Gallows Pole, page 10
“The effect can be made to last longer, “Udovin said. “Not without some side effects, of course.”
“What sort of effects?”
“Possible liver damage. But the most profound effect would be to the brain. Prolonged exposure would…I suppose, in layman’s terms, you’d say ‘burn out’ the neurons, leading to some risk of loss of cognitive function.”
“I can live with that,” Campbell said. “What about the other thing we discussed?”
“Aerosolizing it? Of course. Trivially easy.”
Campbell sat back. The implications made even his mind reel.
“Dr. Udovin,” he said. “What do you need to make this happen?”
“It won’t be cheap,” the Russian warned.
“Of course not,” Campbell said as he stood up. “Come with me,” he said.
Udovin stood and followed him, out the door of the office, down the stairs, and out a back door. A gleaming pickup truck was parked behind the huge house. They got in, Udovin looking puzzled but saying nothing. Campbell hummed softly as they drove along a narrow dirt road leading through the trees. After a short drive, they pulled up in front of a large, white wooden storage shed. Campbell got out, Udovin following.
The door to the barn-like structure was secured by a sophisticated electronic key card lock that looked incongruous on the rustic building. Campbell took a card out of his shirt pocket and slid it through the lock. There was a low buzz and a click and Campbell pulled the door open. It moved heavily but smoothly on its hinges. It was clearly more door that one would expect on a farm outbuilding. They walked inside together.
The interior was cramped and dim. A short corridor ran down the center, with large doors opening off of it. Each of the doors had a keypad on the wall beside it. Campbell typed a series of numbers onto the keypad. There was the soft click of a lock opening. Campbell swung the door open. He flicked a switch and stepped inside. Udovin followed. Just inside the door, he drew up short with an audible gasp.
It was a large, featureless storeroom, with a single fluorescent light fixture hanging from the ceiling. Several wooden pallets sat side by side on the concrete floor. Each one was piled with bundles of cash, stacked up to the height of a man’s shoulder. Udovin walked over and picked one up. It was a stack of 100 dollar bills.
“Keep it,” Campbell said. “There’s more where that came from.”
“I had heard about this,” Udovin said. “But I did not know to believe it.”
“Believe it.”
“You stole…all this?”
“No. I diverted it to its true purpose.”
Udovin smiled. “If you say so.”
“I do. The fools in Washington wanted to send billions of dollars in U.S. currency into an unstable war zone, to,” he shook his head, “aid in the rebuilding of a country that was always a god-awful hellhole and always would be. Much of it disappeared into the pockets of corrupt politicians, some of whom were in league with the very people who were killing us. So,” he spread his hands in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture, “I did what needed to be done.”
“How much is here?”
Campbell smiled. “Enough. So, are you satisfied that we can meet your needs?”
Udovin nodded. “Oh, yes.”
Campbell‘s mind raced ahead. Enemy troops, even entire enemy populations, sprayed with a gas that would compel them to surrender at a word, without a shot fired. Rioters and protesters, subdued and ordered to return home with no choice but to do as they were told. Or even, he smiled again to himself, told to go home and destroy themselves. Inconvenient political enemies made to do the same.
The possibilities were endless.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“It’s not the same guy,” Hobart said.
They were in a conference room buried deep in the HooverBuilding, gathered around the table. Each agent had their laptops open on the table, stacks of file folders next to them. Styrofoam cups of coffee or tea were scattered about.
“What do you mean?” Melissa said. “It’s the same profile.”
Hobart shook his head. “No,” he said, “it isn’t. These people weren’t drugged. The father, in fact, had been hit on the back of the head. There were other signs of struggle.”
“But the rope was the same. And the pattern of how the bodies were hanged.”
“The rope’s a common brand,” Hobart said. “And as for the pattern…” he shrugged. “It’s just a logical arrangement.”
“And there was the explosion,” Parr said. “That doesn’t fit the pattern, either.”
“What about the explosion?” Melissa asked. “Dave, we have the report from the lab?”
Collette pulled out a stack of papers, clipped together. He looked grim. “Definitely set,” he said. “Not accidental. This wasn’t a meth lab gone wrong.”
“Explain,” Melissa said.
Collette flipped to the middle of the stack. “The explosive used isn’t readily available,” he said. “Judging from the reaction rates, I’d say we’re looking at an MIC.”
“A what?” Parr said.
“A metastable intermolecular composite. Probably a nanothermite.”
“Dave,” Melissa said patiently. “Pretend the rest of us don’t have a chemistry degree.”
A voice spoke up from one of the seats along the wall. “He means something that blows up real good.”
All eyes turned towards the voice, hostility on every face. Melissa had already briefed the team on the possible Heineman/Iron Horse connection to the murders. She’d let them know Lanier and Sims would be sitting in on the meeting, and that they could be providing valuable information. That didn’t make the outsiders in the room any more popular, especially with Collette.
Sims stepped forward. “Agent Collette,” he sad politely. “May I see the report?”
Collette looked at him, scanning his face for signs of sarcasm. Sims had been exquisitely polite to Collette since the incident where Sims had taken his gun away, and Collette had clearly never gotten over the suspicion that Sims was mocking him. He handed over the report.
“Thank you,” Sims said. He flipped through pages until he seemed to find the one he wanted. He studied it for a moment, then looked over at Lanier and nodded. Lanier grimaced.
“Gentlemen,” Melissa said, “You want to share with the rest of the class?”
Sims handed the report back to Collette. “It’s military grade,” he said. “It’s hot, and it’s fast, and it consumes everything when it goes.” He turned to Collette. “Nothing left of the place, right?”
Collette shook his head.
“It doesn’t leave much behind to identify,” Sims said. “It’s why we liked it. I’d need to run it by our own explosives guy, but I’d say…” he took a deep breath. “I’d say this explosive is some of the stuff that was developed for us. But I don’t know where someone would get it now. It’s not like we had a warehouse full of it.”
Parr spoke up. “Would Heineman still have some of it?”
Sims shook his head. “I don’t know how. But yeah, maybe. It doesn’t have a real long shelf life, though.”
“Can you give us the name of the manufacturer?” Melissa asked.
Sims nodded. “Yeah.” He turned to Collette. “I’ll need to fax or e-mail that report to Sergeant Calhoun.”
“Like hell,” Collette said. “I’m not faxing an internal FBI report to some fucking farmer.”
For the first time, Sims’ mask of politeness cracked. “That ‘fucking farmer,’” he shot back, “Has forgotten more about stuff that goes boom than most of you people will ever know. I once saw him make an explosive out of a pack of playing cards. For fun.”
“So?”
“So make him a copy of the report, Dave,” Melissa broke in.
Collette looked at her, stricken.
“These people are not our enemies,” she said gently.
“How do we know that?” It was Ross. He hadn’t spoken up since their first meeting, and most of the team seemed to have forgotten he was there.
Sims’ face seemed to be carved from granite. “Say again?” he said in a low, deadly voice.
Ross looked back at him without flinching. “You say this explosive is the type that your team used to use. This guy Rutledge might have had some dirt on you and your friend here. How do we know you didn’t do him, to cover your tracks?”
There was a brief, electric silence, then Lanier spoke up. “It’s actually a fair question,” he said. “How do you know that this whole thing isn’t just some complicated bit of misdirection? How do you know we haven’t infiltrated this investigation to throw you off?”
“Because that would be crazy?” Melissa asked.
“In our business,” Lanier said, “Crazy is a very relative term.” He turned to Ross. “The answer, Agent Ross,” he said, “Is that you don’t know. But, soon, I hope, you will.”
The intercom buzzed. “Agent Saxon?”
“Yes?” Melissa answered.
“There’s a Mr. Bishop here to see you.”
Lanier shook his head. “One of these days,” he said, “I’m going to get him to tell me how he does that.”
“Does what?” Parr asked.
“Shows up on cue.”
“Every goddamn time,” Sims agreed.
“Show him in,” Melissa said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Excellent work, gentlemen,” Campbell said.
“Piece of piss,” Dawes said. He turned to Woodward, “Right, Paul?” he asked, all innocence.
Woodward said nothing. He and Dawes had nearly come to blows when Dawes had become insistent about having “a bit of fun” with Rutledge’s wife and daughter before Rutledge came home. They couldn’t spare the time, Woodward had argued, and they couldn’t afford to leave trace DNA evidence behind. Woodward had finally prevailed, but Dawes had been sulky all the way back to Campbell‘s home.
“Right, Paul?” Dawes asked again.
“Right,” Woodward said. “No problems.”
“And you placed the files in Rutledge’s computer, as instructed?”
“Right,” Woodward said again.
“Very good,” Campbell said. “Once the FBI finds those, Mr. Heineman will be in our debt.”
Bache entered the office, her eyes bright with excitement. “Found him.”
“Heineman?”
She nodded. “Your idea to access police surveillance cameras was an excellent one. He’s gone to ground. He’s at a small hotel in the Raleigh, North Carolina area.”
“Near where the Rutledges lived?” Woodward asked.
She nodded.
“Hell,” Dawes said. “He was probably there, looking for more of this Zombie Juice. We must have just missed him.”
“We have to move fast,” Bache said. “Before he goes on the move again.”
“Let’s go then,” Dawes said, standing up. “Not a moment to lose.”
Bache arched an eyebrow. “Just the two of you?”
“Only one of him,” Woodward said.
“Still,” Campbell said, “Colonel Bache is right. You’ll need backup. Fortunately, I have assets close to the area.” He picked up the phone. “Mr. Rusk,” he said. “Get Dayton on the line, please. I have work for him.”
Bache looked at him without expression. “Mercenaries?”
Dawes shrugged. “Good enough for a quick smash and grab.”
Woodward nodded. “We keep it simple. Go right by the book.”
“You forget,” Bache said. “Heineman is one of the people who helped write the book.”
“You forget,” Dawes said. “These Iron Horse people aren’t ten feet tall. They’re flesh and blood, We’ll take him. Piece of piss, no worries.”
“I hope you’re right,” Bache said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
All eyes turned to Bishop as he entered the room. It was partially curiosity; Melissa had briefed her team on his background and his knowledge of who the Hangman probably was. But there was more to it that that. Everyone seemed to sit up a little straighter when he walked in, and Sims and Lanier somehow managed to give the impression of standing at attention without actually doing so.
Melissa had already felt the aura of command that surrounded Bishop. It seemed, she noticed, to increase in power the larger the group. There was nothing outwardly overpowering about the man, although, she had to admit to herself, he did clean up well. But something about him demanded attention. Alexander the Great had probably had that kind of charisma. But then again, so had Hitler. He both attracted her and made her wary.
He made his way to the head of the table and Ross got him a chair. He sat and looked around the silent room. He didn’t seem surprised by the attention.
“Thank you for inviting me,” he said quietly. “Would someone please bring me up to speed on where we are?”
The “we” irritated Melissa. It’s my team, damn it, she thought. And she particularly resented the way her people immediately fell in line and started giving him information. She began to notice things about him. She saw that whoever was speaking to him got his complete attention, as if they were the only people in the room. He interrupted occasionally to ask questions, then nodded at the answers as if the person had made the most cogent point ever. And her people responded to it. My god, she thought, Hobart‘s practically preening. Even the usually prickly Collette was acting as eager to please as a puppy dog. And Parr…Jesus, girl, Melissa thought, try not to drool.
Lanier caught her eye and smiled. He gave a little shrug, as if to say “What can you do?” He’d obviously seen this kind of performance before.
When the briefing was done, Bishop surprised her again. He turned to her and asked bluntly, “What do you need from us, Agent Saxon?” She felt a rush of gratitude, then a flash of anger. It was as if he were giving her back her team, when he had no right to take it in the first place. She stifled the feeling. It’s not about you, she told herself.
“We need you to debrief us on ways we might track this Heineman character. Known associates, methods of operation, where he might hole up.”
He nodded. “We can do that. But keep in mind, part of Heineman’s training is in avoiding patterns that an enemy might pick up on and use to entrap or ambush you. He’s not going to make it easy.” He grimaced. “I trained him too well for that.”
“Well, if you taught him everything he knows,” Collette said, “Let’s hope you didn’t teach him everything you know.”
Bishop looked at him soberly. “I’m afraid I did, Agent Collette,” he said. “To the fullest extent I could.” He looked around the room. “We were a team,” he told them. “And we often worked in some very hairy situations, with no backup. Holding back knowledge could get one or all of us killed.” He turned to Melissa. “We’ll give you everything we know on Heineman,” he said. “But I’d submit that we need to address Agent Hobart’s theory that the Rutledges were not killed by the same person.”
“Agent Ross,” Sims said, “thinks one of us might have done it. To cover up. And that we’re only here to misdirect the investigation.”
Bishop leaned back and folded his hands across his chest. He looked down at the table for a moment. “Ah,” he said. “I see.” He looked up at Ross. “Interesting theory,” he said without rancor. “A bit baroque, maybe. Should be easy enough to check alibis.” He smiled. “Mine, at least.” He looked at Sims and Lanier. “Gentlemen? Can you provide Agent Ross with your whereabouts at the relevant times?”
Sims looked unhappy, but both he and Lanier nodded.
“Good. Get it done.” He looked around the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we’re going to be working very closely together, against a very dangerous adversary. We don’t have room for error, and we don’t have time to let suspicions fester.” He turned to Melissa. “Agent Saxon, if any more of your people have a problem with any of mine, please let me know right now.”
She didn’t answer right away, but he noticed her glance at Collette. “I see,” he said. “May I borrow an office or a conference room for a quick meeting with my people?”
She nodded towards the door. “The one next door is free.”
“Thank you. Major, Captain.” He walked out without looking back. Sims and Lanier followed.
“Wow,” Ross said. “Return of the fucking Jedi.”
Melissa repressed a flash of irritation. The rest started gathering up their papers and cups, the meeting apparently winding down. After a few moments, the door opened again and Bishop stuck his head in. “Agent Saxon, may I see you and Agent Collette for a minute?”
She walked out into the hall, Collette behind her. Sims was standing there, at attention. His face was expressionless. “Agent Collette,” he said, “I apologize for taking your sidearm away from you. It was inappropriate and unprofessional.”
“It was a dick move, is what it was,” Collette said.
“Dave,” Melissa said.
Collette sighed. “Yeah. Okay.” He stuck out his hand.
Sims relaxed and took it. He smiled, a little ruefully. “It actually was a dick move,” he said. “Sorry.”
Collette gave him back a tight smile of his own. “And the fact is, I was standing too close. My name’s Dave.”
“Mine’s Bonaparte,” Sims said.
Collette arched an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he said without expression. “But Sims will do fine.”
“Very well,” Bishop said. He turned to Melissa. “Agent Saxon,” he began.
“Melissa,” she said.
He stopped. “Melissa. I’ve let my people know that that kind of nonsense is not going to fly. Not on this mission.”
Melissa heard the steel in the voice. She suddenly saw another side of Bishop’s command presence. This was not a man you wanted to make angry. “I think we can consider the incident closed.”
Bishop nodded. “Gentlemen, excuse us for a moment.” They went back into the conference room. Bishop rubbed the back of his neck. He suddenly looked very tired.
“Sims is a good officer,” he said. “One of the finest warriors I’ve ever served with. There’s no one I’d rather have at my back.” He shook his head. “But he just can’t resist the temptation to show how good he is. And it gets him in trouble.”
