3.32 P.M.
With the siren screaming, Wyse and Cabrini were making rapid progress across the Upper West Side.
‘Head for Newark, Mike,’ said Wyse as he entered the BurgerFantastic depot address into the GPS unit on the dash.
‘Okay, buddy, but isn’t it about time you started telling me what the hell you’re doin’?’
‘Yeah, sure. Here goes . . .’
Wyse’s theory took them as far as Newark Bay.
‘So, you ain’t got no proof?’ Cabrini was looking bamboozled. ‘But you’re thinking this whole thing could be a terrorist attack?’
‘That’s it, Mike. If I can get any proof, I’m gonna have to alert Homeland Security – the bio-terrorism guys.’
‘Jeez – not so sure it all stacks, John. But Maria said she’ll check the sauce on that burger for e-coli, pronto.’
Cabrini killed the siren about half a mile before they reached the industrial estate. A spattering of rain freckled the windshield and Cabrini flicked the wiper stalk. A large sign at the entrance to the estate told them that Basin Street was the second left. Cabrini pulled into the BurgerFantastic car lot, slowly. It was reasonably full but they got a visitor’s space near the door.
‘Okay,’ said Wyse. ‘I’m not expecting trouble, but be ready.’
They walked into the reception area and Wyse flashed his badge to the receptionist.
‘Hi there, do you mind if we have a look around?’
‘Not at all . . . is there something wrong?’
‘Nah, just routine, can we go into the food production part?’
‘Sure, no problem . . . it’s that door down there,’ she said, pointing. ‘I’ll get one of the production managers to show you round.’
Three minutes later, Cabrini exploded with laughter as he watched Tammy Ward, the production manager, fit a white hairnet onto Wyse. A moment later it was Wyse’s turn to smile as Cabrini got his white coat and hairnet.
‘All right, John, that’s enough. Deal is, no one hears ’bout this in the station.’
‘Okay by me, pal,’ said Wyse, slapping his buddy’s palm.
‘Just mind you don’t slip on that floor, detectives,’ cautioned the production manager, pointing at the white tiles. Just a few steps into the depot, the view was dominated by two gleaming steel vats, rising almost as high as the factory roof.
‘What are those, Tammy?’ asked Wyse.
‘They’re the sauce vats, detective, for the burgers.’ Walking closer, Wyse saw that there were steps around each tank, leading to the top.
‘You wanna go up?’ asked Tammy Ward, following Wyse’s gaze.
‘Nah, it’s okay.’
Wyse’s eyes followed the steps back close to the ground, where four heavy steel pylons supported each vat. Close to the bottom step, Wyse noticed a small brass plate. He leaned closer to read it.
Manufactured in Sweden by Alfa Laval.
Wyse straightened up slowly and closed his eyes.
‘You all right, bud?’ asked Cabrini.
‘Mike.’ There was a pause. ‘You remember that murder; that old guy? ’Bout two years back – in that old factory. The body was beside a steel vat, like this, only smaller.’
‘Oh, yeah, sure, South Street. The factory used to be for Quick ’n’ Tasty.’
‘That’s it. Who was that guy?’
‘Christ, can’t remember his name. We never got the perp. Think the old guy was foreign, though. Where was it he was from? Libya. Yeah, that was it. Libya, for sure.’
John Wyse stared blankly at the top of the vats again.
‘John – you seein’ stars or something?’
‘No, but I’m startin’ to see a whole lot more dots that need joining up. I think that murder may have been a whole lot more than a burglary gone wrong.’
Wyse put his hand inside his jacket and switched the safety catch on his gun to ‘off’.
‘Okay, Mike, eyes wide open.’ Wyse waved over to the production manager who was standing further down the factory. ‘Tammy, hey Tammy,’ he called.
‘Everything okay, detectives?’ she asked, walking over.
‘Sure, but we’d like to see Takar el Sayden.’
‘Oh, I’m afraid not, guys. Takar is on vacation.’
‘When did he go?’
‘He was here in the production facility at about 5 a.m., I believe. He’s often here during the night. As far as I know, he left and picked up his family and they caught a real early flight.’
‘D’you know where they’ve gone?’
‘Sure,’ replied Tammy, with a smile. ‘Back to the old country. Tripoli.’
*
4.05 P.M.
‘Police and troops have quelled an outbreak of violence and looting in Harlem,’ said the news announcer. ‘Twenty-two people have been injured, three of them seriously. This is Chris Danson for XM FM, on another dark day for New York.’
*
Wyse frowned and turned down the volume on the radio as they drove back into Manhattan. Black clouds were beginning to darken the skyline.
‘National Guard fully deployed, bud,’ said Cabrini, pointing at six soldiers in full riot gear at the junction of Broadway and 145th. As they made their way uptown, it became clear that troops were being positioned at every major intersection. Both detectives could sense an atmosphere of high tension descending on the city.
Wyse called Dr Kim Scholler and got put through after a short delay.
‘Doctor, it’s Detective John Wyse. What’s the latest?’
‘It’s bad, detective, real bad. Completely out of control. Death toll’s going to be close to a million at the rate we’re going.’
‘Jesus.’
‘And we still haven’t found the source. Only positive news is that the numbers of new infections presenting are down a little to about a quarter of a million every twenty-four hours. The bad cases are being bussed out to other states, now that the system’s completely overrun. There’s no point in pretending otherwise.’
Wyse was doing the math. ‘So, every hour that goes by, over ten thousand more people get sick?’
‘That’s about it, detective.’
Wyse hesitated, and then gambled. ‘Doctor, are you sure you’ve checked out BurgerFantastic?’
‘Oh, sure, John, we’ve had teams in all the restaurant chains, in their kitchens, in their suppliers. Complete blank. There’s well over two thousand fast food joints in the city, so they’re an obvious suspect. We’ll have checked all their meat products – beef, chicken, pork, etc. For sure, they’ve all cleaned everything thoroughly by now, but we’re still getting infections, so it doesn’t look like it’s a restaurant chain.’
‘Doctor, can you go back and check the vats that they make the sauce in for the burgers?’
‘The sauce? At BurgerFantastic? Why?’
‘A hunch. Please trust me. The central depot in Newark. The Airport Business Park.’
‘Well, okay, I’ll send a team back in there.’
‘Do you need police backup?’
‘No, we’re fully authorised to enter. Unless you think we do?’
‘Shouldn’t be any problems, but I’ll send a couple of cops out to help.’
‘Okay,’ said Dr Scholler, a little hesitantly.
‘And, doctor. Please call me as soon as you hear anything.’
*
5.05 P.M.
‘John? This is Kim Scholler.’ Wyse was at his desk at the station, and had been stretched back in his chair, deep in thought, when the call came.
‘Kim, any news?’
‘Just got a call from our team. They’re on the way back in from the BurgerFantastic depot.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Technician said it’s so clean you could do an autopsy in there. We checked the vats they blend the sauce in. Everything’s been thoroughly cleaned today, of course – just like all the other places. Our guys have taken samples and swabs and we won’t be sure until they run the tests. But they can usually smell trouble a mile off and they think it’s clean.’
There was no response.
‘John, you there?’
‘Yeah, sorry, just thinking.’
‘I’ll let you know if anything develops.’
One minute later, the detective rapidly redialled Dr Scholler’s cell phone.
‘Doctor, it’s John Wyse again.’
‘Is everything okay, detective?’ she said, surprised at the excitement in his voice.
‘Send them back.’
‘What?’
‘Send them back.’
‘Where?’
‘To BurgerFantastic. Send your team back to BurgerFantastic. But tell them to look for cephalosporin, not e-coli.’
‘What?’ she said incredulously.
‘Look for cephalosporin – in the vats they make the sauce in, but also in the boss’s office, the whole place –’
‘Detective,’ she interrupted. ‘This is very unusual. Our teams are under extreme –’
‘Dr Scholler – please, please trust me, just one more time?’ He sounded desperate.
‘Well, okay, detective, one more time.’
*
5.45 P.M.
‘John? This is Kim Scholler. The place is covered with it.’
‘With what?’
‘With cephalosporin powder.’
‘Bingo.’ Wyse thumped his desk.
‘At least, we believe it’s cephalosporin – we’ll tell you for certain when we get it to the main spectrophotometer. There’s traces on the boss’s desk, in the carpet, on the office stairs, the steps up to the vats – the place is alive with it.’
‘Kim, thanks. Can you get someone to drop a sample of it to a technician called Maria Cabrini at St Vincent’s?’
‘The University Hospital?’
‘That’s the one. Thanks, and call me when you’re certain.’
‘Detective, what’s going on?’
‘Doctor, I’m no scientist, but I think we may have to take one hell of a gamble. When’s your next team meeting?’
‘We’re leaving for Washington in twenty minutes. The meeting’s been moved to the White House.’
‘Okay. Don’t go without me. I’ll call.’ Wyse hung up. Twenty minutes. That’s about another three thousand infections. Gotta move fast.
*
He got straight through to Maria Cabrini.
‘Maria, John Wyse. There’s some powder on its way in to you from the Center for Disease Control and Prevention. Make certain for yourself that it’s cephalosporin. Real fast.’
‘Sure thing. John, I’m starting to get some really weird results from analysing this bacterium. This e-coli infection is resistant to cephalosporin, and it looks like it’s multi-resistant too. It’s also resistant to the carbapenem antibiotics – and I’m talking super-resistant. It almost looks manufactured. Nothing the hospitals throw at this is gonna work. I’m gonna run the tests again and –’
Wyse interrupted. ‘No time for that. I want you to put all your formulae and stuff for this prototype in your bag and be outside the hospital reception at 6.30 p.m.’
She agreed hesitantly. ‘And there’s an e-coli infection in the sauce on those burgers that you sent over with Mike.’
‘That’s it.’
‘John, what’s –’
‘No time for questions. Front door, 6.30 p.m.’
*
Wyse grabbed a handful of magazines and newspapers from desks around the office. He shoved them into a large brown folder as he ran out through the ground floor of the police station and jumped into the unmarked police car. With one hand on the steering wheel, he hit the speed dial for Cabrini’s cell phone.
‘Mike?’
‘Yo.’
‘I’ve taken the car. I need you to trace any vehicle registered to a Takar or Tasha el Sayden. S-A-Y-D-E-N. Once you know what it is, I think you’ll find it at Newark Airport – whatever terminal goes direct to, or connects to, Tripoli.’
‘And?’
‘Bring a police forensic team with you. Get them to check out the vehicle for cephalosporin powder. And anything that has an e-coli bacteria in it. Start in the trunk. Call me if you get a result.’
‘Okay, where are you?’
‘I’m going to the White House.’
‘What?!’
‘With your sister.’
‘What?!’
‘Don’t worry – call me as soon as you can with any results. Don’t forget now: cephalosporin. And e-coli.’
*
Almost as soon as John Wyse ended his conversation with Cabrini, his cell phone beeped twice. He glanced down.
Hi baby. Hope you’re okay. Awards dinner cancelled. Hanging with office guys. All v sad. Luv you. Laters. Anna xxx
With one thumb he texted a reply:
Luv you too babe. See you tonight xxx