Plum Island

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?'

'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