Cam - 03 - The Moonpool (24 page)

He listened for a few seconds this time, pointed a finger gun at me, and then started writing something urgently on the yellow pad next to the phone. Tony got up to see what it said.

“That’s very interesting. Look, that remote gate control system isn’t working right now. Let me get some clothes on, and I’ll be right down. Just a few minutes, okay? Thank you.” He hung up before letting Creeps reply and raised his eyebrows at our merry little band.

Pardee was already gathering up the unused cups and the doughnut box from the table. I yelled to Moira that we had to run, gathered the shepherds, and headed for the back door. Tony was ahead of me, but he stopped suddenly. Through the back-door window we could see a large, official-looking patrol boat of some kind nosing in to the pier where our boat was tied up.

We backed away from the window and returned to the kitchen. I told Ari that there was probably no point in any more running.

“Why don’t you go down there to that gate,” I said. “See what they have to say. But look: Don’t lie, and don’t be confrontational. If they ask you directly, yes, we are here.”

Moira came back into the room, looking surprisingly good in her borrowed clothes. I had an idea.

“Ari—you have a computer she can use?” I asked as he put a jacket on.

Ari said yes and took her to his study. I went with them and told Moira what I wanted her to do. Bright girl that she
was, she sat right down, brought up a Word screen, and began typing.

Ari dutifully trudged down the front drive, which curved out of sight behind some tall evergreens. Tony kept a watch on the patrol boat down by the dock, but it had backed away from the pier and was now just sitting there, bristling with whip antennas, its running lights unusually bright in the morning twilight. I’d known they’d figure out the boat angle, but I’d been hoping the fog on the river would delay pursuit until we could land somewhere safe. I’d forgotten the old cop adage: You can outrun the cop’s car, but you can’t outrun his radio.

“What now, boss-man?” Pardee asked quietly, using Tony’s standard line.

I explained what Moira was doing in Ari’s study, and what I hoped that would accomplish if Ari came back with Creeps and some of his helpers.

“You think you guys really burned that place down?” Tony asked. Tony was thinking like an accessory to arson, among other things.

“It sounded like they were evacuating the building, not fighting the fire,” I said. “On the other hand, I won’t admit to starting said fire. It just sort of happened, you know, coincidentally with our efforts to get out of the basement.”

“That’s your story and you’re sticking to it, right?”

“Yup.”

“Which story won’t stand up for one minute once a competent forensics tech gets into it,” announced Special Agent Creeps Caswell, materializing in the kitchen doorway along with two large and extremely fit-looking special agents. They were all decked out in their spiffy blue FBI windbreakers, although I thought I spotted some black smudges on Creeps’s hands. We hadn’t heard them come in, and nor, apparently, had either of my two wonderful watchdogs, who had instead set the watch on the box of doughnuts. Ari Quartermain, looking somewhat sheepish, brought up the rear.

“Mr. Richter,” Creeps intoned formally.

“Special Agent,” I replied. No one was brandishing firearms yet, so I had high hopes for a civilized conversation around the kitchen table. We might even get some more coffee.

“Where is Ms. Maxwell?” Creeps asked.

“Otherwise engaged,” I said. “Here in the house, however, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

One of the helpers took a quick walkabout, came back, and nodded to Creeps.

“Oh, good,” he said. “Your Bureau was getting tired of driving around in all that fog.”

“So what happens now, Special Agent?” I asked. Tony and Pardee looked on with definite interest. Creeps’s helpers looked back at them with equal interest. Ari was trying to make himself look inconspicuous. The shepherds, sensing tension, walked over and sat down next to me.

“What happens next is that your Bureau will restore the status quo ante, as that term applies to you and Ms. Maxwell,” he said. He glanced at my two accomplices. “And these two gentlemen may have to join your ranks, as it were.”

“On what charge, Special Agent?”

“You? Or them?”

“Me, for starters. As I recall, I never did hear a charge the first time around.”

“You must have more faith in your Bureau, Mr. Richter. I’m just
so
sure there was a charge, perhaps many, and even some evidence. It may be a little hard to find in the ashes of your erstwhile detention facility, but you know us—we’ll think of something. And then, of course, there’s the little matter of your escape and all the excitement leading up to it. There are some Marines who would like to have a word with you.”

“It’s ready,” called Moira from the study.

“What’s ready, Mr. Richter?” Creeps asked, frowning.

“Why don’t we all just go see,” I said.

We trooped into Ari’s study, and I invited Creeps to read what she’d written in her letter to the editor of the
New York
Times
. She’d purposefully done it in a large font, and she’d done a really good job describing her imprisonment and the facility.

Creeps read the letter carefully. I could almost see his lips moving. I watched his breathing change, and then he cleared his throat.

“You understand, Ms. Maxwell,” he said, “that we have the resources to rebut everything you’ve said there. Furthermore, even if you transmit that, you will not be available for further comment or elaboration, which tends to diminish its chances for publication. So why don’t you just move that cursor to the delete button and stop all this foolishness.”

Moira looked up at him. The Mad Moira light was clearly visible in those green eyes. Red hair and green eyes—Creeps should have known better.

“So you guys don’t give a shit if I send this, then?” she asked. “Is that what I’m hearing?”

“As I explained—” Creeps began.

“Well, screw it, then,” Moira said brightly, reaching for the mouse and bringing up the e-mail program that had been lurking behind the Word screen. “Sounds to me like there’s no harm in trying, is there? I mean, you may be right—they may not print it, but inquiring minds will want to know more, don’t you think?”

She zipped the cursor to the
SEND
button, which was when I realized she’d already attached the document to an e-mail and was ready to spread the gospel according to Moira to lots more people than just the
New York Times
. Mad Moira showing her teeth.

“Wait!”
Creeps said, his voice rising for the first time in our entire discussion. Moira’s hand remained firmly on the mouse, and the pointer remained firmly on the
SEND
button. The list of addressees on the e-mail seemed to glitter on the screen. It was an impressive list.

On one hand, I almost wished she’d fired it off. On the other, I breathed a silent sigh of relief. We had him. For the moment, anyway.

Then two phones went off simultaneously—Creeps’s cell phone and Ari’s house phone. Creeps glared at Moira and stepped away from the computer to answer his cell. His two assistants moved into position to menace us, and then my two helpers moved in front of me to menace them. Teeth were showing everywhere. Ari, moving carefully, picked up the desk phone.

Creeps had his back turned to the rest of us, but I saw his shoulders stiffen at about the same time Ari exclaimed a startled “What?” and then said he’d be right in.

“Problem at the plant?” I asked.

“You could say that,” he replied grimly. “There’s a body in the moonpool.”

The plant admin building was in a definite state of uproar when I got there. There was a new secretarial face at Samantha’s desk—no surprise there, as her true identity had been revealed—who asked me to wait in Ari’s conference room for further instructions. I had left the dogs in the Suburban because I wasn’t sure what, if anything, Ari would want me to do. I was sort of hoping to be sent back home.

Ari came back into his office suite fifteen minutes later, looking like his day was fulfilling his every dismal expectation. He beckoned me into his private office and asked me to close the door.

“We’re going to have to get the divers in,” he said.

“Divers? In
that
?”

“Yeah, there’s a firm of divers who specialize in going down into containment vessels and moonpools. Lemme show you something.”

He turned on a television in his office and switched to what looked like an internal video surveillance channel. I wasn’t sure what we were looking at until he did something with the remote, and then I realized we were looking down into the moonpool itself. There, way down in that cerulean glow, was the silhouette of a human body, arms and legs spread wide as if crucified on an X-beam. It was lying on top of the spent uranium fuel assemblies forty feet down. I
couldn’t tell if it was face up or down, but it was definitely a human form.

“How radioactive is that part of the pool?” I asked.

“Very,” Ari said simply, staring at the shimmering image.

“And no idea of who it is?”

He shook his head. “And if that body stays down there long enough, any identification is going to be . . . difficult.”

I had a vision of the body melting down in all that radiation. Eyes like poached eggs. Lovely images like that.

“Can’t you grapple it?”

He shook his head again. “From what we can see, the body is draped across and is in physical contact with the fuel bundles. Much too hot. We’ll get a diver to go partway down there, then drop a minicam, see if we can make an ID. After that, we’ll have to figure out how to bring him most of the way up to the rod transfer platform, where I hope we can encase the remains. Problem’s gonna be diver stay-time, as always. But it has to be done fast.”

“Why?”

“You don’t want to know,” he said.

“Who’s working the problem?” I asked.

“Anna P. is in charge. I haven’t located Trask yet to deal with the physical security side. We’ve notified upper management and the NRC, and the company’s calling for the divers as we speak. We hope to have somebody on deck by third shift tonight. In the meantime . . .” He puffed out a breath.

“This doesn’t affect the plant’s operation, does it?”

“Nope. This is the moonpool. What we’ve got down there right now is a radionuclide Crock-Pot.”

“Damn,” I said. “Is it likely that somebody just fell in? I mean, if you did fall in, wouldn’t you just get the hell out of the water as fast as possible?”

“Yes, you would, and if you stayed at the surface, you wouldn’t be too much the worse for wear. Remember, exposure to radiation is measured in terms of intensity and time. Intensity is a function of proximity.”

“On the other hand,” I said, “only a drowned body sinks
like that. Lungs full of water. Maybe he hit his head on the way in. Are there ladders—some way for someone to get out, assuming he could swim?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, still staring at the screen. “And railings. And surveillance cameras.” He shook his head. “This shouldn’t be possible. I need Trask here.”

Just like the radioactive water inside Allie Gardner shouldn’t have been possible, I thought. Or the hot water on that truck over at the container port. Everyone could argue that there were other, non-Helios-related explanations for those incidents, but there was no arguing with this.

“You heard from the Bureau?” I asked.

“Only that they will take over the investigation once
we
exhume the body from the moonpool.”

“Exhume. That sounds like Creeps Caswell. Okay, what do you want from me?”

“You find people, right? Find Colonel Trask. Whoever that is down there should not have been able to get there by himself. Especially without a protective suit.”

“There’s nothing on the cameras?”

“Nada. The Bureau will have to tell us if somebody messed with them. But I really need Trask, and, as fucking usual, his people can’t raise him.”

His beeper went off, so he motioned for me to get going. I went outside to piddle the mutts and then decided to bring Frick back into the building with me. We went down the hallway to the physical security office, where some of Trask’s shaved-head torpedoes were congregating in the shift supervisor’s office.

They confirmed they didn’t know where the colonel was. They seemed more concerned about all the heat they were getting from the plant’s director about not being able to contact him than they were about Trask’s health and welfare. One of them came forward to make friends with Frick, who obligingly lifted a lip at him, prompting a chorus of whoas from the other guys.

“The colonel does his own thing,” one of them said. “Shows up at the plant at all hours, tests the perimeter patrols,
the cameras, vital area doors, and that kinda shit. Doesn’t exactly keep regular hours. Says schedules weaken security.”

“How do you normally reach him?”

“We don’t,” the supervisor said. “He listens in to all our comms. If he thinks he needs to get into something, he just shows up.”