14. Ricin

Nicholas had kept in touch with his brother Sergey over the years. He had tried to get him to migrate to the USA but he wouldn’t hear of it. He was making too much money where he was, he said, and could not imagine that there could possibly be more opportunities in America than in Kyrgyzstan, what with the Afghan war, the Middle East loaded with money, drug and arms smuggling galore, you name it. Nicholas had migrated to America when he was fifteen. He got a job on a Russian freighter and jumped ship when it docked in Newark. That was in 1980.

And he had stayed there ever since. In those days it wasn’t hard to get the right documentation. In fact the people he met in the Salvation Army hostel where he stayed until he found a job helped him apply for a social security card, and he had it in a couple of weeks. Otherwise he had no documentation, no birth certificate, nothing. It didn’t matter. There was plenty for a young teenager looking for adventure to do. He hung around the bars and street corners across from the Newark railway station and in no time had found work in a chop shop that received stolen cars and chopped them up for parts. He started out doing the mechanical stuff and learned a lot, but it was too boring for him. He wanted excitement and pretty soon he was stealing cars on his own and bringing them into the shop for processing.

Now, he owned several chop shops, though he preferred to call them remanufacturing facilities. His clients came to him for specific car models and he had his gangs steal them off the Newark streets, bring them to one of his shops, where he would replace the Vehicle Identification Number (VIN) and re-register it with the New Jersey DMV. He paid his operative inside the DMV to process the registration papers and also to supply him with old VIN numbers he could use on his remanufactured cars. These days he rarely sold them for parts. His best clients were in Eastern Europe and Saudi Arabia. And the Port of Newark was very convenient, again, with willing contacts, who, for a little extra money, would make sure his cars had a smooth passage through the port. So importing the package from Mumbai that Sergey sent him was a simple matter, though his contacts were a bit surprised that he was importing rather than exporting.

But the problem was the ricin and Sergey had called him about it. He did not like Sergey to call him at all, even on a stolen or supposedly secure phone. He had never once been picked up by the cops in his thirty years in the business. This was because he was very careful, but also because he had many good friends in the Newark PD. There were times he had to close down operations for a period when he was tipped off that the FBI was sniffing around. Usually, that only lasted for a few months when they lost interest. This was especially so since nine eleven, now that they were obsessed with the terrorism thing and had little interest in stolen cars.

The money Sergey offered him to smooth the way for the missiles from Mumbai through the Port of Newark, to find a safe house and install a ricin lab in it was just too good to pass up. But he was apprehensive. It did mean that he had to do things right under the nose of the FBI and he knew they were running a sting operation. He had decided to take the risk when he discovered that the FBI and the NYPD were conducting a combined sting operation but it was focused entirely on the Muslim community around the local mosque. So as long as he kept away from Muslims, which he did anyway, he was probably OK.

When he complained to Sergey that he knew nothing about the manufacture of ricin, Sergey passed it off saying that it was a simple process, and said he’d have his nuclear wizard Turgo call him with the instructions. “Anyway, you can get the recipe off the web,” Sergey said. Trouble was, when Turgo called as promised, his knowledge was not much better. “You get it from the beans of the castor plant,” Turgo said. When Nicholas complained that this was not much help, Turgo responded haughtily, “I’m a nuclear scientist, not a chemist who mixes up witches’ potions.”

So there he was, searching the web for ricin recipes. There were lots of them and as soon as he saw them, he knew he had a problem. It was not so simple a recipe, at least not good enough to produce enough for a missile payload. The first recipe he found on the web was at http://www.zoklet.net. It advised as follows: 1. Get some castor beans from a garden supply store.

2. Put about 2 ounces of hot water into a glass jar and add a teaspoon full of lye. Mix it thoroughly.

3. Wait for the lye/water mixture to cool

4. Place 2 ounces of the beans into the liquid and let them soak for one hour.

5. Pour out the liquid being careful not to get any on exposed skin.

6. Rinse the beans off with cool water and then remove the outer husks with tweezers.

7. Put the bean pulp into a blender or coffee grinder with 4 ounces of acetone for every 1 oz. of beans.

8. Blend the pulp until it looks like milk.

9. Place the milky substance in a glass jar with an airtight lid for three days.

10. At the end of three days shake the jar to remix everything that’s started to settle then pour it into a coffee filter. Discard the liquid.

11. When no more liquid is dripping through the filter, squeeze the last of the acetone out of it without losing any of the bean pulp.

12. Spread the filter out on a pan covered with newspaper and let it stand until it is dry.

13. The final product must be as free of acetone and other contaminants as possible. If it is not powdery but still moist and pulpy it must be combined with the appropriate amount of acetone again and let sit for one day.

14. Then repeat steps 9-12 again until a nice dry powder is produced.

Given the dire warnings of ricin’s toxicity, there was no way Nicholas was going to attempt any of this and he could see that there was no way that Turgo and his pals would be able to manufacture enough powder in time, even if he supplied them with the beans and other ingredients. So he switched his web search to manufacturing plants that made cosmetics and pharmaceutical products including castor oil and its derivatives. And he found one right in Fairfield New Jersey, just around the corner! It was an easy matter to purchase a large quantity of castor mash and then to purchase a chromatographic lab which he installed in the kitchen of the safe house on Skyline Drive. According to the instructions, he’d need enough mash which, once processed would produce 10% of its initial weight in ricin paste. He made a quick call to Turgo and described his purchases. Turgo this time was more amenable and seemed to understand what was needed.

Just one last item was necessary: a dehydrator to dry out the paste from which the lethal powder could be produced. Nicholas ended the call, and immediately saw that he had a new voicemail. It must have come while he was talking to Turgo. He immediately checked the message. It was from someone who said, “Hi, this is Sarah, your niece.” He was perplexed and disturbed, not that it was she, but how she had got his number. He knew of her existence of course, but had never met or spoken to her. He did not return the call.

*

Turgo had rearranged the chromatographic equipment on the kitchen counter and placed the dehydrator on top of the oven. After a few trials, Turgo had figured out the process and began manufacture of the ricin. He had made three batches so far and figured that one more batch would be enough. The dehydrator was hard at work on the last batch. It was the dehydration stage that took all the time.

Turgo stepped back from one of the missiles. He and his collaborators were encased in anti-bio toxin suits, helmets and the works. Nicholas had overlooked nothing. He was certainly very good. “OK, careful now. Bring ricin,” he ordered, “You need syringe to insert toxin in the tube container in the tip right here.” Turgo pointed to the spot inside the bare insides of the missile. His assistant stepped forward carefully, syringe in gloved hand. He could not insert the syringe into the opening of the container.

“Visor foggy. Cannot see properly, gloves too big,” complained the assistant. He opened the visor of his helmet, but the gloved hand holding the syringe got caught on one of the wires inside the missile. The syringe slipped from his gloved fingers and in his effort to grasp it before it fell through into the internal workings of the payload, pressed the syringe plunger and ricin powder squirted out into his face as he leaned over the missile.

“Watch out you fool! Don’t breathe!” yelled Turgo as he stepped quickly away from the missile. But it was too late. The assistant choked, had spectacular convulsions and dropped down, writhing like a beetle on its back. In minutes, the movement stopped and he lay there in a coma.

Turgo was pleased. His manufacture of the ricin had been successful. It worked! He proceeded, unperturbed and inserted the ricin into the payload, and closed down the door, giving it a friendly tap. “You’re all set, my beauty! You will spread your wings over New York!”

“What do we do about him? Do we have to clean up the ricin? What about the nuclear tip?” asked the other assistant, also suited up.

“I have already taken care of the nuclear. It’s ready to go, just needs the navigation to be set to the target,” said Turgo ignoring the question.

“But the ricin?”

“There is one last batch cooking in the dehydrator. We’ll add that tomorrow.”

“I mean the ricin he spilled.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot. Just spray everything with ordinary soap detergent and water. Detergent under sink, in kitchen.”

“That is all?”

“Conditions have to be exactly right for it to spread and to attach itself to humans. Here, spray my bio toxin suit so I can get out of it.”

*

Das had entered his enclave in the back of the old Dodge Caravan, while Buick kneeled looking over the back of the front seat. Das was suddenly transformed from the meek student sitting in the corner of the meeting room, to some kind of animated robot, moving swiftly from one apparatus to another, tweaking dials, pressing buttons, using voice activation with others. “This kid’s a little mad,” Buick thought.

“You see, I have a revolving camera on the roof, and it is all recorded on this computer. And unlike Google, I don’t have to block out the license plate numbers,” said Das with pride as he darted to and fro.

“Impressive. But I’m more impressed by the well-used mattress. This hi-tech stuff attracts the babes?”

Das was shocked. “Oh, no Captain Buick. I told you, I am pledged to be married in Mumbai.”

“Yeh, right. So why the mattress?”

“Well, Captain Buick, you see —”

“Oh no. Don’t tell me. You live here?”

Das did not answer immediately. He was too busy. Then he said, “you know, if I were a terrorist I would choose a place somewhere near where we are right now and use a short range missile. There are many available.”

“Your boss has already told you not to go that way. You’re already in trouble. He’ll send you back to Mumbai, if you’re not careful.

“Not if I am right. And I will prove I am right if I have to work all day and all night to do so.” He stopped briefly and turned to face Buick.

“Please Captain, stay with me a while and I will show you what I can do with my video data bases. You know, the database of stolen cars that the Newark PD uses owes its existence to me,” he boasted.

“You’re kidding. Really?”

“Not kidding. I merged the police reports with my video databases and produced a very useful source for you. That’s why when you check out a license plate, if the car was stolen, or the plate was stolen, you get back not only the information of the car, but a video of it wherever it was last seen in my database. Pretty amazing, if I may say so, captain.”

“I haven’t used it much, I have to admit. Anyway, car theft doesn’t have much to do with terrorist attacks.”

“Really, captain? I am surprised, since it is a very effective way for a terrorist to use a vehicle without divulging his identity.”

“They usually rent them, don’t they?”

“I don’t know much about terrorists, but if I were one I would not rent because it leaves a trail and requires that I produce some identification which exposes me to risk, even if the document ID itself is stolen or forged. Stealing is much cleaner.”

“So have you searched your database for a stolen truck that would carry missiles?”

“Not yet. But I am about to.”

“But your boss is right, isn’t he? I mean you’re obsessed with this missile idea because you’re in love with your database. You don’t have any evidence.”

“It’s a hunch, sir,” Das answered, reverting to his submissive role. “You know what the U.S. Nine Eleven Commission said in 2004, when it criticized America’s failure to anticipate the attack?”

“No, what?”

Das turned to face Buick squarely, and he recited, taking on the demeanor of a kid spelling the winning word in a spelling contest, “The most important failure was one of imagination."

*

“Don’t know what I am doing here,” said Silenzio, “it’s late at night. In fact, it looks like even you hardly come here.” She surveyed MacIver’s office. It was sparse, lined with book cases that contained few books. There was one computer, obviously never used. In fact the whole office looked hardly used. There was a shiny leather couch placed opposite the desk. MacIver stood beside her, just inside the door. He made no effort to sit down at his desk. “I try to stay away from the school," he said, “most of what they do here is useless, in my opinion.”

“And that goes for the books you don’t have on your shelves?”

“Pretty much.”

“Interesting. So you are unappreciated and unloved?”

“Pretty much.”

“So there’s no one back home who loves you?”

“What is this, enhanced interrogation?”

“Pretty much.”

“So far, I think I can cope with it. And no, I’m divorced for quite a while. Never felt like subjecting myself to it again. Let me guess. You’re a career girl. Always single.”

“Hmm. He can do enhanced interrogation too, except that he answers the questions he doesn’t ask.”

“Yeh. I guess it’s Jeopardy all round.”

Silenzio turned to face MacIver, looking in amusement and anticipation. She elicited the desired response.

“You are a very beautiful woman,” observed MacIver, almost embarrassed.

“From a professor I was expecting something a bit more poetic,” answered Silenzio grinning.

“As a scientist, best I can do is mumble something about birds and bees.”

“And a shy scientist at that, even though you love the spotlight of TV cameras.”

“I see it as career advancement, in contrast to this,” said MacIver as he waved his hand at his desk and bookshelves, “which is career interference.”

He slid his arm softly around Silenzio’s waist and guided her to the couch. But she was already moving towards it. He kicked the door closed behind him.

*

The door to MacIver’s office burst open. Das and Buick rushed in. MacIver and Silenzio were straightening their clothes, MacIver behind his desk, Silenzio standing by the couch.

"Sir! Sir! We know where the terrorists are! You wouldn’t believe it!” yelled Das, oblivious to everything around him.

“No I wouldn’t,” replied MacIver, staring at Das with annoyance.

“Listen to him MacIver. I made him come to you. He didn’t want to,”

said Buick looking over Das’s shoulder.

MacIver looked to Silenzio.

“Larry?” she said.

“OK. This better be good. What do you have?” said MacIver trying to stand tall and unruffled.

“You see,” said Buick, “he was showing me Google Street view and comparing it to the street surveillance he does and —”

MacIver interrupted. “Das, you tell it please.”

“Well, as he said sir, I was doing my street view —”

“OK. OK. We know that. Where are the freaking terrorists?”

“They’re on Skyline Drive, sir. Not far from the restaurant.”

“So you drove right by the terrorists to come and tell me that? Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because we can’t be absolutely certain it is them. Captain Buick is having his men run the license plate of the truck.”

“What truck?”

“The truck they used to pick up the missiles from the warehouse at Port of Newark, sir.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because, sir, with my street surveillance I do for my car theft research, I noticed it show up in several places between the warehouse and Skyline drive. And trucks aren’t allowed on Skyline Drive.”

“That’s it?”

“Sir, well sir, we also noticed when we drove past the house where the truck was parked, that there was a big blue tarpaulin spread over the roof of the house that faces the NYC skyline.

“And?”

“Sir, I know sir, it’s just supposition. But I just know that the terrorists are in there. And there is a way —”

Buick cut in. “Once we find the truck, we’ll have a better idea.”

“And?” asked the skeptical MacIver.

“It didn’t come up stolen. I’m guessing it’s a rental. I should get a call any minute on what company. Trouble is it’s too early, no one in their offices yet.”

“It’s not enough. And it’s all suspect because Das, here, having thrown science out the window, ‘just knows’ the terrorists are there.”

“Of course there is another way,” suggested Buick.

“Your way?” said Silenzio.

“Right. I get my boys together, form a strike force, and we go in there and take them out.”

“Sure. And we kill a bunch of innocent suburban citizens who are renovating their house.”

"Sir, I was going to say, sir, that there might be a way to verify that the missiles, sorry, the hypothesized missiles, are in there, sir.”

“Go on.”

“Well, it’s thanks to you sir.”

“Das, get on with it!”

“Long ago, sir, you advocated the installation of Wi-Fi ID chips on all new weapons. Many armories have adopted that, including the U.S. Military which uses it to track weapons for logistical purposes. I may have a transponder that can read the Wi-Fi signals. All we need to do is drive by the house and see if we get any signals. Also, sir, I do have in my office a data base of stolen or missing weapons, worldwide. There are thousands lost every year. I’ll search for anything that would be ideal for firing at NYC from New Jersey. That’s why we came back to my office, sir, but then we saw the light on in your office.”

Das started to back out of the office. Silenzio suddenly felt she had to explain why she was there. “Professor MacIver was teaching me about hardening targets,” she blurted. Das did not hear. He was already running to his office. And at that moment, Buick got a phone call.

“Hey, what’s up?” said Buick. “No kidding? Great, thanks a lot.” He closed the phone. “It was a rental truck. Whoever rented it paid cash up front. The guy who rented it had a heavy accent, probably Russian. Used a false address and ID. That’s enough for me. I’m getting my strike force together. There’s too much at stake here.”

“Buck, take it easy,” cautioned Silenzio. "Let’s wait and see what Das comes up with. Can we find out where the shipment that they picked up at the warehouse came from? Customs is supposed to keep a detailed database of incoming and outgoing cargo.”

“I don’t know any of the feds,” said Buick, looking for help.

“Let me make a couple of calls,” responded Silenzio, “I may be able to get access to the customs database.” Silenzio opened her phone.

“Come to Das’s office,” said MacIver, “he will access the database.”

MacIver and Silenzio pushed past Buick who muttered, “while you’re screwing around, me and my team will take them out,” then left without waiting for a response.

*

In any ordinary student’s office, there would have been enough room for MacIver and Silenzio. But Das had so much equipment crammed in there, a plethora of computers, video screens, cables and other hi-tech paraphernalia that Silenzio had to remain at the door, peering in. Besides, Das needed to be able to scoot around on his desk chair from one terminal to another.

“It’s amazing how many weapons are reported lost or stolen here and around the world!” said Das as he crouched over his computer.

“I’d be amazed if you found anything,” said MacIver, excited in spite of himself.

“What date do you think the truck was at the warehouse?” asked Silenzio.

“Up to three weeks ago,” came the answer.

“OK. Then here’s the password to the U.S. Customs data base of incoming cargo.” Silenzio passed her phone to Das.

“Trouble is I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for,” said Das as he scooted to another computer, almost running over MacIver’s toes. “Come on! Come on! Do your work,” he said affectionately to his computer. He quickly scooted back to the Customs database. A few more key strokes, then, “hey, what do you know! A shipment from Mumbai was picked up on the day in question. Says they are cooling pumps bound for Indian Point nuclear power plant.” Back to the other computer. “That gives me an idea! You know the perfect missiles for this job? The brand new Indian mini Nags! Just a minute, let me search the missing weapons data base.”

MacIver and Silenzio watched, amused and captivated. The genius was at work!

“Here it is! Two mini Nags reported lost around the time of the shipment. There are two mini Nag missiles in that house!”

It was time for MacIver to pour cold water on the speculation. “It’s just supposition, Das.”

“But sir, enough to justify at least knocking on their door. Sir?”

“If you could fit your laptop with a transponder we could sit outside the house and see what ID chips responded to our signal, I suppose,” said MacIver without enthusiasm.

“Sir, as a matter of fact, sir. I have one. I use it at the supermarket.”

“At the supermarket? What on earth for?”

“Sir, you don’t want to know, sir.”

Das rummaged through the drawers of one of his desks, looking for the transponder.

“Don’t tell me,” said MacIver amused, still thinking about the supermarket, “you were changing the prices on the items that had Wi-Fi ID chips.”

“Sir, here it is! I will need to install it on my laptop. May have to write some quick code to allow it to access the missile IDs. With some luck, I could even find a gateway into their control systems. Sir, would that be OK, sir?”

“What do you think, Agent Silenzio?” asked MacIver with a smile.

“Entirely justified. But we have to hurry, get there before Buick and his big guns.”

“Sir, if you can drive my Google van while I work on the code, sir? I know it’s a bit unusual.”

“I can manage. Used to have one in another life, to drive my kids around.”

“You have kids?” asked Silenzio, surprised.

“Now’s not the time. Let’s get out to Skyline drive.”

*

Rage, it’s all in the hands, thought Buick as he rode the elevator down from MacIver’s fifth floor office. It was a slow elevator and as it moved in response to his way too hard hit on the LOBBY button, he stood impatiently, pushing the fist of his left hand into the open palm of his right. He pulled his phone out and started to thumb through his contact list to pick his team. But his thumb wasn’t ready for it. It wanted to stay clenched. He could squash the little phone in his hand.

He reached Washington Street and got into his cop car, which he had left idling in a no standing zone. He sat trying to calm down. He thought of those movies and comic books he used to read in the seventies. It wasn’t the super heroes who fascinated him. It was the bad, really evil guys, who used their super powers to destroy any object or person at will. That scene in one of the Star Wars movies. The old guy who was obviously full of rage, pointed his finger at Luke and caused him all sorts of pain. He nearly killed the poor kid! Buick never had a rage problem until that horrible day of the nine eleven attack. One of his mates from NYPD whom he knew from police academy, was killed. But it wasn’t only that. He just got so mad watching the TV channels, all of them, show the plane hitting the tower over and over again that he got up and — with his hands — picked up the whole TV, carried it outside into the little front yard of his little house in Hoboken, and beat the hell out of it with a snow shovel. Now that was rage, he smiled to himself.

The very next day he had enlisted in the services, with the ambition to become a Navy SEAL. And that is how he ended up in Iraq where he saw more violence, but up close and personal. Not like the nine eleven disaster which was horrendous enough to look at over and over again on TV, but in Iraq he saw it up close and in full color, as they say. It was possible, using the mind control techniques his navy counselor taught him, to close off the nine eleven imagery, get it out of his mind. But he couldn’t close off the scenes of carnage he saw in Iraq. There it was different. Besides, he had to admit that he caused some of the carnage, most times coincidentally, but sometimes intentionally. He had to watch while his buddies were maimed. What would they do when they had their hands blown off, he would ask himself. How would the rage find its way out?

Buick wheeled the car out into the traffic. He was thinking of his little two year old nephew. He knew how to express his rage and he didn’t need his hands to do it. He just opened his mouth wide like an opera singer and bellowed. It had an immediate effect. Anyone within earshot would stop as if to say, “Shut that kid up!” And once he learned to shut up, his rage would quickly find another way out, through his hands. That’s why, for his last birthday, Buck had bought him a hammering set so he could bang wooden pegs with a wooden hammer. It took him forever to find it. He’d had one when he was a little kid. They didn’t make them anymore, but he found one in a specialty toy shop in Ridgewood. Buick looked at his watch.

Maybe he could pay a visit since his nephew and his single mom lived just around the corner on Central Avenue. A visit there would work wonders. But it was too late. Way past midnight. He had calmed down. Now he could call his guys and put together an awesome strike force and take those bastards out.