Exposed (10 page)

Elk Grove, Virginia

It was too late.

Tully knew as soon as they turned onto the street. Even Ganza stopped chewing, a wad of tuna sandwich still stuffed in his mouth while he muttered, “Son of a bitch, they beat us here.”

A guy with short cropped hair, an athletic frame and confident gestures waved the FBI’s plumbing van away from the curb to make room for a white panel truck. Tully recognized the way the man moved, the way he held himself, a taut jawline, steady eyes that captured everything around him. He was a commanding presence and although he wore blue jeans and a leather bomber jacket, Tully knew this guy was a soldier.

“They’re sending our lab techs home,” Tully said, pulling his own car over to the side, a half block away.

Ganza threw his sandwich on the dashboard and started digging through his pockets. Tully stared at the sandwich crumbs scattered and falling all over his car. He remembered the coffee spills from that morning. It seemed like days ago instead of hours. Ganza was punching a phone number into his cell phone while Tully watched the soldier direct the panel truck up onto the lawn, guiding it as it backed all the way to the rear of the house. He bet this guy never had a half-eaten sandwich on the dashboard of his car or coffee stains on the upholstery.

“We’re right outside,” Ganza was saying into the phone. “They’re sending away our van. What are we supposed to do?” Ganza’s monotone didn’t give away his urgency. He left that to his long, bony fingers, tapping the console between them.

Another white truck passed alongside them. This one had Virginia Water and Sewer printed in black on the sides. The truck was too white, too clean. From where Tully sat he noticed the tires showed little wear. Two men got out of the truck, dressed in white jumpsuits, logos on the pockets, polished black boots, not a speck of dirt. They started taking construction-crew sawhorses from the back and blocking off the street. Neighbors might believe the house in question had a water main break or a gas leak. That is if they didn’t notice the clean boots and new tires. The old man raking his front yard stopped to watch, but Tully didn’t think he looked alarmed or even interested. After a few minutes he went back to raking.

The FBI’s plumbing van passed through the narrow opening between the sawhorses. It pulled up beside Tully’s car and the driver’s window of the van came down. Tully opened his window, too. The agent inside was familiar to Tully though he knew him only by sight and not by name. It didn’t matter. He looked past Tully and over to Ganza when he said, “It’s a military-slash-Homeland Security operation now. Nothing we can do about it.”

“What about collecting evidence?” Ganza was still on the phone, responding to both the agent and whoever he had on the line. Tully wondered if it was possible Ganza had a direct line to the FBI director.

“Secure and protect,” the agent said. “That’s their priority. They’re treating it like a terrorist threat, not a crime scene. And we’re not invited to the party.”

“But we’ve got two agents inside,” Tully said, looking back at the house, realizing Maggie and Cunningham weren’t with the SWAT team climbing into the second plumbing van. “They’re still inside, right?” Tully glanced at the agent, who now looked away and rubbed at his jaw.

“Yeah, they’re still inside. That’s the reason Assistant Director Cunningham called in the troops.” He glanced back at Tully and Ganza, who were quiet, staring and waiting though they already knew what they would hear. “They’ve both been exposed.”

Elk Grove, Virginia

It was too late.

Tully knew as soon as they turned onto the street. Even Ganza stopped chewing, a wad of tuna sandwich still stuffed in his mouth while he muttered, “Son of a bitch, they beat us here.”

A guy with short cropped hair, an athletic frame and confident gestures waved the FBI’s plumbing van away from the curb to make room for a white panel truck. Tully recognized the way the man moved, the way he held himself, a taut jawline, steady eyes that captured everything around him. He was a commanding presence and although he wore blue jeans and a leather bomber jacket, Tully knew this guy was a soldier.

“They’re sending our lab techs home,” Tully said, pulling his own car over to the side, a half block away.

Ganza threw his sandwich on the dashboard and started digging through his pockets. Tully stared at the sandwich crumbs scattered and falling all over his car. He remembered the coffee spills from that morning. It seemed like days ago instead of hours. Ganza was punching a phone number into his cell phone while Tully watched the soldier direct the panel truck up onto the lawn, guiding it as it backed all the way to the rear of the house. He bet this guy never had a half-eaten sandwich on the dashboard of his car or coffee stains on the upholstery.

“We’re right outside,” Ganza was saying into the phone. “They’re sending away our van. What are we supposed to do?” Ganza’s monotone didn’t give away his urgency. He left that to his long, bony fingers, tapping the console between them.

Another white truck passed alongside them. This one had Virginia Water and Sewer printed in black on the sides. The truck was too white, too clean. From where Tully sat he noticed the tires showed little wear. Two men got out of the truck, dressed in white jumpsuits, logos on the pockets, polished black boots, not a speck of dirt. They started taking construction-crew sawhorses from the back and blocking off the street. Neighbors might believe the house in question had a water main break or a gas leak. That is if they didn’t notice the clean boots and new tires. The old man raking his front yard stopped to watch, but Tully didn’t think he looked alarmed or even interested. After a few minutes he went back to raking.

The FBI’s plumbing van passed through the narrow opening between the sawhorses. It pulled up beside Tully’s car and the driver’s window of the van came down. Tully opened his window, too. The agent inside was familiar to Tully though he knew him only by sight and not by name. It didn’t matter. He looked past Tully and over to Ganza when he said, “It’s a military-slash-Homeland Security operation now. Nothing we can do about it.”

“What about collecting evidence?” Ganza was still on the phone, responding to both the agent and whoever he had on the line. Tully wondered if it was possible Ganza had a direct line to the FBI director.

“Secure and protect,” the agent said. “That’s their priority. They’re treating it like a terrorist threat, not a crime scene. And we’re not invited to the party.”

“But we’ve got two agents inside,” Tully said, looking back at the house, realizing Maggie and Cunningham weren’t with the SWAT team climbing into the second plumbing van. “They’re still inside, right?” Tully glanced at the agent, who now looked away and rubbed at his jaw.

“Yeah, they’re still inside. That’s the reason Assistant Director Cunningham called in the troops.” He glanced back at Tully and Ganza, who were quiet, staring and waiting though they already knew what they would hear. “They’ve both been exposed.”

Elk Grove, Virginia

Colonel Benjamin Platt understood that fifty percent of a biocontainment operation was containing the news. Commander Janklow had been quite clear. They were to take every precaution possible to keep the news media out and if that wasn’t possible then Platt was to convince them this was a routine response to a routine request. He was not to use any “scary terms”—Janklow’s words—that would incite a panic. Phrases like “crash and bleed,” “lethal chain of transmission,” “evacuation,” “biohazard” or “contamination.” And under no uncertain terms was he to ever use the term “exposed.”

Truth was they had no idea if there was even a problem. Platt still had hopes that this was a knee-jerk reaction, someone getting a little too excited. After the anthrax scare in the fall of 2001 there had been hundreds of prank letters, attempts at fame or hopes of revenge. Platt knew there was a fifty-fifty chance this fit into that category. Somebody wanting his fifteen minutes of fame on the six-o’clock news.

Platt saw McCathy waiting for him at the back door of the panel truck, scratching his beard and frowning, tapping his foot to show his impatience. It was McCathy’s turn to wait.

Finally satisfied that everything and everyone was in place, Platt knocked on the truck’s back door. Within seconds a lock clicked and the metal door gave a high screech as it rolled up into its tracks. Platt had the truck backed to the rear door of the house, blocked by a privacy fence on one side and toolshed on the other. It’d be difficult for anyone to see inside the truck, and they’d have only three steps to get inside the house. The back door entered a small enclosed porch, then another door opened to the kitchen. Platt figured they’d be able to use it as a decon area when leaving.

McCathy started to climb into the truck but Platt stopped him.

“It’s my mission, I go in first. You’ll come in second.”

McCathy nodded and stepped back. It wasn’t a courtesy, it was a risk, and McCathy wouldn’t argue. If anything McCathy looked relieved.

Two of Platt’s sergeants, two of his best in the biohazard unit, waited inside the truck. He climbed up and pulled the thick plastic sheet down behind him to cover the open back. He started changing into the scrubs Sergeant Herandez handed him, though she averted her eyes as soon as he unbuckled his belt. She was young, he was her superior officer. In a few seconds he would be trusting her and Sergeant Landis with his life as they made certain he was sufficiently secured against a potential biological agent, and yet she seemed to be blushing at the sight of him in his skivvies. It almost made him smile.

Platt had hired twice as many women on his biohazard team than his predecessor at USAMRIID who had made it known that he didn’t think women could or should work inside a hot zone because they’d panic or become hysterical. Platt knew better and ignored everything his predecessor taught him about women, but at times like this the differences surprised him, maybe even amused him. And Platt wasn’t easily amused these days.

Landis held the Racal suit up, ready to help Platt into it. Unlike the blue space suits they used inside USAMRIID’s Level 4 suites, the Racal suit was orange, bright orange and field designed with a battery-powered air supply that could last up to six hours.

Platt pulled on a double pair of rubber gloves and Herandez taped them to the sleeves of the suit while Landis taped Platt’s boots to the legs, creating an airtight seal. The helmet, a clear, soft plastic bubble, was the final step and usually the telling one. Platt had watched men and women, brave soldiers, dedicated scientists, freak out in a space suit from claustrophobia, clawing their way out. Platt had spent thirty-six hours behind enemy lines in Afghanistan trapped inside a tank disabled by an IED (improvised explosive device), hoping someone other than the Taliban would find him while he treated his fellow soldiers, one with a gaping head wound, the other with half his arm blown off. There wasn’t much that could compare to that. Entering hot zones in a cocoonlike space suit seemed like a cakewalk.

He waited while Hernandez and Landis double-checked his suit. Even before they switched on the electric blower Platt was sweating, trickles sliding down his back. The motor whirled and he heard the air sucking into the suit while it puffed out around him.

Herandez gave him a thumbs-up. It was difficult to talk over the sound of the electric blower. Platt waved a gloved hand at the tape and made a tearing motion. She nodded, understanding immediately, and started ripping off three-to-five-inch pieces then attached them one on top of the other to Platt’s sleeve where he could easily reach. If there was a break in his suit he’d use the pieces to patch the hole before the suit lost pressure. Any kind of break or tear could render the suit useless in a hot zone.

It had been a while since Platt had done this in the field. The last time had been at the
Miami Herald
in 2001 when a letter addressed to JLo found its way to a photographer. The letter was filled with anthrax spores. The photographer died weeks later. Platt still had hopes that this wasn’t anything close to anthrax. In fact, he’d be pleased with a hoax.

Finally he returned Herandez’s thumbs-up. Waddling like a toddler learning to walk, he let the pair of sergeants help him out the back of the truck. He waited to get his balance. In three steps he was at the back door of the house and ready.

Elk Grove, Virginia

Colonel Benjamin Platt understood that fifty percent of a biocontainment operation was containing the news. Commander Janklow had been quite clear. They were to take every precaution possible to keep the news media out and if that wasn’t possible then Platt was to convince them this was a routine response to a routine request. He was not to use any “scary terms”—Janklow’s words—that would incite a panic. Phrases like “crash and bleed,” “lethal chain of transmission,” “evacuation,” “biohazard” or “contamination.” And under no uncertain terms was he to ever use the term “exposed.”

Truth was they had no idea if there was even a problem. Platt still had hopes that this was a knee-jerk reaction, someone getting a little too excited. After the anthrax scare in the fall of 2001 there had been hundreds of prank letters, attempts at fame or hopes of revenge. Platt knew there was a fifty-fifty chance this fit into that category. Somebody wanting his fifteen minutes of fame on the six-o’clock news.

Platt saw McCathy waiting for him at the back door of the panel truck, scratching his beard and frowning, tapping his foot to show his impatience. It was McCathy’s turn to wait.

Finally satisfied that everything and everyone was in place, Platt knocked on the truck’s back door. Within seconds a lock clicked and the metal door gave a high screech as it rolled up into its tracks. Platt had the truck backed to the rear door of the house, blocked by a privacy fence on one side and toolshed on the other. It’d be difficult for anyone to see inside the truck, and they’d have only three steps to get inside the house. The back door entered a small enclosed porch, then another door opened to the kitchen. Platt figured they’d be able to use it as a decon area when leaving.

McCathy started to climb into the truck but Platt stopped him.

“It’s my mission, I go in first. You’ll come in second.”

McCathy nodded and stepped back. It wasn’t a courtesy, it was a risk, and McCathy wouldn’t argue. If anything McCathy looked relieved.

Two of Platt’s sergeants, two of his best in the biohazard unit, waited inside the truck. He climbed up and pulled the thick plastic sheet down behind him to cover the open back. He started changing into the scrubs Sergeant Herandez handed him, though she averted her eyes as soon as he unbuckled his belt. She was young, he was her superior officer. In a few seconds he would be trusting her and Sergeant Landis with his life as they made certain he was sufficiently secured against a potential biological agent, and yet she seemed to be blushing at the sight of him in his skivvies. It almost made him smile.

Platt had hired twice as many women on his biohazard team than his predecessor at USAMRIID who had made it known that he didn’t think women could or should work inside a hot zone because they’d panic or become hysterical. Platt knew better and ignored everything his predecessor taught him about women, but at times like this the differences surprised him, maybe even amused him. And Platt wasn’t easily amused these days.

Landis held the Racal suit up, ready to help Platt into it. Unlike the blue space suits they used inside USAMRIID’s Level 4 suites, the Racal suit was orange, bright orange and field designed with a battery-powered air supply that could last up to six hours.

Platt pulled on a double pair of rubber gloves and Herandez taped them to the sleeves of the suit while Landis taped Platt’s boots to the legs, creating an airtight seal. The helmet, a clear, soft plastic bubble, was the final step and usually the telling one. Platt had watched men and women, brave soldiers, dedicated scientists, freak out in a space suit from claustrophobia, clawing their way out. Platt had spent thirty-six hours behind enemy lines in Afghanistan trapped inside a tank disabled by an IED (improvised explosive device), hoping someone other than the Taliban would find him while he treated his fellow soldiers, one with a gaping head wound, the other with half his arm blown off. There wasn’t much that could compare to that. Entering hot zones in a cocoonlike space suit seemed like a cakewalk.

He waited while Hernandez and Landis double-checked his suit. Even before they switched on the electric blower Platt was sweating, trickles sliding down his back. The motor whirled and he heard the air sucking into the suit while it puffed out around him.

Herandez gave him a thumbs-up. It was difficult to talk over the sound of the electric blower. Platt waved a gloved hand at the tape and made a tearing motion. She nodded, understanding immediately, and started ripping off three-to-five-inch pieces then attached them one on top of the other to Platt’s sleeve where he could easily reach. If there was a break in his suit he’d use the pieces to patch the hole before the suit lost pressure. Any kind of break or tear could render the suit useless in a hot zone.

It had been a while since Platt had done this in the field. The last time had been at the
Miami Herald
in 2001 when a letter addressed to JLo found its way to a photographer. The letter was filled with anthrax spores. The photographer died weeks later. Platt still had hopes that this wasn’t anything close to anthrax. In fact, he’d be pleased with a hoax.

Finally he returned Herandez’s thumbs-up. Waddling like a toddler learning to walk, he let the pair of sergeants help him out the back of the truck. He waited to get his balance. In three steps he was at the back door of the house and ready.