Silent Night

SEVENTEEN

Jorgensen drove fast at the best of times, but the discovery of Dr Tibbs’ corpse had put an extra few ounces of pressure on his pedal foot. They sped across town, lights on the fenders flashing as they cut several reds. Before long they pulled to an abrupt halt outside Dr Glover’s address, an apartment building on the Upper East Side on 70 and 3. Unlike Dr Tibbs’ apartment building there was no reception, which also meant they had to wait for someone to let them in. Standing on the cold street they scanned the occupiers list beside the buzzer. They found F. Glover beside Apartment 2D. Luckily, a resident exited the building less than a minute later and Jorgensen jammed his arm in the door before it could shut.

Moving quickly up the stairs, the two detectives headed down the second floor corridor towards Dr Glover’s apartment.

However, as they approached they saw that the door was ajar.

Marquez was first inside, checking the apartment through the top sight of her pistol. Jorgensen followed her in. They cleared the place, the same as before.

And just as before, the apartment was empty. No sign of Dr Glover.

After a few moments they met up in the living area, holstering their weapons and looking around. The television was on, showing the news. There was the beginnings of breakfast on the kitchen counter, a couple of cereal bowls and two pastries. One of them had a bite taken out of it.

‘Someone was just here,’ Jorgensen said.

Marquez nodded in agreement. As Jorgensen moved to the kitchen to take a closer look around, Marquez saw several photo-frames placed on a table in the sitting room. She approached them, and noticed that the same man was in all three. Picking up the middle frame, she examined the photo. He was blond, in his thirties, standing on the deck of a yacht. Dressed in a white polo shirt, cream shorts and deck shoes and holding a green bottle of Heineken, he was smiling at the camera. It had been a beautiful day when the photo was taken and she saw nothing but blue sea and horizon behind him.

‘Here’s our guy,’ she said.

‘The kettle’s still warm,’ said Jorgensen, his hand on the jug. ‘He was here recently.’

Feeling uneasy, Marquez looked down at the photograph, at that broad grin on the man’s face. She thought of Dr Tibbs, flat on his back, four gunshot wounds to his head and chest.

Where are you, Dr Glover?

Wherever it was, she had a gut feeling that he wouldn’t be smiling.



Marquez was right. At that moment Glover’s face was a mask of wide-eyed shock, fear and confusion.

He was still sitting inside the lab at Kearny Medical across the Hudson River in New Jersey. His initial shock at his predicament was fading and was now being replaced by an ice cold fear and disbelief. Melissa’s body had been dragged away and dumped in a room across the level. He was trying not to stare at the blood stain it had left on the floor, smeared on the white tiles. Outside the lab Glover saw the man with the black curly hair watching him from an office next door, his face expressionless, his feet up on a desk and that strange machine pistol clasped in his hand.

Suddenly the lift dinged. It opened and Glover saw the man and woman who’d kidnapped him walk out and head towards the large man. They were a terrifying pair.

He and Melissa had just woken up and had been preparing breakfast and planning their day when someone had knocked on the door. Glover had opened up and been punched hard in the face. He’d fallen back and the man and woman had entered, a silenced pistol trained on him and Melissa, who’d been sitting at the kitchen counter eating a Danish. They’d forced them out of the apartment, taking them downstairs and hustling them into a car outside, then brought them straight here. He watched as the dark-haired woman pulled a small vial from her pocket. Glover recognised what it was straight away and his blood ran cold.

It was Dr Flood’s virus.

The curly-headed guy took it from her, raising it and examining the vial in the light.

He turned the cylinder, peering at it from all angles.

Then he looked over at Dr Glover and a broad grin spread across his face.



Back at the Pier, the screaming inside the store had long since ended. The ESU and several Hercules teams had formed a cordon with a fifty yard radius. CRT had opened up a secure containment tent, rigging it up to the outside of the building and sealing it airtight to ensure that any remaining gas was contained. The bodies of the five victims who’d made it out of the store had been quickly covered before the news cameras got there. Respective news teams had arrived, but they were being kept well back along with everybody else.

Having shown their badges to an ESU officer guarding the barrier, Archer and Josh were standing inside the cordon, looking at the entrance to the store. Neither said a word. A CRT specialist stepped out from the tent and walked towards the two detectives. The man pulled off the helmet of his bio suit, running his gloved hand through his hair. His face was grim. The two men moved forward to meet him.

‘What’s the damage?’ Archer asked.

‘Fifty nine dead. No survivors.’

Silence.

‘You have any idea who’s responsible for this?’

‘We’re working on it.’

‘Well work faster. I think the youngest in there is about twelve.’

Pause.

‘What about containment?’ Josh asked.

‘We sealed the place before it got out. Believe it or not, we got lucky. The bomb went off on the second floor, so it bought us some extra time. We shut down the building ventilation system and the tent is keeping the place airtight. Luckily, there are no windows in there so the gas had nowhere else to go. We’re still working on filtering the air.’

‘What’s the cover?’

‘A chemical pipe ruptured. If the truth gets out we’ll have a major panic on our hands.’

Without a word, Josh pulled his cell phone, turning and walking away, leaving Archer and the CRT specialist alone.

‘Do you have a spare suit?’ Archer asked.

The guy nodded.

‘Follow me. I’ll give you a mask.’



The interior of the store was dark. Incongruously, the music was still thumping and the lights were flashing. It looked like an abandoned nightclub. Archer moved inside slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. He had a gas mask sealed to his face, his air filtered and protected through the respirator. Although he’d trained with a gas mask at the ARU, he hadn’t worn one in a while and felt claustrophobic and uncomfortable with it pulled tight to his face. No way was it coming off, however.

The floor was littered with bodies. Corpses, shopping bags and personal belongings were scattered everywhere. Amongst the twisted and contorted dead, Archer could see a few who were obviously trying on clothes when they got hit but who must have abandoned the fitting rooms in panic, desperately running for the doors and the air outside. They lay there half-dressed, many of them with arms outstretched, blood around their mouths and all over the ground beside them. Archer moved further into the store, stepping carefully past the bodies making sure he didn’t touch any of them out of respect.

The CRT specialist led him up to the second floor. The scene was much the same as downstairs, the place strewn with infected victims, people of both sexes and all ages. Then the specialist pointed to a white bag beside a stand.

‘There it is,’ he said, his voice muffled.

Archer walked forward and dropping to one knee, peered inside. He saw one of those now familiar boxes, the lid askew and the remains of what had been the vial just visible, the glass cylinder cracked in two. Its terrible job had been accomplished.

Rising, Archer turned and saw Josh walking towards him through the dim store. He was moving slowly, staring at the horrific scene around him, a gas mask over his face. He came to a halt beside Archer and the CRT specialist but didn’t say a word.

With the darkness and thumping music, the grisly scene lit by flashing lights, it looked like something out of a nightmare.

The three men stood there in silence.

Surrounded by death.



Josh had just called Shepherd to inform him of the situation but he needn’t have bothered. He and Rach had Fox News up on the screen and were watching the initial reports on the disaster.

Breaking: Chemical Pipe ruptures in clothing store by Seaport, kills 59.

The TV pictures were showing people being held back behind the cordoned-off area, some watching with ghoulish fascination, others who had family members unaccounted for being interviewed by reporters, desperate to be allowed inside to find their loved ones. But the ESU teams were continuing to keep them back. The front of the store had been tented off. Nothing was visible and no one was getting closer.

‘We were too late,’ Rach said quietly.

Shepherd watched the screen for a few moments longer, his face expressionless.

Then he turned to her.

‘The shot of the Macy’s bomber when he dumped his coat. Pull it up again.’

She nodded, then started tapping away. The television shots disappeared, replaced by the city camera feed. It took her less than thirty seconds to find the right camera and pause it at the moment the man appeared.

‘Play.’

They watched as he moved out of the store, shrugging off the identifiable jacket then dumping it in a can. He raised his hand for a taxi but the vehicle was just out of shot.

‘Any cameras facing east or west?’

Rach tapped and another box appeared. It was a camera from 34 and 7, facing east.

‘Match the time,’ Shepherd said. Rach did and hit Pause. She then zoomed in, closer and closer. The shot was pixelated.

‘Render.’

She hit Enter. There was a second’s delay, then the screen cleared.

A series of numbers and letters were now as clear as crystal on the screen. The taxi’s licence plates.

‘Got you, you son of a bitch,’ Shepherd said, pulling his cell and moving to the door. He turned back to Rach as he walked. ‘Find that third bomber fast!’



Across Queens, Donnie entered a run-down house off Ditmars Boulevard and shut the front door behind him. It had been their hideout last night but they were only occupying the ground floor. He walked down the corridor, passing a sitting room on his right and moved into the kitchen.

He found Bleeker waiting in there anxiously, watching the midday news on the television. He was sitting on a stool and had a Remington 870 12 gauge shotgun resting on the kitchen table within easy reach. Donnie looked at the screen and saw a Breaking News item from the Seaport.

‘Did it work?’

‘They found mine,’ Bleeker said. ‘They didn’t find yours.’

Looking at the screen, Donnie blinked. He smiled.

‘So that’s good, right? At least one of them succeeded. This is what you wanted.’

‘So where the hell is Nate?’

‘He didn’t come back?’

‘No. And his bomb should’ve gone off by now. It should be all over the news like yours.’

Donnie didn’t speak. Bleeker swore and checked his watch.

‘Anyway, mission accomplished. Pack your shit. We’re out of here, with or without him.’

‘What about your deal with the Brit?’

Bleeker shook his head.

‘Screw him. I don’t need his money anymore. After what just happened, you and I are going to be richer than we could have ever dreamed.’



Stepping out of the containment tent at the Seaport, Archer pulled off the gas mask and sucked in a deep, cleansing breath of fresh air. He walked over to the CRT truck and passed the mask back to a man inside, thanking him. Josh followed him out. Archer saw him take off his own mask and fumble in his pocket. He pulled out his cell, taking a call and holding it to his ear.

‘Sir?’

He listened for a moment. Archer watched his expression.

They had something.

Still listening, Josh moved forward, tossing the gas mask to the CRT guy in the truck and nodding his thanks, then ended the call.

‘Shepherd called the cab company. Apparently the Macy’s bomber was dropped off outside a house just off Ditmars in Astoria about twenty minutes ago.’

Without another word, both men ran for their car, the CRT specialist watching them go.