“Did you take any flak for dragging him out there?”
“No. The opposite, actually. He’s in hog heaven. Keeps taking photos and videos and emailing them to his lab. Says it’s one of the most interesting things he’s seen in a long time.”
“Because of the gas?”
“No. He doesn’t have a definitive on that yet. Says it’s too dangerous to mess around with the shells while they’re in the field.”
“He doesn’t think they’re harmless?”
“He knows they’re not. Because of what they were coated with. VX.”
VX. The most deadly nerve agent ever invented. Developed in Britain in the 1950s. I don’t recall everything about the chemistry. But I remember what the V stands for. Venom. And the name’s not misplaced. A few years back two women wiped a little on Kim Jong Nam’s face while he waited for a flight at the Kuala Lumpur airport. He was Kim Jong Un’s half brother. Maybe he was making moves behind the scenes. Maybe someone just said he was. But either way, he was dead before he reached the hospital.
I said, “Does your guy think Dendoncker added VX to the smoke?”
“He’ll find out for sure at the lab. But look. All the shells had signs of recent tampering. And VX isn’t like sarin. It’s not a gas. It’s a liquid, like oil or honey, so it would be easy to pour inside. Then it needs a heat source to vaporize it. Like the reaction that would produce the colored smoke. And the smoke would then help to dissipate the poison. You couldn’t find a system better suited to dispersing VX if you spent the rest of your life searching. Is that a coincidence?”
“Seems unlikely. No wonder your guy is excited.”
“I can see the cogs going round in his head. He’s thinking about the papers he’s going to write. The law enforcement conferences he’s going to speak at. But that’s not all that got his bell ringing. He also found something hidden away in the electronics. A third way to detonate the bomb. On top of the timer and the cellular.”
“What kind of a third way?”
“A transponder. A common enough doodad, apparently. But not generally used this way. I know he’s an asshole. But this Dendoncker must be a hell of a creative guy. And thorough. A defensive coating of VX and three systems to do one job? Talk about leaving nothing to chance.”
Wallwork hung up, leaving me feeling a little guilty for not telling him that Dendoncker didn’t build the bomb. Michael did. He was the thorough, creative one. Ordinarily the TEDAC guys would have figured that out when they fed the details into their database. Aside from the last-minute addition of the VX, the components and the construction techniques would match the ones from the first bomb Michael had made. Which also had a transponder. With his fingerprint on it. Only TEDAC wouldn’t make the connection this time. Because Fenton had destroyed the older evidence. I guess keeping quiet made me an accessory to some kind of federal crime. I didn’t think it mattered too much, though. Michael’s bomb-making career was over. And if the FBI followed through, Dendoncker’s soon would be, too.
Fenton was anxious to get moving but I convinced her to wait while I made one more call. To Dr. Houllier. On his cell. I didn’t know if the medical center was staffed 24/7 and I didn’t want to show up with Michael and find there were no doctors in the place. Dr. Houllier said he would make sure someone was there. He sounded cagey so I pressed him and he admitted he would come and treat Michael himself. He confessed he was already back in town and offered to come for us in an ambulance. That was tempting. My only concern was the risk involved. Someone could see him and inform Dendoncker. Reprisals could follow, depending on how long he remained on the loose. But a more immediate problem was that we had no other transport. Only the Chevy that should still be parked outside the house. Which we had no keys for. So I told Dr. Houllier about the place. Gave him the address. And said I’d call him when we were ready to be picked up.
* * *
—
Dr. Houllier set us up on the pediatric floor. That was a thoughtful move. Instead of regular rooms they had a series of little suites. The kind of places that enable parents to stay with their sick kids. A couple of nurses helped Dr. Houllier get Michael squared away in the hospital bed. They hung extra IV bags. Took his temperature. Blood pressure. Peered into his eyes and ears with special machines. Daubed him with creams and lotions. And prodded and poked him in all kinds of different places.
Eventually Dr. Houllier said he was happy. He said it might take a while but he was sure Michael would be OK. He warned us that someone would come by every hour to do some observations. Then he left us to get comfortable. Fenton took an armchair. She shoved it close in at Michael’s side and curled up, knees to chest. I took the other bed. It was close to five a.m. I’d been up for twenty-two hours. I was exhausted. But I was feeling quietly satisfied. Fenton was safe. Michael wasn’t dead. The bomb was defused and on its way to be studied by the experts. I figured that things were basically good in the world.