Jonathan had laughed at that. “If that happens, Big Guy, I promise I won’t stand in your way when you teach him the lessons of how he was wrong.”
Boxers shot him a look, then smiled. “It’s not much,” he’d said. “But it’s something.”
Presently, they sat around the big teak table—Venice in her command chair, plus Boxers and Jonathan along the left edge, Gail on the right edge, and Derek in the pressure seat at the far end, under the 106-inch projector screen that was currently dark. Derek looked to be equal parts jazzed and nervous.
So did Venice, Jonathan noticed. She clearly wanted her boyfriend’s first all-hands impression to be a good one.
“The floor’s yours,” Jonathan said after they’d all settled in. “Who is Iceman?”
Derek’s shoulders sagged at the question. “Um, I, uh, didn’t mean to imply that I know who he is—at least not yet. What I have for you is a way to find him. Well, Venice and I figured it out together.”
Venice smiled, but didn’t say anything. If that wasn’t an expression of infatuation, nothing was.
Gail caught Jonathan’s attention with a little smile that said, This is so cute. On his left, Boxers made a quiet retching noise.
Derek rose from his seat, nodded to Venice, and the big screen came alive, displaying “Who Is Iceman?” in bold red letters.
Jonathan steeled himself for a long one.
“Acting on an idea presented to me by Venice, I redirected some assets at the Palace and scoured the metadata from the six sites that were hit on Black Friday and crossmatched them with the five sites that were hit next.” Numbers appeared on the screen. Lots of them. And while they no doubt represented important revelations to the two megageeks in the room, they meant nothing to Jonathan.
Big Guy’s retch transformed into a barely audible growl. He hated big-reveal drama when it came from Venice, but he’d learned to accept it in deference to the source. Jonathan worried about how he would endure it from a stranger he didn’t think belonged here in the first place.
Derek continued, “I’ll be honest and tell you there were a lot more hits on burner phones than I thought there’d be. That was true across all the locations.”
“But we only care about one or two per location, right?” Gail asked.
“Exactly. So, I worked backwards from Masterson’s phone. He told us that he got a call from Iceman just a few minutes before he had to commit to his attack in Indian Spear. That call went back to a SIM card in Sediment, Oklahoma. So, leveraging that one known point, we found the phones in the six other towns, all pinging back to the phone in Sediment.”
“So, we’ve got them?” Jonathan asked.
“No,” Derek said.
“Of course not,” Boxers grumbled. “What would be the fun in getting to the point?”
Big Guy’s words seemed to knock Derek off his game, and he looked to Venice.
“He’s always like that,” she said. “Even with me.”
“Especially with you,” Boxers corrected.
“Just go on,” Jonathan said.
Derek nodded to Venice, and the slide changed to show the silhouette of a faceless man. Very dramatic. “We’ll assume that the Sediment phone belonged to Iceman because that number is the common denominator. Problem is, after that night, the signal disappeared and never returned.”
“He killed the phone,” Jonathan said.
“Exactly,” Derek confirmed. “But he gave us a pattern to look for. Phone calls to the killers’ numbers within an hour of the time of the attacks.” The screen changed again, this time to show a map of the United States with the cities where the bombings took place expanded out of the map in starburst explosive graphics. “And the second hits, the pattern repeated itself. Same numbers out in the field, contacted by a different number, this time from—where do you guess?”
“Mars,” Boxers said.
“Wrong,” Derek replied, unfazed by the irony. “Lincoln, Nebraska.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Boxers groaned.
“It means that Iceman is moving around,” Derek explained. “And he’s careful about turning off his phone till he needs it, which means he’s not traceable. At least not yet.”
“I don’t get it,” Jonathan said, feeling some of Boxers’ frustration. “I thought you said we had a lead.”
“We do,” Derek said. He was beginning to look and sound flustered. “Please bear with me. In the weeks between attacks, all the operators involved turned on their phones for one hour beginning at nine a.m. Eastern on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. For most of them, those signals come from all over the map. Iceman, on the other hand, stays dark.”
“That means the operators are waiting for a message from Iceman,” Venice said. “At least that’s what we think.” It was her way of bringing Derek back on point.
“All of them clearly are mobile,” Derek continued. “Except for one.”
Jonathan sat a little taller.
Derek explained, “The best I can figure is that one of them must have roots to a place called Winterset, Iowa.” The screen changed to show a picture of a beautiful Midwestern town that could have been lifted from a Disney movie. “At that hour on those mornings, his phone comes alive from the same coffee shop.”
Silence fell as the enormity of this settled on them. Jonathan said, “Are you telling me that we know where one of the terrorists is?”
Derek smiled as he nodded. “It would seem so, yes. At least we know where he is every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning.”
“Today’s Tuesday, Boss.” Boxers said.
Jonathan addressed Derek. “How long have you known this?”
Derek looked to Venice for confirmation. “A few hours?”
She nodded.
“You knew this at the airport.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I did. I told you we had a lead.”
“You didn’t tell me you had a location!” Jonathan felt his temper meter tipping into the red.
“I wanted to do this as a presentation,” Derek said. He seemed deflated. “You know, to make a good first impression.”
Jonathan shot a glare to Venice.
She smiled. “He’s used to doing things Uncle Sam’s way,” she said. “He’ll learn.”
“Especially if you’re my teacher,” Derek said.
“Oh, my God,” Boxers declared, and he shot to his feet. “I’ll gas up the Batmobile so we can drive all the way back to the airport we just came from.” He left the War Room after damn near tearing the door off the hinge while opening it.
“Is he mad?” Derek asked.
Jonathan laughed. “Yes, he’s mad. But I’ll stipulate that sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.” To Venice, he added, “You’ll get the address and send it to my GPS?”
She nodded.
“Teach him well, okay?” Jonathan said as he let Gail lead the way to the door.
Back out in the Cave, the larger area that housed the offices on the covert side, Gail said, “Isn’t he supposed to be a badass cyber warrior in his other life?”
“That’s what I hear.”
“Venice could kick his ass.”
Jonathan smiled. “That’s fine by me,” he said.
* * *
Six hours later, it was well after dark when Boxers painted the Hawker onto the runway for a perfect landing at Ottumwa Regional Airport. Triple the distance to Winterest than Des Moines International Airport, Ottumwa Regional allowed the kind of high-end executive service that Jonathan’s team required. Thanks to Venice’s efforts, a black rental Suburban was waiting for them when they parked the plane, along with a red Ford sedan. After another forty-five minutes to tie things down and transfer the gear and equipment, they set out for the hundred-mile drive to Winterset.
“You okay to drive, Box?” Jonathan asked.
“I’m fine,” Big Guy said. “But I like the way you pretended that there was a choi
ce.”
Their plan—if you could call it that—needed to account for multiple chases. Jonathan and Gail took the sedan.
Venice had also rented them a furnished house at the edge of Winterset’s business district for a week. It was longer than they’d need, but the shortest rental duration the owner would accept. Jonathan had learned the hard way over the years that hotel rooms didn’t work well for what they did. Too many curious eyes. Neighbors got curious, too, but this town was headquartered in Madison County—famous for its bridges—and was the birthplace of John Wayne, so tourists were accepted as routine.
As promised, the keys to the rental house were under the mat. Yes, it was that kind of community. To err on the side of safety, the three of them checked the house for burglars or bums before moving their equipment from the Suburban into the bedrooms. One of the benefits—and banes—of having their own airplane was the freedom to travel heavy. The nondescript duffel bags contained a wide variety of rifles and pistols, and God only knew how many rounds of ammunition for all of them. Explosives filled one bag, while initiators filled another, much smaller one. And then there was the comms gear, night vision, body armor, and other assorted kit.
An inviolable fact of Jonathan’s business was that it was better to have something and not need it than need it and not have it.
“All right, kids,” Boxers said as he planted the last duffel on the floor of the bedroom he’d declared to be his own. “I’m done. See you in the morning. If romance strikes, try to keep quiet.” He closed the door without waiting for an answer.
Gail led the way to the other bedroom, with Jonathan close behind. “Do with me what you wish,” she said, “but try not to wake me up.”
* * *
Jonathan and Gail entered Carol’s Coffee Café shortly before 7:45 the next morning. Located on Jefferson Street, across from a town square that housed a domed courthouse, Carol’s was a throwback to a time Jonathan had only seen in movies. Aqua-clad swivel stools stood sentry down the long aqua-and-orange service bar on the left, while four-top Naugahyde booths lined the wall on the right. Narrow and deep, this was clearly the place to be for breakfast in Winterset.
A bell slapped against the glass door to announce their arrival. No one seemed to notice, except for an ample woman who looked up from a customer in a cheap suit who was eating at the bar. She held a bulbous coffeepot in her fist, and she lit up with a smile.
“Good morning, folks,” she said. “Sit wherever you like. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“This entire town is a movie set,” Gail whispered as they walked to a booth about halfway down the line. Her tone sounded more complimentary than critical. There was no denying the charm of this little burg.
Jonathan took a seat facing the front of the café while Gail faced the back. Their plan was as loose as it was simple. They were here to observe. If Derek and Venice were correct, their terrorist was here in this building, or would be, beginning at eight o’clock—nine Eastern. Back East, they were monitoring the terrorist’s burner phone, waiting for an alert call to come in. Of course, there was no guarantee that today would be the day, but if it didn’t happen, Venice would call the number at 8:50 local time. Whether it rang or buzzed, someone would answer something, and when that happened, they’d be over the first hurdle.
In part because it was impossible for Boxers to remain unnoticed, he waited outside to follow the bad guy as he left.
The proximity of the courthouse explained a lot about the diversity of the clientele. If suits and ties meant lawyers, then lawyers preferred eating at the bar. Jonathan decided that the men wearing ties with no suit jackets were either witnesses or litigants. Then there were the people dressed like regular folks, who he decided were assorted townies or tourists like he and Gail.
As if in homage to Norman Rockwell, a boy of about thirteen sat by himself at the bar, flanked by lawyers who towered head and shoulders higher than he.
“What do you think the kid’s story is?” Jonathan asked, leaning in close so he wouldn’t be heard.
Gail glanced over. “Owner’s son, maybe? Hanging out on his way to school? I wish I had an idea of who we’re looking for.”
“Give it an hour,” Jonathan said.
The woman from behind the counter appeared with the ever-present coffeepot in one fist and two white ceramic mugs in the other. “Welcome to Winterset,” she said as she approached. “Y’all look like you need some coffee.”
“Is it that obvious?” Gail asked.
“I’m Carol,” the waitress said. “That’s my name on the door. I own the place, but I’m also the accountant and custodian.”
Jonathan laughed because that felt like the right thing to do. This clearly was not her first time delivering the line.
“When did you get into town?” Carol asked as she filled the mugs.
Jonathan and Gail exchanged looks. They hadn’t prepared any small talk.
“Don’t look so surprised that I know you’re not from around here,” Carol said with a big smile. “Sooner or later, every tourist drops by. That’s why I keep it looking like a movie set.”
Another shared look. Did she hear us?
“We’re from back East,” Jonathan said. “Newbern, North Carolina.” It was the first Carolina city to pop into his head.
“You military?” she asked. “You’ve both got the shoulders for it.”
Jonathan forced a smile. Honest to God, the CIA was missing its mark by not hiring bartenders and short order cooks as interrogators. No one was more adept at pulling information out of people.
“I used to be,” Jonathan said. “Navy. Got out awhile ago.” He almost choked on the N-word, but the fewer intersections this conversation had with the truth, the better off they’d all be.
“You too?” Carol asked.
Gail nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, God bless you both. Any idea what you want to eat?”
They had discussed this. In keeping with remaining as invisible as possible, they each went for eggs, bacon, and toast. When it arrived ten minutes later, Jonathan said to Carol, “Looks like you have a lot of regulars.”
“And a lot of new folks like you, too,” she said. “I’ve been open here for over fourteen years now, and the lesson I’ve learned is that good food is always welcome. You should stop by here for dinner one night while you’re in town. You’ll never have a better meatloaf, and that’s a money-back guarantee.”
As she spoke, Jonathan pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “How much do I owe?”
She waved him off. “Oh, there’s no hurry, sweetie. That can wait till you’re done. Need anything else?”
He really wanted to pay, to be unencumbered if the time came for them to leave in a hurry. But there was no easy way to press the point.
And then Carol was gone.
The food was, indeed, great, but in all fairness, the ingredients were hard to screw up. By the time they were done, there’d been a 30-percent turnover in diners. Most of the lawyers were gone now, but roughly half the litigants remained engaged in conversation.
Jonathan checked his watch. “Mother Hen makes her call in six minutes.” He continued looking at Gail as he moved his hand to the control knob on the two-way radio he wore on his belt, under his denim jacket on the left side—the side not occupied by his Colt. He switched the radio on, then flipped the toggle to VOX—voice-activated transmission—which would broadcast their conversation live without him having to push a transmit button.
The tiny transceiver bud in his ear popped as it came to life. “Howya doin,’ Big Guy?”
“Cutting it a little close there, aren’t you, Boss?”
“Nothing’s happened here so far,” Jonathan said. He used his eyebrows to ask if Gail was also on the channel.
She gave a subtle thumbs-up.
The plan was to make the terrorist panic. When he answered his phone—and for good or ill, Jonathan was convinced that the bad guy was, in fact, a guy—he
’d hear a message that was sure to flush him out.
Boxers said, “You know, if this thing goes down, it’s gonna be really hard for this guy not to know he’s being followed. There’s like zero traffic out here.”
“One thing at a time,” Jonathan said. “Two minutes till something happens.”
Chapter Fifteen
Seth Provost did his best not to look at the clock on the wall. Instead, he passed the time on his phone, texting with his buddy, Benny Branch, a.k.a. AXL7433. They’d reached a deal yesterday to rescue Seth’s algebra grade, but the plan had gone off track when Seth’s plans for the morning changed unexpectedly.
The morning bell had already rung at school, and Benny’s homework still resided in Seth’s backpack. Benny was on the edge of panic. One of the problems with having a four-oh grade point average was that even a single zero on a single assignment stood out like a zit on a school photo.
Benny was, like, melting the hell down.
AXL7433: Dude where are you?? I need my homework back!!!
MSTR_CHIEF1485: I’ll be there. Got this 1 thing
AXL7433: How long????? Math is in a hour. Ur gon b late and if you go 2 the office, FML
MSTR_CHIEF1485: Gotta hang til 9. Then I’m done.
AXL7433: WTF you doing?
MSTR_CHIEF1485: Makin $$$$$$
AXL7433: Screw your $$$. Get back here.
MSTR_CHIEF1485: I’ll be there.
This shit could go on and on without stop if he let it. A hundred bucks was a hundred bucks, and if that meant Benny wouldn’t be his friend anymore, there were worse things in the world. He only had to hang out here till nine, and after that—
The other phone buzzed in his pocket.
“Oh, shit.” He said it aloud, but he didn’t think anyone heard him. He fished the old style flip phone out of his jeans and opened it. “H-hello?”
When he heard the voice on the other end of the call, it felt as if his spine had dissolved. It was a horrible, growly sound, like something from a horror movie. “Your cover is blown,” it said. “The FBI is coming for you. Take evasive action now. You have no time.”
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