Mark 0. Hatfield United States Courthouse
This is not a drill," a voice said on a loudspeaker in the crowded stairwell. "Please exit the building as quickly as possible."
"As quickly as possible" did not apply to a woman in her seventies who walked with a cane. Every step was a slow, painful ordeal. Nic felt her stomach clench. They were on the sixteenth floor of a building built for grandeur, meaning the ceilings were unusually high--and the staircases correspondingly longer.
"You go on ahead without me, dear," said the elderly juror, whose name was Mrs. Lofland. "I'll be fine." She smiled up at Nic, the skin pleating around her faded blue eyes.
"I'm not leaving you, ma'am." Nic tucked as close as she could to the older woman. The stairwell was just wide enough that a third person could squeeze past them. And squeeze past they did. There wasn't any panic, not yet, but people were dead serious.
Nic had one hand under Mrs. Lofland's arm and the other on her BlackBerry. With her thumb, she tapped out a note to Leif Larson, asking if he knew what was up. Leif, like Nic, was an FBI special agent. He was also Nic's--well, certainly not her boyfriend, but something to her. Something more than just a friend. Even if she still resisted the idea.
Leif's reply came in less than a minute. Nic stared at her screen, glad that it was small enough that even the man pressing up behind them couldn't catch a glimpse of the message.
GET OUT. Poss SARIN 2 BLKS AWAY.
Sarin gas? Oh no. Homeland Security had briefed the FBI on what would have happened in Seattle if the fake janitor had managed to put the gas into the ventilation system, as opposed to spilling it on the carpet. He had died for his mistake, and so had fifty-two other people in the building, as well as five first responders. But if he had succeeded, the number would have been far higher.
Eighty years ago, sarin had been invented in Germany as an insecticide. But the military discovered it worked even better against humans. It was now classified as a nerve agent, the worst of the worst. Extremely toxic. And extremely fast acting.
Sarin was also colorless, tasteless, and odorless. Add a little to the municipal water supply, and kill thousands. Aerosolize it, and it was even more effective. Even just letting it evaporate was enough. In 1995, a Japanese doomsday cult had killed a dozen and sickened hundreds by puncturing containers filled with liquid sarin on Tokyo subway cars.
If the recent terrorist attack had succeeded, Homeland Security estimated that 95 percent of the people in the building would have died, most within minutes. And when it got out through the rooftop ventilation stacks, it would have sunk back down to the ground, because sarin was heavier than air. And there it would have killed even more victims. More than three thousand dead in the first half hour. Thousands more from exposure as they fled. The economic damage would have been incalculable.
All from an attack that would have taken ten minutes to carry out.
They were only on the fourteenth floor now. At this rate, getting out would take more than an hour. Which was still no guarantee of safety, not if the gas were there, invisible and deadly.
Nic wanted to abandon this old lady and run. Push her way through all these people, hold her breath once she was outside, and not stop running until she was blocks away and on higher ground.
Who would raise her nine-year-old daughter if something happened to her? Nic knew it was stupid that she didn't have a will, but she always got stuck on the same question. Who did she trust to raise Makayla? Her parents? They were nearly as old as Mrs. Lofland and starting to show it. Her brothers? They didn't always see eye-to-eye with Nic.
They rounded a corner. Already there were bottlenecks. An overweight woman in a blue muumuu inched her way down sideways, stepping down with one foot, and then slowly putting her other foot on the same step. Nic wanted to yell out that they had to hurry, but she knew it might only cause a panic. Mrs. Lofland would be the first to be hurt.
People pressed closer together, not talking, concentrating on getting down. The stairway was at times now coming to a complete halt. When Nic looked over the edge, she saw dozens of hands lined up on the handrail.
People kept trying their cell phones, but it was clear they couldn't get through. A few others with BlackBerrys were offering to send e-mails for those around them.
Suddenly Mrs. Lofland's arm jerked out of Nic's grasp, and the older lady pitched forward. Nic grabbed the woman's shoulders with both hands and yanked her upright, ignoring the pain from the healing bullet wound in her own upper right arm.