Murder on the Metro

by Margaret Truman

  “You relive what happened every day, in the misplaced hope it will end differently. Since it can’t, you find things that can, under your direction,” Lia Ganz said, squeezing his hand even tighter, painful and tender at the same time. “But whatever happens tomorrow, it won’t bring your daughter back. The surest way to become a ghost, Robert, is to keep chasing them. That’s coming from someone who’s chased more than her share.”

  “And yet, here you are.”

  “Chasing more,” Lia said to him. “Just like you.”

  “Where do we go from here?” he asked her, after they’d finally separated.

  “Oak Ridge, Tennessee, Robert.”

  CHAPTER

  74

  OAK RIDGE, TENNESSEE

  Mackensie Smith had reserved a private jet for the next morning, to take the entire team to McGhee Tyson Airport, twenty-six miles from the Y-12 facility in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. From there, they crowded into an SUV that would bring them to the entrance of the train tunnel Sister Mary Alice Rose had pinpointed on a map, set amid the ridges that gave the town its name, fifty miles from the city of Knoxville.

  That entrance was located five miles to the northwest of the complex, nestled in a valley abutting the shuttered American Museum of Atomic Energy, a renovated World War II cafeteria on Jefferson Circle. It was now supposedly a security holding station for Y-12, and much of the interior of the building had been hollowed out to allow access to the train tunnel constructed immediately beneath it. Trucks toting nuclear waste from across much of the country used a separate underground entrance to the tunnel, where their contents were loaded onto train cars.

  Brixton rode up front with the driver, who Mac Smith insisted could be trusted without fail. Sister Mary Alice was seated directly behind him, centered between Lia Ganz and one of the four Israeli commandos. The remaining three were crammed into the rearmost seat. The pass that had come courtesy of Mac’s contact in the Department of Energy got them into the parking lot without incident, after which they set about unloading their gear to walk the rest of the way to the former museum. If it bothered Sister Mary Alice to return to the scene of the crime that had cost her two years of her life, she wasn’t showing it. The woman, in Brixton’s mind, was unflappable. He imagined she had taken that attitude into federal prison with her, and it likely had a great deal to do with how well she had fared during her incarceration.

  Which made Brixton regret even more what he had to say to her before heading across the parking lot to the former American Museum of Atomic Energy.

  “Sorry, Sister,” he said, easing her to the side. “This is the end of the line for you.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said, clearly disappointed.

  “I don’t think the Department of Energy employs many eighty-five-year-old women, and we can’t risk drawing undue attention. Beyond that, there’s the very real chance you might be recognized.”

  “Well,” Sister Mary Alice said, nodding, unflappable as always, “I’ve heard every break room has a picture of me tacked to a wall so employees can throw darts at it.”

  Brixton touched her arm tenderly. “You’ve done your part and then some. We couldn’t have come this far without you.”

  She shrugged his hand off, suddenly stone-faced. “Spare me the sanctimonious bullshit and just get it done, Robert. Today’s as good a day to save the world as any.”

  WASHINGTON, DC

  The president and first lady of the United States strode down the center aisle of the Washington National Cathedral after everyone else was seated. The place was packed to the gills, with nary an empty seat among the four thousand the church boasted. The cathedral had hosted four previous state funerals, for presidents Eisenhower, Reagan, Ford, and George H. W. Bush. The structure was as iconic on the outside as it was on the inside, a staid, neo-Gothic historic marvel with spires stretching for the sky, which made it look like a medieval castle.

  Merle Talmidge had no idea whether Vice President Stephanie Davenport had ever set foot on the premises before her coffin was wheeled down the aisle, shortly before the Talmidges’ arrival. The first lady’s heart was beating a mile a minute. If her husband flubbed his eulogy speech for the vice president, the truth of his condition might become known, or at least suspected, throughout the country. Rumors would run rampant, investigations would be demanded, resignation would be called for, never mind waiting for the coming fall election.

  Of course, none of that took into account what would be happening in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, as the funeral was taking place. The huge amount of explosives, packed into individual storage drums, would be strategically placed throughout the underground facility under the guise of a shipment of radioactive waste product. It wouldn’t be detonated until hours after the service was completed and the president was safely back at the White House to take charge of the response. He’d rehearsed the speech he was about to give, from memory, for the final time this morning, clocking in at a powerful and moving twenty-two minutes.

  It amazed Merle Talmidge no end how her husband could still command a room, in spite of his condition. He seemed to rally during occasions like this, was at his worst when they were alone or in small groups, which seemed the steal his focus, in contrast to today. A teleprompter had been set up for other speakers, but Corbin Talmidge wouldn’t be using it. The pages of his prepared speech had already been placed on the lectern, though there would be no need for him to refer to them.

  Again, the first lady was at a loss to explain how the president managed to present a facade of normalcy during times like this. It shouldn’t have been possible, especially not with him in the midst of a steady decline. She believed, with no particular proof, that it had everything to do with the kinetic energy in the room. He’d been a powerful speaker before the disease had begun ravaging his mind, and he remained one even today. It was the one thing about Corbin Talmidge that was still him, and it had given rise to the first lady’s conviction that the collective energy of those gathered revived her husband somehow, brought him back to the time before he began to slip mentally.

  His next speech would be delivered in the aftermath of what was to come later today, only the beginning of the horrors to be visited upon America. Sometimes you have to break something to build something better. Merle Talmidge could justify her actions in any number of ways, not least of which was that it was best for the country if her husband remained in office. By the time he could no longer serve, the administration would have responded in any number of preplanned ways to the radiological terrorist attack, which was certain to kill millions. Retaliatory targets in the Middle East had already been selected and the entire region was about to be reshaped, with no quarter provided to anyone who rose in support of the attack launched on America.

  And, by that time, she’d be sitting in the Oval Office in the president’s stead. Here, within the walls of this magnificent cathedral, the thoughts and prayers of the Reverend Francis Tull moved to the forefront of her mind: O Lord, hear us on this blessed day, for that salvation is what the sacrifices that are to come require. As is Your word, many must die so that more might live, and live their lives true to that word.

  Corbin Talmidge took the first lady’s hand in his as they continued their slow walk up the center aisle, smiling softly to reassure her that everything would be all right. In that moment, he was again the man she had fallen in love with, in full possession of his brilliance, dreams, and ambitions.

  She clung to the hope that she could say the same thing an hour from now.

  OAK RIDGE, TENNESSEE

  Brixton and Lia Ganz led the way toward the entrance of the former museum, a pair of guards flanking the glass doors on either side. One of the guards checked their Department of Energy IDs, then reviewed those belonging to the Israeli commandos, who were toting the heavier equipment. After being passed into the building, the group was ushered to a kind of reception desk, where they were provided with security badges that dangled from lanya
rds around their necks, complete with radiation detectors that another security guard insisted was strictly precautionary.

  Brixton gazed about through the whole of the process, studying the former museum, which clearly had been reconstructed inside virtually from scratch to accommodate the train tunnel that now stretched beneath it. While he was no engineering expert, he could imagine the vast resources that must have been expended on secretly digging that tunnel through shale and limestone. The expense must have been mind-boggling, though well worth it to those in government responsible for the storage of spent nuclear waste, for which it had been virtually impossible to find a home. Any number of factors made Y-12 the ideal storage repository, particularly the fact that it was an existing infrastructure that only needed to be enhanced and expanded as opposed to being built from scratch.

  The group was led next to a single elevator across the lobby, where all their IDs were checked yet again and their radiation detectors were confirmed to be operational. An armed guard was on duty inside the elevator as well, remaining silent when Lia, Brixton, and the Israeli commandos entered, hands looped through the handles of their Department of Energy sensor devices, which resembled old-fashioned computer towers. When the door slid open after a brief, rapid descent, another pair of guards checked their IDs yet again before a gleaming platform right out of some futuristic science fiction movie.

  Brixton saw the train they’d soon be boarding, directly before him, a glistening iron monster with a rounded front and engines on both ends. Four of the eight train car cargo doors were open and personnel wearing baggy protection suits and respirators were loading the last of the steam drums on board—filled, no doubt, with high explosives, in keeping with the plan to change America forever.

  WASHINGTON, DC

  The first lady forced a slight, reassuring smile as the president rose from the chair next to her and approached the lectern. He took his place where the minister who’d opened Vice President Stephanie Davenport’s funeral service had just been standing, hands grasping the sides of the podium as if to steady himself.

  Merle Talmidge held her breath over what was coming next, a dozen possibilities rushing through her head in that singular moment, all of which portended disaster. She only relaxed when her husband began to speak, sounding exactly like the man with whom she had fallen in love and who had led this country so magnificently for three years.

  “My fellow Americans, we gather today on this solemn occasion to bid farewell to a statesperson, American hero, servant of the people, and believer that our best days lie ahead of us. It was Stephanie Davenport’s most fervent hope to long be a part of it that, but, sadly, life had other plans. Maya Angelou once said, ‘I think a hero is any person really intent on making this a better place for all people.’ I don’t think I’ve ever heard more accurate words than that ever spoken about Stephanie Davenport. Indeed, it was Benjamin Disraeli who said, ‘The legacy of heroes is the memory of a great name and the inheritance of a great example.’

  “Now that Stephanie is gone, who among us will provide that great example?”

  CHAPTER

  75

  OAK RIDGE, TENNESSEE

  There was only a single track, so the trucks that had hauled the high explosives this far were stacked up three deep, farther back along the platform, after off-loading the cargo, the last of which was being loaded onto the front three cars. An earthen wall finished in shiny concrete marked the end of that part of the tunnel, and the nose of the train on that end was practically brushing up against it.

  Brixton tried to picture eight train cars full of heavy explosives that, taken as a whole, were more powerful than either of the atomic bombs dropped in Japan at the close of World War II. Trying to picture the effects of the explosion, once those canisters were scattered appropriately through the underground layers of the complex, was mind-boggling, impossible.

  As Brixton approached, with Lia Ganz and the Israeli special operators behind him, all toting their hollowed-out, DOE-regulation sensors, he noticed a single dark-blue shipping pallet resting atop each of the beds, perfectly conforming to their contours. Stacked two deep, he estimated, the total cargo numbered somewhere right around one hundred steel drums contained inside each of the dark cargo containers, for a total of eight hundred.

  Also mind-boggling.

  As their escorts led them toward the front engine, which was equipped with a passenger compartment at its rear, Brixton felt his skin prickle with cold sweat, and he glanced toward Lia Ganz. He could tell she was thinking exactly what he was, a fact that was confirmed when she met his gaze. Their escorts brought them to the passenger compartment extending back from the engine and politely gestured for them to enter. Brixton led the way, toting his DOE-regulation equipment, which, as expected, had not been passed through any electronic or other inspection. It contained a Glock 18 pistol and three spare magazines of ammunition, just like that of Lia and the four Israelis she’d summoned like a conjurer might summon demons. He considered the notion of blame for this attack being laid at the doorstep of Islamic radicals, creating a pretext for a retaliatory reprisal and subsequent response that would result in the suspension of the coming election, along with the Constitution itself, to be as utterly unprecedented as the loss of more than five million lives in an attack orchestrated by the government itself.

  Once under way, the train wound its way along a curved, brightly lit tunnel, built to conform to the natural contours of the ground through which it had been erected. The whole process reminded him of those trams that connected terminals at some of the nation’s busiest airports. The ride’s silent, airless quality brought that experience to mind.

  Brixton had turned his gaze on the guards accompanying them. One of them met his stare and in the next moment turned quickly away. There was something unsettling about that brief moment when their eyes had met. As if on cue, he felt Lia Ganz squeeze his knee, and he looked subtly toward her.

  Ambush, she mouthed.

  Brixton watched her flash unspoken signals to the four Israeli commandos, watched them tense, looking like predators ready to spring. None of them went for the pistols hidden in their equipment housing. Instead, Brixton watched them stretching their grasps toward the knives they’d hidden on their person, formed of a plastic composite invented and manufactured in Israel, undetectable by metal detectors.

  That’s all it took for these operators, little more than a simple gesture. Four of them and four security guards armed to the teeth, with three minutes to go before the train reached the station.

  Brixton watched Lia Ganz twisting her body in preparation to join the action, saw the Israeli commandos lurch into motion.

  * * *

  The train rolled past the start of the loading platform on the lowermost underground level, bright light replacing the darkness of the tunnel to illuminate a cavernous facility that looked like a massive warehouse layered with shiny steel shelving stacked all the way to the high ceiling and a gleaming floor colored the same steel-gray shade. The train doors whooshed open, and a dozen guards wearing flak jackets and tactical gear indiscriminately opened fire on the figures inside. Spraying bullets everywhere to leave nothing to chance, then freezing when the targets they’d just pulverized became clear: the security guards who were supposed to deliver their targets to them.

  And then those targets burst out, firing.

  WASHINGTON, DC

  We must listen to our better angels, because the songs they play in heaven carry the words of Stephanie Davenport. She was an angel among us, in that the concerns of others inevitably trumped concern for herself. That’s why she fought for the weak and downtrodden, stood up for people no longer able to stand for themselves, especially with enemies so big and powerful they couldn’t see the face glaring down at them. I once asked her why that was so important to her, why she’d dedicated her entire life to helping those who couldn’t help themselves.

  “‘It’s simple,’” she told me. “‘Because I ne
ver would have gotten anywhere if people weren’t there to help me. And no one ever told me I couldn’t achieve my dreams if I worked hard enough. Yet there were so many without dreams, or who’d had their dreams dashed. I want to give their dreams back to them,’ she said. ‘I want to give them hope.’

  “Somebody has to win and somebody has to lose—that’s life. But it was Stephanie’s mission in life to ensure it was the good that won out.”

  OAK RIDGE, TENNESSEE

  Brixton held back reluctantly, on Lia’s instructions, long enough to see the bottom level of an underground facility that looked lifted from a science fiction movie. The walls were finished in dull gray steel, from which extended rows and rows of shelving jam-packed with individual locker-like compartments fit to the precise specifications of steel drums that were virtual twins of the ones Brixton had witnessed being loaded onto the train.

  The platform was peppered with space-age-looking loaders to speed the process of off-loading the latest eight-hundred-drum shipment, packed with high explosives, that would be distributed throughout all five underground levels. Robotic forklifts, meanwhile, wheeled and whirred about, prepared to deliver stores of the additional canisters to their appropriate slots. The entire process looked to be automated, the forklifts maneuvering across the floors and crisscrossing each other like far more technologically advanced versions of those automatic vacuums popular in homes these days. Then, at the appointed time, a single trigger would detonate the bulk of the batch en masse, with the remainder igniting moments later to create a chain reaction that would spew a massive amount of radioactive waste into the surrounding air, creating a toxic death cloud certain to spread up the entire East Coast. It was one thing to picture the ramifications of that; it was quite another to view the means by which the destruction would be wrought, up close and personal.

  Brixton recorded all that in the moment before he lurched through the open doors with pistol in hand himself, firing at the figures garbed in dark uniforms and landing nary a shot. Figures were running, darting, firing as they went. Bullets whizzed past him in all directions. Their force was outnumbered three to one, but as Brixton watched, Lia Ganz was taking her own steps to remedy that.