The nitrite sniffer never, in Cantu’s experience, beeped, because there were similar explosives detection devices used by the Post Office and Secret Service before the bags were ever sent to the mailroom. Ditto for the metal detectors. Once in a while something like a bolo tie from a western resident or a tin of chocolates from a sewing club in New England would make it as far as the White House mailroom, but never any farther. No matter how well-intentioned, gifts of that kind sent through the mail seldom made it even as far as the president’s staff. Never to the desk in the Oval Office.
The same scrutiny was afforded to the vice president, Speaker of the House, and other notables. There had been enough problems, even before 9/11, that no one took chances. And there were so many stages of screening that Cantu seldom encountered anything more dire than junk mail. Once, though, a load of dog crap sealed in plastic made it to the desk of the press secretary’s assistant before it was discovered. The package included a note that said, “At least this shit is honest.”
No return address.
There was a rumor that the press secretary had the letter framed.
Otherwise, the mailroom at Brentwood was busy but not particularly interesting.
Until the morning of August 31.
A warning light flashed red and a small bell suddenly started ringing.
Not the bomb alert.
Not the metal detector.
This bell was one that had never rung once in the seven years Jorge Cantu had sorted mail for this administration.
It was the warning alert for the mass spectrometer.
The device whose sole purpose was to detect dangerous particles. It had four colored lights. Green for normal. Yellow for suspicious. Orange for likely toxins.
And red for a verified hit on one of four possible threats.
Spores.
Fungi.
Bacteria.
Or viruses.
Cantu stared at the light as the bell jangled in his ear. He said, “Oh my god!”
He hit the stop button and stumbled backward from the scanner, kicking his chair over with a crash, heels slipping on the floor in his haste.
“
Red light on four!
” he yelled. “
Red light on four
.”
There was instant motion, the slap of shoes on the hard floor, shouts as Secret Service agents hustled in his direction.
“Step back from the scanner,” ordered the lead agent even though Cantu was already as far back as he could go.
Within minutes the mailroom was cleared as were adjoining offices in that part of the mail processing center. Dozens of people flooded in, however. Police first, then within minutes agents from Homeland arrived. Soon techs in hazmat suits descended on the center accompanied by squads of supervisory personnel.
The bag was removed from the scanner and placed very gingerly into a portable steel biocontainment unit. The scanner was draped in chemically treated cloth and the entire area was sprayed with a ferociously dangerous antibacterial, antiviral agent.
The biocontainment unit was loaded onto a specially designed truck, and it roared off with heavy support from Secret Service and Homeland officers in riot gear. The motorcade went lights-and-sirens to a facility in Arlington where scientists and technicians waited.
The bag was offloaded, scanned again for explosive devices, and when it was conclusively determined that nothing was going to blow up, the bag was opened and the contents each placed in a separate biohazard container. The pieces were then scanned by a much more acute BAMS unit, and although several pieces of mail were deemed to have secondary contamination, the techs quickly identified an envelope that they separated out. It was a standard white greeting card envelope sealed with clear adhesive tape. No bulges, no metal or plastic components. The envelope was moved to a special containment chamber and a scientist used Waldo gloves to slit the envelope open and remove the card. A Hallmark card.
On the front of the card was a photo of a field of flowers that rose up to the crest of a gently sloping hill. Beyond the hill were trees and puffy white clouds. In flowing script across the top of the card were the words
So sorry for your loss
. It was obvious that the sentiment was printed as part of the card’s professional design.
The card had no preprinted message inside. Instead there was a handwritten note.
Payment in kind.
Seems only fair.
Hugs and kisses,
Mother Night
Inside the card, compressed between the cardboard covers, contained by the heavy grade envelope and tape, was a fine-grained white powder.
High-res digital images of the card, envelope, and message were sent to the Secret Service and Homeland. Laser scans of the card were initiated to capture any fingerprints. Small samples of the card, the envelope, and the tape were taken for separate analysis.
But that was secondary to the rush to analyze the white powder.
The BAMS unit had provided a preliminary identification, but the techs at the Arlington lab were able to discover much more about it. So much more that the BAMS reading was later viewed as “inadequate.”
Yes, the BAMS unit correctly identified it as
Bacillus anthracis
.
Anthrax.
But that description did not and could not fully describe the bacterium in that powder. It was like nothing the Arlington lab had ever seen. A mutation of anthrax so virulent that it was terrifying.
Data and samples were flown by armed couriers to military laboratories at Fort McNair in D.C. and Fort Myer in Virginia, next to Arlington Cemetery.
The information about the terrorist attempt was shared with the national security advisor, who requested an immediate audience with the president and vice president. When the president’s chief of staff asked why the vice president’s presence was requested, the answer was simple, though frightening and inexplicable.
The letter had been addressed to the vice president.
Chapter Forty-two
Fulton Street Line
Near Euclid Avenue Station
Brooklyn, New York
Sunday, August 31, 1:24 p.m.
Officers Faustino and Dawes stood listening to the darkness. Listening to how wrong it was. The moans came rolling down the line, louder now. Stranger.
They were not moans of passion or disappointment. Not moans of defeat or frustration.
The moans were filled with hunger. Faustino knew that, even though she could never explain to herself or anyone else
why
she knew it. Her reaction and the understanding that came with it was purely primal. This was the sound of a hunger so deep, so vast that it could never be assuaged.
The two officers pointed flashlights and guns into the darkness but did not take another step toward that sound.
No way.
“What
is
that?” said Dawes in a voice that trembled with fear.
Faustino took several long, steadying breaths before she reached for her shoulder mike. She keyed the button and called for dispatch.
Got static.
Got nothing else.
The moaning was continual.
“Shit, shit, shit,” whispered Faustino. She glanced up at one of the small security cameras with its steady red light. It reminded her of a rat’s eye. “I wonder if anyone’s watching.”
Dawes waved at the camera. “Hey! Anyone there?”
Of course there was no answer.
Faustino stepped in front of the lens. “This is Police Officer Maureen Faustino and Officer Sonny Dawes. We’re down in the subway tunnel near Euclid Avenue. The lights and power are off down here and we’re not getting radio reception. If anyone is watching this, please contact our department and tell them officers are requesting backup.”
She gave some additional information, including their estimated position in the tunnel and their badge numbers.
The red light remained fixed and uninformative.
In the darkness the echoes of the terrible moans were growing louder.
“Oh, man,” complained Dawes, “what the hell
is
that?”
“Shit,” muttered Faustino. “C’mon, Sonny, we have to find out.”
They stood where they were for another minute. The hungry moans bounced off the walls and were amplified by distance and fear and cold concrete.
“Fuck this,” said Dawes. “I think we need to get our asses back to Euclid Station and see if we can get a signal. Or use an emergency phone. Something.”
“Yeah,” she agreed.
They didn’t move.
“Shit,” Dawes said after another minute.
“Shit,” agreed Faustino.
They began moving forward. Not toward Euclid, but farther down the tunnel. Toward the moans.
Their feet crunched softly on the walkway, the sound battered to insignificance by the moans. The tunnel curved around, and from the intensity of the sounds they knew that the train had to be right there, no more than twenty yards away. There were more of the small security cameras mounted on the wall. Faustino had a weird feeling about them, but right now they were the least of her concerns.
The officers paused again, whispering to each other the way cops do, stating proper procedure, assigning right-and-left approaches, reminding themselves that they were in control of the moment.
It usually worked.
It didn’t work now.
Like a pair of frightened children they crept around the bend in the tunnel, keeping their flashlight beams low so as not to signal whoever was inside the train. They saw their light gleam on the silver rails and then reflect dully from the steel body of the last car. The blocky lines of the train, the letter C in the window.
There was no one outside the car.
But there was so much noise coming from inside.
The moans.
Those terrible moans.
And other sounds they hadn’t heard before. Dull thumps. From inside.
Like weak fists pounding on the doors and windows.
Inside.
Faustino slowly raised the beam of her flashlight and the glow climbed over the metal skin to the big panes of glass on either side of the rear door. The glass was cracked. Spiderweb faults were laced outward from multiple impact points. Behind the glass, darkened figures moved. The pounding sounds continued and Faustino realized that the people inside were banging on the glass.
Cracking it.
Breaking it.
Trying to get out.
“Jesus Christ,” yelled Dawes, “they’re trapped.”
He suddenly broke and ran forward, leaping down from the service walkway.
“Hey!” he called at the top of his voice. “New York Police. We’re here to help you. Just calm down and we’ll get you out.”
Behind him, Faustino stood her ground. Her flashlight beam still covered the rear of the car, sparkling along the fissures that continued to spread out from the damaged glass.
There was color on the inside of the glass.
Red.
Blood red.
For a moment she thought that the people had injured themselves trying to break out of the crippled train. But that made no sense. The rear door wasn’t locked. Anyone could open it.
Anyone.
The pounding continued, despite Dawes’s yells.
The moaning got louder.
More insistent.
Hungrier.
As Dawes raised his leg to climb onto the back of the train, Faustino shouted a single word.
“No!”
Chapter Forty-three
The Hangar
Floyd Bennett Field
Brooklyn, New York
Bug lunged for the phone. Not the regular phone, or the one connected to the Tactical Operations Center. He grabbed a slender black one that automatically made a call when the handset was picked up. Bug waited through two rings that seemed to take an interminable time, then the call was answered.
“Bug,” said Mr. Church.
“It’s happening again!” cried Bug. “
Oh sweet Jesus they’re back!
”
“What’s happening? Calm down and—”
Bug pounded the keys that would send the feed to Mr. Church.
“They’re
back
,” Bug said in a strangled voice.
There was a profound silence on the other end of the line.
Then, “Where did you get this? Where is this happening?”
Bug told him.
“Spin up the system,” growled Church. “Put all teams on maximum alert, recall all off-duty personnel. Do it
now
.”
“Already doing it,” Bug said. His fingers flew across the keys.
Chapter Forty-four
Office of the Vice President
The White House
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, August 31, 1:25 p.m.
Boo Radley laid several folders on the vice president’s desk.
“These are the latest reports on the Mother Night video,” said Radley. “As you’ll see, the task force hasn’t locked anything down yet, but they’re following some promising leads. We reached out to the DMS for assistance, hoping that they’d do some deep searches for us with MindReader.”
“Is the Deacon stonewalling us as usual?”
“Actually, sir, they’re not.”
Collins raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“They’ve been unusually cooperative today, and it’s because of their help that we’ve gotten as far as we have.”
“Hm,” grunted Collins. “Keep that back-and-forth going, Boo, but make sure that when we get something solid we have the first men through the door. I want our cuffs on these hacker assholes, not the DMS’s, you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, sir,” said Radley with a cold little smile. “I took the liberty of passing along a similarly worded message to our division heads.”
“Nice.” Collins set the top folder aside and opened the second. “What’s this? The anthrax thing?”
“Yes.”
“Where are we with that?”
“It’s too soon to be anywhere, sir, but the president has thrown his full support behind the investigation and that’s greased the wheels a bit.”