The Cobra Event

  They could do what was known as a “freeze and seize” white-collar raid on Bio-Vek. They could move in with a huge white-collar-crime-analysis team, freeze the company’s operations, and take over the company in its entirety as federal evidence. That would be an extreme measure. In order to do a freeze and seize of a company, federal investigators must show probable cause that a crime has been committed. They must get a search warrant from a federal magistrate, a warrant that enables them to enter the premises and seize evidence. That was impossible in this case. There was no probable cause for thinking a crime had been committed—no evidence whatever to link Bio-Vek to the Unsub or to any crime. No federal magistrate would permit a raid on Bio-Vek.

  The right way to do things—the way the F.B.I. would proceed under normal circumstances—would be for the federal investigators to take their time to develop evidence, perhaps going undercover. They would conduct quiet interviews with low-level employees. They would contact the company’s bankers for information. They would check out the company’s dealings with suppliers and customers. They would try to get a sense of how the money was moving.

  Masaccio understood that the movement of money is the blood supply of crime. Just seeing the way this company’s name popped out so easily once Dr. Austen had identified the type of disease the virus was causing, he now understood, he knew in his heart, with a lifetime’s experience as an investigator, that money was somehow involved with the deaths in New York City. It was there, somewhere. The long green had entered the picture—but where?

  Since everyone wanted the Unsub found and arrested in a matter of days, before any more people died, there was extreme pressure on Frank Masaccio to fly fast and hard into the case. There was no time to mount a careful investigation into Bio-Vek, no time to profile the company. Yet there was zero evidence to justify a raid. There was a good chance the company itself might be blameless. An employee or a former employee could be the Unsub. The company might not have anything to do with it, and they might be eager to cooperate. He decided to ask the company for help. Carefully. He would use some of the Reachdeep people for this, since they would know the right questions to ask.

  Bio-Vek, Inc.

  GREENFIELD, NEW JERSEY, FRIDAY, MAY 1

  WILL HOPKINS, Alice Austen, and Mark Littleberry took a Bell turbo helicopter across Raritan Bay and touched down on a grassy airstrip in a town not far from Greenfield, a few miles east of Bio-Vek. They were met by three F.B.I. agents from the Trenton field office in unmarked Bureau cars. The Reachdeep team got into a car driven by a female agent. The two other Trenton agents took the other car, and they moved discreetly to a remote part of the airstrip, where one of the agents wired Hopkins with a micro-tape recorder, hung down his back behind his jacket. Hopkins was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, with a blue shirt and a muted silk necktie, and he had on sunglasses. He looked every inch a federal agent. Austen thought: he’s showing off. The only thing that spoiled the image was a lump under his jacket. He wore a SIG-Sauer nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol in a holster. But that wasn’t what made the lump. It was the pocket protector.

  They drove over suburban roads to a business park, some low buildings constructed during the office boom of the 1980s. The buildings were not old, but they didn’t look particularly new. They contained a mixture of businesses. There was a printer in one of the office blocks, with a civil-engineering firm next door.

  The Bio-Vek, Inc., building had coppery dark windows that concealed what was behind them. The investigative team cruised past, keeping a low profile. Littleberry pointed to some tall silver pipes coming out of the roof. “Vent stacks,” he said. “Looks like they’re venting a biocontainment lab. Level 2 or Level 3.”

  “That’s not unusual,” Hopkins said.

  The two F.B.I. cars parked in a back lot beside a Dumpster, near the printing business, out of view. Hopkins, Austen, and Littleberry got out of the car. Mark Littleberry was carrying a small Halliburton case. It contained a hand-held Boink biosensor and a swab kit.

  The Reachdeep team walked casually down a sidewalk. It was a faultless day, white clouds puffy and changing in a sky as blue as dreams. The air smelled like Colorado at nine thousand feet. The ornamental cherry trees had gone into fierce bloom, and though the bloom was past its peak, the trees flashed and moved brilliantly in the breeze. The trees and plants around the business park seemed to ache and sway with life. Above Bio-Vek, a sailplane swooped and banked on rising thermals under the clouds; a pilot having fun, and below the sailplane red-tailed hawks floated and turkey buzzards moved in slow circles, people and birds enjoying the air.

  The Reachdeep investigators stopped before the company’s nondescript brown door. There was a galvanized box by the door, for holding clinical samples.

  Hopkins led the way in. He gave the team members’ real names to the receptionist. He said that the group was from the Federal Bureau of Investigation and was there to see Dr. Orris Heyert, the president of Bio-Vek.

  “Was he expecting you?” the woman said. “I don’t see your names on the calendar.”

  “No, but this is important,” Hopkins said.

  She called Dr. Heyert on her telephone. In a moment he came out through a door into the lobby, with a puzzled expression on his face. He was a handsome man in his forties. He had dark hair, a smooth haircut, lively features. He wore a white shirt and a tie, but he was jacketless, and his sleeves were rolled up, and there were many cheap pens in his pocket. He had start-up-company look.

  In Dr. Heyert’s office—small and cluttered, with pictures of his wife and children on the shelves—they got down to business.

  “I realize this is unexpected,” Hopkins said. “But we need your help. I am with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and my colleagues here are with the Centers for Disease Control and the United States Navy.”

  “Can I see some identification, before we go any further?” Dr. Heyert said.

  Hopkins showed his creds. Austen showed her C.D.C. card.

  “Do you guys want some coffee?”

  They said they did.

  He called his secretary and asked her to bring coffee. He had an informal way about him that made Hopkins look stiff and uptight.

  Hopkins did the talking. “We need your help in an investigation.”

  “My company is not the subject of this investigation, I hope?”

  “No. We are searching for an unknown suspect who has been making terroristic threats involving an infective biological agent. We have reason to think that he’s knowledgeable about Lesch-Nyhan disease. We need your expertise and advice.”

  “This is very strange,” Heyert said.

  “Why?” Hopkins said. He looked calmly at Heyert. Time passed. More time passed.

  Heyert clearly expected Hopkins to say something more, but Hopkins did not. He just watched Heyert.

  Finally Heyert answered, “Well, it just seems strange.”

  “Have you fired any employees lately? Has anyone quit? Because we’re wondering if by any chance a disgruntled former employee of yours might be the person making these threats.”

  “Nobody has left the company in quite a while. Our employees are very loyal.”

  Hopkins watched Heyert carefully, oberving the man’s body and his eyes at least as much as he listened to the words. The tape recorder would get the words anyway. “Can you describe the research your company is doing?”

  “A lot of it is proprietary,” Heyert said mildly.

  “Are there areas you can talk about?” Hopkins asked.

  “We are trying to find a cure for the Lesch-Nyhan syndrome,” Dr. Heyert said. “We are using gene therapy. Are you familiar with that?”

  “Not totally. Could you explain it to us?” Hopkins said.

  “Gene therapy is where we replace a damaged gene in human tissue with a working gene. This involves putting the new genes directly into cells. We use viruses to put the genes into the cells. These viruses are called vectors. If you infect tissue with a ve
ctor virus, it will add genes or alter the genes.”

  “What kind of virus are you using?” Hopkins asked.

  “It’s just a construct,” Heyert said.

  “A construct? What’s that?”

  “It’s an artificial virus.”

  “Is it based on a natural virus?”

  “Several.”

  “Which?”

  “Principally the nuclear polyhedrosis virus.”

  “Oh,” Hopkins said. “Doesn’t that virus live in insects?”

  “Normally, yes.”

  “Can you tell me, Dr. Heyert, what strain you are using?”

  “Autographa californica. It has been modified to enter human brain cells.”

  “I’m curious, Dr. Heyert,” Hopkins said. “Could this virus be engineered so that it not only enters the brain but replicates there? Could it then spread from person to person?”

  He laughed in a way that seemed to Austen rather forced. “Good grief! No.”

  “There have been indications that the suspect has such a use in mind. We’re trying to evaluate the credibility of the threat.”

  “Nothing has happened, then?”

  “There’s been what is perceived as a threat.”

  “To do what?”

  “To injure people with this insect virus.”

  “Who’s making the threat?”

  “As I said, Dr. Heyert, that’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “I don’t think it’s much of a threat,” Heyert said. “The virus couldn’t be used that way.”

  “Could an engineered virus spread genetic changes through the human population?” Hopkins asked.

  There was a long pause. “This is way off base,” Heyert said. “Statements like that are frankly offensive to me. I am a physician, a medical doctor. What we are doing here is so remote from what you are suggesting that it is almost obscene. We are trying to alleviate the most terrible suffering. Have you ever seen a Lesch-Nyhan child?”

  Bio-Vek was a small company, all under one roof. Orris Heyert led the investigators into a back wing of the building where there was a cluster of surprisingly small rooms cluttered with benches and laboratory equipment. The labs were populated with young workers, most of whom wore casual clothes.

  “Who’s financing you?” Littleberry asked Heyert, in his blunt way.

  “Private investors.”

  “Do you mind telling us who?” Hopkins said.

  “Well, myself for one. I did well in a previous start-up.”

  “Who are the controlling shareholders?” Hopkins asked. He watched Heyert’s body language.

  “I am a general partner. We have limited partners, of course.”

  “What’s your cash-burn rate?” Hopkins asked.

  “You seem to have worked in biotechnology yourself, Dr. Hopkins.”

  “Not really.”

  Heyert flashed a not-very-nice look at Hopkins. “Didn’t pan out, eh? So you went to work for the government?”

  “It has its ups and downs.”

  They went into a laboratory. The benches were cluttered with research equipment, flasks and table shakers and incubators and small centrifuges. Biosafety cabinets stood against the walls. As they were passing through the lab, Littleberry whispered to Hopkins, “Those vent stacks we saw on the roof. They’re coming from somewhere near here. There’s a Level 3 unit around here, but we haven’t seen it yet.”

  They went around a corner and entered a small waiting room. There were a few stuffed chairs, and a door that said CLINIC.

  “We have a patient in the observation room with his mother,” Heyert said. “His name is Bobby Wiggner.”

  Bobby

  DR. HEYERT ENTERED the room first and asked Mrs. Wiggner if two visitors could meet her son. “Would Bobby like to be restrained?” he said to her.

  The mother glanced at her son, and she shook her head.

  Heyert brought Austen and Hopkins into the room. Littleberry chose to stay outside.

  Bobby Wiggner was a young man. He looked somewhat like a boy. On his chin appeared the faintest beginnings of a beard. He lay in a wheelchair in a half-straightened posture. His back was sharply curved; his body was rigid. A rubber strap went around his chest, holding him in the wheelchair.

  Austen watched. She observed Bobby Wiggner with the care of a medical doctor trying to see what was going on with a patient.

  His mother sat on a chair facing him—out of striking distance of his arms. She was reading to him from a book. The book was David Copperfield.

  The man-boy was thin, bony, stiff. He was wearing a T-shirt and a diaper. His legs were bare and his kneecaps stuck up like points. His legs were crossed—scissored and rigid. His feet were bare, and they were wrapped around each other. One of his big toes was extended straight up at a peculiar angle.

  He had no lips. His mouth was a hole consisting of bulbous wet scar tissue that extended across the lower half of his face: these were biting scars. His upper teeth were gone—probably extracted to prevent him from doing damage when he bit, but his lower teeth remained in place. His jaw was very flexible and seemed to move a lot. Over the years, in episodes, he had reached up with his lower teeth and had cut and sawed away his upper lip and the lower part of his nose. He had also eaten away his upper palate bone by gnawing it with his lower teeth, breaking off the palate bone bit by bit. In this way, reaching up with his lower teeth and using them as cutting tools, he had opened a hole in his face that extended from his palate up through his nose. He had eaten away the septum of his nose—the cartilage and flesh that divides the nostrils from each other. His breath whistled in and out of his mouth. He was missing several fingers; they were stumps. His right thumb was gone.

  His eyes were bright. They moved under deep-set, heavy eyelids, tracking Alice Austen and Will Hopkins. He had scruffy, chopped hair. From his wheelchair dangled an array of Rubatex straps. His hands were not tied down.

  Mrs. Wiggner stopped reading for a moment. She looked up at Austen and Hopkins. “My son sees you more clearly than you see him,” she said.

  They introduced themselves.

  “Wha uh uh wah?” Bobby said. What do you want? Air whistled through his mouth. He had trouble making words because he had no lips or upper teeth or upper palate.

  “We just wanted to see you and to say hello,” Austen said.

  “Huh uh am.” Here I am.

  “How are you feeling today?” Hopkins said.

  “Uh guh tuh uh.” Pretty good today.

  His body went into a writhing motion, the back arching and twisting, the legs twisting. Suddenly his arm lashed out, aiming for Austen’s face. She jerked her head back, just in time, and his clawlike mangled hand whipped past.

  Bobby Wiggner moaned. “Sorry. Sorry,” he said.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Guh tuh hell.”

  “Please, Bobby,” his mother admonished him.

  He lashed out at his mother, trying to strike her, and cursed violently at her. She did not react.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he said to her.

  “He needs his restraints,” his mother said.

  Quickly, with deft movements, the mother and Dr. Heyert tightened the Rubatex straps around the young man, fastening his wrists to the chair, and they placed and tightened a wide Rubatex band across his forehead. That helped restrain the back-and-forth writhing of his head.

  “Tha is wetter,” Bobby Wiggner said. “Huck you, I sorry.”

  “This is a vertically divided mind,” Dr. Heyert said. “The brain stem has been deranged and wants to attack the things it loves. The higher cortex—the conscious, thinking part of the mind—hates this but can’t control it. In these battles between the higher brain and the brain stem, the brain stem wins, because it is primitive and more powerful.”

  “Nuh wuh ook! Nuh!”

  “Are you sure, Bobby?” Mrs. Wiggner tried to keep reading.

  “I wanh sohsing tuh drink. Wlease.”

  “
Do you want milk?”

  “Nuh. Nuh.” No. No. That probably meant yes.

  The young man’s mother held a plastic cup up to his mouth. It had a feeding spout. She got some milk down his throat. Suddenly he vomited it up. His mother wiped him with a towel, dabbing it around the scarred remains of his lower face.

  Bobby turned his head and looked at Austen, his eyes bright. He was completely tied down. “Uhr yuh uh Stuh Tuk hwuhnh?”

  “I’m sorry. Could you say that again?” she said.

  “My son is asking if you are a Star Trek fan,” the mother remarked. “He always asks people that.”

  “Hopkins is,” Austen said.

  Hopkins went over and sat down on a chair next to Bobby Wiggner. “I like that show,” Hopkins said.

  “Wee, too,” Bobby Wiggner said.

  Hopkins listened. He found that he could understand the words.

  Wiggner said (his words are translated now): “My favorite episode is ‘City on the Edge of Forever.’ ”

  “Right! Mine, too!” Hopkins said. “When Captain Kirk ends up in Chicago.”

  “He was sad when the woman died,” Bobby Wiggner said.

  “Yes. He couldn’t save her.”

  “Or history would be changed,” Wiggner said.

  “Captain Kirk loved that woman. He should have saved her, and to hell with history,” Hopkins said.

  They were deep in conversation, Hopkins hunched over, seeming to forget the fact that he was supposed to be conducting an interview for the F.B.I.

  Austen stood back, watching Hopkins. He was leaning forward. She could see the muscles of his back and shoulders through his jacket. She thought: He’s very gentle.

  Abruptly she realized that she had stopped seeing Hopkins in a purely professional way. This did not seem to be the moment for that kind of thing, and she put it out of her mind.

  IN THE WAITING ROOM, Mark Littleberry asked an employee where the men’s room was, and he went off in that direction. Carrying the Halliburton briefcase, he hurried down a hallway toward the center of the building. Once again, Littleberry had gone AWOL. He found an unmarked door. It opened inward through a partition wall. On the far side was a short corridor leading to another door. This door was marked with the numeral 2.