedom Institute served hot tea by a former badass from the ’hood who had been the only innocent man Jack and Neil had ever represented.
Had been. Until Jamal came along.
“Mr. Swyteck, are you still there?”
Jack was still taking in his Neil-and-Theo moment, and though it wasn’t technically accurate, another word came to mind to describe his mentor. “Doctor, can I call you right back?” Jack said into the phone. “I need to consult with my partner.”
Chapter Thirty-four
The Internet cafe on Bethnal Green was open twenty-four hours. At half past midnight in the middle of week, he expected to have his choice of terminals, especially on such a cold and nasty night. The rain was turning to sleet, and the sidewalks were deserted, but he was unlike most of his fellow Africans in Somaal Town. January’s bite didn’t bother him, and he actually preferred the shorter days of winter. The late sunrise and early sunset were his friends, and if that meant living in a colder climate, so be it. His given name was Habib.
To his victims, he was known as the Dark.
He shook out his umbrella and entered the cafe. The fluorescent lighting assaulted his eyes and, for some reason, triggered a yawn. His quick trip to Miami and back had left him drained. As a rule, he didn’t sleep well on airplanes, no matter how exhausted he was. This time his work had been especially taxing. Everything had come off without a hitch, thanks to his 24/7 approach to preparation, coordination, and execution. After landing at Heathrow, all he could do was climb into bed and sleep for eighteen hours. He still didn’t feel rested.
The clerk behind the desk was reading a graphic novel online. She looked up and directed him to a terminal. He pulled up a chair in front of the monitor, logged on, and created a new Internet account. Using the same account twice was out of the question; it was important that his messages never be traced back to him. This account would be in the name of Doris Lader, a fifty-two-year old woman from Las Vegas who had provided her credit card number and other personal information in response to a phishing e-mail that she had thought was from Citibank.
Americans had to be the stupidest people on earth.
He quickly entered the necessary information to create the account, then typed in his screen name. It was the same one he used for all his phony accounts, the same mix of lowercase letters and capitalized initials: ruaoTD.
Are you afraid of The Dark.
He was up and almost ready to go. The only remaining step was to choose the preferred language. Sometimes he used English, sometimes he used Somali modified Latin script. It didn’t really matter this time. The message was short, and he banged it out in just a few quick keystrokes. He always created the message and proofread it before typing in the address. It was good practice to prevent a half-baked message from sailing off accidentally. He read it one last time.
“I killed your son. I wanted you to know that.”
