Текст книги "Greed"
Автор книги: Dan O'Shea
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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
So he fed them all the truth he could, but he sure as hell wasn’t telling them there were still five devices hidden around town. They didn’t need to know how close this had come to going south.
“Yeah. That’s been taken care of,” Munroe said.
Everyone sat there, nobody talked.
Starshak’s cell rang. He answered, listened for a while, hung up. “The chief,” he said to Lynch and Bernstein. “Nobody’s got our back on this. And nothing we do is going to change any of it. Our orders are to play ball.”
Lynch choked down his anger, trying to keep his mind clear. He’d never been Don Quixote, never imagined the world could be perfect. Do the best you can with what you got, that was his compass. This sucked. But he’d always known shit went on outside the lines. Sometimes it was bad shit done for good reasons. Lynch couldn’t stop this, he couldn’t change it. All he could do was try to get some good out of it. Serve and protect, that was the deal. Not the entire free world, just his city. Lynch wanted something for Chicago.
“If I play ball, I want something,” Lynch said.
“What?” Munroe asked.
“I want Corsco.”
Munroe’s smile was back, broad and expansive. “Tell me what you need.”
“Hardin,” Lynch said. “I need to borrow Hardin.”
“Done,” said Munroe. The big man pulled a small digital recorder out of his pocket and tossed it to Lynch. “And I’ll throw this in for free.”
Lynch hit the play button. A little tinny without earbuds, but he could make it out. Munroe jacking up Ringwald and Corsco, Corsco confessing to putting a hit out on Hardin.
“Won’t do you much good in court,” said Munroe, “what with me not existing and all, and I did kinda point a gun at him. Well, shot a gun at him. But if you need it for window dressing, knock yourself out.”
CHAPTER 98
Munroe took his cell out of his pocket. It had been vibrating all through his chat with his Chicago PD buddies, but he didn’t want to take the call, break the rhythm.
He checked the number. The lab. He hit redial.
“What?” he asked.
“We got a problem. The device, it started ticking.”
“What do you mean ticking?”
“It’s got a secondary program. A failsafe. It’s set up to detonate remotely off a cell signal. Looks like al Din had this thing set up so he had to call the cell’s number every day to reset the timer. If he didn’t, then the device starts counting down. Al Din didn’t call today. This sucker is ticking.”
“And you can’t shut it off?”
“No so far.”
“How long?”
“You got till 1730 hours.”
Munroe looked at his watch. Almost 3.00. He had until 5.30. No time, and he didn’t have the manpower on the ground to run any kind of search off the books. He had two plays. Option one, call Starshak back, get Chicago PD on this, give them everything they’d worked out about al Din’s timeline and hope to hell they found these things before they went off. Option two; just let the clock run out. Have to ice the two guys out at Argonne, wouldn’t do to have it get out Uncle Sam had known tens of thousands of Americans were going to die and just sat on his hands. Once he’d heard about the bio angle, Munroe had made some preparations on the QT, had a shit load of Cipro in a National Guard armory up near O’Hare, had a mess of other shit either in town or teed up and ready to wing in on his say so – isolation units, HAZMAT suits, body bags. Had rough outlines for a couple different quarantine scenarios he could ram down the National Guard’s throat if it came to that. Of course, the Guard would only be running things until they could get regular Army in here. And he knew what was in the weapons, the medical confusion they were meant to cause. Be able to get word out so everybody knew exactly what they were dealing with. That meant they’d keep the body count down to the very low end of the projections. Problem being the low end was still around ten thousand – three times as many as 9/11.
Upside would be this. The coverage you’d get. Every talking head in the world doing stand-ups in front of the bodies stacking up in temporary morgues, some ghost town shots of the Loop, CDC guys wandering around in spacesuits, hospitals with beds lining the halls. Couple days of that, Munroe could probably get the President to sign off on nuking Tehran. And the Mexican problem? Tea Party ass hats would have to give up on their border fence. That thing would have to come down so we could get the armor over the border.
He walked over to the window, looked down at the plaza where they had the Calder sculpture. Thing looked like a giant red spider. Town sure did like its funny statues. Lots of people walking back and forth, a mom chasing a couple little ones around the legs of the sculpture, one of the kids giving out a happy squeal loud enough he could just hear it through the glass.
Not much of a shot. Have to get lucky as hell. Sensible thing was to let it play out, cover his tracks. But everybody’s got a line they won’t cross. It’s just that Munroe had never hit it. Was starting to think he didn’t have one. Turned out he did.
The Chicago guys would still be in the building. He called Hickman, told him to round them up and bring them back.
CHAPTER 99
Fifteen minutes later, two hours and twenty minutes to go. Starshak, Lynch, Bernstein and Munroe were on one side of the conference table in the windowless room across from the conference room they’d been in earlier. Hundreds of photos of al Din on the walls. Hardin and Wilson stood across the table. Munroe figured they’d been playing footsie with al Din all week, they might come up with something.
“Most of this is out of our system,” Lynch said.
“Your system and elsewhere,” said Munroe.
“So where was all this when you were supposedly cooperating with us?”
Munroe shrugged. “You really want to waste time on that right now? All this will be over one way or another in a few hours. You wanna step outside then, find out if you’re as big a badass as you think you are, fine.”
Lynch clenched his jaw, nodded, looked down at the pictures.
“Fucker’s been everywhere,” said Starshak. “Got him at Sears Tower, Aon Center, the Hancock. Hell, he’s been in and out of anything over fifty stories at least once. Pretty much every hotel within pissing distance of downtown. Illinois Center, all the pedestrian tunnels in there. It’ll take us a week to search that alone.”
“You’ll want to get into the HVAC centers for the bigger buildings,” said Wilson. “Get the building maintenance guys in there with them, they should know if something’s out of place. He gets one of those to pop into the duct work…”
“Good thought,” Munroe said, looking at her a little sideways.
“My ex was an AC guy,” she said. “Always said if you wanted to gas a building, that was the way to go.”
Starshak made calls, got units headed to the HVAC centers at the bigger targets.
“You sure we shouldn’t be starting an evacuation?” Lynch said.
“No time,” Munroe said. “Besides, evacuate to where? We got pictures of him in,” he picked up a sheet of paper, “Schaumburg, Aurora, Naperville, Joliet, Elgin – pretty much every population center you’ve got in fifty miles out in any direction. Malls, hotels, where you going to send ’em? And cranking up the pedestrian traffic while we’re looking for these things is just going to make it worse. Everything we got that can help is on its way here – drugs, docs, we got quarantine contingencies in place for every option we can think of. You let me worry about the worst case, you worry about finding the damn devices.”
Lynch stared at the pictures. Something was itching at him, and he couldn’t think what. Also, Munroe being in the room was hurting his concentration, because every time Munroe opened his mouth, Lynch wanted to stick a gun in it.
“Munroe, your guys took one of these apart,” Hardin said. “How do they work?”
“How about we have shop class later?” said Starshak.
“Hey, it’s a weapon,” said Hardin. “You understand how it works, then you know how it should be deployed.”
Starshak just nodded. Munroe held up an 11x17 sheet, exploded view based off the device.
“When the time hits zero, a CO2 cartridge is going to blow, rupturing the membrane at the end of the container and shooting the bugs out. This stuff is really fine. A particle of talcum powder is ten microns; all of this is smaller than that. Once it’s out, it’s going to float around very easily. Most of these infections will be through inhalation, but a couple of these agents will work transdermal. So his best bet is a confined space with high pedestrian traffic.”
“Which means he doesn’t have to get these up high to get people to inhale anything,” Bernstein said. “Particles that size, they’ll float around on the air. You could dump it on the floor, it would get kicked up like dust.”
“Yeah,” Munroe said.
“You’re al Din, you want to plant these somewhere public because you want traffic,” Hardin said. “You either have to break in and plant them when a place is closed, which ramps up your risk. Or you have to plant them while people are around.”
“If he was going to risk a break in, then he’d go for the HVAC system,” said Bernstein. “Maximum damage. Why risk a break in just to stick them somewhere he could hide them during business hours?”
“OK, that makes sense,” Starshak said. “We got people checking HVAC. So how’s he gonna do it if he’s in public? How do we narrow it down?”
“Shoulder to waist,” Munroe said. “Basic tradecraft, like marking a dead drop. He isn’t going to climb up on anything, get down on the floor, bend over, anything that draws attention.”
“Pointed up, I’d guess,” Lynch said. “If airborne is better, then get it airborne. Why wait for people to kick it up?”
Starshak waved his hand. “Best we’re gonna do. So, waist to shoulder height, somewhere he can just reach in quick, probably pointed up.”
Munroe nodded. “Tell your guys to just walk and look, ask themselves where they’d stick something if they had to.”
Starshak relayed the instructions to dispatch.
Bernstein was leaning on the table, looking down at the pictures.
“Something’s fucked up about this,” he said.
“That’s what I thought,” said Lynch. “Just can’t think what.”
Bernstein started picking up pictures at random: al Din in the lobby at the Hyatt, Sox cap on, but a good side angle, green nylon messenger bag on his shoulder. Al Din in the pedestrian tunnel running from City Hall to Macy’s, Bears’ cap this time, still with the messenger bag. He flipped the pictures over to check the dates and times. He picked up another photo. No cap this time, still with the messenger bag, pretty much looking dead into the camera. He flipped it over. Just a number on the back.
“Where and when?” he asked.
“The numbered ones are shots we’ve got in from suburban locations,” Munroe said. “They aren’t on the city grid so we don’t get the time stamps on the photos. We’ve got them cataloged. What’s the number?”
“317.”
Munroe checked the database. “Woodfield Mall, Schaumburg. That’s off an ATM. Two days ago, 8.12pm.”
“An ATM? You get any ID off the withdrawal? Might give us something.”
“Ah shit,” Munroe said. “Hold on.” He made a call to the tech guys, gave them the time and the ATM location.
“Can we sort these by time, day, anything like that?” Bernstein asked.
“Yeah,” said Munroe. He pointed at the laptop on the desk that was plugged into the projector. “They’re all loaded into a database. You can sort that any way you want.”
Bernstein started tapping away at the computer, plotting locations and times.
“So, until you get out to the ’burbs, he hasn’t been west of the river?” Bernstein said. “Just the Loop, then up Michigan over in River North?”
Munroe shrugged. “Make sense, density wise. Sticking with all the good targets.”
Bernstein nodded.
“Time?” Starshak asked.
“We got an hour and seventeen minutes,” said Munroe.
Munroe’s phone rang. It was the tech getting back about the ATM.
“Fuck.” Munroe snapped the phone shut. “Nothing. Just picked him up passing by.”
Bernstein shook his head. “No, no, no, that’s not right. Where’s that fucking picture?”
Munroe found it, passed it across the table.
“He’s maybe two, three feet from the camera, looking right at it. He’s not passing by. He’s making sure he gets seen. He’s out of the city, so he’s not sure where the surveillance is. But he knows damn well that the ATM will pick him up.”
“He’s building his haystack,” Munroe said, “making us find his needles in it.”
Bernstein nodded, tapped a sort into the database, pulling up suburban pictures. “We got dozens of these full-on ATM pics in the burbs. He’s advertising. The suburbs are a red herring. It’s downtown.”
Munroe nodded. “Part of their mindset, too. You look at all the major attacks, New York, London, Madrid – they want that name recognition. Schaumburg isn’t going to have the same cachet as Chicago.”
Bernstein held up a hand, cut him off. “There’s something here, just shut up a second.”
Everyone was quiet. Lynch looked at his watch.
“Yeah, OK. I’ll pass it along,” Starshak talking to dispatch. “People are getting out of work. Getting real crowded out there.”
Bernstein slammed his hand down on the table.
“Nothing west of the river,” Bernstein said. “Son of a fucking bitch. The train stations. Union and Ogilvie – pull everybody you’ve got and get them to the stations. That’s why the motherfucker never crossed the river. Both of the major commuter stations are west of it. That’s why the things are timed for at 5.30. Stations will be crammed. Check the entrances, concourses, the trains – the devices have to be in there somewhere.”
“You sure we want to go all in on that?” Munroe said. “The stations are totally wired, and we haven’t got a single shot of him in either of them, not one.”
Hardin shook his head. “When those guys snatched me out of the garage, the fat guy did something weird when we pulled out. Called somebody on his cell, said they were clear, that he could turn them back on. I bet you guys don’t have them snatching me on film, do you?”
“No,” Lynch said. “And we know al Din bought access to the system. If you can buy access, what do you want to bet you can get somebody to turn off a camera for you, too?”
“We’re running out of time,” Starshak said. “We have to go all in on something.”
Munroe nodded. “OK. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 100
Ad hoc team – a mess of Feds that were on hand, handful of uniforms that were close enough to be useful. Starshak, Bernstein and Munroe took half to Ogilvie. Lynch, Hardin and Wilson took the rest to Union. They had 32 minutes.
Meanwhile, Munroe had other resources closing in. At 5.25, he’d seal the stations – nobody in or out. If the devices were really all at the stations, then he’d keep the secondary infections down to practically nothing. Get the Cipro in quick enough, maybe he’d keep the body count down. Or maybe not. You get dusted good by that shit, maybe the Cipro wasn’t going to help much.
Got lucky early. Only took four minutes to find the first one. Lynch heard Bernstein on the comm channel through his earpiece. “Got one. Tucked in behind a magazine rack at the newsstand, waist high like we figured, facing out into the concourse. So nooks and crannies facing the concourse, figure waist up, places you could stick your hand in quick without drawing much attention.”
Lynch was glad about the waist up business. Couldn’t bend his leg at all, and it was killing him as it was. Munroe had passed out thick black bags, some kind of rubberized fabric with a heavy zipper. If you found a device, it went in the bag. Munroe said it would contain everything if the devices blew.
Twenty-eight minutes to go. Then nine minutes of nothing.
“I’m sealing the buildings at 5.25.” Munroe in Lynch’s earpiece. “Get your asses out before then.”
“Fuck that,” Lynch said.
“Seconded.” Wilson.
“I go where she goes.” Hardin.
“Stop wasting our time.” Starshak.
“OK,” Munroe said. “We run it out. The Cipro will be close. Not sure what good it does if you’re sitting on top of one of these when it goes off.”
Nineteen minutes to go.
“Got number two.” Wilson from the far end of the concourse at Union. “Back of a trashcan in the food court.”
Sixteen minutes.
“Got another one,” one of the uniforms from Ogilvie in Lynch’s earpiece.
Twelve minutes.
That made three. Munroe had scotched evacuating the stations, said they could never get everyone out in time, that the panic would make finding the devices impossible. Lynch tried to focus on the search, kept getting distracted by the people going by. Heard a guy on his cellphone, sounded like he was arguing with his wife, nothing horrible, just a little marital friction, wondered if that would be it, the last the woman ever heard from the guy would be some stupid angry words over something that didn’t matter. A young couple, early twenties, sitting at a high top in the bar along the south side of the concourse holding hands across the table, the girl telling the guy she’d gotten the job, the guy’s face lighting up. A dad hustling a boy, maybe seven, into the men’s room, the kid grimacing, holding the front of his pants.
Ten minutes.
“Number four.” Munroe. “Inside a planter near the escalators.”
“That’s three at Ogilvie,” Bernstein said. “Have to figure the last one is at Union. He’d want to balance the dose as much as possible.”
Quiet over the channel for a minute.
Eight minutes.
Not enough time for anyone to get from Ogilvie to Union and help.
“Good luck over there.” Starshak.
“Yeah, well keep looking,” Lynch said. “Hate to have one of those things go off in your face while you’re patting yourselves on the backs.”
Lynch started running his hand along the undersides of the tables along the edge of the bar, then remembered that they stacked those up every night. No way al Din could know where the table would be any given day, whether it would be near the concourse. And with people handling the tables, it was too likely somebody’d find the thing.
Stuck his arm in behind the display case at the popcorn shop, ran it down, guy walking by giving him a look, shaking his head. Felt like he was just flailing at random. Saw a family go by, mom and dad in their mid-thirties, daughter about ten wearing a sweatshirt from the Shedd Aquarium with the Beluga whales on it, a boy, younger than two, sleeping in a stroller, the daughter laughing and yakking a mile a minute, tired smiles from the mom and dad.
An older guy, fifties probably. A raincoat with a couple more years on it than it needed, off-the-rack suit. Looked tired, worn out, not a guy whose dreams had come true, just pushing the stone up the hill one more time, trying to get home to a beer, maybe a couple hours of TV before going to bed, getting up, doing it all again.
All those lives pressing down on him.
“The McDonald’s is clear.” Wilson from the north end of the concourse.
“Nothing in the coffee shop.” Hardin.
Five minutes.
Lynch pictured the stations. The three at Ogilvie had been spread out. One at each end of the concourse, one near the middle. The one at Union had been at the south end of the concourse near the food court.
“North end,” Lynch said. “From the popcorn shop to the escalators, everybody work that.”
Had to take a shot. Only four minutes left.
Lynch stepped out into the lobby where the escalators came down, took a quick look, didn’t see anywhere you could hide anything. The escalators were all still running, but no one was on them. At the top of the vestibule a line of uniforms were blocking the door, commuters starting to stack up in the plaza outside. Nobody was getting in now.
Or getting out.
Lynch turned back into the station, saw Wilson head to the ATM that was up against a pillar in the middle of the concourse just north of the popcorn shop. She muscled in front of a line of people waiting to get cash and started running her hands along the top and sides of the machine. A guy she’d pushed in front of pulled on her shoulder. Young guy, khakis, oxford shirt, windbreaker, laptop bag.
“Hey, there’s a line here, bitch.”
Lynch limped toward them, but Wilson spun, slapped the guy’s hand away, held open her jacket. Lynch couldn’t tell whether it was the badge on her belt or the S&W that made a bigger impression, but the guy backed up, hands out.
Lynch got to the machine, Wilson squatting down on the right side. Lower than waist high now, the machine didn’t even come up to Lynch’s shoulder, but it felt right and he was out of ideas anyway.
Two minutes.
“Anything?” Lynch asked.
“Fucking dark,” she said, her arm behind the machine to her shoulder. “I feel something. Can’t reach it.” Lynch grabbed the top of the ATM and wrenched it away from the pillar as hard as he could, felt some of the stitches in his leg tear loose. It moved a few inches, made a beeping noise.
Wilson got her arm in deeper, grunted, came out with the last tube. Lynch held his bag open, Wilson dropped the device in, and he zipped it shut.
“What the fuck?” said the guy that Wilson had backed off.
“Servicing the machine,” Lynch said. The screen now read ATM OUT OF SERVICE.
“Asshole,” khaki guy said, scowling at him.
Lynch just smiled. “Got the last one,” he said into the comm. “Call off your dogs, Munroe. We’re coming out.”
He and Wilson headed up the stairs toward Adams Street. He heard a soft thump, felt the bag bounce on his hip.
“Guess we’ll find out if those bags work,” said Wilson.
