by Jack Hardin
“I know we just created our little door here,” Virgil said, “but I don’t see another one. How would they have gotten in here?” The question seemed to resonate with everyone else. They broke apart and began to examine the room. Voltaire kept an eye on the hole in the wall, not wanting to be caught unawares should anyone unexpected try to come through.
“Look,” Virgil said. He pointed upward to a thin metal cylinder on the top of the fireplace. It rose up and at an angle, finally disappearing into the wall up near the ceiling. “They connected it to the existing smokestack in the roof. They really thought through this.”
Virgil had made his way over to the sideboard. He opened the drawers and, finding nothing, shut them. Looking for anything, he tugged at it and felt some give. He pushed this time, heaving hard, and the sideboard surrendered to his weight. It shifted to the right. Virgil gave it a final push and looked down at the floor where it had been resting.
Nothing was out of the ordinary. Just a dirty and unfinished pine floor. There was a gap near the base of the wall. For kicks, Virgil leaned down and worked a finger into it. When he pulled up, he felt some give, so he stepped back and tried again. This time a section of the floor lifted up, exposing a man-sized hole that led down into the darkness.
“Well, crap,” he said.
Voltaire, Ellie, and Cicero joined him in turn. They peered down into the tunnel, all of them silently absorbing the fact that they had just been outsmarted. A rare occurrence indeed.
“So,” Cicero said. “We drawing sticks for who’s going down there? Because I really don’t want to go down there.”
Voltaire looked to Virgil. “Get back to the van. Grab the Mole and get back here stat. Six, have it powered up before he gets there. Four, keep eyes out. I don’t want him a sitting duck if they’re out there trying to sight us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Virgil ducked and exited the room. The rest of the team spent the next five minutes examining the rest of the room, finding nothing else of importance. When Virgil returned, the Mole was in his hands. He set it on the floor.
The Mole was a tactical surveillance robot. Lightweight and compact, it was typically deployed in situations where minimizing the risk to human life was a priority. Its three 27X optical zoom cameras allowed its operator a 360-degree composite view, and when needed, the robot could be switched to thermal imaging or forward-looking infrared. It was equipped with a multi-axis arm and continuous rubber tread that wrapped around its wheels. Darwin used wireless controls in the van to guide the robot remotely. He navigated it to the edge of the hole and stopped it. Voltaire already had a length of thin paracord ready. He tied an end to an eye hook in the center of the robot, gathered a length into his hands, and then lifted it off the floor. He lowered it down into the hole while Ellie shined a flashlight into the inky darkness of the shaft. It was ten feet down, and once the treads were in the dirt, Darwin wasted no time moving it down the tunnel. Voltaire had a hundred yards of paracord, and he continued to feed more into the hole as the robot advanced.
The tunnel tended northeast, toward the rear of the townhomes and the loose network of alleyways behind it. It was reinforced periodically with wooden slats that were set atypically far apart. In this area of the world, the ground was subjugated to perennial permafrost. Less than a foot below the surface, the ground was frozen solid year-round. Cave-ins wouldn’t be much of a concern.
At five meters, the robot had to navigate around a cluster of rusted pipes running horizontally from the townhomes above to the sewers below. At eight meters, the tunnel started to curve south. There was no indication of where the tunnel terminated or how far ahead the Petronoviches might be. With every additional meter, the tension rose in the room as the team waited for a report from the van. At ten meters, the Mole’s treads ran over a small lump in the soil. The Mole’s audio receiver picked up a muted click. Three seconds later, a fireball reverberated through the tunnel, collapsing it and sending out a shockwave that rocked the ground and shook the walls of the townhouse. Ellie grabbed the sideboard for support, but it slid away from her. Her knees buckled, and she fell onto her backside, joined by Virgil who fell down beside her. Dirt and sand cascaded from the mouth of the tunnel’s entrance in great billowing clouds. Virgil heaved himself up and helped Ellie back to her feet. The operatives stood back and tucked their faces into the crooks of their arms.
“Team, report,” Darwin said nervously from the van.
“We’re fine,” Voltaire replied.
As the dirt and dust began to clear, Cicero returned to the mouth of the hole and looked into it. “Told you I didn’t want to go down there,” he muttered.
Darwin addressed his team leader. “Sir, Mortimer is requesting a report. He wants to know if we have the bird in hand.”
An uncomfortable silence settled onto the room. Voltaire cursed and sent a gloved fist into the wall beside him. He looked to his team. “Come on,” he said. “It’s time to go.”
Chapter Ten
Sleep came in shallow, listing waves that would not allow Ellie to settle into any kind of a restful sleep. Evocative images of Tricia Leeland and the Murad family presented themselves every time she closed her eyes. At just before 5 AM, she finally surrendered and reluctantly rolled out of bed. She found her way into the kitchen and started the coffee brewing then rummaged around in the refrigerator for ingredients for a smoothie. She settled on kale, spinach, and a banana and grabbed a bag of frozen mango and blueberries from the freezer. She tossed everything into the blender, added water, and pressed the button that had everything liquified in thirty seconds. Grabbing a tall glass from the cabinet, she poured the blender’s contents into it and took her time drinking it down from her usual place at the kitchen table.
Citrus had jumped onto her bed earlier in the night, surrendering his bed in the kitchen to be nearer to his owner. Now, he appeared around the corner looking like he had just been resurrected from the dead and hadn’t been consulted about it first. He squinted against the bright light of the kitchen’s halogens. The fur behind his head was matted down, and he walked with a zombie-like pace of a teenager woken far too early. He looked up at the clock on the wall and then turned his head toward Ellie, eyeing her warily as though some kind of explanation was in order.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said simply.
He grunted knowingly and went to his water bowl, lapped at it a couple of times, and then curled up in his bed.
Ellie looked to the wall beside her. It bore an unhappy face of two different paint colors. After finishing her breakfast, she slipped into her painting clothes, brought out the paint and the accompanying supplies, and spent the next hour sipping coffee and finishing the main wall. Finished, she cleaned the brush and the roller and then put everything away. Citrus was finally stirring, so she opened the back door and let him out. The sun was starting to tint the sky in the east, and as Citrus did his business, he cast a wary eye across the water to the neighboring backyard. The cat was sitting proudly on the railroad tie that formed the top edge of the seawall, his tail twitching happily as he stared down his adversary. Citrus barked at him like he was telling the feline off and then came back in.
Ellie put Dylan on her father’s old record player and dressed for work. Her phone was on the nightstand. She picked it up and noticed a text she hadn’t seen from last night. It was from Tyler, saying that he was thinking of her and that he was sorry she’d had a hard day. “Come by the range tomorrow if you have time,” the text continued. “We can make out in my office if it will help you feel better. If it won’t, we can do it anyway.” She found herself smiling as she slipped her phone into her pocket. After refilling Citrus’s food and water, she said goodbye and headed out the door.
She took her time getting to the office, stopping off at The Perfect Cup for a fresh cup of coffee before continuing over the Matlacha Bridge and into Cape Coral. By the time she arrived at the offices, Hailey was already there. The small office they shared
together was stuffed with two desks facing each other and a mostly empty bookcase. Ellie’s desk was nearest to the window; when she sat down, her back was to it.
“Morning,” Hailey said. “You sleep last night?”
“Nope. You?”
“Hardly a wink. I couldn’t get Tricia Leeland out of my mind.”
“Yeah, me neither. Any progress overnight?”
“Not that I’ve heard. Phil just sent us an email. Headquarters sent him a list of domestic companies that manufacture C-4. The support team has already received all of their purchase manifests and inventory logs from the last year. Phil wants us to search for any discrepancies.” Hailey grabbed her mostly empty coffee mug and stood up. “But for now, I think I might go chug the pot.”
They spent the next two hours culling through the information Phil had provided, comparing manufacturer names, addresses, and product orders against fulfillment orders and their customers’ existing inventory of C-4. The C-4 used in the blast was not military grade of the M112 and M183 variety, which eliminated a theft or redirection from a military installation and helped to greatly reduce their field of inquiry. Most of the commercial use C-4 in the country was sent to mining, demolition, and construction companies. Ellie and Hailey both knew where this line of investigation was going to lead: someone, most likely both of them, would end up visiting the manufacturer or their customers that presented a red flag. The bomber or bombers got their C-4 from a source that was part of a fairly limited pool.
A 25-inch television was mounted in the corner of the room. It was tuned to Fox News, muted, displaying continuous coverage of the terrorist attack in Tampa two days earlier. The programming was filled with interviews of residents who lived downtown, family members of those killed or wounded in the attack, and professional talking heads discussing the psychological, economic, or social backlash something like that would have on an otherwise secure and comfortable population. The nation was simply biding its time until law enforcement teams like this one finally uncovered who was behind the attack.
The speakers on Ellie and Hailey’s desk phones beeped, and Phil’s voice came through, echoing loudly from every agent’s phone down the hallway. “Everyone in the conference room in five.”
Hailey looked up from her computer screen. “You think Phil wants to give all this grunt work to Parnell and Lindsey?”
“I wish,” Ellie said. She stood up. “Did you find anything interesting yet?”
“No. I can only look at so many numbers before my eyes start to twitch. There was a good reason why I didn’t become an accountant.”
“Me too.”
Hailey followed her partner into the conference room, where they took seats next to each other. Phil came in moments later and plugged his laptop into the projector. His expression was pensive, and everyone knew better than to speak to him when he looked like that, especially when he was the one who called the meeting. With his computer plugged in properly, he grabbed a remote off the table and clicked a button. The projector screen descended from the ceiling, and Phil was temporarily bathed in a bright, radiant blue as the projector waited on a feed from his computer. Finally, the connection was made, and the icons on his laptop’s screen were put on display.
Every agent and the entire support staff were now in the room, many unable to find an empty seat and choosing to stand along the walls. Phil looked up and gave a curt smile that disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Thank you all for assembling so quickly,” he said. “I’ve got some good news. We think we’ve found the bomber.”
A few claps and many sighs of relief filled the room.
“Due in part to the interviews conducted yesterday,” Phil continued, “the FBI has formed a composite of the bomber’s identity. He is believed to be a Cody Weiland. Twenty-four years old. Teaches fifth grade at Molecat Elementary in the Highland Pines area of Tampa. Lives with his mother in Brandon.”
“I’m sorry,” Parnell interrupted, “you’re saying that an elementary school teacher is our terrorist?”
“Yes.”
“Dear Lord,” Hailey muttered loudly, for all of them.
Phil clicked the remote in his hand, and an image of a young man filled the screen: a thin face framed by clean-cut dirty blond hair. He had small, piercing eyes and a thin nose. Ellie nearly choked on her own breath as her eyes fell on the photo.
“As it happens,” Phil said. “Cody Weiland is an alias.”
Hailey looked to Ellie, whose entire body had just tensed beside her.
“His given name,” Phil continued, “is–”
“Petronovich,” Ellie interrupted. Her eyes were wide and searching as they stared unbelievingly at the image on the screen. Her fingers gripped hard at the chair’s armrests. “His name is Peter Petronovich.”
Chapter Eleven
Every head in the conference room swiveled to look at Ellie. Her mind was whirling now as she absorbed the shock of seeing Peter’s face up on the screen. He was much older now–a grown man staring back at her like a mocking ghost from her past. Ellie was quickly taken back to that freezing night in Siberia. That night when father and son eluded her and her teammates and then disappeared from the radar of every Western intelligence agency.
“Yes.” Phil, along with everyone else, was staring quizzically at her. “Yes,” he repeated. “How do you know that?”
Ellie was still trying to calibrate to the sudden switchback. “My work with the CIA,” she said. “It brought me into proximity with Peter and his father.”
“Can you be a little more specific?” Phil said.
“Peter’s father is Pavel Petronovich. He was an officer in the Spetsnaz—” She paused. “How much do you want to know?”
“Whatever you’ve got. I’m sure it will complement what they handed down to me.”
Her mind excavated the information easily. “Pavel spent a decade in the Spetsnaz—the Russian military special forces—before splintering off and joining the Socialist Conscripts. They were a radical-right fringe group that functioned as a front for illegal activity. Over time, Pavel gained traction in the illegal arms industry until he ended up being the go-to dealer for almost every revolutionary and mercenary group in Africa and half of the Middle East. Langley was interested in him because the firearms he was selling to Muslim radicals in northern Afghanistan were being used against our troops in the Middle East.” She paused. Ellie was not free to disclose any specifics about TEAM 99. It was a black-ops group, and during its six years of operation and the years following its disbandment, the CIA would not acknowledge its existence. “The CIA missed an opportunity to grab both Pavel and Peter in Russia. After that, the Petronoviches went to ground. That was seven or eight years ago. As far as I know, they were never apprehended.” She felt an unexpected wave of guilt wash over her as she looked back to Peter’s face.
“Thank you,” Phil said. “I think it’s clear enough that Peter was not apprehended. His last known location was in Novosibirsk, in southwestern Siberia. He was seventeen.” Phil brought another image onto the screen: a passport, displaying Peter Petronovich’s face with Cody Weiland’s name. “Seven years ago, Cody Weiland rented an apartment in Atlanta and spent the better part of a year completing an online curriculum that endowed him with his high school diploma. Peter was seventeen when he arrived back in the States, but his passport had him at eighteen, meaning he didn’t require adult supervision. Legally, he was an adult. He took the SAT, attaining a healthy score of 1372, and then enrolled at the University of South Florida in Tampa. He started working on his general education degree, and it seems that only then did he return to his mother. It may be that she didn’t even know until this point that her son was back in the country.”
Hailey raised a finger. “How is it that no one was looking at the mother? If the CIA had a serious interest in finding his father, why wouldn’t we have kept eyes on her to see if her son or husband turned up?”
“I don’t have all the details on that,” Phil
said. “What I’ve been told is that when he moved in with his mother, he did so under a proper landlord/tenant relationship. Cody wrote her a monthly check for the cost of renting a room in the house, which she cashed. What he may have told her, and why she went along with the arrangement, we aren’t privy to yet. At any rate, if, a year after he went missing, any agency investigator had noticed that someone was living with her, the arrangement was such that there would have been no reason for it to raise any red flags.”
Phil glanced down and scrolled through the contents on his iPad’s screen. “As for his father, Pavel, he’s a different story altogether. After he vanished from Novosibirsk, he wasn’t seen again for another five years. In the interim, it seems that, due to the increased pressure on his business from entities like the CIA, it took a turn for the worse, and his competition started to gain traction with much of his clientele. He was rumored to be in Mexico two years ago, furnishing the cartels with weapons. Since he no longer possesses the influence he once did, the U.S. government turned their attention to other, more pressing threats.”
Phil looked up and let everyone have a moment to digest the information he had just firehosed them with. “You’ll be wondering what this office's role will be going forward. Domestically, the FBI is going to run point on the search for Peter. They’ll be partnering with local and federal agencies as needed.”
“So we’re out?” Lindsey asked.
“Most of you, yes,” Phil said. “In the meantime—and I hate to say it—it’s back to business as usual. Whatever you were working on prior to the Tampa scenario, get back to it.”
“Most of you?” Parnell repeated.
“Homeland is going to work this whole thing from the other end of the candle. Their working assumption is that Peter was not working alone. He may have been operating in connection with his father. They have good reason to be angry with the United States. Either way, if we can find Pavel, there’s a far greater chance we might be able to get to his son.”