by Alex Kava
Patrick glanced around again while the Project Manager still searched the upper level, scanning the railing where Maggie had been earlier. Then Patrick saw her. She was coming down the escalator, smiling and chatting with a woman next to her. The Project Manager turned his back to Patrick, just for a second or two and Patrick used the opportunity to point him out. He swung his free hand up, jerked his index finger at the man’s back then brought his hand to his head and raked his fingers through his hair just as the Project Manager turned around.
Did Maggie see it? Did any of the others? It might have been too late, because now the guy was leaving. After all, he didn’t need to be near the bomb to detonate it by remote control.
CHAPTER
79
Maggie tried to keep the panic from showing. It felt like something had her by the throat. She had to concentrate on breathing. She had to remind herself to slow down. Look by moving her eyes, not her head. Stay calm. Move nonchalantly. No nervous twitches. No jerks or twists around.
She tried to figure out who Patrick was looking at. None of the men around him looked like the sketch. The only olive complexion belonged to a guy with short, spiky sun-bleached hair, dressed in khakis and a navy blue jacket.
She eased her way toward the escalator.
“I have a remote,” the voice came again over her headset. “You don’t have any choice but to let me walk out of here.”
No one answered him. There was silence. They could no longer talk to each other now. Their communication system was useless.
She started down the escalator and asked the woman next to her if she’d had a good holiday. The woman started telling her about her trip while Maggie smiled at her and looked over her shoulder. Patrick looked miserable. He glanced in her direction. She wasn’t sure if he’d seen her. Then suddenly she saw him raise his hand. He jerked a finger in one direction and ended up pushing back his hair. He had pointed to someone. He was giving them a signal, telling them who the Project Manager was.
Maggie came off the escalator, turning in Patrick’s direction. She was close enough now to catch his eyes. He flicked his away, looking over in the same direction he had pointed.
The Project Manager had to be the man in the navy blue jacket and khakis. He was walking away, headed toward an exit but able to keep an eye on Patrick.
“You’ll let me leave,” he said and this time she could see his lips move. He still hadn’t noticed her, and he no longer looked from side to side.
Kunze was closest to Patrick. He and the cleaning woman were edging their way forward. It didn’t look like he had identified the Project Manager yet. Maggie examined the railing above, but she couldn’t see Wurth. Was she the only one?
She looked back at Patrick and this time their eyes met. He pointed again and mouthed something to her. He was telling her to go after him. Don’t let him get away. But how could she leave Patrick chained to a suitcase bomb?
The Project Manager was at the front doors, walking out. What would stop him from detonating the bomb once he was out of impact range? She had to stop him.
Maggie waved at Kunze to help Patrick. He moved in with the cleaning woman and her cart. Maggie took off running, dodging her way around passengers. She dug her right hand under her jacket, gripped the butt of her Smith & Wesson but kept it in its shoulder holster.
She slammed out the door onto the sidewalk and stopped. She’d seen him turn to his right but she couldn’t see him now through the line of curb-side check-ins. She pushed her way through, stumbling over luggage and feet. He was there, up ahead, five car lengths, getting into the passenger side of a black sedan. Maggie shoved herself between startled passengers but the car was already pulling away. She saw the license plate and watched helplessly as it sped away.
Out of breath, she leaned against a concrete bench. And that’s when it happened. The explosion sent vibrations under her feet almost knocking her over.
It was too late. She was too late.
CHAPTER
80
Monday, November 26
Federal Bureau of Investigation
111 Washington Avenue South
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Maggie waited though her patience was wearing thin. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Nothing she said would change things. No amount of debriefing could remove the guilt and regret.
A.D. Raymond Kunze came in alone this time. He sat down across from her. He didn’t say anything. Instead he folded his hands on top of the table, intertwining the fingers, a gesture Maggie recognized. What was it, again? She tried to access her memory to psychology of body language. Cupped hands, at the beginning of a conversation, often meant holding a fragile idea. It made her tense up even more.
“There was no way any of us could have known about a second bomb,” he finally said.
She nodded. Shifted in the hardback chair, stiff from sitting too long. She wanted to stand, pace, burn off her nervous energy.
“It damaged a parking garage. Almost a hundred vehicles. Dozens of injuries but only two fatalities.”
He said it like it was a scrape, a minor mistake. She agreed that next to Oklahoma City, next to Mall of America, this one was minor, indeed.
“It could have been so much worse,” he said when she didn’t respond.
“Any leads to catching him?”
“He’s like a ghost. Gone. Vanished. We think he blew up the parking garage to destroy the vehicle he may have used.”
“What about the black sedan?”
Kunze looked away. Stared at his hands. Glanced at her but wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“I got the license plate number,” she insisted. She had tried to look up the number herself, using her security clearance and still she came up short. Each time she was denied access. A reference code was given instead.
“You were upset,” he said, but the tone was way too gentle for Kunze. “You must have remembered the number wrong. It happens. Nerves. The adrenaline. Makes us trans-pose a number or two.”
She stared at him. She knew even he didn’t believe what he had just said. And she couldn’t help wondering if that’s how it had happened in the Oklahoma City case. Is that how they explained away evidence that didn’t fit their theory? Someone must have gotten it wrong?
“I looked up the number myself.”
He didn’t seem surprised.
“It gave me a reference code. I don’t have the clearance to track it, but I think it may have been a federal government vehicle.”
This time he met her eyes and held them. “Leave it alone, O’Dell. Just leave it alone.”
“Did you know?” she asked him.
“I still don’t know,” he told her frankly without hesitation. “And I don’t want to know. Neither do you. Go home. Take some time off. Be glad we saved an airport full of people from being blown to pieces.”
“But the case is far from finished.”
“It is for you,” and again, he said it much too gently for Kunze. “You’re officially off the case. Too personal, considering what happened with your brother.”
She wanted to challenge him. Was it because it had become personal or had she gotten too close to the truth? A truth Kunze seemed willing to ignore.
He pushed his chair away from the table, scraping and screeching across the floor and closing the subject. He stood and opened the door, dismissing her before she could argue.
She followed him into the hallway. Charlie Wurth and Nick Morrelli were three doors down. They had just come out of their debriefing rooms. A door clicked behind her. She turned around to see another agent bringing Patrick out of his room. He looked exhausted and she caught him unconsciously rubbing his wrist where the handcuff had bit into his skin and left a mark.
The gesture brought back that feeling again, the one that took her knees out from under her like a roller-coaster ride with the bottom falling out and the walls spinning out of control. She thought the suitcase bomb attached to Patrick’s wrist h
ad exploded. But instead, it had been the parking garage, a second bomb.
Within seconds after Maggie raced for the exit, the bomb squad had already cut the handcuffs off of Patrick. Several more seconds and they had the suitcase contained and transported it to a deserted airstrip. The lead safe container prevented the wireless remote from detonating the bomb.
“Congratulations,” Charlie Wurth said to Kunze, offering his hand. “I just heard the news.”
Everyone’s eyes were on Kunze and he suddenly looked a bit embarrassed by the attention. Maggie figured he had received some commendation; she didn’t expect what came next.
“A.D. Kunze is officially your new boss,” Wurth said to Maggie with a genuine smile.
She looked to Kunze. It was true. He was nodding, trying to smile as he accepted the other men’s congratulations. And all the while Maggie couldn’t help thinking that he had sold out again.
“We’re finished here,” Kunze said to them, ready to change the subject. “I’ll get someone to drive us back to the hotel or the airport.”
“Thanks, but Patrick and I have a ride.” She was glad that she had an excuse.
Charlie Wurth shook Patrick’s hand, then Maggie’s, holding Maggie’s a bit longer as he said, “You come work for me anytime, Agent O’Dell. Homeland Security would be honored to have you.” He held her eyes and she could see he meant the offer.
“Thanks. I’ll think about that.”
She didn’t look back at A.D. Kunze.
Nick insisted he walk them out. Maggie led the way, stopping in the lobby.
“I guess this is goodbye again,” Nick said as he gave Patrick a one-armed hug, that guy-thing that looked awkward but friendly. When he hugged Maggie he held her close and she felt his lips brush against her cheek before he released her.
She checked his eyes and shouldn’t have been surprised to see the sparkle had dimmed. He hadn’t gotten over the hurt, the disappointment. She wondered if he meant this was goodbye for good.
“When do you head back to Omaha?”
“I’ve got a flight later today. My dad’s been in the hospital.”
“Is he okay?”
“It’s all part of the process since the stroke. Looks like he’ll be home for Christmas.”
“Can we give you a ride?” she offered. “I rented a car this morning.”
“Thanks, but no. I actually have someone picking me up.”
“Take care,” she told him, feeling like the short phrase was inadequate.
As Maggie and Patrick made their way down the steps she thought she saw Jamie, the blond bomb expert, parking in one of the visitor’s slots out front.
CHAPTER
81
Maggie dropped Patrick off at the hotel after they had lunch at The Rose and Crown. She had a couple of errands to run before their evening flight to Washington, D.C.
She had typed the addresses into the rental car’s navigation system and let it guide her while her mind raced off in other directions. A.D. Kunze was satisfied to leave some unanswered questions in exchange for the official title he was only supposed to hold as interim. He’d done it before after Oklahoma City. His conscience had stumbled when he confided as much to her, handing off his own debriefing file. So what happened? Maggie wondered if maybe it simply got easier each time you sold a chunk of your soul.
Was he setting up CAP to take the fall from the very beginning? Would Chad Hendricks and Tyler Bennett get blamed for blowing up Mall of America and killing what now amounted to forty-three innocent people? And although there were no cutaways, no scapegoats to blame for Phoenix, Kunze hadn’t stopped local law enforcement from conducting a search for two young white males, possibly college students, who were suspected in stealing the now incinerated Chevy TrailBlazer.
And what could Maggie do? She was officially off the case.
Late last night when sleep wouldn’t come, she had pored over more documents, more files and news articles, Congressional amendments and proposals. She had hoped A.D. Kunze would be willing to hear her out. She hadn’t realized he had already made up his own mind.
After leaving the FBI building, she’d made several phone calls going only on hunches, calling in a favor and counting on a promise. Not much, certainly not enough to bet an entire career on.
She found herself back downtown, back on Washington Avenue, less than four blocks away from the FBI building.
Charlie Wurth was waiting for her in the lobby.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asked her as they went through the security checkpoint.
“Absolutely. But I’ll understand if you’ve changed your mind.”
“Au contraire, cheri. I figure I owe you one. Besides, I got my job by being a rabble-rouser. But do you suppose our friend may have changed his mind?”
“He said he’d meet us here.” Even as she said it Maggie wasn’t sure it was a promise that would be kept.
They took the elevator and rode in silence. Now with their coats over their arms, Maggie noticed that Wurth had changed from this morning into a steel-blue suit with a lemon-yellow shirt and orange necktie. It made her navy blue suit look bland and official. Shoulder to shoulder, they marched down the hallway to the set of office suites at the end.
“Hello. Do you have an appointment today?” a young woman asked as they walked around the huge reception desk, ignoring her and going directly to the open doorway behind the desk.
“Excuse me,” she said, trying to stop them.
“It’s okay,” Senator Foster said from inside the office.
“Come on in, Deputy Director Wurth, Agent O’Dell.” He stood up behind his marble-topped desk and waved them in. “So glad to see you’re back safe and sound.”
“Actually we have some questions to ask you.” Wurth was cool and calm. “About the bill you’re cosponsoring among other things.”
During Maggie’s frenetic search through Internet documents she discovered that Senator Foster was one of the cosponsors of a Homeland Security bill with a hefty price tag, due to Congress before the holidays. The same bill Kunze had mentioned that would elevate security requirements in airports, shopping complexes and sports stadiums. The one Nick had said would send federal funds to Phoenix.
“Certainly,” Senator Foster said. His fingers smoothed his silver hair while Maggie looked for any sign of him being nervous or anxious. He had the role of distinguished down pat.
Wurth nodded to Maggie, his own sign for her to take the reins.
“We know you helped him get away.”
“Excuse me?” There was maybe a flash of surprise. Nothing more.
“The Project Manager. You had a government-issued car pick him up. Tough to trace. A lot of security codes in place but we were able to do it.”
He was shaking his head, a grin—or maybe a grimace—on his face.
“That’s ridiculous. I had my government-issued jet fly you to Phoenix, but I don’t know anything about a car. Do your superior officers know you two are here making these wild accusations?”
“We know about your secret organization.” Wurth took his turn. “We’re getting a list of all the businessmen and politicians.”
“This is absurd. I’ll have you both shoving paperwork next week. I’m calling security.”
Senator Foster reached for his phone but stopped. His eyes widened as he stared between their shoulders. Maggie glanced back to see Henry Lee in the doorway.
He had shown up, after all. Kept his promise.
“It’s over, Allan,” he said. “It’s time to come clean.”
CHAPTER
82
Monday evening
Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport
Patrick started to yawn, caught himself just as Maggie noticed.
“Maybe we should have waited for a morning flight. We haven’t had much sleep. We’re both exhausted,” she told him.
“Hey, neither of us is piloting the plane. We’ll be fine.”
They�
�d been sitting at their gate for maybe twenty minutes. It felt like hours.
“And it’s okay if you want to sleep the whole flight.” He raised an eyebrow at her.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m a bit of a nervous flyer.”
“Really?”
She nodded.
“We’re in first class. Maybe a glass of wine?”
He wanted to kick himself even before she shook her head. Stupid. He knew she didn’t drink, couldn’t drink. Whatever. He had to admit he felt a bit fried. Still running on adrenaline. Looked like Maggie was, too.
“Do you ever get used to it?” he asked her. “I keep thinking about that guy being out there somewhere.”
“Sometimes they get away.” She shrugged but he saw her absentmindedly touch her jacket where her gun and shoulder holster usually sat just underneath the fabric. She had to check the gun for the flight. Looked like she missed it.
“Criminals don’t change just because they got away,” she told him. “Typically it emboldens them, makes them a little cocky, sometimes reckless. Maybe he’ll get caught for speeding or a broken taillight. Timothy McVeigh was stopped outside of Perry, Oklahoma, by a state trooper, only hours after the bombing. All because his car was missing a tag.”
Patrick listened but he wasn’t sure he believed the Project Manager would ever put himself into a situation like that. He couldn’t get the man’s eyes out of his mind, that dark blue that seemed to pierce you and pin you down. He’d tried to sleep but couldn’t do it without the guy showing up, grinning at him as he slipped the handcuffs onto Patrick’s wrist. Sometimes the bomb actually went off and blasted Patrick awake.
He figured it was post-traumatic stress. It’d wear off in a couple of days, maybe a week.
That’s when he saw him.
Patrick recognized the walk, shoulders back, chest out, that same military stature. His head swiveled from side to side. Patrick’s heart started thumping. Jesus! It wasn’t possible. Was it? His hair was still blond, that same bristle cut. He even wore the same golf shirt, navy jacket, khaki trousers and leather loafers. He dragged a black Pullman.