Plum Island (14 page)

So, if terrorists were interested in knocking out power and communications to Plum Island, the authorities gave them a little
hint. On the other hand, to be fair, I assumed Plum had its own emergency generators plus cell phones and radios.

Anyway,
The Plum Runner
slipped through this narrow channel and into a small cove which looked artificial, as though it had been called into being,
not by God Almighty, but by the Army Corps of Engineers, who liked to put the finishing touches on Creation.

There weren’t many buildings around the cove, just a few tin warehouse-type structures, probably left over from the military
days.

Beth came up beside me and said softly, “Before you got to the ferry, I saw—”

“I was there. I saw it. Thanks.”

The ferry did a one-eighty and backed into the slip.

My colleagues were standing at the rail now, and Mr. Stevens said, “We’ll wait until the employees disembark.”

I asked him, “Is this an artificial harbor?”

He replied, “Yes, it is. The Army constructed it when they built the artillery batteries here before the Spanish-American
War.”

I suggested, “You may want to lose that cable crossing sign.”

He replied, “We have no choice. We have to let boats know. Anyway, it’s on the navigation charts.”

“But it could say, ‘Freshwater pipe.’ You don’t have to give the whole thing away.”

“True.” He glanced at me and was about to say something, but didn’t. Maybe he wanted to offer me a job.

The last of the employees disembarked, and we went down the stairs and exited the ferry through the opening in the stern rail.
And here we were on the mysterious Island of Plum. It was windy, sunny, and cool on the dock. Ducks waddled around the shoreline,
and I was glad to see they didn’t have fangs or flashing red eyes or anything.

As I said, the island is shaped like a pork chop—maybe a baby lamb chop—and the cove is at the fat end of the chop, as if
someone took a little bite out of the meat, to continue the idiotic comparison.

There was only one boat tied up at the dock, a thirty-something-footer with a cabin, a searchlight, and an inboard motor.
The name of this craft was
The Prune
. Someone had fun naming the ferry and this boat, and I didn’t think it was Paul Stevens, whose idea of nautical humor was
probably watching hospital ships being torpedoed by U-boats.

I noticed a wooden, weather-faded sign that said, “Plum Island Animal Disease Center.” Beyond the sign was a flagpole, and
I saw that the American flag was at half-staff here also.

The employees who’d just disembarked boarded a white bus that pulled away, and the ferry blasted its horn, but I didn’t see
anyone boarding for the trip back to Orient.

Mr. Stevens said, “Please stay here.” He strode off, then stopped to speak to a man dressed in an orange jumpsuit.

There was a weird feel to this place—people in orange jumpsuits, blue uniforms, white buses, and all this “stay here” and
“stay together” crap. I mean, here I was on a restricted island with this blond SS look-alike, an armed helicopter circling
around, armed guards all over the place, and I’m feeling like I somehow stepped into a James Bond movie, except that this
place is real. I said to Max, “When do we meet Dr. No?”

Max laughed, and even Beth and Messrs. Nash and Foster smiled.

Beth addressed Max. “Which reminds me, how is it that you never met Paul Stevens?”

Max replied, “Whenever there was a joint meeting of law enforcement agencies, we’d invite the Plum Island security director
as a courtesy. None of them ever showed. I spoke to Stevens once on the phone, but never laid eyes on him until this morning.”

Ted Nash said to me, “By the way, Detective Corey, I’ve discovered that you’re not a Suffolk County detective.”

“I never said I was.”

“Oh, come on, fella. You and Chief Maxwell led me and George to believe you were.”

Max said, “Detective Corey has been hired by the Town of Southold as a consultant in this case.”

“Really?” asked Mr. Nash. He looked at me and said, “You are a New York City homicide detective, wounded in the line of duty
on April twelfth. You’re currently on convalescent leave.”

“Who asked you?”

Mr. Foster, ever the peacemaker, interjected, “We don’t care, John. We just want to establish credentials and jurisdictions.”

Beth said to Messrs. Nash and Foster, “Okay, then, this is
my
jurisdiction and my case, and I have no problem with John Corey being here.”

“Fine,” said Mr. Foster.

Mr. Nash did not second that, leading me to believe he did have a problem, which was also fine.

Beth looked at Ted Nash and demanded, “Now that we know who John Corey works for, who do
you
work for?”

Nash paused, then said, “CIA.”

“Thank you.” She looked at George Foster and Ted Nash, and informed them, “If either of you ever visits the crime scene again
without signing in, I will notify the DA. You will follow all procedures, just as the rest of us have to, understood?”

They nodded. Of course they didn’t mean it.

Paul Stevens returned and said, “The director is not available just yet. I understand from Chief Maxwell that you’d like to
see some of the island, so we can drive around now. Please follow—”

“Hold on,” I said, pointing to
The Prune
. “Is that yours?”

“Yes. It’s a patrol boat.”

“It’s not patrolling.”

“We have another one out now.”

“Is this where the Gordons docked their boat?”

“Yes. All right, please follow—”

“Do you have vehicle patrols around the island?” I asked.

He obviously didn’t like being questioned, but he replied, “Yes, we have vehicle patrols around the island.” He looked at
me and asked impatiently, “Any more questions, Detective?”

“Yes. Is it usual for an employee to use his or her own boat to commute to work?”

He let a second or two go by, then replied, “When the ‘Never Leave’ policy was strictly enforced, it was prohibited. Now we’ve
relaxed the rules a little, so we sometimes get an employee who takes his or her boat to work. Mostly in the summer.”

“Did you authorize the Gordons to commute by boat?”

He replied, “The Gordons were senior staff and conscientious scientists. As long as they practiced good decontamination techniques
and observed safety and security regulations and procedures, then I had no real problem with them commuting with their own
boat.”

“I see.” I inquired, “Did it ever occur to you that the Gordons could use their boat to smuggle deadly organisms out of here?”

He considered a second or two, then answered obliquely, “This is a workplace, not a jail. My main focus here is to keep unauthorized
people out. We trust our people, but just to be sure, all our employees have gone through background checks by the FBI.” Mr.
Stevens looked at his watch and said, “We’re on a tight schedule. Follow me.”

We followed the tightly wound Mr. Stevens to a white mini-bus and boarded. The driver wore the same light blue uniform as
the security guards, and in fact, I noticed he wore a holstered pistol.

I sat behind the driver and patted the seat beside me for Beth, but she must have missed my gesture because she sat in the
double seat across the aisle from me. Max sat behind me, and Messrs. Nash and Foster sat in separate seats farther back.

Mr. Stevens remained standing and said, “Before we visit the main facility, we’ll take a spin around the island so you can
get a feel for the place and better appreciate the challenges of securing an island of this size with about ten miles of beach
and no fences.” He added, “There’s never been a breach of security in the history of the island.”

I asked Mr. Stevens, “What kind of sidearms am I seeing in the holsters of your guards?”

He replied, “The pistols are Army-issue Colt .45 automatics.” He looked around the bus, then asked, “Did I say something interesting?”

Max informed him, “We think the murder weapon was a .45.”

Beth said, “I’d like to do an inventory of your weapons, and I’d like to run a ballistics test on each of them.”

Paul Stevens didn’t reply enthusiastically.

Beth asked, “How many .45 pistols do you have here?” He said, “Twenty.”

Max inquired, “Do you have one on you?”

Stevens patted his jacket and nodded.

Beth asked, “Do you always carry the same piece?”

“No.” He added, “I draw one from the Armory every weekday.” He looked at Beth and said, “It sounds like I’m being interrogated.”

“No,” Beth replied, “you’re only being asked questions as a friendly witness. If you were being interrogated, you’d know it.”

Mr. Nash, behind me, said, “Perhaps we should let Mr. Stevens get on with his agenda. We’ll have time to question people later.”

Beth said, “Proceed.”

Mr. Stevens, still standing, said, “All right. Before we move on, I’ll give you my little speech that I give to visiting scientists,
dignitaries, and the press.” He glanced at his stupid clipboard, then began in a rote tone, “Plum Island comprises 840 acres
of mostly forest and some pastureland and a parade ground, which we’ll see later. The island is mentioned in the ships’ logs
of early Dutch and English sailors. The Dutch named the island after the beach plum that grows along the shore—Pruym Eyland
in old Dutch, if anyone is interested. The island belonged to the Montauk Indian tribe, and it was bought by a fellow named
Samuel Wyllys in 1654 from Chief Wyandanch. Wyllys and other settlers after him used the island to pasture sheep and cattle,
which is ironic considering what it is used for now.”

I yawned.

“Anyway,” Stevens continued, “there was no permanent settlement on this island. So, you might ask, how did the settlers pasture
cattle on an island that was uninhabited? According to records, the Gut between Orient and Plum was so shallow in the sixteen
and seventeen hundreds that cattle could cross at low tide. A hurricane around the late seventeen hundreds deepened the Gut
and that ended the island’s usefulness as pasture. However, from the beginning of the English presence, the island was visited
by a succession of pirates and privateers who found the island’s isolation very convenient.”

I felt a sudden panic attack coming on. Here I was trapped in a small bus with this monotonal, monochromatic moron who was
starting with Genesis, and we were only up to about 1700 or something with three centuries to go, and the friggin’ bus wasn’t
even moving, and I couldn’t leave unless I shot my way out. What did I do to deserve this? Aunt June was looking down on me
from heaven and laughing her butt off. I could hear her, “Now, Johnny, if you can tell me what I said yesterday about the
Montauk Indians, I’ll buy you an ice cream cone.”
No, no, no! STOP!

Stevens went on, “During the Revolution, American patriots from Connecticut used the island to stage raids on the Tory strongholds
in Southold. Then, George Washington, who’d visited the North Fork—”

I put my hands over my ears, but I could still hear a low hum.

Finally, I raised my hand and asked him, “Are you a member of the Peconic Historical Society?”

“No, but they helped me compile this history.”

“Is there, like, a brochure or something that we can read later, and you can save this for a congressman?”

Beth Penrose said, “I find this fascinating.”

Messrs. Nash and Foster made some seconding noises.

Max laughed and said, “You’re outvoted, John.”

Stevens smiled at me again. Why did I think he wanted to pull his .45 and empty his magazine in me? He said, “Bear with me,
Detective. We have some time to kill anyway.” He continued, but I noticed that he sped up his words. “So, on the eve of the
Spanish-American War, the government purchased 130 acres of the island for coastal defenses, and Fort Terry was established.
We’ll see the abandoned Fort Terry later.”

I glanced at Beth and saw she was staring intently at Paul Stevens, apparently absorbed in his narrative. As I stared at Beth
Penrose staring at Paul Stevens, she turned toward me, and we made eye contact. She seemed embarrassed that I’d caught her
looking at me, and she smiled quickly and turned back to Stevens. My heart skipped a beat. I was in love. Again.

Mr. Stevens was going on, “I should point out that there are over three hundred years of historical artifacts here on the
island, and that if it weren’t for the restricted access to this island, there would be a good number of archaeologists digging
in what are mostly untouched sites. We’re currently negotiating with the Peconic Historical Society to see if we can come
to some arrangement about an experimental dig. In fact,” he added, “the Gordons were members of the Peconic Historical Society,
and they were the liaisons between the Department of Agriculture, the historical society, and some archaeologists at Stony
Brook State University. The Gordons and I had identified some good sites that we felt wouldn’t compromise or interfere with
safety and security.”

All of a sudden, I was interested. Sometimes a word or phrase or name comes up in an investigation, and then it comes up again,
and it becomes something to think about. Such was the Peconic Historical Society. I mean, my aunt belonged to it, and you
see flyers and bulletins around from this bunch, and they do cocktail parties, fund-raisers, lectures, and all that stuff,
and that’s pretty normal. Then the Gordons, who don’t know Plymouth Rock from a scotch on the rocks, join up, and now Oberführer
Stevens drops it into his spiel. Interesting.

Mr. Stevens prattled on, “In 1929, there was a devastating outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease in the United States, and the
Department of Agriculture opened its first station on the island. This begins the modern history of the island in respect
to its present mission. Any questions?”

I had a few questions about the Gordons snooping around the island away from where they were supposed to be working in the
laboratory. These were clever people, I concluded. The speedboat, then the Peconic Historical Society, then the cover of the
archaeological digs so they could recon the island. It was possible that none of this was related, and it was all coincidence.
But I don’t believe in coincidence. I don’t believe that underpaid scientists from the Midwest often get involved in an expensive
power-boating hobby and archaeology and local historical societies. These things are not consistent with the resources, the
personalities, the temperaments, or the past interests of Tom and Judy Gordon. Unfortunately, the questions I had for Mr.
Stevens couldn’t be asked without giving away more than I was likely to get.