Endorphin Conspiracy, The (18 page)

“That’s right.”

“And an anonymous pen-pal named Proteus has been dropping hints only to you about everything that’s been going on?”

“I don’t know if anyone else has received any messages. I can speak only for myself,” Geoff said.

“Finally, the fanatic Hasidic Rabbi on the subway train—the same train you were on—who blew away poor, innocent people on their way home from work, got the same drug, probably given to him when he was a patient at the Trauma Center.”

Geoff nodded. It all seemed so clear. It made perfect sense. “That’s right.”

“Do you have a
motive
, doc? I mean if this is truly goin’ on—and I’m not saying it is or it isn’t at this point—what’s the reason? And you better have a good one you can back up, because there are some pretty powerful people involved here with a lot more to lose than yourself.”

“Not yet.”

“Do you know what common thread seems to connect all of these incidents? What one thing is always right there at the center of the action each time, right there in the eye of this hurricane, so to speak?” O’Malley asked, raising his brow.

Geoff felt O’Malley’s sea-green stare burn through him like a laser beam from across the table. He returned the stare without hesitation. “Yes, captain, I do.”

O’Malley removed the cigar from his mouth and pointed it across the table. “You.”

Chapter 30

Geoff had been so caught up in the events of the last few days, he’d barely had time to go to the bathroom, let alone attempt to decipher the encrypted message he’d printed in Balassi’s office. Now that he had returned from the Trauma Center after dropping off the vials for Suzanne, cleaned out his office and checked for any more e-mail messages—there were none—he had some time on his hands.

O’Malley had given him food for thought, and he began questioning Suzanne’s motives. Perhaps she had used him—why, he wasn’t sure—to get those vials for her, but he had used her in a sense, as well. She had risked her fellowship position by running the autopsy assays, retrieving the PET scan data from the computer, pulling the rabbi’s chart, all at his request. Geoff had to wonder what stake she had in all this. Was it simply intellectual curiosity, their mutual attraction, or something more?

Geoff assumed one of the security guards tipped off Balassi, who noticed the missing vials and simply put two and two together. Geoff felt the intruder was connected to other events, through Balassi not through Suzanne, as O’Malley had suggested.

Geoff dismissed the police guard O’Malley had posted in the apartment and locked the door securely behind him. He entered the living room, checked his voice mail on his cell phone. There were two new messages. He sat down on the couch, listened to the first message.

“Hi Geoff, Suzanne here. Just wanted to let you know I found those theatre tickets I told you about. I think they’re a matched set, just like we said they would be. I should know for sure by seven-thirty or eight tonight. I’ll be working late in the autopsy room, so stop by. Eight o’clock,okay? I’ll be waiting for you. See you tonight.”

At first Geoff wondered what the hell she was talking about, then realized she was trying to be discreet about the endorphin vials. She must have gotten some heat about them from her department head and was trying to keep a low profile. He shook his head, checked the next message.

“Hi, big bro, Stefan here. I’ve got good news and bad news regarding the, uh, project I’ve been working on. How about the good news first? Proteus sent those messages from within the NYTC. No surprise, huh? But he’s a real pro man, I mean, he has to be someone with big, big time resources and government connections. But even professionals screw up from time to time, and I think I caught one. Interesting routing pattern. Seemed random at first, but there’s always a pattern, even to randomness.

“The bad news I have to tell you in person. I don’t want to say more over the phone. You never know who might be listening. Meet me at the same place as last time. Tonight. Ten o’clock. Later. Hey, be careful, okay?”

Geoff replayed Stefan’s message to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. Stefan hesitated and cleared his throat between words, something he did only when he was nervous. Geoff felt concern for his brother, knew he felt like he was sitting on a time-bomb, knew he might in fact be doing just that. He hit speed-dial, tried to call Stefan. No answer, just voice mail.

It was only five o’clock. Geoff had a couple of hours to try and crack the coded message. He moved to the kitchen table and removed the sheet from his fanny pack. He placed the message on the table in front of him, pad, pencil and day timer alongside it, sat down. He studied the message.

Geoff had read coded messages before. It was a standard part of Navy Seal training, how mission directives were sent. Though the battalion commander read most of the messages, it was essential for every member on a mission to be able to decipher coded messages in case of injury, death, or separation from the commander or communications officer.

Geoff studied the pattern carefully, made notes on his legal pad. The smallest number was a 01, the largest a 52. The vast majority of the numbers were between 01 and 28. He concluded these must each represent letters of the alphabet, 52 probably the number that oriented the reader to the layout and pattern of the coded message in some way.

Geoff scanned the lines with his pencil, looking for any repeating patterns. He noted the frequent use of the number 12, and deduced this number probably represented a space between words. Some senders chose to use these, others did not. Looked like this one did. The trick to decoding was knowing the pattern and which number started the sequence of assignment with which letter of the alphabet.

Intelligence officers—at least in Naval Intelligence—had developed a number of ways to throw off anyone trying to break a code. Since there was no way, even with the use of a computer to know which of these tricks were being used in this case, Geoff fell back on what he knew and began trying familiar ciphers, those related to the monthly calendar. A recent day timer or calendar was essential. This process could take hours or days. Hours he had. Days he did not.

Geoff thought back to the code most commonly used in the Navy, the January Cipher. The sequence of number assignment was set by the January calendar of a certain year. Geoff glanced back at the first few numbers in the message. 09-08-02-02-12. He ignored the 12 and assumed that the first four numbers set the sequencing, 09 probably indicating the year and the orientation, horizontal or vertical. Since the message was printed horizontally, he made the assumption “9” in the right column of the digit indicated vertical, “0” horizontal. The number 09, then, must indicate the calendar year 2010.

Usually codes were assigned from current year back, not forward, since not everyone had a calendar that included dates two years ahead. Geoff flipped to the front page of his day timer. It contained a 2010 calendar. He then examined the month of January and tried to apply the other principals of ciphering he knew.

The second number, 08, was the day of the message. The month was assumed to be the current month. The third number, 02, how many days to subtract from the second number to find the true date of the message. The fourth number, 02 again, was usually the critical one, indicating with which Friday of the month—that was the convention used—to begin the sequencing, assigning the letter of the alphabet corresponding to that date as the number 01.

Geoff penciled in his first attempt to crack the code. July 6, 2010. X-U-J-H-N-W. He came up with nonsense, knew he was wrong. Geoff paused, considered an alternative. Maybe he had the “09” backwards, the “0” representing the 2010 calendar year and the “9” demonstrating horizontal orientation of the message. R-T-P-E-W-F. Gibberish once again.

Geoff considered different months to orient the sequencing. First he tried December, using both 2010 and 2009 calendars, then he tried June. Both were months he knew were used in ciphers. Each drew a blank. Geoff stared at the message, bit his lip in frustration. He had to break this code. He knew it contained valuable information.

Then he tried the month of February. The February cipher was the code he’d learned encryption on, but he’d assumed it had long since been discarded. First 2010. Nothing. Then 2009. Geoff jotted down his results. T-Q-F-D-M-S. Shit. He’d thought he was onto something.

Geoff closed his eyes and tried to visualize the last time he had decoded a message. He had been having a problem and had gone to the communications officer, who gave him a few helpful hints. What were they? One had to do with ordering of the letters to assign the code, the other with spaces.

Z. That was it. The ordering began with the letter Z at the front of the alphabet, not A! He tried it again, this time starting with the letter P as number 1, since it was the seventeenth letter of the alphabet, corresponding to the date of the second Friday in February, 2010, when Z was before A.

Z A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U 11 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 01 02 03 04 05 06

V W X Y

07 08 09 10

URHFOT TRBOSNJSSJ__O

Geoff recognized a pattern. The message was beginning to take shape. He was close, but the sequence was off by a letter or two. Somehow, it had to relate to the other hint his old navy buddy had told him about. Something to do with spaces.

Geoff looked over the entire message once again, and noted the number 28 was used several times, though not as often as the number 12, which he was still sure corresponded to a space between words. Two numbers, not just the number 12, had to have specific purposes. What could it be?

Numbers. Of course. The February cipher indicated a number would be coming instead of a letter after the number 11 was seen in the message. 12 indicated a space, 11 a number. Geoff reordered the sequence, this time skipping 11 and 12.

Z A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 01 02 03 04 05 06

V W X Y 11= number to follow 12= space

07 08 09 10

Then he deciphered the encrypted message:

URGENT TRANSMISSION CODE RED SIGMA PROJECT INFILTRATED BY AGENT FROM THE IGS OFFICE MONITORING SITUATION CLOSELY NEUTRALIZATION ORDERED DO NOT ATTEMPT TO INTERFERE BLUEBIRD

Geoff read the message over, exhaled to release the tension. He tapped his foot nervously. What he had been calling experimentation with his patients was an organized conspiracy—
the Sigma Project
—with Balassi and whoever Bluebird was at the center. Pederson had to be in on it. Lord knew who else was involved.

They had tried to take Geoff out of the loop by suspending him. If an agent from the IG’s—Inspector General’s—office was infiltrating the project, something big was happening here. That much was obvious. So was the term “neutralization.” He had to do something to contact the agent, find out who it was. Could it be his anonymous pen pal, Proteus?

It was worth a try. Stefan said he’d have information for him tonight.

The problem was, the message was already over twenty-four hours old. The agent, whoever it was, might be dead by now.

Chapter 31

Geoff checked his watch as he walked down the dark and musty corridor to the autopsy lab: 7:54 p.m. Better to be a few minutes early, get what he needed and get out so he could head downtown and meet Stefan. Geoff was worried about him. He had left him a message to rendezvous at nine instead of ten o’clock. With the order to neutralize the agent foremost on Geoff’s mind, every minute counted. He reached down to his left calf and checked to be sure his Colt was in its holster. It was. O’Malley had taken his combat knife, but not his pistol.

The autopsy lab, located in the basement of the old wing of the hospital, was not one of Geoff’s favorite places. He had wondered why Suzanne wanted to meet him there and not her research lab, but concluded it would be more private. So much the better.

Geoff approached the autopsy room, inserted his ID card into the slot. The door opened with a soft whoosh. A waft of moist, acrid air smacked him in the face. His nostrils flared. His eyes watered. Nothing else smelled quite like a room full of stiffs in various states of pickling and dissection.

Expecting Suzanne to be sitting at the desk just inside the doorway, Geoff was struck by the room’s eerie silence. No saws were buzzing, no voices dictating notes. Not a
living
creature was in sight or within earshot as he scanned the room. Ten autopsy tables, four of them occupied. He checked his watch again and verified the time on the wall clock: 7:56 p.m.

Geoff walked over to Suzanne’s desk and sat down. He hunted around, looking to see if she had left the information she had promised. Nothing but scattered papers and research grant proposals. He scanned the room to be sure no one was watching, then searched her desk drawers one at a time. Nothing in the top three, but the bottom drawer was locked. He glanced up at the clock: 8:02 p.m. Suzanne was nothing if not punctual.

Geoff picked up the phone and dialed her research office, let it ring ten times. He was beginning to feel uneasy. He looked around the dimly lit room again, thought he heard a sound. He waited. No sound. No movement.

Geoff began to wonder whether Suzanne was playing games with him, testing him. He stared at the locked drawer and was somehow sure the information he was after was inside. He rummaged through the other drawers for a key, found none. He had to get into that drawer.

Geoff took a letter opener out of the top drawer and forced it in the crack between the drawers. He fiddled it back and forth, trying to force open the lock, but it would not budge. He grabbed a paper clip and tried to pick it the lock, but to no avail. In frustration, Geoff pounded the drawer with his fist. A metallic clink from beneath the desk echoed through the room. Geoff looked down and found a small key. Couldn’t be that easy. He tried it anyway. The drawer opened.

He found a large, thick manila envelope, clearly marked: “Theater tickets for Geoff Davis. Hope you enjoy the show!” Geoff looked around the room again to make sure he was alone, then ripped open the envelope. Inside was an SD memory card, a flash drive, and a stack of papers. Geoff rummaged through her desk for a handheld digital recorder and found one. He put the memory card in and turned on the recorder.

“Hi,Geoff. I don’t have much time...” Suzanne’s voice had a sense of urgency and echoed through the room. Geoff instantly switched off the recorder, placed the contents back in the envelope. Suzanne was obviously in trouble, and he was convinced he had to get out of there right away. He’d listen to the rest of the recording when he got back to his apartment.

Geoff scanned the room one more time. He listened for any sounds, his hearing hyper acute. Nothing. The morgue was often the most private place in the Trauma Center.

I don’t have much time...

The words jolted him like an electric shock. Who knew he was coming here besides Suzanne? Where was Suzanne? He looked at the clock: 8:17 p.m. His mind raced with options.

It was past time to get the hell out of there. Geoff stood and stuffed the envelope into his pants, covering it with his sweat shirt. He reached down his leg, removed the Colt from its holster, and slowly walked away from the desk, weaving his way between the autopsy tables.

Geoff heard a strange sound to his right, the sound of water dripping onto the floor. His gaze darted from table to table, searching for any sign of an intruder. The dripping sound became louder.

Slowly, he moved past the last table, toward the exit, revolver drawn. Geoff found himself standing in a puddle of blood. He turned, almost lost his footing, tried to stabilize himself by grabbing the edge of the table. Instead, he grasped the body’s arm and pulled its dead weight on top of him, landing on the floor with a crash.

Covered with warm blood, Geoff jumped up, lifting the freshly autopsied body off of him in the process. Geoff forced himself to look down at the body as he tried to wipe himself clean.

He gasped.

“Oh my God, Suzanne!”

Suzanne Gibson, her skin chalky white, her belly slashed cleanly, surgically—
professionally—
was lying on the floor in a dark crimson lake of her own blood. Geoff grabbed Suzanne’s face, looked at her lifeless eyes, checked her carotid pulse. She was still alive, gasping for air, her pulse barely palpable. Geoff grabbed a towel from the table and applied pressure to her oozing abdominal wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Suzanne had lost a lot of blood and Geoff knew he didn’t have much time. He had to get her to the ER right away so they could stop the bleeding and replace her lost blood volume.

Suzanne opened her eyes, stared at Geoff, tried to speak, but no words flowed. Geoff’s eyes were glazed, somewhere between sadness and anger.

“Who did this to you, Suzanne,
who?
”

Suzanne whispered a response, nothing Geoff could understand. Geoff bent down, kissed her cool, waxy lips. “Stay with me Suzanne, I’m taking you to the ER. You’re going to be O.K.”

His instincts told him to get them out of there as quickly as he could. Geoff placed his arms beneath her, lifted her carefully and turned to run
but something blocked his path.

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a ski mask stood in front of them, holding a large autopsy knife dripping blood. Suzanne’s eyes widened with a flash of terror. Geoff set Suzanne down as quickly and carefully as he could. He was breathing so hard his ribs hurt. His heart felt like it was going to burst. He started to reach down for his gun, realized it had fallen on the floor by the autopsy table. Once again, he and this masked man stood across from each other, facing off. Only this time, there would be only one survivor.

“What the hell do you want?” Geoff demanded.

Ice blue eyes, set deep in their sockets deflected Geoff’s anger, gazed at a limp Suzanne now moaning on the floor nearby. The assailant approached, knife in hand, slashed at Geoff, who dodged the lunge, then ducked under one of the autopsy tables.

Geoff ran from table to table, knocking over buckets of body parts, staying low to the ground, out-maneuvering the less agile killer.

A foot kicked in from the side and connected with Geoff’s ribs. A sharp pain radiated from his side around to his back. The foot came swiftly again, but this time Geoff was prepared. He grabbed it and flipped the man to the ground with a loud crash.

The knife bounced to the floor, and both men scrambled to get to it. Geoff was just a foot away from the weapon, when the man grabbed his leg with a grunt and pulled him away. Geoff kicked fiercely, heard a loud crunch as his heel connected with the man’s nose.

Geoff broke free, grabbed the knife, turned and lunged. He put the knife to the man’s throat. Though Geoff had been trained to kill as a Navy Seal, he was a healer, not a killer.

“Who sent you?”

Silence. Geoff reached to rip off the mask, but the killer grasped his hand and squeezed. The knife dropped to the ground.

The man seized the knife again, thrust it at Geoff who had stood to run toward Suzanne, then collided with one of the autopsy tables. The slashing knife missed its mark, but the man’s momentum carried him forward, the weight of both combatants knocking table and corpse to the ground.

Geoff’s head hit the ground, and he was dazed briefly. He looked up just in time to see a glimmering reflection coming at him. He rolled to his right, the knife whooshing by his ear and piercing the dark flesh of the supine corpse.

Geoff felt something fine and cold against his face. He grabbed an autopsy knife that had fallen off the table and plunged it through one side of the assailant’s neck and out the other, just as the man freed his own knife from the cadaver’s chest. Blood pumped fiercely from the neck wound at first, then slowed to a trickle.

Geoff rolled the man’s body over on its back and removed the knife from his hand. He checked for any signs of life. The man had stopped breathing, and there was no pulse. Geoff took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. He studied the man’s lifeless eyes, eyes just moments ago full of cold-blooded hatred.

Geoff knew who it was, who it had to be. Slowly, Geoff removed the mask.

Walter Krenholz.

Sweat poured down Geoff’s chin onto the lifeless body beneath him. Geoff dropped the mask, stood, ran toward Suzanne. Her pulse was fainter, her eyes now closed, but she still breathed. Geoff lifted her slowly off the floor.

“You’re safe now, Suzanne. I’m taking you to the E.R.”

He was halfway to the exit when he froze in his tracks. His Colt was somewhere in the bloody mess on the floor.

Geoff cursed himself for his carelessness. Military issue guns were easily traced. He bent down, looked underneath the autopsy tables, scanned the floor. Tables turned on their sides, partially dissected corpses, their parts strewn on the floor, trays of instruments scattered about.

Geoff peered farther across the room toward the table Suzanne’s body had been resting on. Geoff had slipped there, hit the ground hard, Suzanne’s body falling on top of him. That’s where the gun had to be.

A chill crept up his spine. He had no choice but to retrieve the gun and he didn’t have much time—Suzanne was hemorrhaging to death. A security guard, morgue tech, someone who heard the commotion, would be here any moment. He had to get the gun and get the hell out.
Now
.

Geoff stood, took a deep breath, looked at Walter’s dead body, then back towards the door. All clear so far. Still cradling Suzanne’s almost lifeless body, he slid between the overturned tables, made his way to the table he had found her on. Geoff paused, looked around the area one last time. Nothing. The gun had to be somewhere in the vicinity.

Commotion outside the main door, loud voices calling, legs moving quickly toward the morgue. Geoff glanced at the door. Someone, probably security, was heading toward him. Shit. He had to get his gun back!

Geoff’s gaze darted all around the chaotic mess on the floor. Nothing. He walked towards Walter’s body, rolled it over with his foot. No gun.

The sounds were now louder, whoever was approaching just outside the door. Geoff had to give up the search.

Where the hell was that gun?

He looked beneath the nearest autopsy table, looked around the room one last time, peered between the table supports. A shimmer of light drew his attention. Jutting out from beneath an overturned stainless steel basin was the blue steel grip of his Colt—near the front of the room, by the entrance.

The automatic doors parted with a whoosh, four guards entered the room, guns drawn.
Goddamnit
! Suzanne’s life, or the gun. Geoff slid softly to the back corner of the room and bolted out the fire exit to the emergency room.