The Monkey Handlers Read online

  8

  Two men stood before the counter surrounding the nurse’s station at Immaculata Hospital in the U.S. border town of Santa Rosa, Arizona. They both cast an appreciative glance at the young woman behind the counter, then the older of the two said, “Hi, remember me from last night?”

  “Sure,” said the young nurse, “you’re the Customs—”

  “Special agent, right. Ed Nutting. So, how’s he doing this morning?”

  “Much better. He was exhausted and dehydrated. He’s had a night’s sleep under mild sedation, and we’ve been rehydrating him by I.V. He’s a tough old bird. Yelling this morning about getting out of here. He’ll be okay.”

  “Must still be delirious if he wants to get away from you,” said the blond young man standing next to Nutting. The nurse smiled up at him.

  “I’m sorry,” said Nutting. “Ms. Rosario, Phil Dahl, EPA. Charlie—Mr. Bates—asked to see an EPA representative before he passed out yesterday. Can we see him?”

  Ms. Rosario consulted a chart. “Yes,” she said, “it’s okay. He’s in Three fourteen.”

  “Thank you.” The two men walked down the hall, found the room number, knocked, and, at a cheery “C’mon in, Honey!” entered.

  “Oh,” said Charlie Bates, slumping back into the pillows that held him propped up in bed, “I thought you were—”

  “Yeah,” said Nutting, “I know. Even my wife’s stopped calling me Honey.” He turned to Dahl. “This is Phil Dahl, EPA. We got him for you.”

  “Hey, thanks. You tell him what it’s all about?”

  “Just that you and the guy whose body you brought in are with Clean Earth and your buddy got shot while you were checking out toxic dumps on the other side of the border.”

  Charlie’s face darkened. “Anything on the bastard killed him?”

  “’Fraid not. Like I tried to tell you yesterday, we’ve got no jurisdiction over there. We reported everything you told us, but you’ve gotta understand; we can’t even get satisfaction on a DEA agent tortured to death down there. It was probably a ‘coyote,’ a professional who runs wets over the border for a fee, protecting his operation. What you said checked out. Immigration found four of them on that train.”

  “There were a lot more than four got on.”

  “Yeah. But sometimes they drop off just before the border an’ sneak back on later. The border’s a sieve. Anyway, Phil’s here, for anything you want to give him.”

  “We already ran the information in your partner’s notebook,” said Dahl. He took out a notebook of his own and consulted it. “The BN before the serial number on the tanker car stands for the Burlington & Northern railroad. The car’s leased to a pharmaceutical company to haul oleum; that’s the best way to haul sulfuric acid. Oleum is H2SO4 plus some SO3—sulfur trioxide. Has a low enough freezing point to be transported practically—the pure stuff freezes at about fifty-one degrees—and it’s easy to turn it into pure sulfuric when they get it to where they need it. Sulfuric acid’s the most commonly used chemical in industry. They use a lot of it to make drugs; that’s probably why the pharmaceutical company rents its own car.

  “The UN class 8 sign is what we require on anything hauling that stuff internationally. Oleum—fuming sulfuric—is real dangerous, much more violently active than even pure sulfuric acid. Usually they reuse it after a first run, but, eventually, you get toxic waste. It’s a lot easier to dump it in Mexico. And a lot cheaper, even after payin’ off. You know how it is in this country, no one wants a toxic dump in the same state. Anyway, it doesn’t look very mysterious to me.”

  “What about the tank was only half full?”

  “Still cheaper in the long run. Besides, your buddy’s notes said it was a two-holer. That means two tanks. The time would work out if they only drained one.”

  Charlie grunted, digesting the information. Then he asked, “You find out the name of the company rents the tanker?”

  “Riegar. The car was on its way back to a plant in Rhinekill, New York.”

  “Long way to haul that shit.” Charlie looked away into a distance only he saw. Suddenly, his memory brought him back to the room. “Y’ analyze the stuff in the thermos?”

  “Yeah. Sand. Powdered quartz, mostly, some pebbles, little piece of charred bone—all that’s left of a jack rabbit, probably—all soaked in sulfuric acid. A lot of sulfuric acid.”

  Charlie sighed and sank back into his pillow. “God,” he said, “all that education and the kid dies to be sure what’s in some industrial sewer in Mexico.”

  “Bullshit!” said Dahl, the anger in his voice snapping Charlie’s head around. “In the entire fucking universe, there’s only one place we know of has life. We’re killing it. He died trying to stop us.”

  Charlie nodded slowly, resignation on his face. “One thing I figured out a long time ago,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothin’ serious ever gets accomplished in this world less’n someone’s willing to die for it.”

  * * *

  Sunday mornings Michael Stone slept in. It was the only day of the week he didn’t start off with two hours of rigorous exercise. The omission wasn’t motivated by sloth; Stone knew that he had to give his body at least one day a week to rest, heal, and rebuild. He had found, however, that if he didn’t set the alarm on Saturday night, he would awaken at the usual time, anyway. If, on the other hand, he did set the alarm, and then, as the realization that it was Sunday hit him, he gave in to the luxury of shutting it off, he could sleep to an extraordinary hour, once as late as 8:50 A.M. This Sunday was no exception.

  At 8:24 A.M., Michael Stone was home in bed, Sara Rosen having returned to her own apartment after her news conference. The aroma of Aunt May’s percolator coffee and blueberry-pancake batter coming to perfection on a hot griddle woke him with a ravenous appetite. Then he thought again of the fiasco with Stephanie Hannigan, and the edge came off his feeling of well-being. But only the edge, such was the power over him of Aunt May’s cooking.

  Shaved and showered with the practiced speed possessed only by a military veteran, Stone was in the kitchen within a quarter of an hour. “Everything I own for a cup of that coffee, Mazie,” he announced as he entered, “and my soul for the pancakes.”

  “Humph,” Aunt May snorted. “All you own would shame a beggar. And the soul you offer is no doubt blacker than the coffee!”

  “Aw, Mazie,” Stone said, bending down to kiss her cheek, “I admit to honest poverty, but how can you say such a thing about my soul?”

  “Don’t take it personally. There isn’t an unmarried man on the face of the earth not destined to burn. Pour yourself some coffee. Pancakes’ll be ready in a minute. The Sunday paper’s on the table in the library.”

  Stone poured himself a mug of steaming coffee and walked with it to the library. He picked up the heavy newspaper and carried it back with him to the kitchen. There he fished out a section that reviewed the news of the past week and started to read.

  “Damn!” Stone exploded, spilling his coffee.

  “You mind your tongue in this house, young man!” said Aunt May. “What’s the matter?”

  “Sara. She gave another interview! Look, this is the weekly news review section. See this article, ‘Animal Activists Continue Upstate Protest’? They summarize her indictment and plea. Then her news conference, where she went into all the different reactions to poisons and things between humans and animals? And nailed that Wall Street Journal reporter on their own article about the monkey handler dying from a virus that didn’t bother the monkey, remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then listen to this: ‘Meanwhile, as police estimate that animal welfare protesters are increasing by more than twenty per day “from all over the country,” in an interview given a Reuters reporter yesterday, Ms. Rosen is quoted as asserting that “photographs exist [depicting means by which] animals are subjected to horrible experiments [which are] not only useless in attempting to improve human health,
but outright dangerous [to it.]” Ms. Rosen refused to state how the photographs came to exist “on advice of counsel,” and refused to respond when asked whether she took them.’”

  “Well,” protested Aunt May, “the girl told the truth, didn’t she?”

  “That’s not the point, Mazie. She gave another interview, without consulting me, and I’m supposed to be her lawyer. That’s bad enough. But she confirms that there are pictures of the inside of the plant and that she’s seen them. She doesn’t have to admit she took them; that’s the clear implication of what she said. The DA’s gotta be licking his chops!”

  “Someone else could have taken the pictures,” Aunt May said. She had become fond of Sara during her stay.

  “Who?” Stone asked sarcastically, “Her missing cat?” He slapped the newspaper down, picked up his cup, guzzled down the coffee, then rose.

  Hands on hips, Aunt May demanded, “Just where are you going?”

  “See Sara,” Stone replied, his voice muffled by the napkin he was using to wipe his lips. “That was a summary. I’ve got to know exactly what she told that guy from Reuters.”

  “At eight-fifty Sunday morning? Have you lost your mind? You think I’m going to eat all those pancakes? You sit right back down and have your breakfast like a civilized human being, then see if you can act like a lawyer instead of a teenager whose girl’s going to the prom with someone else. Go on, sit!”

  Michael Stone did as he was told.

  Fifty minutes later, calmed by a full stomach and the grudging recognition of the need to conduct himself professionally, he drew the Mustang to the curb across the street from Sara Rosen’s apartment, locked it, then surveyed the sleepy Sunday-morning neighborhood. The only sign of activity was an elderly couple walking a small dog. Stone crossed to Sara’s building, entered the vestibule, and pushed her bell.

  To Stone’s surprise, Sara answered after the first ring. Although it was 10:00 A.M., he had expected her to be asleep.

  “It’s me, your lawyer. At least for as long as it takes to have one more conversation with you.”

  “Oh, Michael. For heaven’s sake. Come on up.”

  Stone took the steps to the fifth floor two at a time, not because he was in any particular hurry, but to waste the opportunity for the exercise would have been unthinkable. At the fifth-floor landing, breathing rate unchanged, he walked to Sara’s door and knocked.

  Moments later, Sara’s apartment door opened just far enough for her hands to slip out. Her left hand was extended flat, palm down. Under it, her right hand formed the classic middle-finger gesture, tip of the extended finger touching the palm of the hand above it.

  The hair on the nape of Stone’s neck rose. He flattened himself out against the wall to the side of the door, scanning for danger. A moment later, the door was thrown full open. A man jumped out, shorter and lighter than Stone but with a strong, wiry build. He landed in a martial arts “horse” stance, legs open and bent, hands in guard position, white teeth flashing in a broad grin. “Gotcha!” he said.

  The smaller man’s defensive posture was prudent because Stone had started to strike when, relief and chagrin flooding through him at once, he cried out, “Saul, you fucker! I oughtta kill you for that!”

  “You can try, sailor boy, but better men than you haven’t been able to do it yet!”

  The two men embraced, pounding each other’s backs. They were still laughing as they walked into a smiling Sara Rosen’s apartment.

  “Where the fuck did you come from, and how long’ve you been here?” Stone demanded.

  “’Bout an hour. Drove up from Washington early this morning. No traffic on a Sunday. Just snap on the ol’ radar detector and cruise.”

  “Washington? What the hell you doing in Washington?”

  “A little more respect, please. You’re in the presence of the new Israeli military attaché’s first assistant, Lieutenant Colonel Saul Rosen. I outrank your ass. Anyway, read in the paper about some fiery young activist getting busted for breaking into a laboratory and, whatta you know, it’s my little sister. So here I am, see if I can do anything to help.”

  “Wait a minute,” Stone said, “Sara told me you said to call me the night she was arrested.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Sara, “I told you Saul said you were the only one I could trust up here, to call you if I ever got in trouble. He told me that when we were both visiting our grandparents in the city. What is this, anyway. Why are you cross-examining me?”

  “Because little things like this keep happening. I came over here to check out another one. How come the Germans working at Riegar knew you were coming here? They were expecting you, you know.”

  “What?” said Sara.

  Saul Rosen’s face lost all conviviality. He stared at Stone and said, “Explain that.”

  “What’s to explain? According to a source I consider reliable, the German workers at Riegar were expecting Sara to arrive.”

  “That’s a conclusion,” said Saul. “What are the facts that led you to that conclusion?”

  “Hey,” said Stone, “who’s the lawyer around here? The Germans are quoted as talking repeatedly about ‘when we get Sara’ or ‘when we have Sara.’”

  “But that’s not possible!” Sara protested.

  “It’s possible,” Saul muttered darkly, “but not probable.” He looked directly at Stone. “So, in spite of everything in the past, you suspect not only my sister but me?”

  Stone returned Saul’s glance levelly. “When things look funny, they look funny. When they don’t add up, they don’t add up. I mean, the Germans are expecting her, and here she is. No one’s expecting you, and here you are.”

  “Look,” said Saul, “we’re talking trust here. I told my sister she could trust you. In Nam, you trusted me with your life. Now you don’t trust us?”

  “Tell me,” Stone said intently, “that neither of you is with the Mossad.”

  “The Mossad?” Saul Rosen spit it out with half a laugh and half a snort. “The Mossad hates me, for Christ’s sake. For reasons I can’t go into.” He paused, then said, “How ’bout this?” Saul Rosen raised his right hand and said, “I swear by all we’ve been through together, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of the Mossad.”

  “What about her?”

  “I dunno,” said Saul. “What about you, sis? You with the Mossad?”

  Sara looked at both of them with disgust. “I wouldn’t know the Mossad from B’nai B’rith! What is it with you people, anyway? I mean, first my brother shows up, out of the blue, at the most inopportune time on a Sunday morning,” Sara said, rolling her eyes upward in a ‘Why me, God?’ expression, “then, here comes my lawyer, who my brother makes me give the finger to through the door, and who then accuses me of being a Mossad agent. I mean, shit, guys, what’s going on here? What’d that crazy finger thing mean, anyway? That’s how the Mossad people identify each other?”

  Stone grinned, and Saul broke into laughter. “The signal,” Stone said, “comes from Nam. You won’t find it in any squad-tactics manual, but what it means is, ‘I’m fucked, cover your ass.’ You give it, for example, when you’re on point, and you walk into an ambush. You see the bad guys, and they see you. Only they’re waiting for the rest of the patrol to walk into the trap with you. Saul gave me that signal once, and it saved my life. He took a round through his lung.”

  “I never could figure out,” Sara said to Saul, “what you were doing in Vietnam.”

  “I was in the Israeli Defense Forces, full of piss and vinegar, and volunteered for a counterterrorist group working the beach approaches and operating by small boat in and out of hostile territory in Lebanon. They sent me to cross-train with the U.S. Navy SEALs, best in the world at that stuff. That I was also a U.S. citizen gave me an in. It also got my ass in trouble. Someone in the IDF with a weird sense of humor figured the best training is combat. Got me attached to this beach hopper’s unit in Nam. I didn’t get to go home until I took that round and
my lung collapsed.”

  Stone, who had been mentally filling in Saul’s bare-bones tale with his own recollections of close-quarter battle they had shared, suddenly turned to Sara and said, “What was so awful about Saul’s showing up this morning? Something going on here I don’t know?”

  As if in answer to his question, Stone heard a key enter the lock of Sara’s front door. He looked and saw the knob turn. The door opened and a very tall, very thin young man stood there with a bag full of groceries. The expression on his face was intense and unpleasant. His eyes fixed on Stone. “Him, I know,” he said, nodding toward Saul. He nodded toward Stone and looked at Sara. “Who’s he?”

  “It’s Michael Stone, Eddie. Remember? My lawyer. I told you about him. Eddie Berg, Michael Stone.”

  “Hi,” said Stone, putting out his hand.

  Eddie Berg ignored Stone’s proffered hand. He kept both of his firmly on the bag of groceries and headed for the kitchen. “Hi,” he said in passing.

  Stone turned his hand over and scrutinized his palm. Sara, whose arms were at her sides, spread her hands out, dipped her head, and headed for the front door, saying to Stone, “Could I see you outside for a minute, please?”

  “Sure,” said Stone. He followed her out the door.

  “Let’s go for a little walk,” said Sara. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Same here,” said Stone. “You gave another press conference—this one without me there—to the Reuters guy. I need to know exactly what you said in addition to what was in the Sunday paper. And I want to know why.”

  “First,” said Sara, “I want to talk to you about Eddie.”

  “He’s the raptor guy you had a thing with.”

  “Right.”

  “I can’t see why you broke up with him. He’s such a very pleasant person. Gotta be great at parties.”

  “There’s no point being sarcastic. Eddie has his faults, completely unjustified jealousy being one of them and a single-minded devotion to his causes being another. I broke up with him because of the jealousy. He’s here, in spite of his pride, because of what’s going on at Riegar. And, I guess, my telling him about what a great guy my lawyer is wasn’t a smart move. You’re just going to have to make allowances to get along with him.”