by Alex Kava
Henry wanted to believe that the young FBI agent would find a way to save Dixon but deep down he knew he’d forced her to make a promise she had no way of keeping. It’d be up to Henry to take control. If he expected to see Dixon again he’d need to bargain with them this time. Put away his anger and negotiate a deal.
The people who had Dixon were hired mercenaries, minions of the Project Manager. They could be bought. That’s what he convinced himself. He didn’t care how much money they wanted, he’d get it. In his mind he’d already started accessing accounts and determining which one had liquid assets. The holiday weekend would make it tricky but not impossible.
Finally. It was time. He could call.
His hands resumed their annoying tremble, making it an effort to punch in the correct numbers on the waiting room’s desk phone.
He counted the rings…three, four… They had to pick up. He’d waited the allotted five hours they told him to wait. But instead of an answer there was a click and his own voice instructed him to leave a message.
“No.” He slammed down the receiver.
His cell phone was still on. It wouldn’t ring five times if they’d shut it off or if the battery had run down. Why would they ignore it? Besides, they had to talk to him. How would they get any ransom if they didn’t talk to him? Isn’t that what they wanted? Yes, they had to talk to him. It was in their best interest to talk to him.
He dialed again, punching in the numbers quickly as if he might trick his fingers from shaking. He took a deep breath, ignored the acid backing up into his throat. The phone rang and rang until yet another click, then, “This is Henry Lee, please leave a message at the tone.”
CHAPTER
62
When Maggie opened her hotel room door she had to stop herself from smiling. Nick Morrelli smelled as good as he looked, fresh from a shower, his hair still wet and tousled. He hadn’t taken time to shave but the dark stubble only made him look more handsome, made those damn charming dimples even more pronounced. He’d changed into blue jeans and replaced his shirt and tie with a crew-neck sweater, baby blue that matched his eyes and made them sparkle. Leave it to Morrelli, she couldn’t help thinking, to capitalize on every opportunity.
Maggie was still dressed in the hospital scrubs. She hadn’t taken time to change. There was too much to do. No time to waste. Plus the cotton scrubs were comfortable.
“Room service shut down at one,” she said as she led Nick into her room. “But the front desk clerk brought up some leftovers.”
She pointed at a tray with an assortment of fruit, cheeses and crackers on the desk.
“Help yourself,” she told him as she grabbed a couple of grapes.
“Wow, that was nice of them.”
“It’s amazing the service a doctor garners,” she said, tugging on the hem of the blue scrub top.
“Very smart. I’ll have to remember that. Dressing like a lawyer gets you nothing free.”
She smiled as she went back to her place in the corner where two wingback chairs sat side by side, a floor lamp between them. She’d moved one of the bedside tables in front of her chair where she could leave her laptop. Almost everything else in the room remained the same. Her suitcase still lay on the otherwise untouched bed.
Nick loaded a paper plate with chunks of melon, grapes, strawberries, cubes of cheese and a line of crackers. Maggie tried not to watch as he performed a balancing act while he crossed the room to the other wingback chair. He glanced at her with a sheepish smile.
“I can’t even remember the last time I ate,” he said, sliding his laptop case from under his arm to the cushion of the chair.
Maggie made room on the table for him to set the plate down.
“I know. We had to leave The Rose and Crown before we got a chance to order.”
“Yeah, where did you leave Ceimo, by the way?”
“He’s off doing me a favor.”
“Really?”
Maggie checked his eyes. She recognized that look. He was jealous. He noticed that she could tell.
“Any word on your brother?” he asked.
Good change of subject. Mentioning the pub reminded Maggie of Patrick, too.
“No. He’s been ignoring my calls. Hopefully he’s somewhere warm and safe.”
If Nick was expecting a longer explanation he didn’t push for it.
“So what’s the game plan here?” he asked, pointing to her laptop as he popped a cube of cheese into his mouth.
She had told him very little over the phone except that an informant had given her some information, she needed his help, and she wanted him to be a part of the task force.
“We have two hours before we meet with Kunze and Wurth downstairs. They’re already working on some details. In the meantime I’m plowing through some files and court documents and I thought who better to give me a hand than an attorney.”
“Especially one you can ply with free food.”
“Exactly.”
He put his plate aside, moved his laptop and sat down in the chair next to her where he could see what was on the computer screen.
“You think this has something to do with the Oklahoma City bombing?”
“Not my idea. Someone else suggested it. In fact, the informant I met with told me the mastermind of this bombing implied that he was John Doe #2. Absurd, I know. Most likely he said it only for the effect, but I still have to check it out. I’m looking for John Doe #2 suspects to see if anyone accused or suspected could possibly be this bomber. How much do you know about the Oklahoma City bombing?”
“I remember at the time being freaked out. There were rumors that McVeigh had been scoping out the federal building in Omaha before he chose Oklahoma City. Plus, Junction City, Kansas, is only a couple hundred miles from Omaha.”
“So you’re familiar with some of the details.” And she was pleased he still remembered some of those details. Junction City, Kansas, was where McVeigh and Nichols rented the Ryder truck they used to contain and transport their mobile bomb.
“I started teaching law at UNL the year before McVeigh’s execution. The whole thing made a good case study. The guy was a defense attorney’s nightmare.”
“Because he admitted to planning and carrying out the plot?” Maggie tapped her laptop’s keyboard to bring up the document she’d just read.
“His first attorney…Jones, I think. I can’t recall his name,” Nick started then scratched at his jaw, trying to remember.
“Stephen Jones.”
“Jones claimed McVeigh wasn’t being honest with him. He changed his story even when they talked privately. Jones believed there were others involved. Not just Terry Nichols.”
“And McVeigh was protecting them?”
“Or McVeigh wanted his own role to be elevated. Sort of fit with the notion that he wanted to be a martyr.”
“No one’s claiming to be a martyr here. In fact, no one’s making any claims for this one,” Maggie said with a shrug. “I’ve been sorting through file after file. If it is the same guy he didn’t use the same M.O. I can’t find anything that’s similar about this bombing and Oklahoma City. The bombs alone were dramatically different. Four thousand eight hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate and jet fuel stuffed into a Ryder rental truck is a huge contrast to three backpacks.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, resisting the urge to yank. This felt like a waste of time. Henry Lee hadn’t given her anything to go on.
“Bomb-making technology’s changed in…what is it? Fifteen years since Oklahoma City? Maybe he didn’t need a Ryder truck this time.”
She looked over at Nick. He was right in a sense. Post 9/11, three backpacks stuffed with explosives in the middle of a crowded mall would possibly be as damaging to the American psyche as 4,800 pounds of ammonium nitrate and jet fuel.
“I have to tell you,” Nick started again and paused. “I never thought John Doe #2 was an absurd idea.”
“Really?”
“Too many coincide
nces. I know eye witnesses are notoriously unreliable but there were too many people who swore they saw someone with McVeigh. Someone who didn’t come close to fitting the description of Terry Nichols. Just a lot of unanswered questions.”
“I never would have pegged Nick Morrelli for a conspiracy theorist.”
“If the case was so clear-cut why are you bothering to go through this stuff? Why not dismiss what the guy said?”
She sat back and let out a frustrated sigh. Her eyes felt swollen, her wounded side wouldn’t stop aching.
“Because I have nothing else. A.D. Kunze is doing a background check on the informant. Wurth is looking to see if there’ve been warnings or bomb threats at any of the airports. All the informant gave me was a warning. Another attack. Tomorrow.”
She let it sink in, watching Nick rub at his jaw like someone had punched him. Yes, that was what it felt like. Being punched without warning.
“He told me it’ll be an airport,” she continued, pulling herself back to the front of the chair and clicking up the list Henry Lee had downloaded to her e-mail address. She had gone over it at least a dozen times trying to find some hidden clue as to why these seven were chosen and which one would be the target.
“He gave me a list,” she told Nick, “but didn’t give me a clue as to which airport will be hit. Wurth is trying to warn all of them, but where do we send extra reinforcements?”
She hadn’t noticed that Nick had edged forward to get a closer look, his brow furrowed, his arm leaning against her arm.
“Where did you get this?”
“Why?”
“I’ve seen this list before. This exact list.”
CHAPTER
63
A thunderstorm of noise raged above. Rebecca had no idea what her captors were doing. It sounded like claps of thunder. She imagined sledgehammers against metal. Glass shattered. Heavy objects banged against the floor, or what was her ceiling. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see something crashing through the wood rafters.
She no longer cared what they were doing. As long as they stayed up there, they wouldn’t be hurting her. She had searched the entire crawl space, hunched over, arms still twisted and tied behind her back. She tried to keep down the nausea of fear. The overwhelming smell of gasoline burned her lungs and gagged her. It brought on the dry heaves. Nothing in her stomach except acid. All she wanted was something sharp—a left-behind tool, scissors, something jagged, anything—to cut the plastic tie that bound her wrists together.
There was nothing. The empty gas cans. Some shelves. A monstrosity of a furnace rumbled in the corner. Rebecca stared at it. The huge metal box had rusted on the bottom. Pipes going in and out of the contraption had been piecemealed together. She looked closely for bolts or screws that might be protruding. Then she found a bent piece of metal at one of the corners that made up the furnace’s storage cabinet. Someone had hammered it back into place but it still stuck out, battered metal, the edges ragged…and sharp.
Excitement dared to shove aside the nausea.
The bent metal was a bit high. She’d need to do some maneuvering to back up to it and raise her arms up. Pain shot through her wounded arm and Rebecca had to stop. Had to sit down. She waited it out. Steadied her breath. Then she tried again, slowly raising her arms up behind her. She’d have to bring her wrists high enough to bring the plastic down onto the sharp metal corner. She could do it but could she keep her arms raised for that long while she rubbed against the jagged edge, using it like a serrated knife?
Just a little higher. She almost had it when all the noise from above came to a sudden stop.
She brought her arms down and waited, listening. Maybe they would start up again. They might be taking a break. Or leaving. Could they be leaving? She heard voices. Raised voices. An argument. Then the trapdoor started to creak open.
Rebecca scooted farther into the corner though she knew there wasn’t anywhere to hide. If she had only a few more minutes she could have cut her wrists free and at least been able to defend herself. She’d kick this time, she decided. And scream. She didn’t care if no one heard her.
The light from the open trapdoor had a bluish tint, not as glaring as she’d expected but she still found herself squinting after being in the dim-lit crawl space. She tried to slow her breathing so she could listen, but her heart pounded in her ears.
Someone was coming down. She could see shadows hovering over the opening. The voices were louder but she couldn’t make out the words. A scuffle, rubber soles squeaking against linoleum, dragging or being dragged. Then without warning a body tumbled down through the hole, thumping hard against the concrete.
The trapdoor slammed shut and tight, this time closing off all light, but not before Rebecca recognized the motionless body. It was Dixon.
CHAPTER
64
Nick realized it was silly—okay, even childish—but despite all the stress and urgency he still felt disappointed. Maggie had called him to help, not because she needed a friend, not because she wanted to lean on him, but only because he was a lawyer and he’d be able to sort through the files and court documents quickly and efficiently. Well, it seemed his help might pay off beyond her expectations.
“You’ve seen this exact list of airports?” She sounded like she didn’t believe him.
“Two weeks ago. UAS—United Allied Security sent me to a seminar on terrorist attacks. It was part of my training for the new job position. Mostly the basics—what to look for, how better to prepare and assist those facilities where UAS provides security systems or equipment.”
Nick had learned a lot at the seminar but he didn’t like that it sounded like a sales conference, even including a guide on how to convince clients to upgrade their old systems. At the time, he thought some of the scenarios they presented seemed a bit far-fetched and wondered if they were simply using scare tactics to increase revenues and bonuses for UAS.
“And you saw this list at your seminar?”
“It’s a list of the airports being pitched upgrades.”
“Being pitched what exactly?”
“At shopping malls UAS provides security personnel and equipment. All airport security is now under TSA but our company—at least for those airports under contract with us—maintains and replaces all the security equipment.”
“Like the scanners?”
“Scanners, cameras, metal detectors, even the wands. But the pitch wasn’t only for upgrading current equipment. The plan called for a whole new security package in the passenger arrival and departure areas.”
She looked like she didn’t understand.
“Right now most airports don’t have much security in the ticketing or baggage claim areas. You don’t see a camera until you get to the security checkpoint area.”
“We’re protecting the passengers in the air but not on the ground,” she said, nodding.
“Exactly. UAS has been pushing for airports to have metal detectors and cameras in those outside perimeter areas.”
“Why were these seven chosen?”
“That, I don’t know.”
Maggie was pacing the length of the hotel room, a nervous habit Nick had forgotten.
“Where did you get the list?” he asked her, though he realized she probably couldn’t and wouldn’t tell him.
“Who owns United Allied Security?” she asked instead of answering.
“I believe the holding company is HL Enterprises.”
“As in Henry Lee Enterprises?” She stopped pacing to stare at him, only it wasn’t Nick she was seeing. Something had struck a chord.
“Yeah, that’s right. HL Enterprises already owns several companies that are security related, one that produces the equipment, another one that designs and builds structures. I think they took over UAS a couple of years ago. You know how that works—Lee infused a truckload of cash in exchange for the majority voting stock.”
She started pacing again. This time Nick watched. He tried to piece together
where she was going with all this.
“You think UAS is the target of this group?” Even as he asked it he didn’t think the idea made sense.
Maggie didn’t look like she discounted the idea. Instead, she stopped again. This time she sat down next to him so she could look at the list she’d left open on her computer screen. She turned and reached over to put her hand on his arm. Waited for his eyes.
“I asked for your help because I need someone I can trust to help figure this out.”
It took Nick off guard. He knew his face registered his surprise before he could control it.
“I don’t trust A.D. Kunze. I had to tell him everything but I don’t trust what—if anything—he’ll do with the information simply because it’s coming from me.”
“What is it with that guy?”
“He blames Tully and me for Cunningham’s death.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Yes, it is, but he’s interim director and he has the ability to make us miserable. I think that’s the only reason I’m here. He knew this would be an impossible profiling assignment. I think he wanted me to fail. Even the parking lot fiasco, I think he expected me to screw up. You saw those surveillance videos. Very unlikely that we’d ID those young men from the videos or from any profile I’d come up with. And here’s the thing,” she said, gripping his arm now, “it didn’t matter.”
“What do you mean it didn’t matter?”
“It didn’t matter who the young men were that carried the backpacks. They were incidentals. They were cutaways.” There was an urgency in her eyes, a frenetic pace to her words as if she was thinking out loud and Nick was simply there to hear it.
“Back in their dorm room they’ll find Web sites in their computer caches for how to make bombs,” she continued. “They may even find traces of bomb-making material. But no matter how much time and effort we put into finding out who Chad Hendricks and Tyler Bennett were, or if Patrick was even involved, none of it will matter. The cutaways won’t lead us to who really did this. They can’t lead us, because they didn’t know who planned this. They didn’t even know what was planned for them. There is no path because the Project Manager didn’t leave one. He took care of everything.”