The air in the truck was stale, overwhelmed by his body odor. He reopened the back vents on both sides to allow the cold air to circulate, then checked the battery on the two-way radio. There had been very few communications in the last few hours, only an occasional check-in. He stretched out again on the passenger seat and placed the radio next to his ear. In an hour or so, he’d return to his bathroom retreat, take a leak, charge his phones, and clean up a bit.
The ATF supervisor came to Heinrich’s office with the news on his laptop. The robot’s sensors had registered the existence of a large quantity of explosive materials. The robot had traversed the length of the van with the built-in x-ray equipment, and the negatives clearly showed the outline of a man lying prone on the back seat. On the floor of the van, a bag held eight or nine of the pipe bombs. The other interesting items were two cell phones in the man’s pocket, one of the two-way radios near the man’s head, and a small handgun in his waistband.
“Well, now we know what we’re up against,” Charlie said. “What do you think, Tony?”
“He still has bombs in the van, and I assume one or both of those phones can trigger the devices. If we rush him he could easily detonate those bombs, but more importantly, any that we haven’t found in Cobo.”
“Will the phone detonate all the bombs at once, or are they wired to respond to different signals?” Gil asked.
“That’s a good question,” the ATF agent said. “The devices we’ve found had two wiring configurations, which means two different signals could be used to detonate the units. For instance, he could detonate the IEDs on level two, and then later detonate the ones on another level.”
“That would make the situation even more chaotic,” Charlie noted.
“We’ve got to get him out of that van and find a way to get those phones away from him,” Don said, stating what seemed impossible.
“Let’s take one thing at a time,” Charlie said. “Maybe now it’s time to put Tyson’s false radio communication ploy into action.”
The group discussed various messages to draw Dudiyn away from the garage. It should be something that would not panic him, but would compel him to leave the van, and leave the explosives behind. There were lots of ideas, but none seemed to have just the right combination of urgency and opportunity to lull out of hiding a man who was hell-bent on blowing up the auto show.
“I’ve got it,” Charlie said. “What if we announce that DADA is putting out a breakfast spread between 6 a.m. and 7 a.m. on the third floor, and all staff are welcome to get coffee, doughnuts, and breakfast sandwiches whenever their work allows?”
“You think he’ll leave the van to eat?” Cynthia asked incredulously.
Charlie didn’t say a word. She just let the thought percolate among the group. Soon, others became champions of the idea.
“When you think of it,” Gil said, “it’s the kind of communication that signals an all-clear at Cobo. He’ll think the diversion has worked, that no one’s yet found Heinrich’s body and Cobo is back to business as usual.”
“I like it,” Mandy said, smiling admiringly at Charlie.
“It could work,” Tony added. “But he might want to retrieve his janitor’s cart, so we better put things back the way he left them in the men’s room.”
“And you better reactivate his ID, so he can enter Cobo,” Gil added.
“God, I forgot about that. Good catch,” Cynthia said.
“So, you think he’ll just leave the bombs, grab some food, and bring it back to the van?” Don asked.
“I hope so,” Charlie said.
“Or maybe he’ll put the bombs in the men’s room,” Cynthia said.
“That’s also possible,” Don agreed.
“What do you think, Judy?” Charlie asked.
“I think his work is done for now, and he’s got time. Even if he brought food with him, he’d be interested in hot coffee and fresh eats. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve used doughnuts to get men to do what I want. I think it’ll work.”
Heads nodded. But Scott Hartwell was still pacing and had been unusually quiet.
“What’s your opinion, Scott?” Charlie asked.
“All I know is, in four hours, when six thousand world journalists show up at Cobo, they have to be safe.”
At 5:30 a.m., the two-way radio squawked near Dudiyn’s ear. He recognized the voice as belonging to Cynthia Fitzgerald and turned up the volume. She announced that the auto dealers wanted to thank the staff for their hard work in preparing for the auto show and had set up a breakfast buffet on the third floor. She sounded cheerful and happy.
They think everything is fine.
The garage was still quiet, but in the next half hour the it would be buzzing with early-morning action. Shifts coming and going, valet parking setting up nearby, and according to the schedule the street sweepers would be arriving.
I’ll clean up a bit and give everyone time to run for the food, then head up there, grab some coffee and a few sandwiches, and bring them back to eat.
Dudiyn laced up his boots and donned his cap. His pistol was snug at his back. He looked at the leftover bombs.
Better take one, just in case.
By ten of six, a dozen Cobo staff had entered or exited the employee door, and the parking spots near the lobby door were filled. Dudiyn watched as the parking attendant came out of the rear lobby door juggling a small tray of food and two cups of coffee before taking his seat in the booth. Dudiyn grabbed the bucket he’d brought to the van, and placed his gun and one of the pipes inside it, covered by a rag. He exited the van, looked around, and then tapped the lock button. The parking attendant was in an animated conversation with one of the Cobo security guards. Dudiyn took his time walking to the employee entrance, his entry card in hand. But before he got there, the man he’d seen at the TV studio last night came out the door. They locked eyes.
“You’re still at it I see,” the guy said, smiling and holding open the door.
“Yeah. But I’m almost done,” Dudiyn mumbled, passing the man.
“Yeah. Me too. Well, like they say, there’s no rest for the wicked.”
Dudiyn surveyed the bathroom and checked the storage closet. The cleaning lady and the bomb were still in place. He grabbed the magnetized “out of service” sign and stuck it on the external door. He leaned over the counter and looked into the mirror. The eyes that reflected back brought an image of his brother’s face, contorted in pain, eyes and mouth open, limbs mingled among the other dead bodies in the open grave. He closed his eyes against the memory.
He placed the two phones and his pistol on the sink, and removed his shirt and cap. He yanked a handful of paper towels from the receptacle, then lathered his armpits, neck, and the hair on his chest. His beard was growing back fast so he used the dull razor to clean up his face. He smelled and looked better, but his shirt and trousers were wrinkled from sleeping in the van— nothing he could do about that. He moved the trigger phone to his shirt pocket. At 6:20 a.m., he left the restroom and locked the door. His gun and a single pipe bomb were lodged in the bucket he carried; in the other hand he held a mop. He surveyed his surroundings, then moved to the service elevator.
Standing in front of the monitor, the group had watched Dudiyn’s interaction with the Cobo worker. Cynthia switched views to the atrium camera, and they watched as Dudiyn paused in front of the men’s room, then entered.
“He doesn’t seem to have the bombs,” Don said.
“There might be a couple in that bucket,” Tony offered.
“Who was that man he spoke to at the door? They acted like they knew each other,” Charlie asked.
“That’s Ross, the chief engineer at the TV studio. He’s okay,” Ty said.
Ty had joined the group a half hour ago, looking fresh from a shower and a change of clothes, but still with the countenance of a man who knew the danger wasn’t over.
“We don’t have much time,” Don said. “Gil and I are going to the van
. Somebody warn us if you see him coming.”
“Don, give it a couple of minutes,” Tony cautioned.
As if on cue, the restroom’s external door opened enough for Dudiyn to peek out and attach the “out of order” sign.
“He doesn’t seem to be going for the food,” Charlie said.
“Let’s wait and see,” Tony said.
All eyes were focused on the monitor. Two minutes passed, and there was no movement at the door. Don stood at the entrance of Heinrich’s office, shifting from foot to foot, and Hartwell’s pacing had reached manic levels. Suddenly the door opened and Dudiyn stepped into the corridor carrying the bucket and a mop. His cap was pulled low onto his head and he walked with a slow shuffle away from the men’s room.
“We’ve got to assume he has the gun, the phones, and maybe a bomb or two,” Gil said.
“Okay. Can we go now? I’m tired of waiting,” Don said.
“Go, Don. Out the front lobby and around to the garage. We’ll monitor both the garage and atrium cameras. Gil, make sure to use your earpiece and keep your phone line open,” Charlie ordered.
“Right, Charlie.”
Don and Gil flashed their Spectrum IDs as they exited the service door of the front lobby. It was freezing, but they didn’t have time to register the discomfort. The garage was almost a quarter of a mile around the exterior of Cobo, and they had to move fast. The street sweepers were already at work on Washington Boulevard, and a few workers noted the two coatless men running along the building, but no one tried to stop them. When they reached the garage, they slowed, walked to the parking booth, and again flashed their Spectrum IDs. “We’re doing a patrol of the garage,” Gil said, out of breath.
The parking attendant gave them a look. “Weren’t you the guys who came to our headquarters to check us out? Why are you wearing those janitor uniforms?”
“Can’t explain now. We’re doing surveillance work.”
They kept their eyes on the employee door to their left as they moved to the north wall of the garage. They stopped at the first vehicle in the long line of food trucks.
“It’s the one after the deli truck,” Gil whispered and pushed Don forward.
Gil, he’s on the move, he heard in his earpiece. Gil touched Don’s back again, and he stopped and turned.
“What is it?”
“Charlie.”
But he’s not heading your way. It’s okay, Gil. He just got on the service elevator.
“Okay, we’re clear,” Gil said.
They counted ten trucks down, and stopped in front of the van. “Let’s check the outside,” Don said. “But don’t touch anything.”
They moved first to the driver’s side of the van. The tinted windows made it difficult to see in, but the small penlight Gil pointed into the cab showed a couple of fast-food bags on the passenger seat. It was impossible to see through the side windows, but Gil flashed the light onto the ATF x-ray photos. “The bombs are in a bag behind the passenger seat, which ends here,” Gil said. At the rear of the truck the window vents were open. Careful not to lean on the van, Gil pointed the light down toward the van’s floor and tried to peer in, but the view was limited.
Don lay flat on the cold cement to look under the van, pointing a light up into the chassis. He noted no openings and no booby traps. He got to his feet and compared the photos to what he’d seen.
“It still looks good underneath.”
“Okay, let’s check the other side.”
They repeated their inspection on the passenger side of the van. The wall at the rear of the vehicle stank of urine.
“The guy was in the van a long time. He got out to pee,” Don said.
Leaning against the wall and aiming the penlight down into the louvered vent window brought better results.
“I can see the plastic bag,” Gil said.
“Okay. Open the front passenger door,” Don ordered.
Gil had experience with cars. As a teen he’d worked summers at his uncle’s car lot in Alabama, sweeping, washing vehicles, learning to plug tires and do oil changes. He eventually worked his way up to sales assistant. And when his uncle moved his dealership to southeast Michigan and built it into a million-dollar business, Gil had been a top salesman. Along the way he’d also learned to break into cars. It took less than thirty seconds, using a screwdriver, for Gil to open the door.
“Good job, Acosta.”
Gil climbed into the van, over the console, and opened the side-panel door. Don got in, perched on his knees on the bench, and shined his penlight over the seatback. Soon Gil’s light joined in to illuminate the van’s floor. The lights picked up spatters of a shiny substance. A contractor-sized plastic bag was against the wheel well. It bulged with content and was twisted closed. On the other side was a cardboard box with gallon-sized bleach containers, quart-sized baggies, a spool of copper wiring, and an open bag of nails. The compartment’s odor of sweat and chemicals was assaulting.
“Let’s look at the picture again,” Don said.
They pointed their lights on the x-ray photo of the underside of the van. The photo clearly showed the bag containing a half-dozen or more of the pipe bombs, and the box. The bag had been disturbed since the photo taken by the ATF robot. Also, a bucket that had been in the back of the van was missing.
“Looks like he may have taken some of the bombs,” Gil said.
“Let’s open it up,” Don said, pointing to the bag.
Gil climbed over the seat and sat on the floor. He pulled the bag between his knees and slowly emptied the contents.
“Eight,” Don said.
Gil nodded. “Charlie, I’ve got eight of the IEDs in the back of the van. They look like all the others. Should we try to disarm them by pulling out the copper wire?”
That’s a negative, Gil heard in his earpiece. It was Tony Canterra’s voice.
Bring the devices out of the vehicle and to the outside of the garage. ATF will meet you there.
“We’re supposed to bring them out,” Gil said, putting each unit back into the bag.
Don opened the door and stepped out of the van, looking around. Gil handed the bag to Don and climbed over the seat.
Gil, he’s on the move. He just entered the service elevator on the third level. If he’s coming back to the van, you’ve got maybe three minutes. Charlie’s voice was high-pitched.
“We’ve got to get out of here. He’s coming back,” Gil said.
The bombs weighed at least forty pounds. Gil held the bag in two tight fists, following Don carefully and deliberately to the garage exit. The parking attendant gave them his suspicious attention as they sidestepped the gate and headed north on Washington Boulevard. Before they got to Larned they were intercepted by two street sweepers.
“We’re bomb squad,” one of the men said, eyeing the bag. “Is that them?”
“Yes,” Gil said, handing off the bag.
The ATF pair continued up Washington Boulevard where one of their vehicles was parked.
“Where is he now, Charlie?” Gil said into his phone.
He just got off the elevator, and he’s heading your way. We’re coming down.
“Let’s go,” Charlie said to Mandy.
“Tony, are you coming with us?”
“No, I better join ATF.”
“Okay. Judy, call Hoyt for backup but tell him to stay out of sight until I call for him.”
“Charlie, be careful,” Judy pleaded.
A few employees remained huddled near the coffee urn in the third-floor concourse. So Dudiyn grabbed a couple of the small juice boxes, stuffed a few breakfast sandwiches into his bucket, and before anyone could engage him in conversation moved quickly back down the hall to the elevator. At level one, he stepped out cautiously, looked both ways, and shuffled toward the restroom. He glanced at the locked door of the restroom, then continued to the garage. At the door, he paused to stuff his gun into his belt and stepped through, holding the bucket and mop in one hand. The garage was quiet.
He walked slowly and alertly to the van. He was within five feet when something on the ground caught his eye, a streak of a shiny substance on the floor to the left of the vehicle. He stopped, then stared at the windshield. The hair on his neck tingled. He slowly bent, placing the bucket and mop on the floor, and took two steps back. Just then the door behind him opened loudly, and he swiveled his head.
“Charlie, look out,” Don called out from the direction of the parking booth.
Dudiyn dropped to his knees and fired two shots in the direction of the voice. Charlie and Mandy scrambled to their right and dived between two cars.
“Did he go to the van?” Gil looked sideways at Don as they ran, crouching.
“I don’t know,” Don answered.
The bomb’s noise was thunderous in the confined space. The force of the explosion sent Don and Gil to the ground in a slow-motion roil. Nails shattered windshields, ripped into sheet metal, and sounded an orchestra on the cement floor. The heavy odor of black powder hovered in a smoke cloud that spread through the garage.
In a couple of minutes the parking attendant ran to Don, who was closest to him. “What the hell was that?” he shouted, arms flailing. “What the hell,” the man said again, crouching next to Don, who was just beginning to move. “Are you all right?”
“Where’s Acosta?”
Gil was a few feet ahead, and answered for himself by groaning and turning over onto his back.
“You all right, Acosta?”
“I think so. Just let me lie here for a second.”
“Mandy?” Charlie tried to lift herself from the ground but Mandy was on top of her. “Mandy?” she said again because her ears were too shocked to hear her own question.
At the sound of the explosion, Mandy had instinctively thrown herself over Charlie, and the back of her jacket was covered in glass splinters.
“I’m okay,” Mandy said, sinking onto her butt. “I may have some glass or something in my thigh. Something’s there, and it hurts like hell.”
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