Plum Island (15 page)

Mr. Stevens was going on about the Department of Agriculture, and I was able to safely tune out and do some noodling. I realized
that before Stevens had mentioned the archaeological interest of the Gordons, he’d said something else that had pinged in
my brain. I mean, think of a sonar wave moving through the water—the wave hits something and sends a ping back to the earphones.
Ping.
Something that Stevens said had pinged, but I was so bored senseless when he’d said it, I missed it and now I wanted to go
back, but I couldn’t remember what it was that caused the ping.

Stevens announced, “All right, we’ll drive around the island a bit.”

The driver woke up and threw the mini-bus into gear. The road, I noticed, was well paved, but there were no other vehicles
to be seen, and no other people.

We drove around the area of the huge main building, and Mr. Stevens pointed out the water tower, the sewage decontamination
plant, the power station, machine shops, and steam plants. The place seemed to be self-contained and self-sufficient, making
me think again of a Bondian villain’s lair where a madman plotted the destruction of the planet. All in all, this was some
operation, and we hadn’t even seen the inside of the main research building yet.

Now and then we passed a building that Mr. Stevens failed to identify, and if any of us asked him about the building, he’dsay,
“Paint Storage,” or “Feed Storage,” or something. And well they may have been, but the man didn’t inspire credibility. In
fact, I had the distinct feeling he enjoyed the secrecy crap and got his jollies by pulling our chains a little.

Nearly all the buildings, except for the new main research building, were former military structures, most made of red brick
or reinforced concrete, and the vast majority of the buildings were deserted. All in all, this had once been a substantial
military installation, one in a string of fortresses that guarded New York City against a hostile navy that never showed up.

We came to a grouping of concrete buildings with grass growing through the cement pavement. Stevens said, “The big building
is called 257, after the old Army designation. It was the main laboratory some years ago. After we moved out, we decontaminated
it with poison gas, then sealed it forever, just in case anything in there is still alive.”

No one spoke for a few seconds, then Max asked, “Isn’t this where there was a biocontainment leak once?”

“That was before my time,” Stevens said. He looked at me and smiled his waxy smile. “If you’d like to take a look inside,
Detective, I can get you the key.”

I smiled back and asked, “Can I go alone?”

“That’s the
only
way you can go into 257. No one will go in there with you.”

Nash and Foster chuckled. Boy, I haven’t had so much fun since I tripped on some slime and landed on a ten-dayold corpse.
I said, “Hey, Paul, I’ll go if you go.”

“I don’t particularly want to die,” Stevens replied.

As the bus drew closer to Building 257, I saw that someone had painted in black on the concrete a huge skull and crossbones,
and it struck me that this death’s-head had actually two meanings—the Jolly Roger, the pirate flag that the Gordons had flown
from their mast, and it was also the symbol for poison or contamination. I stared at the black skull and bones against the
white wall, and when I turned away, the image was still in front of my eyes, and when I looked at Stevens, the death’s-head
was superimposed on his face, and the skull and Stevens were both grinning. I rubbed my eyes until the optical illusion faded.
Jeez, if it hadn’t been broad daylight with people around, this could get creepy.

Stevens continued, “In 1946, Congress authorized money to build a research facility. The law states that certain infectious
diseases may not be studied on the mainland of the United States. This was necessary in the days when biocontainment wasn’t
very advanced. So, Plum Island, which was already wholly owned by the government and which happened to be shared by the Department
of Agriculture and the Army, was a natural site for the study of exotic animal diseases.”

I asked, “Are you saying that only animal diseases are studied here?”

“That’s correct.”

“Mr. Stevens, while we’d be upset if the Gordons stole foot-and-mouth virus, and the cattle herds of the United States, Canada,
and Mexico were wiped out, that is not the reason we’re all here. Are there diseases present in the Plum Island laboratory—crossover
diseases—that can infect humans?”

He looked at me and replied, “You’ll have to ask the director, Dr. Zollner, that question.”

“I’m asking you.”

Stevens thought a moment, then said, “I’ll say this— because of the coincidence of the Department of Agriculture sharing this
island for a while with the Army, there was a lot of speculation and rumor that this was a biological warfare center. I guess
you all know that.”

Max spoke up and said, “There is plenty of evidence that the Army Chemical Corps was developing diseases here at the height
of the Cold War to wipe out the entire animal population of the Soviet Union. And even I know that anthrax and other animal
diseases can be used as biological weapons against a human population. You know that, too.”

Paul Stevens cleared his throat, then explained, “I didn’t mean to imply that there wasn’t
any
biological warfare research done here. Certainly there was for a while in the early 1950s. But by 1954, the offensive biological
warfare mission had changed to a defensive mission. That is to say, the Army was studying only ways to prevent our livestock
industry from being purposely infected by the other side.” He added, “I will not answer any more questions of that nature
… but I will say that the Russians sent a biological warfare team here a few years ago, and they found nothing to cause them
any anxiety.”

I always thought that voluntary arms compliance inspections were sort of like a suspected murderer leading me on a guided
tour of his house.
No, Detective, there’s nothing in that closet of any interest. Now, let me show you my patio.

The bus turned onto a narrow gravel road, and Mr. Stevens went on with his prescribed talk, concluding with, “So, since the
mid-1950s, Plum Island is undoubtedly the world’s foremost research facility for the study, cure, and prevention of animal
diseases.” He looked at me and said, “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it, Detective Corey?”

“I’ve survived worse.”

“Good. Now we’ll leave the history behind us and do some sightseeing. Right ahead of us is the old lighthouse, first commissioned
by George Washington. This present one was built in the mid-1850s. The lighthouse isn’t used any longer and is an historic
landmark.”

I looked out the window at the stone structure sitting in a field of grass. The lighthouse more resembled a two-story house
with a tower rising out of its roof. I asked, “Do you use it for security purposes?”

He looked at me and said, “Always on the job, aren’t you? Well, sometimes I have people stationed there with a telescope or
a night-vision device when the weather is too nasty for helicopters or boats. The lighthouse is then our only means of 360-degree
surveillance.” He looked at me and asked, “Is there anything else you’d like to know about the lighthouse?”

“No, that’s about it for now.”

The bus turned onto another gravel lane. We were now heading east along the north shore of Plum Island, with the coastline
to the left and gnarled trees to the right. I noticed that the beach was a pleasant stretch of sand and rocks, virtually virginal,
and except for the bus and the road, you could imagine yourself as a Dutchman or Englishman in sixteen-whatever stepping onto
this shore for the first time, walking along the beach, and trying to figure out how to screw the Indians out of the island.
Ping. Ping.

There it was again. But what was it? Sometimes, if you don’t force it, it just comes back by itself.

Stevens was prattling on about ecology and keeping the island as pristine and wild as possible, and while he was going on
about that, the helicopter flew over, looking for deer to slaughter.

The road generally followed the coastline, and there wasn’t much to see, but I was impressed with the loneliness of the place,
the idea that not a solitary soul lived here and that you were unlikely to meet anyone on the beach or on the roads, which
apparently went nowhere and had no purpose except for the one road that ran between the ferry and the main lab.

As if reading my mind, Mr. Stevens said, “These roads were all built by the Army to connect Fort Terry to the coastal batteries.
The deer patrols use the roads, but otherwise, they’re empty.” He added, “Since we’ve consolidated the entire research facility
into one building, most of the island is empty.”

It occurred to me, of course, that the deer patrols and the security patrols were one and the same. The helicopters and boats
may well have been looking for swimming deer, but they were also looking for terrorists and other bad actors. I had the disturbing
feeling that this place could be breached. But that wasn’t my concern, and it wasn’t why I was here.

So far, the island had turned out to be less spooky than I’d expected. I didn’t actually know
what
to expect, but like a lot of places whose sinister reputation precedes them, this place didn’t seem too bad once you saw
it.

When you see this island on maps and navigation charts, most of the time there aren’t any features shown on the island—no
roads, no mention of Fort Terry, nothing except the words, “Plum Island—Animal Disease Research—U.S. Government—Restricted.”
And the island is usually colored yellow—the color of warning. Not real inviting, not even on a map. And if you see it from
the water, as I did several times with the Gordons, it looks shrouded in mist, though I wonder how much of that is real and
how much is in the mind.

And if you go so far as to picture the place as you might think it looks, you get this Poe-like image of the ultimate dim
Thule, a dark landscape of dead cattle and sheep, bloating and rotting on the fields, vultures feeding on the carrion, then
dying themselves from the infected flesh. That’s what you think, if you think about it. But so far, the place looked sunny
and pleasant. The danger here, the real horror, was bottled up in the biocontainment areas, in Zones Three and Four, and the
big-time Temple of Doom, Zone Five. Tiny slides and test tubes and petri dishes crawling with the most dangerous and exotic
life forms that this planet has evolved. If I were a scientist looking at this stuff, I might wonder about God—not about His
existence, but His intent.

Anyway, that was about as much deep thought as I was capable of without getting a headache.

Beth asked Paul Stevens, “How do boaters know not to land here?”

“There’s a warning on all maps and charts,” Mr. Stevens replied. “In addition, there are signs along all of the beaches. Plus,
the patrols can deal with anchored or beached boats.”

Beth asked, “What do you do with trespassers?”

Stevens replied, “We warn the boaters not to come near or on the island again. Second offenders are detained and turned over
to Chief Maxwell.” He looked at Max. “Right?”

“Right. We get one or two a year.”

Paul Stevens tried a joke and said, “Only the deer get shot on sight.”

Mr. Stevens got serious and explained, “It’s not a dangerous breach of security or biocontainment if people stray onto the
island. As I said, I don’t mean to give the impression that the island is contaminated. This bus is not a bio-containment
vehicle, for instance. But because of the proximity of the biocontainment areas, we would rather keep the island free of unauthorized
people and all animals.”

I couldn’t help but point out, “From what I can see, Mr. Stevens, a boatload of even semi-competent terrorists could land
on the island some night, knock off your handful of guards, and grab all kinds of scary things from the labs or blow the place
sky-high, releasing deadly bugs into the environment. In fact, when the bay freezes over, they don’t even need a boat—you’re
connected to the mainland.”

Mr. Stevens replied, “I can only tell you that there’s more security here than meets the eye.”

“I hope so.”

“Count on it.” He looked at me and said, “Why don’t you try it one night?”

I love a challenge and replied, “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks I can get into your office, steal your high school equivalency
diploma from the wall, and have it hanging in my office the next morning.”

Mr. Stevens kept staring at me, his dead waxy face immobile.
Creepy.

I said to him, “Let me ask you the question we’re all here to have answered—Could Tom and Judy Gordon have smuggled micro-organisms
off this island? Tell us the truth.”

Paul Stevens replied, “Theoretically, they could have.”

No one in the bus spoke, but I noticed that the driver turned his head and did a double take.

Mr. Stevens asked, “But why would they?”

“Money,” I replied.

“They really didn’t seem the type,” said Mr. Stevens. “They liked animals. Why would they want to wipe out the world’s animals?”

“Maybe they wanted to wipe out the world’s
people
so that the animals could have a happy life.”

“Ridiculous,” said Stevens. “The Gordons took nothing from here that would hurt any living thing. I’ll bet my job on that.”

“You already have. And your life.”

I noticed that Ted Nash and George Foster were mostly quiet, and I knew they’d been briefed much earlier, and they were probably
afraid they’d sound sort of like, “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.”

Mr. Stevens turned his attention back to the windshield and said, “We’re approaching Fort Terry. We can get out here and look
around.”

The bus stopped, and we all got out.