Plum Island

CHAPTER 8

As we approached the island, The Plum Runner slowed. I stood, went to the port side, and leaned against the rail. To my left, the old stone Plum Island Lighthouse came into view, and I recognized it because it was a favorite subject of bad watercolor artists around here. To the right of the lighthouse, down by the shore, was a big billboard-sized sign that said, "CAUTION! CABLE CROSSING! NO TRAWLING! NO DREDGING!"

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.

Mr. Stevens was going on about the Department of Agriculture, and I was able to safely tune out and do some noodling. I realized that before Stevens had mentioned the archaeological interest of the Gordons, he'd said something else that had pinged in my brain. I mean, think of a sonar wave moving through the water — the wave hits something and sends a ping back to the earphones. Ping. Something that Stevens said had pinged, but I was so bored senseless when he'd said it, I missed it and now I wanted to go back, but I couldn't remember what it was that caused the ping.

Stevens announced, "All right, we'll drive around the island a bit."

The driver woke up and threw the mini-bus into gear. The road, I noticed, was well paved, but there were no other vehicles to be seen, and no other people.

We drove around the area of the huge main building, and Mr. Stevens pointed out the water tower, the sewage decontamination plant, the power station, machine shops, and steam plants. The place seemed to be self-contained and self-sufficient, making me think again of a Bondian villain's lair where a madman plotted the destruction of the planet. All in all, this was some operation, and we hadn't even seen the inside of the main research building yet.

Now and then we passed a building that Mr. Stevens failed to identify, and if any of us asked him about the building, he'd say, "Paint Storage," or "Feed Storage," or something. And well they may have been, but the man didn't inspire credibility. In fact, I had the distinct feeling he enjoyed the secrecy crap and got his jollies by pulling our chains a little.

Nearly all the buildings, except for the new main research building, were former military structures, most made of red brick or reinforced concrete, and the vast majority of the buildings were deserted. All in all, this had once been a substantial military installation, one in a string of fortresses that guarded New York City against a hostile navy that never showed up.

We came to a grouping of concrete buildings with grass growing through the cement pavement. Stevens said, "The big building is called 257, after the old Army designation. It was the main laboratory some years ago. After we moved out, we decontaminated it with poison gas, then sealed it forever, just in case anything in there is still alive."

No one spoke for a few seconds, then Max asked, "Isn't this where there was a biocontainment leak once?"

"That was before my time," Stevens said. He looked at me and smiled his waxy smile, "If you'd like to take a look inside, Detective, I can get you the key."

I smiled back and asked, "Can I go alone?"

"That's the only way you can go into 257. No one will go in there with you."

Nash and Foster chuckled. Boy, I haven't had so much fun since I tripped on some slime and landed on a ten-day-old corpse. I said, "Hey, Paul, I'll go if you go."

"I don't particularly want to die," Stevens replied.

As the bus drew closer to Building 257, I saw that someone had painted in black on the concrete a huge skull and crossbones, and it struck me that this death's-head had actually two meanings — the Jolly Roger, the pirate flag that the Gordons had flown from their mast, and it was also the symbol for poison or contamination. I stared at the black skull and bones against the white wall, and when I turned away, the image was still in front of my eyes, and when I looked at Stevens, the death's-head was superimposed on his face, and the skull and Stevens were both grinning. I rubbed my eyes until the optical illusion faded. Jeez, if it hadn't been broad daylight with people around, this could get creepy.

Stevens continued, "In 1946, Congress authorized money to build a research facility. The law states that certain infectious diseases may not be studied on the mainland of the United States. This was necessary in the days when biocontainment wasn't very advanced. So, Plum Island, which was already wholly owned by the government and which happened to be shared by the Department of Agriculture and the Army, was a natural site for the study of exotic animal diseases.'

I asked, "Are you saying that only animal diseases are studied here?"

"That's correct."

"Mr. Stevens, while we'd be upset if the Gordons stole foot-and mouth virus, and the cattle herds of the United States, Canada, and Mexico were wiped out, that is not the reason we're all here. Are there diseases present in the Plum Island laboratory — crossover diseases — that can infect humans?"

He looked at me and replied, "You'll have to ask the director, Dr. Zollner, that question."

"I'm asking you."

Stevens thought a moment, then said, "I'll say this — because of the coincidence of the Department of Agriculture sharing this island for a while with the Army, there was a lot of speculation and rumor that this was a biological warfare center. I guess you all know that."

Max spoke up and said, "There is plenty of evidence that the Army Chemical Corps was developing diseases here at the height of the Cold War to wipe out the entire animal population of the Soviet Union. And even I know that anthrax and other animal diseases can be used as biological weapons against a human population. You know that, too."

Paul Stevens cleared his throat, then explained, "I didn't mean to imply that there wasn't any biological warfare research done here. Certainly there was for a while in the early 1950s. But by 1954, the offensive biological warfare mission had changed to a defensive mission. That is to say, the Army was studying only ways to prevent our livestock industry from being purposely infected by the other side." He added, "I will not answer any more questions of that nature… but I will say that the Russians sent a biological warfare team here a few years ago, and they found nothing to cause them any anxiety."

I always thought that voluntary arms compliance inspections were sort of like a suspected murderer leading me on a guided tour of his house. No, Detective, there's nothing in that closet of any interest. Now, let me show you my patio.

The bus turned onto a narrow gravel road, and Mr. Stevens went on with his prescribed talk, concluding with, "So, since the mid-1950s, Plum Island is undoubtedly the world's foremost research facility for the study, cure, and prevention of animal diseases." He looked at me and said, "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it, Detective Corey?"

"I've survived worse."

"Good. Now we'll leave the history behind us and do some sight-seeing. Right ahead of us is the old lighthouse, first commissioned by George Washington. This present one was built in the mid-1850s. The lighthouse isn't used any longer and is an historic landmark."

I looked out the window at the stone structure sitting in a field of grass. The lighthouse more resembled a two-story house with a tower rising out of its roof. I asked, "Do you use it for security purposes?"

He looked at me and said, "Always on the job, aren't you? Well, sometimes I have people stationed there with a telescope or a night-vision device when the weather is too nasty for helicopters or boats. The lighthouse is then our only means of 360-degree surveillance." He looked at me and asked, "Is there anything else you'd like to know about the lighthouse?"

"No, that's about it for now."

The bus turned onto another gravel lane. We were now heading east along the north shore of Plum Island, with the coastline to the left and gnarled trees to the right. I noticed that the beach was a pleasant stretch of sand and rocks, virtually virginal, and except for the bus and the road, you could imagine yourself as a Dutchman or Englishman in sixteen-whatever stepping onto this shore for the first time, walking along the beach, and trying to figure out how to screw the Indians out of the island. Ping . Ping .

There it was again. But what was it? Sometimes, if you don't force it, it just comes back by itself.

Stevens was prattling on about ecology and keeping the island as pristine and wild as possible, and while he was going on about that, the helicopter flew over, looking for deer to slaughter.

The road generally followed the coastline, and there wasn't much to see, but I was impressed with the loneliness of the place, the idea that not a solitary soul lived here and that you were unlikely to meet anyone on the beach or on the roads, which apparently went nowhere and had no purpose except for the one road that ran between the ferry and the main lab.

As if reading my mind, Mr. Stevens said, "These roads were all built by the Army to connect Fort Terry to the coastal batteries. The deer patrols use the roads, but otherwise, they're empty." He added, "Since we've consolidated the entire research facility into one building, most of the island is empty."

It occurred to me, of course, that the deer patrols and the security patrols were one and the same. The helicopters and boats may well have been looking for swimming deer, but they were also looking for terrorists and other bad actors. I had the disturbing feeling that this place could be breached. But that wasn't my concern, and it wasn't why I was here.

So far, the island had turned out to be less spooky than I'd expected. I didn't actually know what to expect, but like a lot of places whose sinister reputation precedes them, this place didn't seem too bad once you saw it.

When you see this island on maps and navigation charts, most of the time there aren't any features shown on the island — no roads, no mention of Fort Terry, nothing except the words, "Plum Island — Animal Disease Research — U.S. Government — Restricted." And the island is usually colored yellow — the color of warning. Not real inviting, not even on a map. And if you see it from the water, as I did several times with the Gordons, it looks shrouded in mist, though I wonder how much of that is real and how much is in the mind.

And if you go so far as to picture the place as you might think it looks, you get this Poe-like image of the ultimate dim Thule, a dark landscape of dead cattle and sheep, bloating and rotting on the fields, vultures feeding on the carrion, then dying themselves from the infected flesh. That's what you think, if you think about it. But so far, the place looked sunny and pleasant. The danger here, the real horror, was bottled up in the biocontainment areas, in Zones Three and Four, and the big-time Temple of Doom, Zone Five. Tiny slides and test tubes and petri dishes crawling with the most dangerous and exotic life forms that this planet has evolved. If I were a scientist looking at this stuff, I might wonder about God — not about His existence, but His intent.

Anyway, that was about as much deep thought as I was capable of without getting a headache.

Beth asked Paul Stevens, "How do boaters know not to land here?"

"There's a warning on all maps and charts," Mr. Stevens replied. In addition, there are signs along all of the beaches. Plus, the patrols can deal with anchored or beached boats."

Beth asked, "What do you do with trespassers?"

Stevens replied, "We warn the boaters not to come near or on the island again. Second offenders are detained and turned over to Chief Maxwell." He looked at Max. "Right?"

"Right. We get one or two a year."

Paul Stevens tried a joke and said, "Only the deer get shot on sight."

Mr. Stevens got serious and explained, "It's not a dangerous breach of security or biocontamment if people stray onto the island. As I said, I don't mean to give the impression that the island is contaminated. This bus is not a biocontainment vehicle, for instance. But because of the proximity of the biocontainment areas, we would rather keep the island free of unauthorized people and all animals."

I couldn't help but point out, "From what I can see, Mr. Stevens, a boatload of even semi-competent terrorists could land on the island some night, knock off your handful of guards, and grab all kinds of scary things from the labs or blow the place sky-high, releasing deadly bugs into the environment. In fact, when the bay freezes over, they don't even need a boat — you're connected to the mainland."

Mr. Stevens replied, "I can only tell you that there's more security here than meets the eye."

"I hope so."

"Count on it." He looked at me and said, "Why don't you try it one night?"

I love a challenge and replied, "I'll bet you a hundred bucks I can get into your office, steal your high school equivalency diploma from the wall, and have it hanging in my office the next morning."

Mr. Stevens kept staring at me, his dead waxy face immobile. Creepy.

I said to him, "Let me ask you the question we're all here to have answered — Could Tom and Judy Gordon have smuggled microorganisms off this island? Tell us the truth."

Paul Stevens replied, "Theoretically, they could have."

No one in the bus spoke, but I noticed that the driver turned his head and did a double take.

Mr. Stevens asked, "But why would they?"

"Money," I replied.

"They really didn't seem the type," said Mr. Stevens. "They liked animals. Why would they want to wipe out the world's animals?"

"Maybe they wanted to wipe out the world's people so that the animals could have a happy life."

"Ridiculous," said Stevens. "The Gordons took nothing from here that would hurt any living thing. I'll bet my job on that."

"You already have. And your life."

I noticed that Ted Nash and George Foster were mostly quiet, and I knew they'd been briefed much earlier, and they were probably afraid they'd sound sort of like, "Been there, done that, got the T-shirt."

Mr. Stevens turned his attention back to the windshield and said, "We're approaching Fort Terry. We can get out here and look around."

The bus stopped, and we all got out.