Chapter 30

New York

Pristine water flows from upstate New York lakes winding its way through mountains and valleys until at last, 125 miles later, it reaches checkpoints near the city of New York. Prior to flooding a series of aqueducts, billions of gallons are treated with chlorine and fluoride, bathed in ultraviolet light to kill microorganisms, but never filtered. When Alexis first called Markovic on her way to the UN days before, his mind was already polishing an idea to create a diversion. He put his parallel plan into motion at that moment. After he had finished his work at the printing shop, Markovic and his men pored over the information about the reservoir systems of New York. The Hillview reservoir in Yonkers was the closest to the city before the water entered a maze of tunnels for distribution.

“We have opportunity here to create one or two distractions from our primary plan,” Markovic said to his men. “Maxim will go ahead to prepare the way.” He pointed to a satellite view of the area on his laptop and continued talking to the rest of his men. “You will meet here in this parking lot off the thruway near the casino and raceway. Leave the car there and head toward the reservoir. You can easily see the layout of the buildings on the grounds,” he said pointing to the edge of the reservoir, “and this little map shows the internal workings of the pump house.” Markovic’s associates had been able to pull detailed engineering maps only available to New York City DEP officials, and those who knew how to hack into the system. From the DEP drawings Markovic’s men could identify how the water flowed from the reservoir into the pumping house in preparation for distribution to NYC Water Tunnels No.1, 2 and 3. They had obtained security badges for the facility and spliced their own identities into place so they had free access to the system. The groundwork had been done and they waited for further instructions from Markovic.

* * *

Both brilliant and menacing, Markovic had provided the steady hand that had propelled the ricin operation. His mindset had been sculpted early in his life by his brutal creator. Raised in an abusive household by an alcoholic father and a mother frightened into obedience, Markovic survived by sheer will. Retaliation had been his life’s goal, and anger, or perhaps it was fear, drove him like a snarling wolf backed into a corner. Yet it was his intense focus, his gift for conducting operations like Swiss trains, and his heart devoid of conscience that made him desirable to certain factions within the Russian government. Given his former connections with the illegal drug trade, he had been carefully chosen for this assignment. While working in the cocaine jungles of Colombia he had cultivated a taste for hard drinking, bar room brawls and brutal negotiations. Raping Alberto’s niece was the epitome of intimidation and a way to secure better leverage with the Colombians. They had cut a deal. A set amount of the Russians’ drug product smuggled from the Middle East would be shipped to France with Alberto’s coffee beans in exchange for a percentage of the cash, and the Russians would no longer be able to conduct any business at the plantation. Alberto had wanted distance between Markovic and his niece.

* * *

JP and I are meeting with the rest of the team at the safe house.

“Attention,” JP says in French. “Et, team, we found the link and have made the identification.”

Our small group lets out a “hoo hoo.” Now we have our target. JP continues.

“Most of the hands-on operations are being conducted by a Russian operative whose organization is partially fueled by Middle Eastern terrorist connections and by drug cartels operating out of South America.”

I stiffen whenever I hear the words “drug cartels” and “South America.” Something inside me feels uneasy at these words.

“The Russian’s name is Grigory Markovic.” He hands out a color photograph of Markovic to all of us with the physical specifications of the terrorist noted on the lower half of the picture. I’ve now memorized the image of a short man, balding, who has very intense steely gray eyes. Rather unforgettable in a threatening way.

“He also has an accomplice with him named Alexis Popov.”

“Alexis Popov,” I say. “The event planner from the museum bankers’ dinner was named Alexis.” I ask to see her picture. I recognize the young blond woman as the one I had seen in the ladies’ room when I was at the museum. I had just left the kitchen. She was putting on her lipstick and had a dot of white powder above her upper lip. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a touch of cocaine.

“Here is what we know,” JP says. “Their plan is to distribute all the tainted advertising cards throughout the city and at all the intersecting transportation hubs getting to and from New York down the East Coast. There are also some big sports events this weekend, the Super Bowl for one, and several concerts at the Garden. We have alerted all the authorities from both the State of New York and the State of New Jersey. They are instructed to pick up any and all distributors of these materials and of course the materials themselves.”

“JP,” I interrupt. “How do we know that the toxin is confined to only the advertising cards? Suppose it’s impregnated into other materials?” This was not that far-fetched. I had already considered this in the museum when Eric and I took that fateful walk down the garden path. If the desired effect was mass poisoning, then there might be an opportunity, under the right conditions, for simultaneous aerosolization. Poison would diffuse down the concentration gradient.

“Lily, this is the information we have to date. We will focus on the cards. Et—”

I interrupt JP again. “What about my ampoule of toxin?”

“Oui ,surely it is just a distraction, Lily. You must know that this was pure chance that your toxin was stolen.”

That sentence sits in my cortex for about two seconds before I react. Chance, maybe. But only JP and I knew the toxin was hidden in my handbag. And John Chi of course.

“Well my distraction killed a few people down by the UN building. I think we should look at the reservoir systems for the city,” I say.

“Quoi? What do you mean, Robinson?”

“JP, they have a toxin in their possession that could potentially contaminate our water supply. Remember this toxin is highly concentrated and is not destroyed by heat. If they tamper with our water source, we won’t be worrying just about the air we breathe, but also the water we drink. It’s what I would do.”

“You have considered this?”

“Yes. Mass poisoning can be difficult, but clearly has been accomplished. There were the Tokyo subway sarin attacks in 1995. Sarin, a deadly nerve gas, was left to volatilize on the trains and sickened maybe 200 people. Poisoned water consumed by a group of individuals at a common venue is another way—Kool-Aid at Jonestown,” I say, referring to the 900 followers of Jim Jones and the People’s Temple who died in Guyana in 1978 after drinking cyanide laced Kool-Aid. “I’ve already looked at the maps. The Hillview Reservoir in Yonkers is the closest and would be my choice.”

JP is quiet for a moment, then turns to one of his men and says, “Agent Parker, contact the local authorities and get some men over to the reservoir and check it out. Tout de suite.”

I’m not so sure that the toxin would be lethal if the dilution factor were great enough. Yet, individuals drinking the water could become acutely ill and that might be enough to create panic. I’m thinking it’s better they should check it out than not. What other places would the terrorists choose to use my toxin and the ricin? I’m still working on it. And who is actually in possession of the ampoule? Alexis stole it, but did she still have it, or has she given it to her accomplice, Markovic?

I’m not sure what to expect next. And this is why most agents have their gun at their side. But guns are easily discoverable and confiscated. I have another plan. I go to the kitchen and open the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. Inside is a small Styrofoam box I brought with me from the cottage. I place it on the kitchen table, open the box, and unwrap a one milliliter syringe that had been prefilled with the contents of a clear liquid contained in the rubber stopped medicine vial. The Queen of all Poisons. I take some duct tape and tape the syringe just inside my left bra cup so it remains invisible. Just in case.

“I’m going to take a walk,” I announce to JP as he enters the kitchen. “I need to clear my mind.”

“I am not so sure that is a good idea, Lily,” he replies.

“No, I’ll be okay, really.”

It’s getting on to dusk. The light disappears early in the winter and it gets cold fast. I wrap my fur coat around me, and pull down the crystal fox headband. I decide to take a walk over to Central Park toward the old reservoir near 85th Street. I know that this reservoir had been decommissioned when the third water tunnel was completed. Now the closest functioning reservoir to the city is up in Yonkers—Hillview. The picturesque landscape in front of me is now primarily a walking or jogging trail around the 1.58-mile perimeter. However, the Central Park Reservoir was originally used as a temporary water supply while the Croton Water system was shut down for repairs.

I walk briskly on the jogging path to generate heat for my body and clear my mind. There are still quite a few joggers out here in their lycra pants and tops covered with layers of fleece making the best of the disappearing sun rays. I’m on part of the path that’s not as open as the rest of the track. There’s a man in the distance sitting on a rocky outcrop, smoking a cigarette. His silhouette is familiar. My antennae shoot straight up. I stop walking, move to the side and watch.

I stand and watch for what feels like eternity. The stream of joggers slows down and the light fades. Soon the moon begins to rise. What is he doing? Cold air tunnels its way through the gap in my coat between buttons and then I feel the hair on my arms stand straight up. It’s Markovic. I feel this in my gut. Millions of people in New York City and by chance we would be together at this moment at the Central Park Reservoir. How is that possible? I’m stunned, and a little frightened. JP was right; I should not be out here on my own, at night.

Surely Markovic must know that this reservoir is obsolete. He puts out his cigarette and starts back toward 85th Street from the South Gate House. I keep my distance. When he reaches the Metropolitan Museum of Art, he makes his way around to the side entrance where the delivery trucks unload food and drink. He stops and checks his watch. Two minutes later a large tanker truck pulls up to the entrance. I recognize the sleek aluminum cylindrical shape of the tank as that of a water carrier. So I look up toward the roof and see a storage tank. It’s not uncommon for buildings in the city to have a water tower perched above the structure to provide a day’s worth of the water needs for the inhabitants of the building. However, usually the water is pumped into the tower from pipes below the ground, and not delivered by a tanker. I’m fairly certain that as part of the debrief this morning, we were told that the museum had experienced an unexpected pump failure in the morning and water delivery had been necessary for the anticipated Sunday crowd of museum visitors. I’m beginning to see the picture.

I watch the driver of the tanker step down from the cab and I can see Markovic approach him. They have a short conversation. I’m too far away to hear anything, but it looks as if they’ve exchanged something. Money? Instructions? I’m not sure. The driver walks away from the truck and disappears around the side entrance of the building. Markovic moves toward the flank of the tanker and climbs up the ladder that leads to the top of the truck. I get it. I know what’s about to happen. I’ve got to call for help. I reach into my bag for my phone and feel that familiar stir of air behind me. As I turn, someone grabs me around the waist and puts one hand over my mouth. I’m trying to fight him off. I’m scared, ensnared and can’t move. His grip is so tight, it’s difficult for me to breathe. The air that has picked up carbon dioxide from my blood stream and is ready to explode out of my body in exchange for fresh oxygen-rich air is now trapped in my lungs. I’m losing sight of Markovic. My surroundings start to spin around me and I feel the blackness coming on as I drop to the ground.