by James Phelan
•
Murphy hung up the hotel phone.
“Family?”
“All good,” Murphy said. “They’re plugged into the cable TV, watching some Disney channel. Somerville organized food for them before she left for the Homeland Security office. Sounds like they’ll be fine out there until the youngest turns about fifteen.”
“You know what all that means,” Walker said. “You’ll have to get a bigger generator. And a satellite dish. Sixty-inch TV. Next thing you know, you’ll be singing along to the tunes from the movies.”
“Nope,” Murphy said. “It means that we’ll be moving into a bigger town someplace. I owe Jane that. She was happy where we were, but only so much. I took us there for safety, and that safety was shattered.”
“Once this is over, you’ll be in the clear.”
Murphy shook his head. “I can’t hide away from everything,” he said. “It’s all right. We’ll adapt.”
Walker nodded. He looked again at his phone: the screen showed an internet search for planned events not just in the city but elsewhere at 17:30. Somerville and Hutchinson had teams of agents doing the same, looking for one pattern or another as to whatever was coming. But, short of heading down to the street and looking around, Walker felt he had to do something.
“Anything big in town?” Murphy asked, drinking a coffee.
“Lots of nationwide stuff. There are a few colleges on the west coast marching for gay marriage,” Walker said. “An anti-death-penalty rally in Oklahoma.”
“That’ll be a small turnout.”
“Right . . .” Walker kept searching. “The Tea Party are doing a thing in Minnesota.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s this afternoon, six o’clock.”
“Have you tried Facebook pages?” Murphy said. “There’s probably all kinds of shit being organized on there.”
“Yep.”
“Twitter hashtags for protest?”
“Yep. Nothing serious. It’d take a billion hours to sift through it all.”
“Doesn’t the NSA have programs for this via the Patriot Act?”
“They’re probably busy spying on the rest of us.”
“There’s something, somewhere . . .” Murphy leaned on the window and rapped his knuckles on the thick glass. “Maybe it’s been kept off the net, just a small closed group, no outsiders wanted.”
“That kind of defeats the purpose of a public protest, though, doesn’t it?” Walker said.
“Yeah, I s’pose it does . . . What?” Murphy asked as Walker stared harder at the screen.
Walker showed him the screen. His phone rang: Hutchinson.
“Seeing this?” Hutchinson asked.
“Yep,” Walker replied. News of a rally in support of the government’s response to the Ferguson unrest that happened here in St. Louis. “This legit?”
“Yep,” Hutchinson said. “Already got about five thousand followers on social media responding to say they’ll attend—at 17:50 today.”
“Where’s this happening?” Walker said.
“Jefferson Memorial Park,” Hutchinson said. “They’ll be protesting . . . I’d call that a demonstration—wouldn’t you?”
“Ferguson,” Murphy said. “Those riots here in 2014.”
•
Grant went to his car, parked in front of Room 4. He opened the boot and scanned the bagged weapons from the dead guys in the forest: two HK carbines, one silenced Sig. He looked up and down the car park. At the far end one of the Crown Vics was pointed away from him, nearly half a mile out. The other one had departed the scene.
In Room 3 the lights were on but he could see that Squeaker was still in Room 2 with the Murphys. Two girls and an infant boy. How old are the girls? Two and four? Maybe; it’s hard to tell. He didn’t want them to have to witness this.
Grant checked his watch.
He took the silenced HK from the clear FBI evidence bag and checked the mag—it was loaded with six shots. The chamber was empty. He racked back the slide, then put the pistol into his belt on his left front hip, hidden under his suit jacket. He had to do what he had to do. Thankfully, Woods was here. It was always good to have a fall guy.
100
“So, the SEALs found WMDs in Iraq and are being killed for it?” Hutchinson said from the Homeland Security HQ.
“Yes,” McCorkell said, driving back from DC, where he’d met with Ann at the bar and got the list. “That’s the short answer.”
“Why haven’t we ever heard from these guys?” Hutchinson asked. “Why haven’t they gone public? Finding the smoking gun—WMDs in Iraq? It’s a hell of a story.”
“The war was still going strong and it was already unpopular,” McCorkell said. “To say that these SEALs found what they found—well, that just wouldn’t happen. And, the SEALs know what Uncle Sam would do,” McCorkell continued. “If these guys ever pop up on the grid, they disappear. And it won’t be a black-site prison; it’ll be a burial at sea. Or incineration someplace. Or a firing squad. There’ll never be bodies to find to tell any tale.”
“We’d do that? Why?”
“To protect the realm you wouldn’t believe what we’re capable of.”
“Bill, I’m missing something here,” Hutchinson said. “You’re saying that the government is killing these guys because they found WMDs in Iraq? They should be heroes.”
“No, it’s not that simple,” McCorkell said. “We went to Iraq because we knew Saddam had WMDs. We knew he had them because he’d used them. We knew he had them because we gave them to him.”
Hutchinson was silent.
“Are you there?” McCorkell finally said. “Are you sitting down?”
“I’m driving,” Hutchinson said. “With one arm in a sling. But . . .”
Silence again.
“But what?”
“Are you telling me we made them? The weapons?”
“Exactly. Murphy says that they got a match on site in Iraq, by an Army colonel sent from Detrick, that was derived from the same bacterial strain used here in the anthrax attacks of 2001.”
“The Ames strain,” Hutchinson said. “I was on the case for the FBI. Hell, half the Bureau worked that case.”
“They blamed it on a US Army guy at the time,” McCorkell said.
“Blamed? I worked on the periphery of mounting a case to arrest him. The evidence was there.”
“It never went to trial.”
“The guy checked out . . .” Hutchinson paused, then said, “Wait—are you saying maybe the Iraqis did that?”
“Maybe. They had the same strain of anthrax. It’s just that we gave it to them in the first place.”
“Jesus . . .”
“So, whatever the case, it’s a precedent: a biological weapon made on US soil by the US Army was used against the US population. And it’s going to happen again. Today.”
“So, where you want me?”
“Fort Detrick, Maryland,” McCorkell said. “Get a driver to take you out there, quick smart. We need to see about the container-loads of anthrax and VX and whatever else it was that they brought back from Iraq. Go through the inventory. Find out about the colonel involved in 2003—a Colonel Brandt.”
“You think they’re just going to show all this to me?”
“No. I don’t think they’ll be able to.”
“You think it won’t be there.”
“Yep.”
“Then why am I going?”
“Because it should be there.”
•
Walker always knew it was going to be a race against time. Now, he understood the stakes.
A WMD attack on US soil. At 17:30pm local time.
Three hours to go.
“There’s one way to be sure,” Walker said.
“We find that Army chemical-weapons specialist,” Murphy said, coming to the same conclusion. “The colonel. Brandt—that was his name. Colonel Brandt.”
Walker nodded as he dialed Hutchinson’s cell and hit spe
aker.
“Hutch,” Walker said, “we need to look at everyone who ever had anything to do with our chemical and biological program with Iraq.”
“Yeah, I just spoke to McCorkell. I’m headed to Detrick now,” Hutchinson said from his car. “How about while I’m at it I just ask the Pentagon for any personnel files they have on those who supplied WMDs to Iraq pre-1989 so that we could later go to war against them, twice, to get the weapons back, in the process pumping trillions of dollars through the military industrial complex and Big Oil. Maybe give that Rumsfeld guy a call too, while I’m at it?”
“Excellent, run with that. Call us when you get answers,” Walker said, ending the call.
Murphy said, “I think Hutchinson was being a smart ass.”
“He’s always making out he’s a good FBI agent,” Walker said, as he rechecked the two Berettas.
“Is he?”
“We’ll soon find out.”
101
Menzil had changed and prepped and walked from the warehouse, following his local fixer. A big guy. Handy, having a guy like this on the payroll, given what Walker had done to the ex-Army pros. He adjusted the pack on his back and headed toward his target.
•
Walker answered his phone.
“We just got a hit on Menzil,” Somerville said from a tech suite in the Homeland Security office. “A security camera outside a building on Chouteau Avenue and South 4th Street, fifteen minutes ago.”
“That’s only seven blocks from here,” Walker said into the phone. He looked out the hotel window. “Which way was he headed?”
There was a knock at their door—Murphy let Levine in. She looked flushed, like she’d raced back from wherever she’d been, maybe even taken the stairs up here at a run.
“Toward the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial,” Somerville replied. “And the Gateway Arch.”
“That’s a hell of a target.”
“It’s symbolic. And Walker, he had a backpack. A big one, like those European backpackers wear at Penn Station. Big enough to be carrying an explosive.”
Walker said, “Big enough to be a WMD delivery.”
“Yep. He was wearing a buttoned-up black coat and some kind of dark cap.”
“Right,” Walker said, remembering back to the first time he’d met Special Agent Andrew Hutchinson, at Penn Station, just last month. He could picture the type of backpack. “And nothing since?”
“No, but I’ve—wait,” Somerville said. “I’ve got Hutchinson on the other line. I’ll bring him in.”
Walker heard the sound of background activity and then Hutchinson said, “I’m nearly at Detrick—and just saw the ID hit on Menzil.”
“We got it,” Somerville said. “I’m at the Homeland office here in St. Louis, and I’ve activated all assets on hand. They’re keeping their eyes out for him. It’s a matter of time—a big backpack like that; he’ll be spotted.”
“We’re going mobile, walking the streets,” Walker said, looking to Murphy and Levine. “Call me the second you get another visual. I want this guy tracked. We need to know what his endgame is here, or we may miss it—he may not be working alone.”
“Copy that, Walker,” Hutchinson said.
“And keep your head down,” Somerville added.
Walker ended the call and then went to his muddied leather jacket. On top of it, the two Berettas he had taken from the deputies in Mountain View. He tucked one in the back of the waistband of his jeans and offered the other to Murphy, who declined and tapped the butt of the .45 Colt on his hip. Walker offered the spare pistol to Levine, who shook her head and tapped her holstered Sig.
“If you want to do this,” Levine said, heading for the door, “follow my lead.”
102
“You remember our SOP?” Murphy said.
Walker’s silence was answer enough.
“You were Air Force, is all I’m saying,” said Murphy.
Walker smiled at that. As a member of the 24th Tactical Unit in the Air Force, he had accompanied plenty of SEAL missions. Their Standard Operating Procedure when engaging an enemy was basic and drilled in at training until it became an unconsciously competent mantra to be implemented in the field: how to acquire targets, to work through them, to shoot without thinking about it because that would chew up time and in a fire fight against overwhelming odds time was something that you did not have. Address all immediate threats. Be in the now. Where am I? Where am I going? What do I need to do next? What Murphy was really saying was: can you execute a plan, and how fast can you do it? And beyond that: have you got my back? The thing was, as all special operators in the US armed forces knew, no plan survives beyond first contact.
“Are you two done messing around?” Somerville said into his ear via a headphone plugged into his pocketed cell phone.
“We’re on the ball,” Walker replied, scanning the crowd. “Just a little friendly banter.”
“See,” Murphy said. “Army thinks they’re better than Navy. Navy thinks they’re better than Marine Corps. Air Force doesn’t really have a lot to say.”
“Right,” Somerville said. “FYI, the DEA team just swept the scene at the warehouse. All they found was Menzil’s clothes.”
“He’s changed?”
“Yep.”
“Into what?” Walker wondered aloud, continuing to scan the crowd. “Whatever it is, he’s still got the backpack.”
“He may not be working alone,” Somerville said.
Walker considered. “Maybe not. But if he’s running this, he’ll see it through.”
“I bet he’s alone,” Murphy said as they started to hit the crowd leaving work for the day. “His four ex-Army buddies are dead. If he’d had more guys at his disposal, he’d have taken them with him to kill me.”
“I think you’re right,” Walker said. “But we can’t discount it.”
“Agreed,” Somerville said.
“Hang on,” Walker said, “I’m getting another call.”
•
Grant entered Room 2 without knocking. He closed the door behind him.
The television was on, some repeat 1990s sit-com.
Woods sat in an armchair by the door. His jacket was off, over the arm of the chair, his service pistol visible at his right hip. It was a deep chair, tilted backward in the seat, and to get up would take effort and time. And, with the high arms, Woods could not reach and draw the pistol without sitting forward, which would take about as much time as standing.
So, Woods was not an immediate concern.
Grant clocked Squeaker, on the nearest of the two single beds, reading the two older kids a picture book.
On the next bed Murphy’s wife, Jane, was finishing changing and redressing the baby boy. He was red in the face and crying. Jane cooed, trying to console him. Behind her the bathroom door was open and the lights on. There was a tiny window in there, above the shower stall, the frosted glass barely a handspan high.
Grant checked his watch: 17:08.
He drew the silenced HK, turned to Woods and shot him in the gut.
•
“Did you get another sighting on Menzil?” Walker asked into the headphone mic as the people of St. Louis streamed by.
“No,” Hutchinson said. “But I’ve got news.”
“What’s that?”
“The ex-Army boys you and Murphy managed to dispatch,” Hutchinson said. “They’ve just arrived at the morgue there in St. Louis, but the CSI team on scene sent through pictures of faces and identifying features into the system.”
Walker said, “You got hits?”
“Yep. We’ve got IDs on all of them via the Homeland Security system here.”
“Something tells me you’ve found something more significant than IDs.”
“You can say that,” Hutchinson said. “Are you alone right now?”
“No,” Walker said. “I’ve got Murphy next to me and Levine behind, and hundreds of the good people of St. Louis leaving work en masse.”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
Walker paused, just a slight beat, then said, “I’m sure—you’re in my ear.”
“Okay,” Hutchinson said. “Listen up. The Army boys were busted out in 2002, the four of them, for going AWOL in Afghanistan—they deserted their posts.”
“I feel better for their fate.”
“There’s more,” Hutchinson said. “They were caught ten days later at the Pakistan border, trying to move a truckload of antiquities out. The load was worth around five million on the black market, and maybe four times that on the legitimate one.”
“Who caught them?”
“Pakistani military police at the checkpoint,” Hutchinson said. “The Army boys figured that they could buy their way through, then fly the stuff to a broker in Odessa. After the drop-off at the airport, they were planning to return to post after a fortnight being AWOL, stating it was PTSD-related stress. And they very nearly pulled it off.”
“But they thought wrong?”
“Damn straight. They thought they could buy their way across with ten grand they’d put together. The Pakistani MPs love a cash graft as much as the next Pakistani soldier, but our 101st boys didn’t bank on them having a bigger motivating factor.”
“They’d do anything to paint American servicemen in a bad light.”
“You betcha. Our boys were turned over to US Army MPs—and this is where things get interesting.”
“Okay . . .”
“One of them, a corporal, Duncan, has some second-cousin’s uncle or something who’s a well-connected colonel. All kinds of favors are called in and the four get spat out the system with their discharges and no records.”
Walker, scanning the crowd, said, “A colonel did that?”
“Yep. At the time there was a barrage of bad press about drone strikes against Pakistani civilians, and the brass at the Pentagon wanted to avoid another scandal—the guys hadn’t actually hurt anyone, and in the end the truckload of goods was, in a roundabout way, saved from being dispersed into smaller caches and sold abroad. It’s all now in the museum in Kabul.”