Blood List (21 page)

Sam continued through a mouthful of cheesecake. "As I was saying, can the therapy be reversed?"

He furrowed his brow. "What do you mean, can it be reversed?"

"If we give you a sample of the adenovirus, can you reverse the process, change the gene back to the way it was?"

"Why would you want to do that? Assuming this is real, and I am not willing to concede that this is at all the case, why would a person want to become susceptible to drugs again?"

Sam exhaled heavily and leaned forward. "Because of the side effects."

He didn't let her enjoy her pause. "What side effects could possibly be worse than dying of heroin addiction and destroying your family and your children's lives?"

In reply she reached into her purse and dropped three twenty-dollar bills on the table. That wasn't quite Dutch, but he could afford it more than she could. "You tell me if your team can reverse the process or suppress the symptoms, and I'll answer that question."

"But…. To answer to that question could—will—take years!"

So much for quick answers.
"Better get started, Govey. This one's a doozy, and you're going to want a cure. I've got to go."

Amid his protestations, she walked out of Hal's and hailed a taxi.

January 29th, 8:58 PM EST; J. Edgar Hoover Building, Gene Palomini's Office; Washington D.C.

Gene hung up the phone and rubbed his temples. It was nice to be off crutches, but Sam's news did nothing for his mood. Jerri raised her eyebrows in question.

"That was Sam. The CDC might have some answers for us in a couple years."

Jerri leaned forward. "Really?"

"Yeah," Gene said. He took a long pull from his coffee, savoring the bitterness of the dark brew.

"My God, Gene. All those people."

He looked down. "I know, Jerri, I know." He brought his eyes up. "Still, that's not our only problem."

"Finding the bad guys?" 

"Yeah," Gene said. "But we don't even know who we're looking for, aside from someone rich enough to afford a team of mercenaries to attack us in New York."

"A guy who can afford it," Jerri replied. "And knew that he needed to do it. That attack wasn't coincidence. Those men weren't just watching the storage facility with orders to take out whoever went inside." She chewed on it a little more. "So why not burn down the building a month ago? Two months ago? Ten years ago?"

Gene looked at her, realization dawning on his face. "They did it yesterday because that's when they found out those records still existed. We have a leak."

Jerri leaned close. "Somebody in RiC let the bad guys know we were going to that clinic. Or someone in the director's office did."

"Okay, so we use the leak to set a trap," Gene said. "What do we use as bait? The papers?"

Jerri shook her head. "No. He wanted us not to have the papers. That cat's out of the bag." Gene nodded in agreement.

Jerri tried another. "Paul?"

"What about him?" 

"He wanted Paul dead."

"That's true," Gene said. "But that cat's out of the bag, too."

Jerri frowned. "Damn. Well, what do we have that hasn't been spoiled?"

Gene triggered his COM. "Sam, have you sent the Lefkowitz report to A.D. Adams yet?"

"No," Sam said. "I've got a few more details to fill in. It'll get done. I can't fly to Atlanta and do your paperwork for you at the same time. I'll work on it on the plane. Sheesh." Even her harried complaints sounded cheerful.

"Great, Sam. Don't file that report. Lose it for now. Misfile it. Something."

"Right-o," she said. "Consider it lost."

Gene smiled at Jerri.

*   *   *

February 2nd, 3:29 AM EST; Summer home of Dr. Abraham Lefkowitz; Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts.

Dr. Lefkowitz told his secretary that he was going to his summer cottage for a little winter solitude. Gene thought it was the perfect place to entrap a killer, an eighteenth-century cottage just west of the tiny town of Aquinnah on the southwestern tip of the island of Martha's Vineyard. A popular vote in 1997, just 39 to 36, changed the town's name to Aquinnah, a Wampanoag word for "land under the hill," from the original name "Gay Head." Marty had had a field day with that name, highlighting why the residents decided to change it in the first place.

The island was accessible only by aircraft and boat, and Aquinnah was more remote even than that. The only road leading to the town passed between Menemsha and Squibnocket Ponds, and it was washed out due to recent storms.

Fewer than four hundred people lived in the town, a full third of them Wampanoag. Everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew and liked the good doctor Abraham Lefkowitz. Gene introduced his team to the townspeople and asked them to report the presence of any strangers immediately. If asked, they were to say that the doctor was at his cottage, then call a toll-free number that patched through to Sam Greene.

The Gay Head Cliffs were on the west side of town near the lighthouse visible from Lefkowitz' cottage. The cottage sat at the top of the cliffs, a three-story edifice designed for the large families of yesteryear. It had a widow's walk on top from which Jerri and Doug took turns keeping watch over the water, and it also had a finished basement with an access door leading down a winding trail to the beach below. Motion-sensing cameras covered the trail. A location so remote was easy for a small team of agents to watch and presented itself as the perfect place to make a discreet kill.

Beautiful during the summer, at three in the morning on Groundhog's Day, Martha's Vineyard was a miserable place to be. It was twenty-four degrees, blustery, and frosty ice from the ocean spray crusted everything. Snow covered the ground, and a stinging salt wind blew in from the east. This was the second night of the stakeout, and the team couldn't wait for either something or nothing to happen so they could all go home.

Gene shivered in his parka. He'd been sitting in the lighthouse for four hours, alternately playing solitaire and looking around with high-powered, night-vision binoculars. Paul Renner sat next to him, reading an ancient issue of
Field and Stream
. Carl Brent slept on a cot in the next room.

Gene idly scanned the beach through his binoculars when his ear bead crackled to life. Jerri's voice was low and tense. "I have contact on the water. Three small lights, inbound from the southwest. ETA six minutes."

Sam replied over the COM, "Sighting confirmed. Performing image enhancement." The teams' binoculars were rigged with a video feed that relayed right into Sam's information-filled cocoon five hundred miles away. Paul stood, but came up short when Gene snapped out, "Wait!" He swung the binoculars out into the ocean and scanned the water. Three white-green pinpricks in the darkness of the ocean approached at a steady rate of speed.

"I see them. Be advised, Renner and I are en route to the house. Carl will maintain watch here. Everyone, get ready for contact. Assume suspects are armed and dangerous. Use your judgment here, people; we weren't expecting three boatloads of perps." He headed for the exit.

Carl stood at the door, yawning. As soon as Gene noticed him, Carl headed over to the .50 caliber sniper rifle swivel-mounted to the wall. He kneeled down, grabbed the stock with his better arm, and swiveled the scope back and forth, looking for the incoming boats. Gene ran down the stairs, a step behind Paul.

Gene got into the Hummer H2 that served as his command vehicle and gunned the engine while Paul clambered into the passenger's side. The roar was nearly inaudible over the surf, and he left the lights off. The run to the cottage crossed flat ground, and the area had been cleared of hazards the previous day. It would take two minutes to get there, which left them another two to prepare for the incoming hostiles.

Paul grinned at Gene. "I hope those boats don't hold a lot of people, or we're going to get slaughtered." He chuckled as Gene gunned the gas.

"Not funny, Paul. We were expecting two or three killers, not a football team."

"So what are the rules of engagement?" Paul asked.

Gene sighed, frustrated. The plan had always been to capture the killers and interrogate them. Eight or more well-armed mercenaries coming at them complicated matters. The last thing they needed was a running gun battle. As if reading his mind, a drowsy-sounding Marty spoke into the COM, his voice an awful impersonation of an old-West cowboy, "We lookin' at a shootout at the Gay Head Corral, pardners?"

Gene scowled. "Maintain radio discipline." He then followed up with a question. "Sam?"

"Hard to pick out anything," she said. "It looks like you've got three boats, the Navy SEAL-style fast inflatable ones, three or four hostiles per boat. I don't see any large guns or anything, and resolution isn't good enough to pick out sidearms, but there are at least two assault rifles in the group. I think they're wearing night-vision goggles."

This was his worst nightmare. Gene stopped the Hummer behind the house. He grabbed the megaphone from the dash and jumped out, then headed inside with Paul on his heels. "You stay right there on that couch and don't even twitch." Gene feared that Marty might try a friendly fire incident with Renner and was equally afraid that Marty might not survive the experience if he tried it. He found the solution to his dilemma next to the couch in the form of an ornate wrought iron end table.

He pulled out a pair of the over-sized zip ties that many law enforcement agencies use for handcuffs and looked at Paul. "Grab the leg of that table." With two tight loops he secured Paul to the bulky, fifty-pound weight. Paul lay face-down on the couch and began whistling a tuneless melody.
It's not perfect, but it should keep him from sneaking around.
That done, he turned toward the door.

"Everyone check in. Watch your targets," Gene said. They all knew the drill, so no one spoke over anyone else.

"Brent, lighthouse."

"Goldman, cliff path."

"Bates, third floor."

"Palomini, first floor."

"Renner, couch." The irony in Paul's voice carried over the COM. Gene ignored him and moved to the porch.

Sam spoke. "ETA one minute forty."

Gene surveyed the beach. "We're in it deep, people. Verify that they're hostiles, then neutralize them. Keep them alive if at all possible. Carl and Marty, on my mark you take out their boats, then Carl, you hit the beach with the spotlight. Jerri, you keep on them so Sam can feed us information. Doug, fall back to the top of the path and get a field of fire on the beach. We'll force surrender as they stumble to shore. Go!" Simple, tactical, and hopefully hard to screw up. It might keep anyone from getting killed. He could see the lights approaching the beach.

Off to his right, Marty lay in the snow, using the edge of the cliff as a defilade. He had a sniper rifle trained at the beach and an H&K MP5 lying next to him. Gene ran forward several steps, then dropped to his belly. "If they fire, return for effect, but we don't want a bloodbath here. If we can show them they're trapped, they'll give up."

"Twenty seconds," Sam said.

Gene replied back, "Carl, Marty, do it."

Over the COM, Sam reported agents under fire on Martha's Vineyard, requesting immediate support.

The muzzle flash from Marty's shot left afterimages in Gene's vision, and the report was the loudest sound outside of a jet engine that he had ever heard. Carl's shot popped one raft. Gene saw dark forms dumped into the icy water as the deflated rubber tangled their legs. Marty's shot demolished the motor of the second raft. More dim shapes dove for cover into the water. One man wailed; a wet, gurgling cry of desperation. Marty rolled to the right, denying the men below an easy target and lining up for his next shot.

The third boat sped for shore, the men aboard opening fire as they made landfall. Gene rolled hard to his left, flinching as bullets thumped into the ground near his position. He heard the staccato beat of Doug's H&K from the cliff path and the throatier return chatter of AKs from the beach.

Marty's second shot burst the last raft, even as the beach lit up like a midsummer day. Carl had redirected the lighthouse beacon onto the shore. The men below covered their eyes as their night vision goggles were overloaded by the harsh glare. Gene crept forward for a better look.

Four men had made the sand, one face-down, the other three firing blindly toward the cliff face and the lighthouse. Another seven were still in the water, taking cover amidst the craggy rocks and tearing off their goggles. One, tangled in the rubber of his boat, screamed and clutched his face.

Gene yelled through the megaphone, straining to be heard over the pounding waves and weapons-fire. "FBI! Drop your weapons! You're surrounded and caught in a crossfire!" If the men below heard, they made no indication of it. He screamed again. "FBI! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"

A burst of automatic fire replied. A stream of bullets sliced into the upper cliff face and whizzed over his head. A window shattered in the house behind them as Gene scrambled backward. Doug responded with several tight bursts from his automatic. A man sprawled into the surf as Doug sprayed the rocks in the water with suppressing fire.

One man dropped screaming into the water as another shot from Marty's .50 caliber shattered his leg. Marty rolled to his left and reloaded in a single fluid movement, then scrambled to find another firing position. Another burst of automatic fire, and the beach went dark. Carl swore over the COM as bullets sparked off the top of the lighthouse.

Trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness, Gene looked out over the cliff face. Another dark figure knelt in the water, barely visible in the moonlight. The silhouette took shelter behind a rock and leveled what looked like a huge straw onto his shoulder. Doug's voice cried out over the COM. "RPG! RPG!" Machine gun chatter opened up from Doug's position, and sparks rang off the rock. The man ducked into cover until Doug had to reload.