Plum Island

She thought a moment, then said, 'You're saying you don't think the Gordons were capable-morally capable-of selling deadly micro-organisms.'

'No, I don't. Like atomic scientists they respected the power of the genie in the bottle. I don't know exactly what they did on Plum Island, and we'll probably never know, but I think I knew them well enough to say they wouldn't sell the genie in the bottle.'

She didn't reply.

I continued, 'I remember Tom once told me that Judy was having a bad day because some calf that she'd become attached to had been purposely infected with something and was dying. These are not the kind of people who want to see children dying of plague. When you interview their Plum Island associates, you'll find this out for yourself.'

'People sometimes have another side.'

'I never saw a hint of anything in the Gordons' personalities to suggest that they'd traffic in deadly disease.'

'Sometimes people rationalize their behavior. How about the Americans who gave atomic bomb secrets to the Russians? They were people who said they did it out of conviction-so one side wouldn't have all the power.'

I glanced at her and saw she was looking at me as we walked. I was happy to discover that Beth Penrose was capable of some deeper thinking, and I knew she was relieved to discover that I wasn't the idiot she thought I might be.

I said, 'Regarding the atomic scientists, that was a different time and a different secret. I mean, if nothing else, why would the Gordons sell bacteria and virus that could kill them and their families in Indiana or wherever, and wipe out everyone in between?'

Beth Penrose pondered that a moment, then replied, 'Maybe they got paid ten million, and the money is in Switzerland, and they have a chateau on a mountain stocked with champagne and canned food, and they invited their friends and relatives to visit. I don't know, John. Why do people do crazy things? They rationalize, they talk themselves into it. They're angry at something or somebody. Ten million bucks. Twenty million. Two hundred bucks. Everyone has a price.'

We walked out on the dock where a uniformed Southold policeman was sitting on a lawn chair. Detective Penrose said to him, 'Take a break.'

He stood and walked back toward the house.

The ripples lapped against the hull of the Gordons' boat, and the boat rocked against the rubber bumpers on the pilings. The tide was out, and I noticed that the boat was now tied to pulleys to allow the rope to play out. The boat had dropped about four or five feet below the dock. I noticed now that the writing on the hull said 'Formula 303,' which, according to Tom, meant it was thirty feet, three inches long.

I said to Beth, 'On the Gordons' bookshelf, I found a book of charts-nautical navigational maps-with an eight- digit number penciled on one of the pages. I asked Sally Hines to do a super print job on the book and report to you. You should take the book and keep it someplace safe. We should look at it together. There may be more marks on the book.'

She stared at me for a few seconds, then asked, 'Okay, what do you think this is about?'

'Well… if you ratchet down the moral dial about halfway, you go from selling plague for money to drugs for money.'

'Drugs?'

'Yeah. Morally ambiguous in some minds, big money in everyone's mind. How does that sound to you? Drugs.'

She stared at the high-powered boat and nodded. She said, 'Maybe we got panicky with this Plum Island connection.'

'Maybe we did.'

'We should talk to Max and the others about this.'

'We should not.'

'Why not?'

'Because we're just speculating. Let them run with the plague theory. If that's the right theory, better keep it covered.'

'Okay, but that's no reason not to confide in Max and the others.'

'Trust me.'

'No. Convince me.'

'I'm not convinced myself. We have two strong possibilities here-bugs for money or drugs for money. Let's see if Max, Foster, and Nash come to any conclusions of their own, and if they share their thoughts with us.'

'Okay… I'll play this one your way.'

I motioned toward the boat. 'What do you think that goes for?'

She shrugged. 'I'm not sure… the Formula's a pricey item… you figure three thousand a running foot, so this one, new, would be about $100,000.'

'And the rent on this house? About two thousand?'

'I guess about that, plus utilities.' She added, 'We'll find all this out.'

'And what's with this commuting by boat? It's almost two hours one way from here, and a small fortune in fuel. Right?'

'Right.'

'It takes maybe thirty minutes to drive from here to the government ferry on Orient Point. How long is the ferry ride? Maybe twenty minutes, compliments of Uncle Sam. Total about one hour door-to-door, as opposed to nearly two hours by speedboat. Yet, the Gordons took their own boat from here to Plum, and I know there were days when they couldn't take their boat back because the weather had turned bad during the day. They'd have to take the ferry back to Orient and hitch a ride home with someone. This never made sense to me, but I admit I never thought much about it. I should have. Now maybe it makes sense.'

I jumped into the boat and landed hard on the deck. I put my arms up, and she jumped, grabbing my hands as she did. Somehow we wound up on the deck, me on my back, Beth Penrose on top of me. We stayed there about a second longer than we had to, then we got to our feet. We smiled awkwardly at one another, the way strangers of the opposite sex do when they find themselves accidentally bumping T amp;A and whatever.

She asked me, 'Are you all right?'

'Yeah…' In truth, the wind had been knocked out of my bad lung, and I guessed she could see it.

I got my breath back and went to the rear, the stern, as they say, where the Formula 303 had a bench seat. I indicated the deck near the seat and informed her, 'Here's where the chest always sat. It was a big one, about four feet long, three deep, and three high. Maybe thirty cubic feet on the inside, insulated aluminum. Sometimes, when sat on the bench, I'd put my feet up on the chest and slug beers.'

'And?'

'And, after work, on designated days, the Gordons leave Plum at the appointed hour and make a high-speed dash out to sea. There, out in the Atlantic, they rendezvous with a ship, maybe a South American freighter, maybe it's a seaplane, or whatever. They take on board about a hundred kilos of Colombian marching powder and dash back toward land. If they're spotted by the DEA or Coast Guard, they look like Mr. and Mrs. Clean out for a spin. Even if they're stopped, they flash the Plum Island ID and do a song and dance. In reality, they could probably outrun anything on the water. It would take an aircraft to chase this thing. More to the point, how many boats are stopped and searched? There are thousands of pleasure boats and commercial fishermen out there. Unless the Coast Guard or Customs or somebody has a serious tip, or someone is acting weird, they don't board and search. Right?'

'Usually. Customs has full authority to do that and sometimes they do.' She added, 'I'll see if there are any reports with DEA, Coast Guard, or Customs regarding the Spirochete.'

'Good.' I thought a moment, then said, 'Okay, so after the Gordons cop the junk, they make land at some prearranged spot or rendezvous with a small boat, and transfer the ice chest to the local pharmaceutical distributors, who give them another chest in return with a bunch of bucks in it. The distributor then drives into Manhattan, and another duty-free import is completed. Happens every day. The question is, Did the Gordons participate, and if so, is that what got them killed? I hope so. Because the other thing scares me, and I'm not easily scared.'