Damage Control

by Gordon Savage

  I called the vendor who had sold the most C4. “Hi, I’m federal agent Samantha Pederson. I’m trying to track down someone who recently bought some C4.” I gave him the engineer’s name. “Would you happen to remember him?”

  “Yeah, a clean-cut looking young man. He said his construction company was building a new development and had run into some massive rocks while digging basements. The only way to break them up was by blasting.”

  “Could you identify him if I showed you a picture?”

  “Sure. I’ll be here today until 5:00.”

  I thanked him for his time and hung up. A clean-cut looking young man? That doesn’t sound like Bednarik.

  I called the other supplier. He reported the same story, but his description fit Bednarik.

  Phil wasn’t in his office, so I called him at home. His wife answered. “Kaminski residence. Angela speaking.”

  “This is Samantha Pederson. Is Phil there? I need to talk to him.”

  “Just a moment.” I heard her call out, “Phil, it’s for you, a Samantha Pederson.”

  The phone clicked, and I heard, “You got the files?”

  “I did, thanks, and I was able to figure out which purchases went into the explosion. Also there had to be two different fake engineers making the buys.”

  He sounded surprised. “Two fake engineers? How did you figure that?”

  I describe my conversations with the engineers and suppliers as well as the two different physical descriptions.

  Phil hmmmed into the phone. “You’re right, it had to be two. There’s no way Bednarik could pass as a clean cut young man.”

  Then I dropped the bomb. “And together they got 60 pounds.”

  “60 pounds!” He exploded. “That’s 20 more pounds than we estimated. The extra explosive doesn’t make any sense—unless they aren’t through.”

  I didn’t understand the implications of what he had said right away. “If they were after Reid, they got their objective. Who else could they be after?”

  “How about a public gathering?” He paused to let that soak in. I immediately thought of the explosion at the church. He continued. “They could be trying to make it look like a series of terrorist attacks. But when the explosion was declared a matter/antimatter accident …”

  Then the full implication hit me. I sat in stunned horror. “Another explosion wouldn’t have been necessary anymore. A nice convenient accident … But it’s no longer classified as an accident. I’m pretty sure I got the police to investigate it as a murder.” I had convinced enough people that it was intentional, and it wouldn’t be long before the public found out about it. I’d done that. Talk about a guilt trip!

  I won’t repeat Phil’s expletive. “…The hit will be back on. We have to find out who bought that C4 and now!”

  “But what about the explosion at the Varnum Church? Wouldn’t that be enough to point to a terrorist bombing at Reid’s demonstration?”

  “I’m afraid not. Two reasons: a terrorist group claims credit for that explosion but it doesn’t claim Reid’s, and the explosive was plain old dynamite.”

  “I see what you mean. That means we need to get crackin’.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s seven thirty. Both vendors are open for business. We need to do this together in person. That supplier who does all the training, Karl Munson, is closest. His address is on your list. I’ll meet you there.”

  “So I’m not fired?”

  “Not for now.”

  Chapter 36

  Captain Romero: “After extensive investigation, the District of Columbia Police Department in cooperation with the Department of Homeland Security has determined that the explosion which took the lives of Duncan Reid and more than forty other victims was most likely an intentional bombing rather than an accidental matter/antimatter explosion. We are therefore reopening the case as a probable murder investigation. Any questions?”

  Dwight Simpson: “Dwight Simpson, the Tribune. Do you have any suspects?”

  Romero: “For now, we have indications there were two persons involved, but no solid evidence of who they are.”

  Simpson: “Can you tell us what led you to suspect two individuals?”

  Romero: “Sorry, we don’t want the possibility of anyone corrupting our evidence, so, no.”

  Simpson: “I’ve heard that a couple of federal agents, Phil Kaminski and Samantha Pederson, were instrumental in determining that the explosion was murder.”

  Romero: “I can’t comment on that.”

  Interview for the Tribune

  Day 16, 8:15AM

  When I arrived at the explosives training facility, Phil was already there. The sign above the door said “Safety First Explosives Training.” It belonged to one of the vendors who had sold the suspect C4. Phil was standing outside his SUV. “So you couldn’t get along without me?” He grinned teasingly.

  I socked his right deltoid muscle. He rubbed his shoulder and laughed, and we walked into the building.

  A matronly woman seated at a desk to the left of the door stood and greeted us with a warm smile when we entered the reception area. She had short gray hair and wore a cheery looking flowered dress. “Good morning,” She said while eyeing us up and down. “I’m guessing you’re not here for training. How can I help you?”

  Phil beat me to the punch. “Homeland Security. I’m agent Phil Kaminski.” He showed his badge. “She’s agent Samantha Pederson.”

  I didn’t bother digging out my badge.

  He put his badge away. “We need to talk to your manager about one of your customers.”

  She looked at me again. “Oh, Ms. Pederson, you’re the one who called earlier.”

  I nodded.

  She pointed to a hallway leading off from the reception area. “End of the hall. Karl is setting up for today’s training. Go right on in.”

  The door was closed, but as she suggested we walked on in. Karl was putting handouts on a conference table. He wasn’t very tall, at least five inches shorter than I am, with thinning brown hair, but he was obviously in good shape physically. He was wearing a black t-shirt with a saying across the chest. He also smiled. “Ms. Pederson, I bet. I’m Karl Munson. Who’s this gentleman with you?”

  “This is agent Phil Kaminski from Homeland Security.”

  Phil shook Karl’s hand. “I assume you know why we’re here.”

  He scowled. “It sounds like someone with a fake ID bought some C4 from us.” With a tinge of anger in his voice, he added, “I hope you don’t think this was my fault. His ID and license looked absolutely authentic, and he had a full prospectus on his project. I’ll be glad to help you identify the SOB. This could jeopardize my license.”

  I pulled out my phone and showed him a photo of Bednarik. “Is this the man?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. He does look vaguely familiar, but he’s not the one.”

  Oh, great. It wasn’t Bednarik, but it had to be. I chewed on that; if it wasn’t Bednarik, who was it? Wait a minute. When I had talked to Karl on the phone, he had described a clean-cut looking young man, and the accomplice in the videos that I thought might be Gardner fit the description. Maybe, just maybe… I pulled up Gardner’s photo.

  Karl immediately recognized him and nodded enthusiastically. “That’s the bastard. Who is he?”

  Without thinking I answered, “McKenzie Gardner.” So Gardner was in on this after all, and we now had evidence to tie him with Bednarik.

  Phil glared at me before he asked Karl, “And he bought all 36 pounds?”

  “That he did.” Karl appeared absolutely certain.

  “You’d be willing to testify in court?”

  He puffed up with indignation. “You’re damn right I would. Come with me. I’ll run you copies of his paperwork.”

  As we walked out carrying a surprisingly heavy load of paper, Phil stopped me and said, “You have a lot to learn about investigative procedure. You never volunteer a suspect’s name unless you’re asking questions about him, and then you d
on’t say he’s a suspect unless it’s relevant. It might get back to them.”

  I dropped my head. “Oh, crap.”

  Phil let go of my arm. “At least now you know not to do it again.” We resumed walking to our cars.

  I asked Phil, “Didn’t that seem a little overboard to you?”

  He shook his head. “No, Munson was just looking out for his license. If there were any evidence he colluded with someone buying C4 illegally … He was just doing what he could to protect his ass.”

  I looked across the street at my TR-6 and noticed a plain looking Honda Civic with two men in the front seats parked three cars back from mine. Something about it triggered an alarm. Mental pictures of a gray Civic in my rearview mirror popped into my mind. Had that car been following me? “Phil, am I imagining things or is there something off about that Civic across the street.”

  “Not that I can see. Oh wait, both men are looking this way and aren’t talking to each other. You do know you’re a very attractive woman, don’t you?” He glanced at me. “I …”

  We both saw the movement at the same time. The car’s driver side window slid into the door, and an Uzi appeared in the driver’s hands. Phil yelled, “Get down!” and grabbed my arm, dragging me down behind a parked car. The Uzi spewed out a stream of bullets that hammered the car. Broken glass sprayed over us from the car’s windows and broken concrete sprayed upward as bullets went under the car and shattered the curbing. The bullets stopped and tires screeched. A second volley slammed into the car we were crouching behind as the Honda flashed by.

  Phil had already yanked out his pistol. When the volley stopped, he jumped to his feet and ran into the street. I was right behind him with my phone. The car was rapidly pulling away, but Phil took a few useless shots. I took a couple of pictures with my phone, hoping to capture the car’s license. He looked back at me. “What the hell were you doing? You should have stayed behind the car. They could have shot you.”

  Resenting the implication I had done something stupid, I fired back, “What about you?”

  “I’m your bodyguard, remember? I’m supposed to be protecting you.” I could tell he was mad as hell. I could feel his heat.

  “Sorry, but I’m a Marine. I’m used to protecting myself, and I wanted to identify that car.”

  He holstered his gun and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Please don’t do that again.”

  “I won’t.” He let me go, and I realized I was shaking, not from the shooting but from his anger. “I won’t.”

  ◆◆◆

  Day 16, 9:30AM

  The police arrived in minutes. The pictures I had taken weren’t great, but at least I had something to show them. I had been moving the phone when I took the first photo so it was blurred. The second one was sharp but the car was far enough away that only some of the license plate was readable. Between the car make and color and the partial license plate it gave the police something to work with.

  After we had given our statements, we took off for the other supplier in separate vehicles. Phil followed me at a discrete distance, keeping an eye out for anyone else following me.

  The drive to get to the other vendor took us just under a half hour. The whole time I kept looking behind for the gray car. Whenever a car pulled in behind me, my heart rate sped up. I began chiding myself. After all, I was a marine, and I had been in a war zone – I don’t care what it was called. By the time I got to the warehouse that was our destination, I was just angry. I stopped my TR-6 next to the curb across the street, and Phil pulled in behind me.

  I walked back to his SUV as he was climbing out. He told me the police had already found the other car. It had been abandoned just a few blocks away from the shooting. Not surprisingly, it had been reported stolen earlier in the day and forensics weren’t expecting to find anything useful. We headed across the street.

  The warehouse sat in the middle of a large open lot, surrounded by an eight foot chain-link fence with a roll of razor wire along the top. Several highly visible security cameras with overlapping coverage stood on poles inside the fence. The building itself was made of bricks and looked sturdier than Reid’s building had been. Behind it in the same lot two fair sized bunkers snuggled into the ground. Walking up to the gate, we found an intercom with a sign that said, “Ring here for entry.” After a brief discussion with someone inside, the gate slid open. As soon as we were through, it slid closed again.

  On our way to the building, Phil pointed out an obvious possibility. “If Gardner bought from this other supplier as well, we could have a problem tying Bednarik to the explosion.”

  “True, but I don’t see Gardner taking the fall for Bednarik, and this guy”—I nodded at the warehouse—“gave a pretty accurate description of Bednarik.”

  “I’m sure Gardner would sing like an opera star as long as he lives long enough. I was thinking more in terms of his gang ties. Those had to be gangbangers who sprang that attack on you back there. I’m certain they’re trying to find him right now. If we don’t get him into protective custody quickly, he may not live until the trial. Plus, getting him off the street should head off another fake terrorist attack as well.”

  “So send out a BOLO.”

  He looked at me, not exactly angry, more like “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I grinned. “Yeah, I know. You already have.”

  We walked into the supplier’s warehouse. A quick look around identified serious security, cameras everywhere, double heavy padlocks on each gate to storage cages closed off with chain link on all sides and the tops, alarm wires running inside the cages where they couldn’t be easily compromised. And all the cages were sandbagged.

  I stood in awe. “Wow! This guy is serious about safety.”

  The manager, John Cooper, a tall, thin guy with a mop of black hair and wearing a denim jump suit, came out of his office. He looked at me. “You Ms. Pederson?”

  I nodded.

  “I pulled the video of the guy when he picked up the C4.” He handed me a still. No question, it was Bednarik. He was the impostor engineer, so we had the goods on both of them. After a brief interview, we left with Cooper’s agreement to testify and another armload of paper.

  Phil took the evidence we had collected back to Homeland. I drove to Mary LaMotte’s precinct and debriefed her and Capt. Romero.

  ◆◆◆

  Day 16, 10:45AM

  “You do realize that none of this ties either of these guys directly to the explosion. It’s all circumstantial.” Romero turned off the recorder and stuffed it in his pocket.

  I nodded. “But at least it is conclusive that they were both in illegal possession of C4. It shouldn’t be hard to connect them to the explosion, and Gardner needs protection because of his drug dealing. He may welcome you with open arms.”

  “They rarely do. And he won’t be a whole lot safer in the general population or, for that matter, anywhere in jail. There are usually gangbangers inside who still have ties outside.”

  I was dismayed. “So you can’t really offer him protection?”

  “We can offer protection, but as I said, it probably an empty promise.”

  That was disappointing but wasn’t unexpected.

  Mary put in her two cents. “Because of the C4 purchases, we do have enough to arrest both men and make it stick. And Homeland sent out the BOLO over an hour ago.”

  I stood. “Well, it looks like you have everything you need. Now that it’s an official homicide investigation, I think I’m done here. You know where to find me if I can be of further assistance.” I managed not to say, “And of course I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.” The police are never happy with private citizens sticking their noses into police business. I shook hands with both of them and headed out.

  As I walked out the precinct door, I was nearly floating. It was almost time for lunch, but I decided to call Frost first. “Good morning, Sam,” he greeted me cheerily.

  “Good morning, boss. I just dropped off a lo
ad of evidence with the police. It pretty well puts a lid on the question of whether the explosion was intentional. I think we can safely tell Director Wells that the real culprits will soon be in jail. Do you have time for me to brief you this afternoon?”

  “Let’s bring Wells in on this. I’ll call you back in a minute.”

  I had barely reached my car when the phone rang. It was Frost. “How soon can you get here?”

  Forty minutes later I pulled up outside our office in Reston. I went directly to Wells’ office. Claudia smiled and said, “They’re both waiting for you.”

  Frost met me at the door and shook my hand. Wells was actually smiling. He too shook my hand. “I was wrong, and I’m big enough to admit it. So the two of them were responsible for this whole thing?”

  “Yes sir.” That admission made my day. Wells was stubborn but not stupid.

  He waved at a chair. “You can submit your written report tomorrow. Right now I’d like to hear the whole story.”

  I concluded with, “Obviously, we still have some problems to solve. I understand the team has been getting some technical information from the Alternates that may help with the security issues. And Troy thinks he’s found a safe way to test the interface with the other universe.” I hesitated because I wasn’t sure how Wells would take what I was about to say. Watching him, I continued, “Finally, his business partner, Dan, has already started producing the microportals and has contracts with several cell phone manufacturers to produce personal phones.”

  Wells frowned but refrained from making any unpleasant comments. Frost didn’t refrain though. “Putting someone else out of business, eh?” he said, putting an ironic twist on it. He was right, of course. It would definitely impact the cell phone carriers.

  As we were leaving Wells’ office, Frost said, “We’ll brief the president tomorrow. See you in the morning.”

  On that happy note I headed out for a burger and fries. It was over. Or so I thought.

  Chapter 37

  Gloria Hernandez: “Our reporter, George McKay, was on the scene at Safety First Explosives Training after the shooting there this morning. He talked to Karl Munson, the proprietor. He discovered a surprising connection between this incident and the explosion on television two weeks ago. What can you tell us, George?”