Wake Me When It's Over

by Cheryl A Head

  “Look,” Charlie said, scanning the eyes of each person in the room. “What we’ve discussed today is proprietary information. I know you’ll be tempted to tell your key managers or husbands, wives and significant others, but don’t. Your discretion is critical to thwarting what we know is a credible threat to the auto show, and we want to keep everyone safe.”

  The somber faces that looked back at Charlie were response enough. The Cobo supervisors began to gather their materials and the radios Judy had distributed. Ty arose from the table.

  “We got your back, Ms. Mack,” he said, leading the staff out of the conference room.

  “I appreciate that, Ty. Judy, you and Carter should get back to the shipping dock.”

  “We’re on it.” Judy was already moving out of the conference room, followed by Carter.

  The rest of the group remained to plan an overnight search of the building. They were looking specifically for components that could be used in a bomb. Searchers would inspect every door, wall panel, drawer, container, closet, and corner in the areas of the building where the public had access. The search, which would begin that night, would be a huge task.

  “I suggest we go floor by floor,” Gil said. “We could leave one group on patrol, a few people at the Guí Motors sites, and the rest of us focus on the search.”

  “Can we pull a half-dozen people from Spectrum to help?” Charlie asked Cynthia.

  “Sure. I’ll put together an overtime work shift.”

  “Will you need Heinrich’s approval?” Mandy asked.

  “Yes, but I’ll tell him we’re using our guys for the Guí surveillance.”

  “Actually, if we can use your people at the Chinese delegation spaces, I can free up four of our people to participate in the search,” Hoyt said, looking at his assignment grid.

  “Consider it done,” Cynthia said.

  Charlie, Cynthia and Mandy came up with a disinformation strategy to use on Heinrich. Mandy would text Heinrich asking if she could meet him again, but this time at his house. They hoped Mandy’s show of interest would lull Heinrich into thinking they were not on to him.

  “Okay. Let’s meet here at the office at six o’clock,” Charlie told the group. “Go take naps. We’re up all night tonight.”

  Heinrich watched Dudiyn, seated at the garage workbench. The man had no formal education, but was one of the most talented technicians he’d ever worked with— equally adept at wiring electrical circuits, cutting pipe, and mixing chemicals. He had the nimbleness and touch of a heart surgeon. But there was another side, a commonness that was repulsive. For one thing he never seemed to wash his uniform of black jeans and black T-shirt. Heinrich stepped through the door connecting the house and garage and opened the small window facing the narrow backyard. He looked over Dudiyn’s shoulder at the hand-drawn schematic he was using to guide his assembly.

  Binary explosives were the easiest to construct. Most used common components readily available at a big-box hardware store, a drugstore, or on eBay. They could be packaged in small containers and easily transported and concealed. Of course, there was always the danger of an accident, and Heinrich wasn’t pleased the bomb assembly had been moved to his house, in a densely residential area, versus the out-of-the-way storage building.

  “How’s the work going?”

  “No problems so far. Except I wish I had more room and more ventilation. The garage had air conditioning.”

  “I’ll bring in some floor fans. Will that help?”

  “Yes, but I could also use a respirator.”

  “Okay. You’re being extra careful, right?”

  “I’m always careful. Speaking of which, what do we do about that kid?”

  “You’re really dying to get rid of him, aren’t you?”

  “Not really. He’s just a loose end. Like that Chinese guy, and the black guy who worked at Cobo.”

  “Are you forgetting the Mack team member in the parking garage?”

  “That was different. He was one of the soldiers; he died in a firefight.”

  “The kid’s not going anywhere. In a day or two, the programmers will be recalled to Beijing and somebody will find him.”

  Dudiyn turned on his stool and locked eyes with Heinrich for a few seconds, then returned to his wiring task. He was being paid a substantial amount of money for this job, but he also cared about the reputation he’d gained for being reliable and thorough. He didn’t like loose ends.

  “You think we should move the timeline back a day or two?” Dudiyn asked. “The security breach at the garage is troubling.”

  “No.”

  “If everything is quiet for a few days, the Americans will be lulled back into complacency.”

  “The client still feels an incident during the press preview will garner the most national and international attention.”

  “Maybe. But if we wait, we can do more damage. There will be more people, more loss of life. It’ll scare the shit out of them.”

  “No. We’re sticking to the original plan. How much more time do you need to finish up?”

  “I’ll be at it the rest of the day, and into the night. I still have to pack the shrapnel and connect fuses to each tube. I’ve got forty of these to build.”

  “When do you add the explosives?”

  “Mixing the powder and ammonium nitrate is the last task. I’ll do that in the Cobo garage. It wouldn’t be too smart to drive through town with that stuff already mixed.”

  “I’ve got to go into the office. I’ll bring the fans when I come back. Don’t blow the place apart.”

  Dudiyn watched Heinrich cross the garage and step into the house. With his designer clothes and fancy tastes, he was as soft as the kid. He knew for sure he’d never work for, or with, this crazy German again.

  It was the final day for major deliveries. The deadline and the new rules for check-in were putting drivers, vendors, exhibitors, and Cobo departments on edge. The Mack team spot-checked every delivery of food and restaurant supplies, and gave special scrutiny to cargo containing electronics, any organic materials, or chemicals. Judy and Carter were in charge of this daunting task, and by 11 a.m. they had processed only twenty trucks.

  That morning, an eighteen-wheeler filled with floor plants had been held up for two hours while three bomb-sniffing dogs provided by Homeland Security put their talented noses to work on each plant. A refrigerated food truck with four hundred pounds of hot dogs, forty cases of buns, five thousand packages of frozen barbecue spare ribs, and one hundred gallons of potato salad idled in one of the bays. The driver was pissed off and had threatened not to return the following Friday for her scheduled delivery, but Judy talked her down from the cliff ledge. A third cargo truck carrying popcorn machines, 500 pounds of popcorn, 50 boxes of oil, and 10,000 popcorn bags had just been processed by Carter, and now the driver was being interviewed by one of the DHS agents. Most of the time, it was a driver’s credentials, unusual cargo, or incomplete paperwork that raised a flag for Carter. He had two laptops open and two mobile phones to check in with his far-flung sources, which included the FBI, Interpol, the Secret Service, and even the Teamsters.

  Judy spotted a lanky guy in fitted jeans and wearing a Stetson swinging down from his cab. He threw a half-finished cigarette into the snow, stomped it as if it were a campfire, and marched toward the loading dock booth. Judy grabbed her jacket, jumped off her stool, and stepped through the door of the booth to intercept him.

  “Sorry for the delay, cowboy; we got a lot of security today, and we’re trying to keep ’em rolling but our hands are tied.”

  “I’m on a tight deadline here, and I been cooling my heels for forty-five minutes. I could have unloaded and been back on I-75 by now.”

  “You headed north or south?”

  “I’m going to the U.P., and with this cold and snow I’d like to get there before nightfall. How much longer is it going to be?”

  Judy glanced over her shoulder to Carter for help, but he was studying his l
aptop screen. She looked up at the six-foot-two driver and gave him her best “I know you know I’m stalling but play along with me” smile.

  “Come on. Let me have your paperwork. I’ll see if we can get you on your way.”

  Judy returned to the booth, hopped onto her stool, and unfolded the driver’s manifest. She rested an elbow on the narrow countertop that was doubling as a desk, and flipped the first page of the inventory list.

  “What are Three-Stream stations?”

  “They’re a set of waste containers. Three of them, stacked side by side for recyclables and trash. My helper and I have a hundred stations to unload.”

  “And they cost $50,000? Those must be some fancy trash cans.”

  The driver pushed back the tip of his hat with one lean finger, and stared at Judy. His scowl turned to a small grin as he realized she was just killing time. So he decided to flirt.

  “What’s your name, young lady?”

  “Judy. Judy Novak.”

  “No kidding.”

  “What?”

  “Novak. That’s my name too. No, really. Look at the last page of the freight order where I signed for receipt of the cargo.”

  “Jerry Novak. Well I’ll be damned. Polish?”

  “Born and raised. The cowboy hat just gives me something to talk about.”

  “Well, hey cousin.”

  “So, what about it, cousin. You think you can get me out of here?”

  Judy called one of the agents over to the booth, and they walked with Jerry to the back of his big rig. Judy checked out the identification of the helper, and they all watched as a black Labrador retriever gave the truck’s contents a once-over. The aluminum and corrugated cardboard receptacles were shrink-wrapped. Blue for cans and bottles, dark green for paper, and a black container marked trash. Each unit was stenciled with the initials NAIAS, for North American International Auto Show.

  “Those are some good-looking containers, cowboy,” Judy said.

  “We got the exclusive deal this year to provide these beauties. Well, are we good to go?”

  Judy looked at the dog handler who gave a nod, jumped from the ramp of the trailer, coaxed down the Lab, and then gave the dog a treat. Judy watched for a few minutes while Jerry and his helper loaded twenty units onto a flatbed hand truck. A maintenance supervisor came down to sign for the delivery, and in a few trips all the recyclable units had been wheeled through the cargo doors. Jerry flashed a smile and threw up a wave as he lifted himself into the cab of his truck. He backed the vehicle as if it were a grocery cart and exited the one-way access road, leaving giant tire marks in the snow.

  “Everything good for this next truck, Carter?” Judy asked.

  “Yep. They have design pieces for the Jeep display. They’re doing an indoor waterfall, so they have tubing and pumps and what not. I’ve got the engineering supervisor coming down to sign off on the paperwork.”

  “Well, we’ve got another fifty deliveries to go. Do you need a cuppa and a doughnut?”

  “Yeah. With sprinkles, please.”

  “So, they are increasing their surveillance of the Chinese,” Heinrich said with satisfaction.

  He leaned back in his chair, sipping an espresso. Cynthia perched on the sofa across from his desk with clipboard in hand. Her task was to disclose some insider information to distract Heinrich, but not scare him off. It was a ploy she’d used before to gain, and keep, his trust.

  “That’s what Ms. Mack reported this morning,” Cynthia said. “There will be around-the-clock security at the delegation’s offices, in display areas, and at their hotel. Apparently, she has some tip she’s following.”

  “A tip from who?”

  “She didn’t say, but I might be able to get her to tell me.”

  “You’re getting along with her pretty well.”

  “I think so. I’ve tried to be helpful. She’s been pretty frantic about finding Lin Fong, and to tell you the truth it’s compromised her work. By the way, I’ve deactivated his ID and closed his remote access to our server.”

  “What? Oh, the Chinese kid. Good.” Apparently, Heinrich didn’t know about Lin Fong’s rescue. He was distracted and looked at his phone for the second time in ten minutes. “Coincidentally, Ms. Mack’s associate has contacted me. She says she wants some advice.”

  “You mean Mandy Porter? I’m not surprised,” Cynthia said reeling in Heinrich.

  “No?”

  “No. She’s sort of filling in for her. They’re . . . lovers, you know?”

  “Lovers?” Heinrich said, louder than was necessary.

  “Based on what I’ve seen and heard.”

  “What have you seen?” Heinrich’s tongue darted momentarily from his lips, and he leaned forward.

  “Long stares. Hands touching, and I’ve seen them together in Ms. Mack’s car.”

  “You think they’re lesbians? Both of them?”

  “Well, my gaydar is pretty accurate. I know there’s something between them that’s more than professional.”

  This time, Heinrich looked at his Rolex. He drummed his fingers on the desk and began stacking papers. “What’s happening with the Secret Service?”

  “I’ve met with the head agent, and gave him all the files they asked for. So far, our security protocols have checked out okay. Oh, and the police want to talk to us, about Lin Fong.”

  “Right. Well, you take care of that, unless they insist on seeing me.” Heinrich stood to signal the end of the meeting. “I have some schmoozing to do this morning with a few of the exhibitors, and a few calls to make before that.”

  “Okay.”

  “And, we should do a full-staff briefing tomorrow morning; make sure everyone’s here. Invite the Mack team, if you like.”

  “I’ll schedule it for 10 a.m.”

  “Fine.”

  Amy made the tea as instructed, and carried a tray with the ceramic teapot and cups Mr. Kwong said had been a gift from his wife, to the door. She knocked.

  “Come in. Please put the tea on the table.”

  “Is there anything else you need, sir?”

  “Please, Amy, sit with me,” Kwong said, rising from his desk.

  He was dressed as usual in a blue suit and red tie with a crisp white shirt, but his demeanor was different. Not all business, with rapid-fire instructions given in English, nor with a leering stare induced by the scotch. He slumped over the low reception table, and opened his hand toward the bench across from him.

  “Please pour the tea, and one for yourself.”

  Amy poured the gold liquid from the pot, holding the top gently with her index finger. She handed a cup across the table to Mr. Kwong. He took the saucer with a shaking hand and quickly secured it with his other hand; Amy pretended not to notice. She sipped her tea while Kwong looked into his cup as if reading messages from his ancestors. Amy decided to break the uncomfortable silence.

  “Mr. Kwong, are the people working at the warehouse Guí employees?”

  Kwong’s head jerked up and he took a moment to answer. “Yes. They are doing research and development.”

  “Why was Lin Fong being held captive there?”

  Kwong took a long sip of tea, then placed the cup gently into the saucer. The shake in his hands had subsided. “He was thought to be a burglar. It was just a misunderstanding.”

  It had been clear to her from the beginning of her employment that the company was involved in secret activities in which she was not to be involved. It was only the providence of Mr. Kwong’s absence that had enabled her to help Lin Fong escape. She had never asked Kwong where he’d been all day yesterday, and she didn’t ask any questions now.

  “Have I been a good supervisor?”

  With the abrupt change of subject, it was Amy’s turn to refocus. She placed her tea on the table and crossed her hands on her lap. Last evening, during the Beijing teleconference, he had been mostly quiet, allowing the engineers and design team to answer the bosses’ questions about the exhibit. The company presid
ent and vice president would arrive in Detroit tomorrow, and he had read the logistics document she’d produced, verbatim, to give his report. It was only after he was asked about the continued scrutiny of the company’s activities that he became more animated. At that point, she was dismissed from the conference.

  “I have found it easy to work for you, Mr. Kwong. You are very clear and organized.”

  “I appreciate that, Amy. I have built my reputation on the efficiency of my work.”

  He seemed to want to say more, so Amy picked up her cup and took a long drink. Kwong squeezed the crease of his trousers with his fingertips, then placed his palms on his knees, assuming the position of an obedient servant. Amy resumed her crossed hands posture.

  “I love my wife and children. My family is my life. You may be too young to understand what I mean about family. You are, after all, American Chinese.”

  Amy wasn’t quite sure why she was offended by his remarks. She might not be blindly loyal to the Chinese government and the bosses in Beijing, as Kwong was, but she was acutely aware of the significance of family ties. It was never far from her mind that her family’s influence had gotten her this temporary job, and it was her parents’ continued generosity that allowed her to take a year-long break from her university studies before she attended medical school in the fall.

  “I do understand, Mr. Kwong. The multi-strand twines of family form an unbreakable bond. You work so hard I would have guessed your allegiance to Guí Motors was the most important thing.”

  Kwong looked down at his ceramic cup and lifted it, but the trembling had returned, and he quickly replaced it on the table. Then, without a hint of his change in mood, he dipped his face into his hands and wept. The sadness spread until it filled the corners of the room. Amy stood and began collecting the cups and pot onto the tray. When she met Kwong’s eyes, they were filled with his longing for home.

  “When I was your age, it was easy to know what was right. In today’s world, right . . . and wrong come in degrees, and each man must define his own boundaries of loyalty.”

  “Is there anything else, Mr. Kwong? May I order you some lunch?”