Death Watch (9 page)

S
ydney didn’t get much sleep, and even that was restless. After depositing Hunz Vonner at his hotel, despite his continued protests in which he called her professionalism into question, she arrived home at 2:30 a.m. after promising to pick him up at 6:00 a.m.

Falling into bed, she wrestled with the bedclothes for an hour and a half, sleeping fitfully with dream vignettes of Lyle Vandeveer looking up at her with startled eyes as he drew his last breath.

Her phone woke her at 4:30 a.m.: Hunz, reminding her to pick him up at six. It rang again at 4:45 a.m.: Sol Rosenthal’s assistant telling her to be at the station at 7:00 a.m. and not to forget to pick up Hunz Vonner.

Sydney flung her legs over the side of the bed. The way she felt, it would have been better had she not tried to sleep at all. There were rocks under her eyelids that burned when she blinked. Her head spun and swiveled like a toy gyroscope.

Willing herself into motion, Sydney switched on the thirteen-inch television set she kept in the corner of the bedroom.

Death Watch dominated the news. Overnight, the phenomenon had escalated dramatically. With the rest of the globe already well into the day, a mounting wave of panic was about to hit the West Coast like a tsunami.

Sydney listened to the newscast as she washed her face.

In the lower right corner of the screen, the Homeland Security Awareness Symbol, popularly called the Terror Meter, was set at Level Three.

Deaths are listed in the thousands. Among those dead are Dame Edna Bingham, a member of Great
Britain’s
House of Lords; Joey LaMott, Baltimore Ravens first-round draft pick; and Andrea Scott, femme fatale of the popular daytime series
Days of Our Lives.

While there are rumors that among the dead are one state governor, two congressmen, and a member of the president’s cabinet, confirmations are being withheld for security reasons.

Beyond the personal tragedies of these deaths are the catastrophic effect they’re having on transportation, commerce, and civic functions. It’s reported that a pilot for
Western Airlines
died in flight between San Francisco and Dallas. A death watch notice was found in his pocket. The copilot managed to land the plane safely. Airline officials say they will immediately begin screening their pilots using voice stress analysis machines before allowing any pilot or crew member to board the plane.

Despite the assurances of the
airlines,
many passengers are canceling their flights. Due to the apparent 100 percent accuracy of death watch notices, some commuters fear that a passenger marked for death could possibly doom the entire plane. Amtrak and bus lines are experiencing similar problems.

Meanwhile, in Boise, Idaho, a third-grade schoolteacher died in front of her class. Officials found a death watch notice in her grade book. And traffic in New York’s Holland Tunnel was brought to a standstill when a big-rig truck jackknifed and overturned, spilling hundreds of gallons of milk. The driver was a death watch victim.

Authorities are urging everyone who has received a death watch notice to stay home.

And in Morgantown, West
Virginia,
the residents of Hillwood Drive are taking matters into their own hands by barricading the entrance to their street.
Armed
with shotguns, they refuse to let the postman deliver the mail, fearing that he might deliver a death watch notice.

Still others are
attempting
to avoid death watch notices by refusing to answer their email. According
to
officials at Microsoft and

Yahoo, cyber mailboxes are bulging with unanswered mail, creating a backlog that is taxing available space on the servers. Ironically, most of the mail is spam.

5
:59 a.m. Hunz Vonner was standing outside the hotel waiting for Sydney as she drove into the circle drive. He was opening the door before the Volvo came to a stop.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he snapped.

She would have arrived early; however, before leaving home she’d made a phone call. Even so, she wasn’t late. “You told me to pick you up at—”

“Take me to the FBI field office.”

“We have a meeting—”

“It’s on Wilshire Boulevard.”

“I know where it is.”

“Why aren’t we moving?”

Sydney looked over at him, bit back the comment that was on the tip of her tongue, put the car in gear, and pulled into the street. Downtown traffic was already sluggish.

“Just pull in front. I’ll only be a minute,” Hunz said when they arrived.

“It’s a red zone.”

He looked at her in exasperation. “Just do it, all right?”

Hunz disappeared into the building. Five minutes later, Sydney was still waiting for him, motor running, sitting in a red zone. Two pedestrians informed her she couldn’t park there. She thanked them.

Ten minutes passed. A police cruiser pulled up beside Sydney. A two-man unit. The officer in the passenger seat rolled down his window. He didn’t say anything. He just stared at her.

“I’m waiting for someone,” she said, motioning to the FBI building.

Apparently, the officer felt his stare communicated well enough. It did. He had those mirror-reflector style of sunglasses. Sydney didn’t have to wonder if she looked as ridiculous as she sounded. She could see herself in the reflection. She produced her press pass.

“My partner just ran in to get something.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask for details, because she’d already told him everything she knew.

“Move it,” said the officer.

Sydney looked at the front door of the FBI office, hoping to see Hunz. She didn’t.

“Look, lady,” said the officer. “We’re going to circle the block. If you’re still here when we get back, I’m gonna write you up.”

He rolled up his window. The squad car continued on its way.

With one last glance at the front door, Sydney had no choice but to click on her turn signal and pull out into traffic.

She circled the block. Once, twice, three times. On her fourth circuit, Hunz was standing curbside. He was shouting into his cell phone.

Sydney pulled into the red zone to pick him up. He was stepping into the street as she did so, and she almost hit him. He yanked the door open.

“I have no idea where she went,” Hunz shouted into the phone, “but she’s here now.” He snapped the phone shut. “I told you to wait for me.”

“And I told you this is a red zone.” Sydney hit her turn signal. She checked her side mirror just in time to see a police squad car pull up beside her. It angled to block her in.

While Hunz Vonner stewed in the passenger seat, the police officer with the reflector sunglasses took his good sweet time writing Sydney her traffic ticket.

Sydney and Hunz were thirty minutes late for their morning meeting at the station.

T
he news team was assembled and seated at Command Central when Sydney and Hunz arrived. As usual, Sol Rosenthal and Helen Gordon were in the positions of power. Coanchor Grant Forsythe was in his place next to the producer. Beside Grant was Cori Zinn, in a none-too-subtle staging meant to convince people she belonged at his side in a professional capacity off camera as well as on. Josh Leven and Phil Sanders were absent, as were production crew and interns. Sydney remembered Josh had flown to Chicago the night before to cover a Lakers away game.

Hunz was several steps ahead of Sydney. He pulled out a chair next to Helen and opposite Grant, which left Sydney the chair opposite Cori.

However, before she reached the chair Sol Rosenthal zeroed in on her. He shoved back his chair and pulled her aside. “A minute,” he said. Whether he was asking Sydney for a minute or telling Helen he needed a minute was unclear. All Sydney knew was he was fired up and ready to unload on her a short distance from the table.

“I told you to assist Hunz Vonner in any capacity needed,” he shouted. His voice was easily heard by everyone at Command Central. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“That’s what I’ve been doing,” Sydney said.

“Have you? Then why did you refuse to drive him to locations last night? And this morning you drove off and left him standing on the street.”

“I was in a red zone,” Sydney said.

But Rosenthal wasn’t listening. He didn’t want a discussion, he wanted contrition and compliance. He also wanted to display his authority, which had been bruised yesterday in front of his European guest. Sydney knew defending herself would be useless. Showing him the parking ticket would be useless. So she said nothing.

“I have to say I’m disappointed in you,” Rosenthal said. “I didn’t expect this kind of behavior from you.”

What kind of behavior? Sydney felt like she was a teenager being chewed out by her parents for something she didn’t do. To complete the image, Cori sat a few feet away sniggering like a spoiled sibling.

Sol Rosenthal gave her an unblinking stare, finished for the moment at least. But this wasn’t the last Sydney would hear of this. She knew from experience Sol would bring it up again in meetings and conversations and snide comments for the next month or two. He was the kind of guy who never let you forget an error, real or perceived.

Sydney followed him back to the table.

Helen took charge. “Overnight this death watch thing has turned into an international nightmare,” she said. “Not since 9/11 have I seen our nation react to something so immediately and universally. People are scared. I’m scared. So what do we have?”

“I have a lead,” Hunz said. He was so eager to tell what he had, he trampled all over the end of Helen’s question.

A thin leather binder and a manila folder lay in front of him on the table. It was the same folder he’d picked up at the FBI field office. The tab at the top was marked CONFIDENTIAL. Pushing aside the FBI folder, he opened the leather binder and shuffled some loose papers.

“My team in Berlin and I think we may have a promising lead,” he said. His papers in place now, he looked up. Confident. Assured. As he spoke, he directed his comments to Sol Rosenthal and Grant Forsythe. “To begin: Whoever is doing this has to have vast resources with operatives in every major city of the world. That eliminates a lot of groups.”

“Al Qaeda, for one,” Grant said.

“Exactly. Even before the US invaded Afghanistan, I doubt al Qaeda had the resources to execute something of this size and scope. It has to be someone with almost unlimited resources.”

“Wait a minute,” Sol Rosenthal said. “You’re not going where I think you’re going with this, are you?”

Hunz didn’t respond. He let Sol answer his own question.

“You’re not thinking the United States is behind this,” he said. “The army? The CIA?”

Hunz Vonner squared his shoulders and looked Sol Rosenthal in the eye. “We haven’t ruled that out,” he said.

Helen said, “But what possible reason would—”

Hunz cut her off. “There’s a more likely candidate,” he said, “though you have to admit the United States is one of the few entities in the world that has the resources to do something on the scale of Death Watch.”

“As do several other major countries,” Helen said.

“So who do you think it is?” Sol frowned.

Hunz Vonner paused like a television detective does just before revealing the identity of the murderer.

“His name is Feliks Baranov,” Hunz said.

“That name’s familiar,” Helen said.

Hunz nodded. “You probably know him from when he was a general in the army of the Soviet Union.”

“Part of the attempted coup when Gorbachev was vacationing in the Crimea,” Helen said.

Hunz nodded. “A hardliner who violently opposed Gorbachev’s
glasnost
and
perestroika
initiatives.”

“Openness and reform,” Grant said, eager to demonstrate he knew the meaning of the words.

“So you think it’s the Russians who are—,” Cori said.

“Russians, yes,” Hunz said. “But not the government. The Russian mafia.”

After a moment of stunned silence several questions were fired at Hunz at once. He waved them off.

“Hear me out,” he said. “I know at first it sounds like a 1950s movie plot, but only to people who don’t know the facts of the modern Russian mafia. Hear me out before dismissing the idea.”

Hunz took their silence for consent.

“After the failed coup against Gorbachev in 1991, General Baranov managed to elude capture. He disappeared, but he didn’t go away. We have documents indicating he teamed up with Vassily Sorokin.”

“The Russian mafia kingpin,” Grant said.

“Over the years they built an organization that literally spans the globe. Believe me when I say they are a viable world power. They own banks. They purchase weapons from the Russian army to supplement what they make in their own weapons factories and then sell them on the black market. They are established in Western and Eastern Europe, Canada, the Middle East—primarily Israel—and nearly every country in Africa. In South America they have established links with the largest drug cartels. Companies who do business in Russia routinely pay them up to 20 percent of their profits. And according to Swiss court documents, they have laundered over sixty billion dollars through Swiss banks. Baranov and Sorokin have more money and more resources than most countries.”

He patted the FBI manila folder.

“The Russian mafia has what they call combat brigades in major US cities—New York, Miami, Houston, and here in Los Angeles. Their daily bread and butter includes extortion, counterfeiting, drug trafficking, arms dealing, prostitution, contract killings, and blackmail. Recently the head of the FBI identified the Russian mafia as the greatest threat to American national security. It’s a matter of record.”

Hunz had their attention.

“This Baranov character,” Sol said, “you think he’s trying to take over the world?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Hunz leaned forward, his expression intense. “That was his goal when he was a general of the Soviet Union. And while his country has changed, he hasn’t. What better way to announce a new world order than with thousands of precision deaths proving that no one is out of his reach?”

“Are they taking credit for these death watch killings?” Helen asked.

Grant Forsythe scoffed. “Who
isn’t
claiming credit for death watch notices now?” He produced a sheet of his own and read. “The Hamas. The Felix Cordova drug cartel. Abu Sayyaf, the Philippine guerilla outfit. The Islamic Liberation Front. The Japanese Red Army. As for pointing the finger at others: Islamic leaders are blaming Christians and Jews; Christian television preachers say it’s a fulfillment of prophecy and that the Muslims are behind it all. There’s even a group of militant senior citizens in New Jersey who say the killings will continue until their Medicare benefits are increased.”

“To answer your question,” Hunz said to Helen, “no, the Russian mafia has not claimed credit for the deaths. However, it’s early. They specialize in terror. You have to understand the mentality of these people. They’ll shoot you just to see if their gun works.”

“All right,” Sydney said. “Let’s assume the Russian mafia is behind this. How are they doing it? Last night Lyle Vandeveer died at precisely the instant they said he would.”

Hunz pulled out a photograph from the manila folder and tossed it into the center of the table. “Yuri Kiselev,” he said. “Scientist. Disappeared two months ago.”

The man in the black-and-white photo was a pale, hollowcheeked Russian with piercing eyes and a bad comb-over.

“You think Baranov grabbed him,” Sol said.

“That, or he went willingly. It’s sketchy, but Baranov and Kiselev knew each other during their Soviet days. Kiselev worked with the army to develop experimental weapons. Baranov was the head of that project.”

“What kind of weapons?” Helen asked.

“At this point, it’s speculation,” Hunz said. “The project simply provides a possible tie between the two men. It’s what happened after the collapse of the Soviet Union that’s important. Yuri Kiselev is Russia’s foremost authority in an emerging technology.”

“Nanotechnology,” Grant Forsythe said, stealing Hunz Vonner’s thunder.

“What’s that?” Cori asked.

Hunz looked to Grant. The silent exchange had an edge to it. Did Grant want to field the question? The coanchor deferred to Hunz.

“Basically,” Hunz said, “nanotechnology is an attempt to manufacture products on the atomic level, arranging atoms as though they were colored Lego bricks. Kiselev is experimenting with molecular robotics. He’s building devices that are one one-thousandth the width of a human hair. These machines—called nanobots—are then inserted into the human bloodstream.”

“You asked Mr. Vandeveer if he’d had an injection recently,” Sydney said.

Hunz nodded. “We believe they may be contaminating batches of popular medicines with nanobots. A person goes in for a flu shot and they get a programmed molecular robotic injected into their bloodstream.”

“Is that possible?” Helen asked.

“Scientists the world over are working on nanotechnology. Some of the projects on the drawing board are to use them to clean arteries, repair DNA, repair damaged cells, find and eliminate viruses, and even clean the inside of our lungs.”

“Our greatest strides in aviation occurred during time of war,” Grant said. “Could it be that our greatest strides in microrobotics will come as a result of terrorism?”

“So Lyle Vandeveer…,” Sydney prompted.

“Two possibilities,” Hunz said. “One project that’s being explored is the use of nanobots as cancer killers. The robot would be programmed to seek out cancer cells and inject them with a poison that would kill them.”

“Substitute a cancer-killing poison with a fatal poison,” Helen said, “released with computerized precision.”

“The other possibility is the use of nanobots to fight thrombosis, or blood clots. Ideally, the nanobot would patrol the bloodstream and search for unwanted developing internal clots. We all know that a stray clot in the bloodstream can cause a heart attack if it clogs an artery or gets into a lung, or it can cause a seizure if it goes to the brain.”

Helen tapped her pencil on the pad in front of her. “So, have they determined the cause of Mr. Vandeveer’s death?”

Sydney felt the blood drain from her face. Before leaving the house this morning she’d called the medical examiner to get a report on the cause of Lyle Vandeveer’s death. “He died of a blood clot,” she said.