She winced; his fingers were digging into her triceps. “Well. The first bombing on the towers failed.” His grip tightened and she poked him in the stomach. “Give my arms a break.”
He frowned and let go. “So sorry, hon.” He massaged each arm and pulled her in for a hug.
She continued. “Nitrate didn’t do the job the first time, so the Council studied up on a super explosive.”
“So, hon.” He exhaled and opened his eyes wide. “Did the Council plan the first WTC bombing? And the Federal Building in Oklahoma? And—”
“Oh my God!” She brought her hand to her mouth. She hadn’t realized the far-reaching implications. “Had the Council planned all of the domestic attacks?”
“Why would they do that?” He was yelling now. Loud. “Why?”
She looked at him and sighed. “Forget the why, for now. When we prove it, we’ll find out the why.”
The vein on his neck bulged through the tender skin her lips had caressed just a few minutes ago. A kiss would not calm him now—she wouldn’t even try. She was frightened to her bones, shocked that the terrorist threat had escalated in mere minutes. She took a breath. Nothing had changed, not really. The threat was as dangerous as ever. The only thing that changed was awareness of the true enemy.
“Mark, we can prove that Dewer Rock demolished the towers.” She knew now that the enemy was more powerful than American-hating jihadists. The real terrorists were men superseding the government with unlimited resources. Mel’s stomach shriveled into a hard knot. Her own government was ruled by invisible monsters.
“How do we prove who really did the past attacks?” He shrugged. “How do we stop future attacks?
As he asked the questions Mel realized that there was only one answer—exposing the truth was the only way to stop further attacks on humanity. “No one on earth will be safe until Dewer Rock is locked behind bars.”
“After Eva finds out who’s working for that fuck, I’ll make sure he gets justice. He thinks he can do anything to us, at any time.” He pounded the coffee table. “I’ll cut him down at the knees.”
“No, Mark, no.” She crawled on his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m not losing you to prison, and I won’t let you damn your soul.” She hugged him with her whole body. His muscles began to relax, and she squeezed harder.
He kissed her, lifted her by the waist, and deposited her on the couch right next to him. He picked up the study he had pulled apart and began reordering the pages. “So then, my sexy, by-the-book detective, where do we go from here?”
Her heart rate slowed to a reasonable rhythm. She had calmed him; now she could think again. “The Council conducted a study concluding that thermite could demolish a skyscraper in just seconds, right? If the police lab finds thermite in the wreckage, that’s the first step in proving that the Council was responsible.” Mel grabbed Mark’s cheeks, turned his face, and looked directly into his eyes. “We will find concrete evidence.”
His eyes lit up. “I’ve got something for you to take to the police lab. We’ll start there, but how will we finish it?”
“When we arrest Dewer Rock, the country will wake up. People will realize that the United Nations and the Council have nothing to do with world peace. And then other agencies will start investigations too. It won’t be just the NYPD.”
Hope’s wails brought Boxer running back into the living room. “I’ll get her.” She squeezed Mark’s bicep and ran to the bedroom. She picked up the baby and rocked her, to no avail. Hope was wide awake. Even after Mel changed her diaper and offered her milk, Hope still cried.
Inconsolable.
At her wits’ end, Mel carried the squealing baby into the living room.
“Hope, baby. Come to Daddy.” Mark grabbed the baby and swung her between his legs. She broke into giggles.
Mel watched Hope and Mark laugh and took a deep breath. The three of them were together and safe. Nothing else mattered. Somehow, everything would be okay.
Chapter 23
On Tuesday, Richie wasted no time getting into work. After cramming into a parking spot on the side of 26 Federal Plaza, he made a beeline for the entrance. He thought about stopping into Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee, but decided to start the tour with the drip coffee from the office kitchen. He’d been itching to get to his desk for days to work up all the info he got from Ahmed and Wilson. Trapped working on the barge yesterday and Sunday wasted two whole days—with no computers. And now, he’d finally get the chance to hit the keys. What a far cry from his usual disdain for desk work. The computer monitor usually put him to sleep, and he had so much to research today. He’d double the coffee grinds in the coffee maker.
Todd Wilson had come through big time. Once Richie started following the information he’d slipped him Saturday night, there was no telling where it would lead. Todd wanted to help but couldn’t risk his job. And Richie understood. They had exchanged cell numbers, and Todd promised to help with anything else that might come up at the Moving Systems warehouse or in Jersey City. He’d violate the gag order, if he had to, as long as they kept it on the down low.
Richie powered up his computer. He took a gulp of coffee, thankful he’d doubled the caffeine, and accessed his voice mail. Just one message, from Arthur Henderson. Nothing important, just checking in, he said. He hadn’t talked with Art since before it happened. He knew he was okay, but it was real good to hear his voice. His computer finished loading and his monitor display requested his password. He’d call Art back later.
First he’d find out who owned Moving Systems. He entered a series of passwords. A quick query in New Jersey’s corporate records disclosed the owner as Moen Pindar. Now he had a name to investigate. Richie entered “Moen Pindar” into New Jersey and New York corporate records and discovered the man owned two additional businesses: Claremont Salvage, in New Jersey and High Rise Renovations, in New York. Writing the business names and owner’s name on a notepad, he grinned. He’d just started fishing and the fishing was good.
Richie rubbed his hands together and then unfolded the paper Todd had hidden under his floorboard mat. It was a list of telephone numbers. Contacts in the cell phones of the men Todd had detained on September 11, and a list of the numbers they had called from the precinct.
Richie had read the list over and over on the barge. They were basically imprinted in his head, so it took him no time at all to enter the numbers into a spreadsheet. Then he sorted the list numerically. The same three landline numbers appeared in each man’s contacts.
Pounding the keyboard, he reverse-searched the first landline number. The subscriber was Moving Systems. That made sense. The men were employed there, after all. He jotted down the address and telephone number on his notepad next to the business name.
The other two telephone numbers also belonged to Moen Pindar’s businesses. Richie closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, wondering what role Pindar’s other businesses had in the attacks. When he opened them again, he stared out of the window at the butchered downtown skyline. He silently promised everyone who had died that he would bring both Dewer Rock and Moen Pindar to justice. This will never happen again.
Taking another deep breath, he returned to work even more determined.
All the remaining telephone numbers were cellular numbers. He groaned, realizing it would take weeks to subpoena cellular carriers for subscriber information. But the FBI could get the information right away. And Art was expecting his call anyway. It sure was convenient having a special agent as a close friend.
He grabbed his desk phone hoping Art was still at his desk, just a couple of floors above in the FBI’s offices. He was, and they agreed to meet in a hallway between their floors in fifteen minutes.
While waiting, Richie ran a background check on Moen Pindar which revealed his basic pedigree—DOB, immigration status—but nothing else. He ran off an extra copy of the telephone number spreadsheet and photocopied his notes. He was about to copy the list of the men detained, bu
t realized Art could easily access that information from the Automated Case Management system.
On the way to the stairwell, he had second thoughts and ran back to his desk. Todd’s intelligence report had been sanitized. Maybe ACS records had been wiped too. He ran off copies of the detainees’ pedigrees.
In the staircase, he heard footsteps from above. When he reached the next landing, Richie glimpsed Art exit the staircase just before the stairwell door swung closed. Most of his blonde hair had turned gray, styled in the same crew cut he’d been sporting since they first met—when Richie was a common criminal and Art had just joined the FBI. They’d been through hell together a few times since. If Richie asked Art to keep their talk off the record, he had no doubt he would.
Art was waiting for him at the elevator bank when Richie emerged from the stairwell. Richie held out his hand, but Art waved it away and embraced him instead. “Good to see you, Rich.”
Richie returned the hug and swallowed, touched by the emotional exchange. First time meetings since it happened have become so intense. He really appreciated Art’s friendship. “It’s been crazy.”
“Tell me about it,” Art said and squeezed his forearm. “How are you coping?”
“Struggling to figure things out.” Richie sighed and rubbed his chin. “I went to see Rashid.”
Art cleared his throat and looked at the floor.
Damn. Art knew all along and hadn’t said a word. “He is on the government payroll, isn’t he?”
Art nodded and his face turned red. “He works for the CIA, not us.”
Richie stiffened and stomped the floor. He had wasted eight years infiltrating a terrorist group fronted by the freaking CIA. “Rashid was telling the truth after all.”
Art patted his shoulder. “I swear, I didn’t know. Every damn thing is compartmentalized in this business. One hand has no idea what the other is doing.”
Richie looked closely at Art. His expression was as sincere as it had been the first day they met. This man had his back from the beginning. He’d made sure Richie understood how dangerous infiltrating the Impoverished would be before recruiting him as a mole. “How do you know now?”
“My ACS entries regarding Rashid and the Impoverished have been deleted. I’ve been reassigned to fraud.” He rolled his eyes. “My replacement monitors the Impoverished by attending a summer barbeque at the encampment in Deposit.”
Richie remained silent a moment and twisted his photocopied papers into a tube. He refused to dwell on his years wasted with the Impoverished. Maybe the contacts he’d made back then would help him figure things out now.
Art looked up and down the deserted hallway and lowered his voice. “Did Rashid reveal anything?”
“He said they’ll kill him if he does.”
“Who is they?” Arthur scrunched his eyebrows. “The CIA?”
“I guess that’s what I have to find out.” Richie straightened his back and adjusted his ID card.
“How can I help?”
Richie handed him the photocopies. “Information on these cell numbers and businesses would be a good start.”
“You got it.” He flipped the page and his face paled. “Moen Pindar is involved?”
“Squeaky clean.” Richie nodded. “Too clean to be real, right?”
Art raised his eyebrows and whispered, “He’s high-level Mossad.”
Richie rocked back on his heels and sighed. “What about the men from Moving Systems that Jersey City PD detained?”
“Mossad agents.” Art bobbed his head. “I handed a report about it up the channels. I was reprimanded and told to stick to my assigned fraud cases.”
“Isn’t criminal impersonation a fraud?”
“Sure it is.” Art shrugged and blew out air. “FBI headquarters ordered my supervisor to make me sign an additional confidentiality order. He was as pissed as I was, but he has to follow orders, too. He even drove to DC and demanded a meeting with the acting director. He found out the order to shut down the Mossad angle came from the Attorney General’s Office.” He lowered his voice. “All the memos warning about an imminent terrorist attack he had sent to the Attorney General over the summer were ignored.”
Richie felt dizzy and leaned against the wall. How high up does this conspiracy reach? “I can’t ask you to help me. It’s too much of a risk.”
“You can’t stop me, Richie. We’ll just keep it between you and me, and Mel, of course.”
“Mark is investigating, too.”
“Good.” Art nodded. “We’ll figure it out together.”
“Mel’s coming back tomorrow.” Richie smiled. “She’s done some surveillance on maternity leave, with the baby. Motherhood isn’t slowing her down.”
“Send her up with pictures of Hope. Denise picked up a baby outfit.” Art blushed. “I can’t walk the halls with a pink-wrapped box and a darn bow.”
“I hear ya.” Richie smiled, slapped Art’s shoulder, and headed back to his floor.
Chapter 24
Mel looked through the glass door and raised an eyebrow. There was no one to buzz her in. Odd. The reception desk was abandoned. She didn’t know what to expect upon her return to work for the first time since it happened, but this eerie feeling caught her off guard. She took a deep breath and blew off the mood with a big exhale.
Balancing a carton of hot chocolate and a dozen donuts in one arm, she dug through her shoulder bag for her key card. She unlocked the front doors with a swipe, passed the empty front desk and swiped the inner door as well.
All the desks she passed were empty. Her stomach tightened. The dot matrix wasn’t even spitting out notifications. She dropped her bag next to the relic. It was loaded with paper and the green light was on. The strange feeling had returned.
She glanced in the back of the room. The bosses’ offices were all dark. On the way to the kitchen, she glanced down the hall to the Drug Enforcement Agency’s office space. The door was closed, and the security light beamed red. That’s a first. No one was manning the DEA office either. Had everything come to a standstill?
With a frown, she turned into the kitchen. And Richie was there. He put down the cup of coffee he was holding and rushed to help her carry the donuts and hot chocolate. “What’s all this?”
“I thought the team could use a change. I bet they’re all coffee-ed out by now.”
He put down the boxes near the sink and gave her a quick hug. “Welcome back, partner.”
“Where is everyone?” she asked, returning his hug.
“We’re spread pretty thin these days. Most of the team is sifting at the dumps.” He looked down at his coffee mug. “Sal and Kathy are on barge duty for the rest of the week.”
“That explains the ghost town out there. What’s on our sheet?” She tossed a pile of napkins next to the donut box and flipped it open.
Richie grabbed a chocolate frosted donut. “Lieutenant Jordan wants us to check out a tip claiming the Mossad knew about the attacks before they happened.”
She glanced up to gauge his take on the tip’s credibility, but he was eating the donut as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “Foreknowledge is a serious allegation, Richie.”
“It sure is.” He poured his coffee down the drain.
“Tell me we are not talking about a conspiracy here. How’d the tip come in?” She stretched on tiptoes to find her mug in the back of the cabinet.
“During interviews at the barge. A businessman dropped off a time-stamped copy of a group text message warning subscribers away from downtown.”
“So.” She began to rinse the mug after months of neglect but soon noticed it was freshly washed. She smiled; Richie had cleaned her mug. “A warning is far from proof of foreknowledge, though.”
“True, but the message was sent hours before the attacks happened.”
She put her mug down and looked at him. “Got to be a hoax, don’t you think?” But even as the words left her mouth she saw his expression harden. He wasn’t thinking hoax at all. He
was thinking high-level crimes. Chills tingled along her spine.
“It’s authentic, Mel.” His voice was as hard as his expression. “We have an IP address and a long list of subscribers who received the message to muddle through.”
She swallowed and her stomach churned. How did they know? And if they knew, why did it still happen? Why didn’t they warn everybody? “There must be a reasonable explanation, Richie. A time-zone difference or something.”
“I’ve been following up on another tip that leads to the Mossad.” He patted her shoulder. “Settle in, first.”
She filled her mug. Going to need lots of hot chocolate to choke this down. “I’ll take this to my desk.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” He flipped open his cell phone.
She double backed for a donut and overheard Richie call someone babe. She smiled. Interesting. Richie hadn’t dated anyone in all the years she’d known him. A relationship would have jeopardized his cover. And after years of being alone, she could understand his apprehension about opening up to someone special. They never talked romance, but she’d thought she would have known if he was in a relationship. But then again, she had been on maternity leave for five whole months.
Mel found her desk hidden under tons of clutter. She sat down and slid a tower of mail to the side, clearing just enough room for her mug. She leaned back and squinted. Sunlight beamed through the window. Sun glare had never been a problem before, even on sunny days. Something was different. Very different. Of course! The familiar shadow from the World Trade Center was gone. She yanked the cord and the blinds lowered with a swish.
She shuffled through her mail, and a white envelope stood out against all the manila department envelopes. There was no return address. She ripped it open and pulled out a single piece of paper.
Young lady,
The elevator shafts were compromised.
Keep looking for the truth!
The Council House (The Impoverished Book 3) Page 10