WASHINGTON, D.C.
Platt and Bix trailed behind Julia and their security escort to the third-floor conference room. Julia was still complaining about having to leave her weapon. Platt took the opportunity to whisper to Bix, “What’s the game plan, Roger?”
“Just follow my lead. This is solely to gather information.”
“No task force?”
“Like I’m gonna trust them.”
“Do you have a choice?”
“Watch me.” Then he let his guard down and confessed, “I really need you to back me up.”
Earlier, on the drive over to Fourteenth Street and Independence Avenue, Platt had made Bix talk, threatening he’d drop him in the middle of a District intersection to walk if he continued to withhold information.
Truth was, Bix knew very little. Earlier that morning, someone who claimed to have insider knowledge told him there would be more schools. It would be the exact scenario as the Norfolk, Virginia, contamination. They’d find the same bacteria. Kids would get very sick. Some would be hospitalized. There might even be fatalities. When Bix demanded to know who the person was, he hung up.
At first Platt wondered if it might be a reporter. Someone guessing, hedging his bets, creating a bigger story by being a part of the story. Maybe the man had simply made a lucky guess. But why call again and risk being wrong? Bix insisted the person told him specific details that only an insider would know. Platt, however, wasn’t convinced.
The conference room looked suspiciously big for gathering information. Platt had been in other situations like this—or at least, what he imagined this to be—with government officials acting more like politicians than public servants, working their asses off to save their asses. If past experience was any indication, the plush conference room, reserved for catered meetings that required leather high-back chairs and big-screen presentations, was more for intimidation.
As soon as their security escort left, Julia immediately headed for the refreshment table. Bix grabbed a can of Pepsi and popped it open. Gulped almost half the can. Platt didn’t think Bix would be able to pull this off as long as his upper lip remained sweaty.
“What do you know about this person you’re calling a whistle-blower? If what he’s saying is true, we have just over forty-eight hours to figure out what’s going on. Do you even know he’s for real?”
“I know enough to realize if there’s another attack the USDA is not going to come out smelling like a bouquet.”
“Rose.”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind,” Platt said. The man’s awkward meta phors shouldn’t make a difference right now, even if they got on Platt’s nerves. “You think the USDA is somehow responsible?”
“This is what I know: Yesterday when I asked for their help they had no interest in doing anything more than sending me from one department to another. Today they invite me here for a strategy session.”
“Is that what they called it? A strategy session?”
“I don’t give a damn what they called it. You’re missing the point, Platt. Today every media outlet was on the scene and oh, by the way, now suddenly the USDA wants to help.”
Platt couldn’t argue. Government agencies had a tendency to be reactive instead of proactive. But their timing didn’t necessarily mean they had something to hide. At the same time, he couldn’t shake the fact that someone had followed him from his meeting at the diner with Bix all the way to his parents’ home.
“Would you recognize this so-called whistle-blower’s voice if you met him?”
Bix shook his head. “He uses a computer voice.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, where you key in your words on a computer and the program reads it out loud. Sort of like the mechanical voice that says, ‘You’ve got mail.’”
“So maybe he is concerned you’d recognize his real voice.”
“Too many veggies.” Julia returned with a plate full. “I’m so sick of people telling me what’s good for me,” she said as she crunched a celery stick. “Department of Agriculture, hmpf. You’d think they’d provide a few chunks of meat. Have you ordered a trace on the cell-phone call?”
“I tried this morning. It’s a secure number.”
“There’re usually ways to get around that.”
Both men stared at her, waiting to hear what she meant when a woman came into the conference room. She wore a flowered silk blouse under a fitted blazer with a skirt that accentuated her willowy figure making her appear softer and betraying her stickler personality. She was attractive with wavy brown hair that fell past her shoulders and green eyes that sparked slightly with irritation as soon as she saw Platt. She was tall, almost as tall as him but mostly because she insisted on wearing three-inch spiked heels, which he knew she hated and was reminded how much when she walked across the long conference room.
She offered her hand to Bix first.
“You must be Roger Bix. I’m Mary Ellen Wychulis.”
“This is Julia Racine and—”
“And Colonel Benjamin Platt,” she interrupted Bix and didn’t even bother to glance at Julia.
“You know each other.” Bix sounded almost as surprised as Platt was. He didn’t think he knew anyone at the USDA.
“Yes,” Mary Ellen said. “Ben and I know each other.”
“I didn’t know you worked here,” Platt said.
Bix looked at him as if seeing a traitor. He was waiting for an explanation. Even Julia had bristled, her eyes darting between the two of them.
“Mary Ellen and I used to be married.”