Silent Night

TWENTY

Thirty minutes later, the house off Ditmars Boulevard was filled with CSU investigators photographing the crime scene before the bodies and weapons were bagged and tagged. A preliminary search inside an unzipped holdall sitting in the kitchen had revealed the third and fourth vials of the virus. That left one to go, in the possession of the third bomber who Rach was currently working hard to find. Given Dr Flood’s unexpected suicide, the murder of Dr Tibbs and the disappearance of Dr Glover, Health Services were taking the reins on trying to work up an antidote. They had another fifty nine infected dead to work with. A two-man team from their lab had arrived at the house five minutes ago, taken the virus and left as quickly as they had arrived. Everyone inside was relieved to have found the vials, but were even more so when the virus left the house.

Shepherd, Archer, Marquez and Jorgensen were gathered in the bedroom in front of Dr Kruger, who was still sitting in the chair they’d found him in. His binds and gag had been removed and a medic was patching him up. The woman was attending to his face, clearing off the blood, using antiseptic to clean the wounds and then applying several butterfly stitches to the cuts on his cheekbones.

Standing near the door, Archer examined the doctor. He was in his late thirties or early forties and looked in good shape, blond hair and green eyes with overnight stubble on his neck and cheeks. He was wearing a blue shirt and some corduroy trousers with black shoes but the shirt was specked with blood from the injuries to his face. He looked solid; he wasn’t in shock. He wasn’t staring at the dead body visible through the doorway in the kitchen. And he was alive. That was the most important thing considering that two of his colleagues had already died this morning.

‘How are you feeling?’ Shepherd asked.

‘I’ll live,’ Kruger said.

Only two words, but Archer picked up a strong South African accent.

‘So what the hell happened?’ Shepherd asked.

‘You tell me. Last night someone knocks on my apartment door. I open up and a gun is stuck in my face. They take me downstairs, stuff me in a car and bring me here.’

‘What did they want?’

‘At first, I had no idea. I thought maybe it was kidnap, but I don’t come from a wealthy family and certainly don’t mix in high circles. No one would pay much for me.’

He nodded out of the room.

‘The fat boy took my key-card for the lab from my pocket, then left. He came back an hour later with five vials of Peter’s virus.’

He flinched as the doctor dabbed at a cut on his cheekbone.

‘When he got back he took off my binds and shoved a gun in my face. He'd brought some equipment from the lab and ordered me to use it to extract a small sample of the virus and place it in another vial, which was pressurised. He made me do it right here. They weren't taking any chances and were all wearing masks. I had to do it without. Then I saw them start soldering together those things.’

He nodded to the bed.

The team saw a shoebox containing a timer and rack for the vial. A carbon copy of the other bombs.

‘It didn’t take a genius to work out they were planning some sort of atrocity. Once I was done, the leader took the package with the smallest amount of the virus I transferred for him and was out for a while. He didn’t come back with it.’

‘It detonated in Central Park,’ Marquez said. ‘Killed a man.’

Kruger stared at her but didn’t respond. The doctor went to unbutton his shirt and check his torso for injuries but he caught her hands. ‘I’m fine, doc. It’s just my face.’ He seemed resolute and tough. Archer liked him already.

At the door behind them, Josh ducked his head into the room. ‘Sir?’ Shepherd turned. ‘I’ve got some news. The third bomber has been found. He’s out of the game.’

‘What do you mean he’s out of the game?’

‘He’s dead. He was found in a restroom of a café near Bryant Park. His neck was broken.’

‘His bomb?’

‘That’s the problem sir. The device was there. But the vial containing the virus was gone.’



Thirty five miles to the south west, a New Jersey farmer pulled open the door to a large barn where he always took his lunch break. Despite being in his early seventies, he’d been up since first light, something he had to do if he wanted to make the most of the season and prepare for the spring.

He’d just finished his work for the morning. He owned a large spread of land and the shed he was standing in was almost like his office. It was also excellent storage for his retirement gift, an Antonov An-2, a single engine biplane. Given that it was a Russian model, built back in 1946, the duster was a favourite of collectors and aircraft aficionados. The farmer was the latter, although he’d never flown the plane. A pilot couldn’t fly an Antonov in the United States without an experimental certification which the farmer was currently working on attaining. He’d spent most of his retirement fund on the duster, much to his wife’s fury, but was planning to sell it as soon as he’d taken it up in the air just the once. After he experienced that, he’d be happy. An expert had come by last month to give him an evaluation. He’d told him that the plane could be worth over $60,000 to the right collector. The farmer was elated. He’d bought it for two thirds that price.

Leaving the door to the barn open behind him, he walked towards his old armchair. It was beaten and worn, much like the farmer himself, but over time the seat had adjusted to his body shape and now was the most comfortable thing he’d ever sat in. He relaxed back into the chair, his knees creaking, enjoying that moment when the pressure was taken off them. Beside him on a table was a radio, a newspaper and his lunch. His wife had made him a sandwich wrapped in foil. He clicked on the radio then snapped out the newspaper on his lap. Reaching over, he picked up his sandwich and unwrapped the foil. It was a Reuben, his favourite, corned beef, cheese, sauerkraut and Russian dressing on thick-cut bread.

Warm and comfortable, he picked it up and went to take a bite.

'That's quite a plane,' a voice suddenly said, startling him.

He looked up and saw two people standing in the doorway of the barn. It was a man and a woman. They’d appeared silently and out of nowhere. He didn’t recognise either of them and they definitely weren’t rural folk. The man had white blond hair, almost like an albino, most of it sticking straight up. The woman looked the tougher of the two, her face hard, lank dark hair that looked like it needed a good scrub and a brush. Both were in jeans and leather jackets.

Both were staring at him.

'Can I help you?'

'What kind of model is that?' the man asked, pointing at the crop duster.

'Antonov. An-2.'

‘How much is it?'

‘It’s not for sale.’

‘You don’t know how much I’m willing to offer.’

The farmer didn’t reply.

‘Who are you?’ he asked instead.

'You got any pesticide?' the blond man asked, ignoring the question.

The farmer's eyes narrowed. 'Now what would you want with that?'

'How much you got?'

'Enough.'

‘Well show us what you have and I’ll tell you how much I’m willing to pay.'

The farmer hid his excitement. He had much more than he needed and could make a tidy profit here which would please his wife. He pretended to think for a moment, pondering the offer. Then he pushed himself out of the chair and walked over towards them.

Up close, he got a closer look at the pair. The white-blond haired guy had a thick scar over his eyebrow which told a story that the farmer didn’t want to know. The woman had a face that looked weathered and hard. Not city folk. They lacked that softness.

And there was something about them that was unnerving.

'You don't look like farmers.'

'We're from out of town,' the woman said, her eyes fixed on him.

'The plane’s not for sale. But I can sell you some pesticide. For the right price.'

'Let’s see it first.'

The farmer looked at them for a moment, then beckoned the pair to follow, leading them out of the barn and to another shed next door. He undid the lock, taking the wooden bar off the front and placing it to one side, then pulled open the doors.

He had six thick canisters of the pesticide stored inside. Each barrel was about the size of a beer keg, a yellow toxic sign on the side of each one.

'There you are,' he said, turning. ‘Now let’s talk about the price.’

The blond man grinned.

‘OK. How about we take it all off your hands for free?’

The farmer looked at him, to see if he was joking.

He wasn’t.

‘Are you crazy?’

He suddenly realised the woman had her hand behind her back.

She whipped it round and the farmer found himself looking down the end of a silenced pistol.

She pulled the trigger. The back of the farmer's head blew apart, spraying blood and brains into the air in a mist and he collapsed to the ground with a thud, sinking slightly into the mud. Drexler gave him two more rounds for good measure as Wicks stepped past the body and grabbed a wheeled dolly placed beside the canisters.

Stepping past the dead man, Drexler walked up to the first tank of pesticide. She tipped it onto its side and Wicks slid the dolly underneath, loading it up.