ROGUESTATE, page 31
The medical examiner suggested the wound was not characteristic of a lover’s quarrel. The blade measured more than an inch across and the skin bore the marks of the base of the hilt as it was thrust upwards into his heart and lungs. Death had come quickly, although Carl probably bled a great deal in those last moments. The blade was six or seven inches long and it had done considerable damage.
Carl did not have any water in his lungs, suggesting he was dead before he ever hit the water.
“Sheriff, what about the boat?”
Sheriff Jeremy Dillard glanced over the top of Carl Elsing and said, “We haven’t found it.”
Ellen stared through Sheriff Dillard towards the wall. “Did he have a slip or something?”
Dillard shrugged. “We went through his effects at his townhouse and came up with a photograph of Elsing standing in front of his boat. One of my water patrol guys thought he recognized the location. He’s checking it out this morning.”
Ellen looked at the credit card encased in a Ziploc plastic bag. “What kind of boat did he have?”
The sheriff opened a folder and handed her a scanned copy of a picture of theGay Chance. “Can I ask a question?”
Ellen took the inkjet reproduction and said, “Sure.”
“Why is the Bureau interested in the death of a faggot?”
Ellen gave Dillard a sharp look for his politically incorrect comment. “We call them homosexuals.”
Dillard ignored her uptight, Yankee nerves and continued, “Call them what you want—queer, gay, faggot, homo. I don’t care. But are we talking about a hate crime or something?”
Ellen sighed. “No.”
Dillard nodded. “That’s good. I mean, I figure every crime is more or less a hate crime—hard to murder someone if you don’t hate them. I mean, we got blacks killing blacks and whites killing whites. No one cares too much about that, but get a white man killing a black man and we have all sorts of problems.”
Ellen nodded absently. She did not care if Sheriff Dillard had problems over lawyers and civil rights groups. The boat stared back at her and she realized Parvez Hyder had chosen the boat, not the man. Carl Elsing was unlucky enough to own the boat and Parvez used him. “What kind of boat is this?”
Dillard glanced at the photograph and answered, “It’s a cross between a trawler and yacht.”
“Ocean-going?” Ellen did not have a great deal of nautical experience, coming from the St. Louis office.
“Yeah.”
“So do you have any idea where Mister Elsing went into the water?”
Dillard smirked and said, “We have some guesses—nothing very definite. It depends on how long we think he was in the water.”
“Humor me,” she said.
“You done in here?” he asked glancing at Elsing.
Ellen nodded.
They walked into the ME’s lobby and Dillard produced a map of the Hampton Roads and Virginia Beach area. He stuck a finger at the north end of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. “Do you know what they call this area?”
Ellen glanced from the finger to Dillard and shrugged. “No.”
Dillard smirked. “The graveyard of the Atlantic. More ships have been wrecked in this area because the currents coming from the south and the north hit right here. There are lots of wrecks and the currents can get real funny—especially during seasonal changes.”
Ellen nodded, not fully understanding what Dillard meant.
“Anyway, if the body was dumped on the land side of the bridge it might have floated around, but it would have probably ended up in Norfolk or somewhere like that. A body dumped on the Atlantic side will hit Virginia Beach or further south. If you drop far enough out—like beyond the continental shelf, you might never find the body.”
Ellen squinted looking at the map and said, “Then you think he was dumped outside the bridge and before the shelf?”
Dillard nodded. “I couldn’t tell you exactly. No one can fully predict these currents; they do strange things. I’ll bet your suspect thought he was dumping the body far enough out. But if you don’t sail these currents, you don’t understand how it works.”
“Who goes out that far?”
“Besides the Navy and the fishermen?” he asked chuckling.
“Yeah.”
“There are smugglers and freighters using the same lanes. The Coast Guard is understaffed and the traffic is pretty high. A person could take a boat beyond the twelve-mile limit and do just about anything.”
Ellen pressed her lips together. “So how long ago did Elsing get dumped into the ocean?”
Dillard pursed his lips and said slowly, “The ME said it looked like he had been in the water a minimum of ninety-six hours, but the currents run colder this time of year so the rate of decomposition might have slowed down. But certainly not more than one hundred twenty hours. We fished him out of the swimming beach yesterday morning.
Ellen excused herself and dialed Cecil’s number.
“Yeah,” answered a distracted and distant voice.
“Cecil, this is Ellen, I have a problem.”
“Does it have to do with Mister Hyder?” he queried. Spread out on his desk was a Defense Intelligence Agency dossier on Captain Eduard Gurov. Feldman would have flipped out if he realized Cecil was pursuing a Russian spy instead of devoting his attention to the bomber Dwayne was hunting.
“I need to find out where a ship might have been,” explained Ellen.
“You better bring me up to speed.”
Ellen went through the scenarios she had discussed with Sheriff Dillard. She intended to issue a search and detain order for theGay Chance. However, the Atlantic seaboard is a large place and a boat could be just about anywhere. The Coast Guard would divert its limited resources to search and rescue (SAR) missions and drug enforcement secondly. After four or five days, Parvez and theGay Chance could be anywhere.
“How about we look for an anomaly,” suggested Cecil.
Ellen nodded dumbly, asking, “How do we do that?”
The older man seemed almost gleeful. Occasionally, during the Cold War, the Russians attempted to sneak illegals—covert, deep-cover agents—into the country using submarines. They thought their stealthy sound signature was better than the Navy’s Integrated Undersea Surveillance System (IUSS). He had spent time during the seventies tracking suspicious submarine penetrations along the Atlantic coast.
“Where are you?”
“Virginia Beach.”
“Perfect! I’ll get a chopper from Quantico to bring me down. I want you to meet me at the main gate at Norfolk Naval Air Station.”
Ellen blinked, still confused, and said, “Why there?”
“That’s where the Marines will drop me, and then we’ll go find the people who run SOSUS these days,” Cecil answered confidently.
“SOSUS?”
“Yeah, that’s how the Navy tracks submarines and ships world wide. See you in a few.”
* * * *
Washington D.C.
Damon Layne sat in a phone company van and reread the latest communication from Ron Babcock. The fool had decided to grandstand and mail a special note to the Senate Majority Leader. Damon could imagine dumber ploys, but waving evidence in the face of the Bureau was not his idea of enhancing life expectancy.
He knew instinctively these people were crazy, and how hard would it be for the Bureau to figure out who sent them the note. Once they had a couple of names and faces, the massive American surveillance network would descend microscopically into their lives. They would not be able to break wind without three clerks and five secretaries processing the paperwork.
Damon sighed and checked the side-view mirror. He figured he would need to disappear quickly before everything came crashing down. Eluding the Bureau should be a relatively trivial matter. He still hadfriends who thought of him as a member of the club. The cop mind is a curious quagmire of limited loyalties and false premises. Damon simply built upon the mindset and entwined himself into their culture.
His military background and his covert operations background made it easy for him to appear as almost anything. He hardly remembered whom he was most mornings and the Jack Daniels helped him forget at the end of the day.
Today’s target was a soon-to-be former member of congress. Jacob Malden was a casualty of breaking his word. He was a minor congressman from a marginal district who broke his pledge on a self-imposed six-year term limit. It was part of the Contract with America, and Malden’s constituents actually took him at his word.
Malden had taken to Washington’s Disneyland atmosphere available to a thirty-something bachelor. He had no intention of returning to the flyover country where people were more concerned about hog futures and soybean prices. Over the last six years he came to understand and appreciate the lure of power. Besides, as a former member of Congress he could land a position at any number of lobbyist offices and quadruple his income. A future that had appeared bleak last Tuesday was brightening as he considered his expanded options.
Damon cut Malden’s future short. He flipped the arming switch, twisted and pushed the plunger on a one-thousand-yard remote detonator. Malden was driving his car out of the parking garage when three cubes of plastic explosive ruptured and ignited his gasoline tank. The car’s rear end blew apart and the fire engulfed the rest of the vehicle. Malden desperately attempted to control the car, but the twisting motion smashed the front end into an unbending concrete pillar.
* * * *
Dwayne rushed into Cecil’s vacant office, scowled, and started down to his car. The stakes had risen markedly. Congressman Malden had been plastered across the front of his apartment building less than forty-five minutes ago and the Speaker of the House was already chewing out the Director. Dwayne figured he might be packing his bags for Billings before the week was out.
Feldman caught up to him in the elevator—it might as well been the ride to hell.
“We’ve got big problems, Dwayne,” announced Feldman. As if Dwayne was not aware the entire Bureau’s attention was keenly focused by two of the most powerful men in Washington D.C.—especially in light of the uncertain presidential election.
Dwayne nodded and watched the agonizingly slow descent.
“Where’s Cecil?” continued Feldman.
Good question.
“He’s off working on one of our investigations,” murmured Dwayne.
“Good, good,” boomed Feldman. “He’s seen a lot, Dwayne. He should be a great asset.”
Dwayne nodded numbly.
“We need a quick arrest before this thing gets completely out of control. The Bureau’s reputation is riding on it.”
Things seemed pretty much over the edge already.
The elevator stopped one floor short of the lobby, and a clerk pushing a document cart rolled onto the elevator.
“You just name it, and it’ll happen,” continued Feldman like he were king handing out stipends on feast day.
Dwayne decided to take Feldman up on his offer. “There is one thing,” he said tentatively.
Feldman’s smile quivered slightly, but he had blundered too far to back away. “What?”
Dwayne wondered if Cecil was correct and Feldman was setting him up to fail. A flash of unexpected anger crackled and he continued to say, “I want Irv Fredricks turned inside-out. I want him arrested and brought in for questioning.”
Feldman glanced at the clerk and furrowed his brow. “What evidence do we have?”
“The note,” explained Dwayne. “I had it analyzed for writing patterns and compared it to Irv’s rants. There is a similarity, but I’ll tell you what it really is.” He was starting to roll on his subject.
The elevator opened into the lobby and the two followed the document clerk into the main lobby.
“What’s that?”
“No one else would want to kill over those issues.”
Feldman stopped in his steps and said, “The income tax amendment? There are plenty of tax protest groups out there—”
“Not the income tax amendment,” corrected Dwayne. “That’s a red herring. His first demand is the 17thamendment. He sees it as a state’s rights issue. That’s what drives Irv, and he’d kill over that issue—in fact it makes sense for him to make war at the federal level.”
“That’s crazy,” said Feldman dismissively. “Even if we picked him up, any hick lawyer would have him out in a few minutes.” Feldman’s track record with lawyers and judges was not exceptional.
Of course, it was crazy. They were dealing with nut cases.
“They just blew a member of congress apart.”
“But where is the evidentiary link between Irv and the bombings?” demanded Feldman. He was feeling much better about his choice of Dwayne and Cecil. The two of them would sink like a crusty anchor.
“I just know,” said Dwayne determinedly.
“That’s not good enough and you know it,” chided Feldman.
Dwayne sighed and tried a different track. “This is just the kind of link the Justice Department has been slobbering over for eight years.”
“This Justice Department may be going away,” cautioned Lou, who gave a furtive glance over his shoulder.
“Not if the Vice President wins,” countered Dwayne desperately.
Lou shook his head and triumphantly turned away.
Dwayne stood in the Hoover Building’s lobby clenching his hands. He pulled his cell phone and proceeded to the parking garage. He thumbed through the directory until he found Cecil’s number and punched the TALK button. It had been a long time since he had been so furious.
The link between their phones was tinny and tenuous. “Yes,” answered Cecil.
“I need some help,” complained Dwayne.
The older man simply said, “If I can.”
Dwayne explained his just concluded conversation with Feldman, and Cecil understood the problem. He was growing weary of “managing up” and accounting for gross incompetence. The Bureau had transformed over the years from a premier law enforcement organization to a fiefdom rife with petty allegiances and bungling political agendas. The rot began long before Ruby Ridge, but Waco, TWA 800, and Oklahoma City became the capstones of treachery, deceit, and belligerence. He had voted for the Texas Governor, hoping a new hand might restore the gleam to a tarnished agency.
Cecil concluded the conversation, saying, “There are people I can call. I’ll see what I can work out.” He offered a strand of hope to Dwayne’s torpedoed career and his flagging tenure. A hard, cold knot in the center of his being did not want Feldman to win again.
They only person Cecil could turn to was Mary Kirsten, and her connection to thePhreaks. Rumors of thePhreaks were prevalent inside the Bureau and they had gained a certain legendary status. Cecil wondered about Dwayne’s gut instinct and came swiftly to the conclusion he had no other options. If Dwayne was wrong, Feldman could easily be rid of them by Thanksgiving.
Cecil checked the tremor in his hand as the Marine helicopter flew him towards Norfolk Naval Air Station. The possibility existed that Dwayne was right, and he worried at what they might find under this hideous rock.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
White House,AP,November 13, 2000 –“I would not want to win the presidency by a few votes cast in error or misinterpreted or not counted, and I don’t think Governor Bush wants that either,” said Vice President Gore.
“What is at stake is more important than who wins the presidency.
“What is at stake is the integrity of our democracy, making sure that the will of the American people is expressed and accurately received,” said Gore, repeatedly referring to the United States as a “democracy” – which it is not; it is a republic.
“It is important that every vote is counted, and counted accurately,” said a grinning, nervous-looking Gore. “That’s what I’m focused on.”
Mister Gore did not respond to GOP claims of widespread Democrat vote fraud across the country, from Miami to Philadelphia to Milwaukee to St. Louis to California.
Plum Point, Maryland
Monday, November 13, 2000
3:00 P.M. EST
Parvez Hyder loaded the explosives from theGay Chance into the back end of a rental truck. The one hundred sixty cone-shaped charges, capable of pulverizing the pavement between Washington’s old sewer system and the roadway, sat like toy soldiers awaiting their orders. They were commercial demolition charges manufactured in Great Britain.
The detonators, radio beacons, and wires sat in Styrofoam padded containers. The German markings were prominent on the boxes and the identifying import/export stamps had been ripped away. The metallic serial number tags had been pried loose and lost on the voyage across the ocean.
Three M-72 Light Anti-Tank Weapons (LAW) lay in their wooden crates. The American-made weapon had been the NATO standard man-portable, shoulder-fired weapon before the advent and deployment of the AT-4. It was a simple, self-contained weapon capable of blasting a hole through a foot of armor and had an effective range of approximately two hundred yards.
The watertight rocket was designed to be discarded after use. There were no fancy electronics to learn or complex instructions to read. It fired a single 66mm, fin-stabilized High Explosive Anti-Tank (HEAT) round. The rocket weighed slightly more than two pounds and had a relatively low muzzle velocity of four hundred seventy-five feet per second. It was designed to fight Soviet light armor in the Fulda Gap. Against an armored limousine, it was capable of peeling back the metal plates like a cheap sardine can. Parvez was already familiar with the Russian copy called the RPG-26.
Parvez realized he had lost one of the two VISA cards the Iranians had given him in London. He went through his wallet a couple of times, but he only had the one card. He used it to rent a slip on the Maryland side of Chesapeake Bay. He had been required to show a driver license in order to rent the truck, and everything swirled through the card reader merchant machines connected to American Express, Master Charge, VISA, and Discover. The Bureau’s digital dragnet finally came up with something on Parvez Hyder.
