and put on some music. Bruce’s harmonica chased Roy Bittan up the keyboard as “Thunder Road” unwound. I took another sip of scotch, smal er this time, sat down at my desk, and clicked on my Mac. Hubert Russel ’s face popped up. It was the last video he made before he was murdered. His thoughts on the case I’d asked him to investigate- the case that got him kil ed.
“I’ve already sent you the police file on your pal Jim Doherty.” Hubert dropped his eyes to his notes. “It’s probably nothing, but you said he worked the ’80 crash as a cop. As you can see, he didn’t get out of the Academy until 1982.”
No, he didn’t, Hubert.
“Anyway,” Hubert continued, “probably nothing, but whatever. I sent his Academy picture to your phone along with the file. The other thing I’m sending is about your old train crash and the company I’d mentioned, Transco.”
I leaned forward and studied the digitized image of my friend. The kid was excited, knew he’d found a couple of pieces that clicked.
“Your hunch was right, Mr. Kel y. Transco and Wabash Railway were owned by the same group, a corporation cal ed CMT Holding.”
I pul ed out a pad and pen and wrote CMT HOLDING at the top and TRANSCO just below it. Then I drew a line between the two. On-screen, Hubert kept talking.
“CMT appears to have had its fingers in a whole bunch of things back in the day. Railroads, related properties, manufacturing companies. Al held through various subsidiaries. Al very discreet. I don’t have a line yet on who actual y control ed CMT, but I’m working on it. The company’s registered agent was an attorney named Sol Bernstein. He’s dead, but I think his son might know something. So, we’l see. By the way, I also found CMT’s logo.”
Hubert hit a few more keys. “Just sent it to your phone. A dead ringer for the one someone left on your doorstep. Cool, right?”
Hubert paused on-screen and looked to his left. “Just heard something outside. Maybe the good guys are here to take me into protective custody.”
He flashed a sly grin at the absurdity of it al. “Don’t worry, Mr. Kel y. If al else fails, I’ve got my steak knife to protect me. Talk to you later.”
And then Hubert was gone. I shut down my Mac and turned up the music. Eddie Vedder had replaced the Boss and was tel ing me about a kid in Texas named Jeremy. I put my feet up on my desk and watched the day’s light flicker and fade against the wal s. By the time I finished the scotch it was mostly dark. I left my gun at home and walked down the street to find a cab. Rachel would come back, or not. But Hubert Russel was dead. And I needed to do something about it.
CHAPTER 49
Lawson’s meeting was in a Loop bar and gril cal ed the Exchequer. She got there early. He was in a back booth, sipping at a glass of water and reading the New York Times.
“Danielson?”
The man from Homeland Security raised his eyes from the paper and hol owed out a smile. “Agent Lawson.”
Danielson made a move to get up, but Lawson waved him back down and slid in across from him.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” Danielson said.
“Not a problem. What can I do for you?”
“You can start by tel ing me why you were wandering around in a CTA subway tunnel this afternoon.”
Lawson’s needle never moved off center; her response was right out of the Bureau playbook. “I work a number of cases, Mr. Danielson. Al of them major crimes. So where I go and what I do is my business. Above-and belowground.”
Danielson held up a pair of manicured hands. “Easy. Same side here.”
“Real y?”
“Yes. One of our people happened to be in the area, doing some fol ow-up on the Doherty thing. They saw you go in the access door at Clinton this afternoon and snapped a picture.”
Danielson threw a photo across the table. Lawson picked up the picture of herself and pretended to study it. Then she scuttled it back across the table and into Danielson’s lap.
“The ‘Doherty thing,’ as you cal it, was my case, a Bureau case.”
Danielson shook his head and folded up his newspaper until it was a neat rectangle. “We don’t have to do this, Agent Lawson.”
“No?”
“No. I’m assuming you took a look at the binder James Doherty had with him when he died.”
“I col ected it at the scene. Of course I looked at it.”
“And you saw the notes he made?”
Lawson shrugged, but didn’t respond.
“And I’m suspecting,” Danielson continued, “that was why you were down in the subway today?”
Homeland Security waited, a hint of smugness tattooed across his lips.
“I’m not sure this conversation is going anywhere, Mr. Danielson.”
“Weaponized anthrax, Agent Lawson. Loaded into lightbulbs and planted in Chicago’s subway system. Is that what you’re concerned about? What you think Mr. Doherty might have been up to?”
“From what I know-”
“What you know, Agent Lawson, is nothing. We’ve explored the possibilities raised by Mr. Doherty and the ‘Terror 2000’ binder. That’s our job. We’ve discussed them with your higher-ups. And we have no concerns about any possible threat.”
“Have you taken a look at Doherty’s accomplice?”
“Robles, Robert R. General discharge from the United States Army in 1998. Prior to that, stationed for two years at Fort Detrick, home to this country’s major bioweapons lab. Yes, we know about Mr. Robles and we’ve talked to the lab. He was never authorized access to any weapons materials.”
“And that’s it?”
Danielson fanned his hands, palms up, on the table. “As far as you’re concerned, yes.”
Lawson pul ed out a news clipping. It was from the Baltimore Sun, dated February 10, 2009. The headline read: BIODEFENSE LAB COUNTS ITS KILLERS. INVENTORY ERROR PROMPTS FORT DETRICK TO CATALOG VIRUSES, BACTERIA, OTHER MATERIALS.
“I’m sure you’ve seen this, Mr. Danielson. The lab director at Detrick spins it as more of a housekeeping issue-until you get to about paragraph five. That’s when he tel s us the probability of a ‘discrepancy’ regarding the lab’s bioweapons inventory is ‘high.’ Then we learn the lab at Detrick didn’t even use computers to track its inventory until 2005. Prior to that, it was al pen and paper.”
“What’s your point, Agent Lawson?”
“My point is this. If a guy like Robles did take a chemical agent such as mustard gas, or, here’s an idea, a couple of lightbulbs fil ed with anthrax, would the lab at Detrick even know it?”
“Detrick has assured us their inventory is secure.”
“You sound a little scared.”
“Concerned, but not for the reasons you suspect. If this sort of rumor gets into the public’s bloodstream, the potential fal out’s enormous. For us. The Defense Department. Hel, you ever think about the city of Chicago? This place becomes a ghost town if tourists start believing there’s a cloud of anthrax floating down State Street.”
Danielson took another sip of his water. “As it stands, we’ve been able to keep the lid on the contamination at Holy Name. Barely. The last thing we need is a loose cannon of an FBI agent stirring up unrest among the locals with her doomsday scenarios.”
“So you’re tel ing me to drop this?”
“I’m tel ing you the water’s far deeper than you suspect.”
