by John Lutz
He looked down both rows of faces; there were none. “Commissioner, your report, please.”
“Two more of the wounded have died, bringing the toll to fifty-six,” said Telliskivi. Even when he was speaking loudly enough to be heard by the entire table, his voice kept its gentle tone. “We are withholding the names until we notify the next of kin. There has been no credible claim of responsibility for the attack. I have received the laboratory report on the explosive residue found at the scene. I asked the technicians to look for taggants.”
Colonel Antrobus gave an audible snort.
A woman with a cap of short gray hair, seated beside the Minister, leaned forward. “Taggants?”
“Chemical agents inserted into explosive during manufacture, to make it traceable to its source.” Telliskivi explained.
“I don’t know why you bothered to ask, Commissioner,” said Antrobus. “I could’ve told you you weren’t going to find taggants. Amateur terrorists like the Russian ethnics use homemade explosives.”
Telliskivi’s mournful eyes rested on the Colonel for a long moment after he finished speaking. Laker felt something. A faint vibration of incoming bad news.
“In fact, it was a sophisticated plastic explosive called Semtex.” Telliskivi’s voice was gentle as ever. “It had taggants showing it was manufactured by Dover Chemicals, Inc., of Fort Wayne, Indiana, which sells 100 percent of its output to the U.S. armed forces.”
Antrobus’s breath rushed out of him like the air from a punctured tire. He sagged back in his chair. His face was white. Laker glanced around the table. All eyes were on the Americans, awaiting a response. It was pretty obvious what it had to be, and just as obvious that Antrobus wasn’t up to making it.
Laker said, “Commissioner, do you have any information on how the terrorists got hold of the explosive?”
“We do not,” said Telliskivi.
Antrobus’s mouth was open, but no words were emerging. Laker said, “Obviously, there’s a possibility that it came from the NATO base. Colonel Antrobus will immediately launch a full investigation.”
“I’ll immediately launch a full investigation,” Antrobus repeated. “As soon as I get back to base. Commissioner, I must ask you to put your own investigation on hold, pending our report.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” said Telliskivi.
“Minister, I insist—” Antrobus began.
“The Commissioner is in charge of the investigation,” said the Minister, glaring at Antrobus.
“Very well,” said Antrobus. “But you are in charge of this meeting, and I insist that you remind everyone at the table of the importance of security. I will hold you responsible, sir, if anything said at this meeting leaks to the media.”
Telliskivi dropped his eyes. So did Laker. He was embarrassed for the Colonel.
The Minister gazed at him. He no longer seemed like a benevolent wood-carver. “Colonel,” he said. “Leaks are the least of your worries.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Laker returned to his hotel to shower and change and eat a sandwich from room service. He put Band-Aids on his scraped knees and took aspirin for the pain in his hand. Then he hired a car to take him to the NATO base, an hour outside the city.
He was held up at the gate for a long time. The explanation was that civilian vehicles were not allowed on base, but Laker suspected there was more to it. Antrobus might not welcome his visit.
Eventually a Humvee arrived, driven by a soldier in a uniform so sharp, Laker figured he had to be French. Sure enough, when he got out in front of the command post, the soldier said, “Je vous attendrai, monsieur.” Maybe that was a hint to keep it short.
Antrobus had changed uniforms. He was now in camo fatigues, with high laced combat boots. The boots rested atop a pile of files, on a large, cluttered desk. He did not rise when Laker entered. Nor did his lieutenants, who were sitting at a side table with more paperwork.
“Laker,” he said. “Why am I not surprised to see you here? Having committed us to an internal investigation, which you were not authorized to do, you’ve come to get a report on its progress, which you’re not authorized to have.”
“It was obvious that the investigation had to take place.”
“Quite. But you allowed the Estonians to pressure you into blurting out the promise they wanted. If you’d only kept your lip zipped for a minute, I could have . . .”
Antrobus dried up, like an actor who’d forgotten his lines. The lieutenants exchanged worried looks. But he recovered. He steepled his fingers, so that his West Point ring caught the light from the window, and said, “I could have required that the Minister make his request through the usual channels. Which would at the very least have bought us some time.”
“I don’t think time is on our side,” Laker said.
“I’ve been on the phone to contacts in the Pentagon, who told me a great deal about you. You were a star running back for Notre Dame. You could have turned pro. Instead you went into the CIA. Saw active service in the Middle East. When you returned, you were being talked about for a high post in the Operations Directorate. Instead, you vanished into the mists beyond the CIA.”
Antrobus’s sources weren’t very good, Laker noted with relief. This was old information. He said, “I’m with a small agency. We work in the cracks between the big agencies. Do things that would otherwise go undone.”
“What a smooth way of saying that your successes always come at someone else’s expense.” Antrobus glanced sideways at his lieutenants, to make sure they’d caught this penetrating insight. “Why should I cooperate with you, when you’re going to try to get the glory and make me the goat?”
“My hope is that a thorough investigation and prompt report will establish that the Semtex did not come from this base. Which will reflect well on everybody.”
Antrobus considered. Then he unlaced his fingers and swung his feet off the desk. “All right. What are your questions? Not that I’m promising to answer.”
“I’d just like to know the status of the investigation.”
“We are conducting an inventory of all plastic explosive stores in the base armory.”
“Good. What else?”
“If nothing is missing, we can file a report and we’re done.”
“I would suggest that you call your MPs for a report on personnel who are AWOL. See if any of them had access to the armory.”
Antrobus smiled. He looked at his aides. They smiled, too.
“Here’s the situation, Laker,” Antrobus said. “We are less than a hundred kilometers from the Russian border. Too close for the Kremlin’s comfort. They’ve been demanding that this base be closed for years. But Estonia has been standing firm, because we are the first line of defense against a Russian invasion.
“Once the news leaks about American Semtex being used in the terrorist attack, the ethnic Russians and other hostile elements will jump to the conclusion that it came from this base. That’s bad. Now you’re suggesting something even worse. That it was an inside job. A NATO soldier was involved in the theft. There’s no sense turning over that stone unless we have to.”
“It’s something we can quickly check out. A possibility we can eliminate. I think that’ll be all to the good.”
Antrobus shrugged. The gold eagles on his epaulets glinted. “Very well,” he said. “I assume you want to wait for the results. Cowan?”
One of the lieutenants jumped to his feet.
“Put Mr. Laker in one of the unused meeting rooms. Offer him coffee.”
* * *
A slow half-hour passed before Laker was summoned back to the Colonel’s office. An officer was sitting in front of the desk. He had ginger hair and moustache, and a muscular neck that bulged from his tight collar. He was wearing a tan uniform jacket with oversize pockets and a Sam Browne belt. Laker guessed he was British.
Antrobus said, “This is Captain Tyburn, head of the Military Police detachment on this base.”
Tyburn stood and shook
hands. Laker’s fingers were able to take it. The aspirin must be working.
“Tyburn, your report,” said Antrobus.
“As of 1300 hours, we have seven personnel classified as Absent Without Leave, sir.”
“Are any of them cleared for access to explosives stored in the armory?”
“No, sir.”
“Short and sweet,” said Antrobus. “You’re dismissed.”
Tyburn hesitated, then said, “There is one soldier who is late returning from a 72-hour leave. He won’t be officially classified as AWOL, if we hear from him before 1700 hours.”
“Then why are you bringing him up?”
“Because he’s a clerk in the armory, sir.”
Antrobus shot a venomous look at Laker. “A fellow Brit, Tyburn?”
“No, sir. He’s U.S. Army.”
“What’s his name?” asked Laker.
“Mr. Laker’s hoping he’s a likely collaborator with the ethnic Russian terrorists,” said Antrobus bitterly. “Does his name end in -vitch or -ski, by any chance?”
“His name is Mohammed Barsinian.”
“Wait till the media get hold of that,” Antrobus said. “Now we have a fucking Arab terrorist in the mix.”
* * *
“Specialist Barsinian is not an Arab,” Tyburn said.
He and Laker were in the back of a Humvee, headed for Barsinian’s barracks to meet with his sergeant. Laker was glad that he had his good ear toward Tyburn. The base was noisy. A troop of soldiers jogged in file past them, heavy boots clumping. Helicopters passed overhead. The dry crackle of small-arms fire drifted in from some faraway range. Big engines were churning somewhere, either very large trucks or tanks.
“It’s an Iranian name,” Laker said.
“His father is Iranian, mother American. He was born in Detroit.”
Tyburn’s manner was stiff. He was sitting erect, looking straight ahead. All he needed was a swagger stick tucked under his arm, Laker thought. He said, “Captain, I’m not jumping to any of the conclusions Colonel Antrobus is.”
“Oh, the colonel’s got a point. The media will hear the name Mohammed and start a fracas about Islamic terrorism. Especially media allied with the Russian separatists. They’d welcome a chance to shift the blame for the tram bombing.”
“At this point, he’s just an American soldier who’s a little late returning from leave.”
This seemed to reassure Tyburn. He unbent a little. “Barsinian’s record is a bit odd. Joined up straight out of high school. Excelled in training. Showed a talent for languages. Knew Farsi and learned Pashto. That made him very valuable in Afghanistan.”
“He worked in Intelligence?”
“At a low level, yes. But he looked set to rise. Unfortunately, he came up against prejudiced fellow soldiers, and he wasn’t the type to back down. After a number of incidents, he and the Army agreed on an honorable discharge. Four years later, he applied to reenlist.”
“Unusual. I assume they put him through stringent background checks and interviews?”
“Yes. He claimed that he’d changed. And that has certainly turned out to be true.”
“He doesn’t get involved in fights with bigots?”
“Doesn’t get involved in anything. Specialist Barsinian will never make corporal. He sleepwalks through his duties and seems interested only in having a good time on leave. His tardiness today is typical.”
The Humvee turned into a long, straight road running between low prefabricated buildings. It stopped in front of one of them, and they got out.
“We’ll find out more from Sergeant Johnson,” Tyburn said. “He’s a good man.”
Tyburn pointed down the street. A lone soldier was coming toward them, double-time.
Tyburn turned to Laker. “Are you the Tom Laker who played for Notre Dame?”
“I didn’t know the British followed American football.”
“For some of us, rugby isn’t violent enough.”
Johnson reached them. He wasn’t breathing hard. He came to attention and saluted Tyburn. Johnson was black, an average-size man but powerfully built. The hair that showed under his forage cap was salt-and-pepper. He had a chin like a brick.
“This is Mr. Laker from Homeland Security. It’s about Specialist Barsinian.”
Johnson’s gaze shifted to Laker and back to Tyburn.
“It’s all right, you can speak freely,” Tyburn said.
“In that case, sir, I’m planning to ream Mo out. Kick his fat ass from here to Kansas City. He’ll never be late returning from leave again. You don’t have to worry about that, sir.”
Tyburn smiled but made no comment. He said, “We’d like to see his personal effects.”
The Sergeant opened the door of the barracks, and they went in. The sun shone through narrow windows set high in the walls onto the linoleum floor, which wasn’t just clean but polished and flashed like a mirror. Walking between the rows of bunks, Laker noticed the blankets were so taut he could have bounced a quarter off every one. It was hard to believe forty men lived here, snoring and shitting and showering. There wasn’t the slightest tinge of fug, only a tang of disinfectant. You could tell a lot about a sergeant from the condition of his men’s quarters. Laker figured Tyburn was right. Johnson knew his trade.
“You called Barsinian ‘Moe,’ ” Laker said to him.
“That’s what he always goes by.” Johnson allowed himself a slight smile. “Tells people he was named for one of the Three Stooges.”
“Not a very dutiful Muslim?” Tyburn asked.
“Never seen him with a Koran. Or praying to Mecca. I make it clear to all my Muslim soldiers, they’re as entitled to their religious observances as anybody else. But Mo’s not interested.”
“Does he drink and smoke?” Tyburn asked.
“Yep. He’s a total pussy hound, too. Pardon my language, sir.”
This to Laker. Funny how prim military people were around civilians. Especially ones from Washington. “Sergeant,” he said, “I have a feeling you know why we’re here. You’ve heard there’s an inventory going on at the armory, including the section where Barsinian works, and you’ve put two and two together.”
“Mo would have nothing to do with any missing Semtex,” said Johnson. “He’s a good soldier. The troubles he gets into are chickenshit. Pardon—”
“You’re pardoned.”
“Some soldiers just can’t do peacetime. But if I ever have to go into a combat zone again, I’d want him with me.”
Tyburn looked pleased by this endorsement. He was rooting for Barsinian to come out clean. So was Laker.
“This is his bunk,” said Johnson.
“Open his locker please, Sergeant.”
Boots squeaking on the linoleum floor, Johnson went down on one knee and pulled a metal trunk out from under one of the beds. It wasn’t locked. Laker and Tyburn knelt and rummaged through Barsinian’s clothes. His taste in off-duty clothing was colorful, verging on flashy. There were catalogues of expensive watches and car magazines. Like Laker, he had a fondness for muscle cars of the ’60s and ’70s, though he preferred Corvettes and Camaros. There was also a small box in green gift wrap with silver trim.
“Chocolates for the girls,” Johnson said. “They’re a special kind, filled with the local liqueur.”
“Vanna Tallinn?” asked Laker. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Can’t say I care for it,” said Tyburn. “But chocolates filled with it are a delicacy. You can only get them from one shop, place in the Old Town called Klein & Grossberg. Expensive.”
“Mo says they do the trick,” said Johnson. “With the girls, I mean.”
They’d reached the bottom of the trunk. As they got to their feet, Tyburn said, “Thank you, Sergeant, that’ll be all. You can return to your duties.”
But Johnson hesitated. He said, “Sir, when they get finished with that inventory, could you let me know?”
“It’s likely to take a long time before they know for sure if any S
emtex is missing. Barsinian is a clerk in the office. They have to check out the possibility that he altered records to conceal his theft. Not that we’re assuming there even were any thefts.”
Johnson looked stricken.
Tyburn put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s still possible all he did was miss his bus. He could walk through the gates anytime.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
They left Johnson kneeling before Barsinian’s locker, carefully replacing its contents.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As darkness fell, Laker was back in Tallinn, riding the tram that ran along the modern boulevard toward the Old Town. The narrow car was crowded, the benches along its side filled and a lot of people standing, holding onto the leather straps. Laker had been lucky enough to find a seat, and he was studying pictures of Specialist Barsinian.
He was good looking, in a brooding way. His head was shaved practically to the skin on the sides, but he had a heavy lock of glossy black hair topping his forehead. Both his upper and lower eyelids were heavy. His eyebrows nearly met over his nose. He had full lips and a fleshy chin. The front full-figure shot showed a broad-shouldered, slim-waisted soldier at attention, but the rear view revealed the fat ass that his Sergeant had joked about. The MP who’d given Laker the pictures had pulled Barsinian in a couple of times. He said you could always spot him from behind. He had a pigeon-toed stride that made his ass wag in an unsoldierly fashion.
By the time Laker had returned to his hotel from the base, five o’clock had passed and Barsinian was officially AWOL. What that meant, Tyburn explained by phone, was that he notified the NATO criminal investigative service to open a case file. But he would not send Humvees full of MPs to search the streets of Tallinn.
“How about the inventory at the armory?” Laker asked.
“Still going on. If we find that Semtex is missing, we have to assume the worst.”
“Which is?”
“From what we’ve learned about Barsinian, it seems unlikely he’s motivated by Islamic fanaticism.”
“More likely he’s motivated by money.”
“Yes. He sold the Semtex to the highest bidder. Some ethnic Russian group, or whoever it was who blew up the tram station. Meanwhile Barsinian took the money and ran.”