by J. C. Fields
JR nodded.
“Which means there may only be one or two individuals in the group who know about all the members.”
“Maybe a few more.”
“I would agree. So how do they train everyone to use steganography and use it correctly?”
JR remained quiet.
Kruger continued, “They don’t. The hidden messages are for the leaders of the group. The short-wave numbers station is for the foot soldiers. They’ve got two different messages going out.”
“And if only a few individuals know how to convert the images, it doesn’t matter if they send the converted image in all the emails.”
A nod was his answer.
***
Later That Same Day
“Here’s what JR and Alexia have been able to determine. There is a server in Belarus sending what appears to be basic spam about male enhancement. To the computer on the sheriff’s desk in Fremont County, it’s just normal spam and moved to a separate folder. However, those emails contain an image with a coded message hidden within.”
Paul Stumpf said, “Like the communication system we discovered in 2010 used by the Russian foreign intelligence service?”
“Similar, but with a few refinements. This group has two trucks loaded with what we can only surmise are explosives, departing on Saturday for two different targets. We don’t know where those two trucks are located but we do know they are in states with a lot of agriculture.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because JR found a formula for making a high explosive with fertilizer imbedded in one of the images. Plus, we have a few emails acknowledging the completion of the fertilizer purchase.”
“Can JR trace where the emails are being sent?”
“Public Wi-Fi hotspots all over the upper Midwest.”
“This is getting serious, Sean. Why do you think the trucks are leaving on Saturday?”
“Because they announced it in one of their messages.”
“What are the targets?”
“Unknown at this time.”
“Do we have enough evidence to arrest this sheriff of Fremont County?”
“No, but I believe we have to anyway.”
“I detect a note of hesitation.”
“There is. The emails are being sent from the desktop computer on his desk. But he is always shown as logged out of the building when they are sent.”
“Is it a ruse?”
“We don’t know. But we’re running out of time. It’s Thursday and we don’t know where the trucks are or where they’re going. Our only link to them is the sheriff and the emails.”
Stumpf was quiet for a long period. Kruger let him think.
“You have evidence the emails are sending instructions to commit a terrorist act, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you can prove they came from the sheriff’s desk computer?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to be there for the arrest?”
“Yes.”
“When can you get there?”
“My team can be on the ground by late tonight.”
“Okay, I’ll notify the SAC you are coming and to keep tabs on the whereabouts of the sheriff.”
“Thanks, Paul.”
“Sean.”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“As sure as I’ve ever been.”
Chapter 41
Fremont County, Wyoming
“This is my bust, Kruger.” Special Agent in Charge Frank Reed did not look at the man standing next to him. He kept his attention on a house in the northwest section of Lander, Wyoming.
Kruger stood next to him, looking through a pair of binoculars at the same house. Ignoring the statement, he said, “How long’s he been in there?”
“Pulled into the driveway behind the woman who owns the house.”
“Who’s she?”
“Her name is Linda Fuller. Mid-forties, not very good looking, heavy set and wears too much makeup. She works at the diner where the sheriff eats breakfast every morning.”
Kruger didn’t care for the way the managing FBI agent described the woman. With a frown he asked. “How often is he here?”
“We’ve only been following him for two days and he’s been here each night until a little after midnight.”
After glancing at this wristwatch, Kruger returned his eyes to the binoculars. “As far as this being your bust, Reed, it’s an FBI bust. Not your personal achievement.”
Reed shot Kruger a hard stare and kept it there for a while. “I’ve been in this backwater part of the world for two weeks and…”
Kruger turned suddenly toward the younger agent, his face red and his eyes narrowed. He said through clenched teeth, “I don’t give a damn how long you’ve been here, Agent Reed. This is an investigation into the blatant attack and murder of six FBI agents, one of whom was a friend of mine. You will do your job, get your ego in check and keep your mouth shut. Is that clear?”
Reed’s eyes widened at the outburst, but he quickly recovered. “I’ve heard about you, Kruger. You’re a prima donna and the personal pet of the director. You do your job and I’ll do mine. If you can’t keep up, then get out of our way.”
With a slight smile, Kruger replied, “I’ll keep that in mind. Just make sure you remember why you’re here.” Kruger turned and walked toward Sandy Knoll, Jimmie Gibbs and Ryan Clark who waited next to a black GMC Yukon.
When he arrived, he said, “You three ready?”
Everyone nodded.
“The local SAC is worried about us getting in his way. I suggest we keep out of it and go arrest the sheriff.”
Knoll smiled, Gibbs turned his FBI ballcap backward and Clark nodded.
Kruger turned to Knoll. “Where’s the rest of Reed’s team?”
“Two are in a car a block east, another two are west about two blocks and there’s another one fifteen yards to the right of where you and the SAC were standing.”
“Anyone behind the house?”
“Not that I could tell.”
With a shake of his head, Kruger mumbled. “Geez, what a cluster.” A quick glance at his watch told him the time was approaching eleven p.m. “We have about an hour before the sheriff leaves. Sandy, you and Ryan slip into the backyard and cover the back door. Jimmie and I will breach the front door at exactly fourteen minutes past eleven. Sync our watches and you two go through the back door at the same time. I want the sheriff rattled.”
Gibbs said, “I take it we’re not waiting for the others to join the party.”
“Nope.”
Clark chuckled. “Care to tell us why?”
“Because the SAC seems intent on just watching the house, I am choosing to speed this process up.” He pulled several pieces of folded paper out of an inside pocket of his FBI windbreaker. “Besides, we have this.”
With a grin, Clark asked, “What is it?”
“A No-Knock Arrest Warrant for Fremont County Sheriff Roger Blake signed by a federal judge in Cheyenne.”
“Cool, let’s do it.”
***
Frank Reed watched as Kruger and another man crossed the street and approached the front door of the house they had under surveillance. He looked through his binoculars and mumbled, “What the heck is he doing?”
The woman standing next to him said, “Looks like they’re going in, Frank.”
Taking the binoculars down, Reed stared at the house. “They can’t do that. Call for backup, Agent…”
He didn’t finish his sentence as they heard a loud pop after which Kruger and the other man disappeared through the now-open front door.
***
Kruger and Gibbs entered the home announcing they were FBI agents. Both held their weapons two handed as they cleared the front living room. The only illumination came from a lamp on a side table next to a sofa.
Knoll and Clark entered from the kitchen area, shaking their heads as Kruger shouted, “FBI, S
heriff Blake. We have a warrant for your arrest.”
Noise came from the hall to their left and the four men headed toward the sound. The only illumination in the bedroom came from a digital clock on a nightstand so Knoll used his Maglite to illuminate the dark space. The four men saw a figure struggling to get his pants on. Kruger said, “FBI, Sheriff Blake. Get your hands in plain sight.”
Blake stopped and stared into the light as Kruger and Gibbs entered the room with Knoll right behind.
The Sheriff said, “What’s the meaning of this?”
Still standing in the doorway, his Glock trained on the half-naked man sitting on the bed, Clark said, “FBI. Are you Roger Blake?”
Knoll and Gibbs circled around to the other side of the bedroom; their handguns trained on the other occupant of the bed—a woman who stared at them with wide eyes and the covers pulled to her chin.
Clark repeated his command. “Are you Roger Blake?”
“Yes, yes. What is the meaning of this intrusion of my privacy?”
Withdrawing the papers from his windbreaker, Kruger said, “Roger Blake, you are under arrest for criminal conspiracy, domestic terrorism and the death of six federal agents. Agent Clark, please take the suspect into custody.”
As the four men escorted the now handcuffed sheriff toward the front door, Clark explained his Miranda rights. At that same moment, Frank Reed and a woman agent walked through the open front door. He stared at Kruger and said, “What the hell are you doing, Agent Kruger?”
“It’s Assistant Director to you, Agent Reed, and I did what you were supposed to be doing, arresting a felon. Now get out of our way. You’re slowing us down.”
As Knoll drove the GMC, Gibbs sat in the passenger seat with the sheriff in the back seat between Clark and Kruger. With his hands cuffed behind him, he looked at Kruger, “What do you want?”
In the dim light from the SUV’s instrument panel, Kruger could see Blake sweating. “The location of the trucks.”
“What trucks?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, Blake. We broke the code in the emails and the numbers station. Where are the trucks?”
Shaking his head, Blake said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Kruger proceeded to explain what they knew. As he concluded his narrative, the sheriff kept his head down and stared at his pants. “I want an attorney.”
“You’ll get one, Blake, but it won’t be someone you know. You might want to remember what I said earlier, you are under arrest for domestic terrorism. We aren’t taking you to your own jail—we’re headed to the Joseph C. O'Mahoney Federal Building in Cheyenne. From what I was told when we had the arrest warrant signed, you are not a very popular person in Cheyenne. You’ve got four hours to determine how you want to play this.”
“You can’t prove anything.”
Smiling, Kruger stared out the window as they drove southeast on US-287. “You might want to rethink that statement. We know two trucks are out there somewhere, both loaded with enough fertilizer to make the bomb used on the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City look like a firecracker. We can tie all of the instructions about the vehicles back to the computer on your desk. If they explode, any and all casualties will be blamed on you. If I remember properly, Timothy McVeigh was arrested, convicted, sentenced to death and executed in a little over six years. Most death row inmates wait fifteen years before their execution. And I am sure, considering you’re a law enforcement officer, that betrayal will be noted during your trial. Sucks for you.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d say you have six years left to live, Blake.”
With wide eyes, Blake stared at Kruger and then at Clark.
“I think you’re the patsy in this conspiracy, Roger.” Kruger paused for effect. “I want the person or persons calling the shots, and I want the locations of the trucks.”
Blake closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t know where the trucks are. The person calling the shots is Kevin Marks.”
“Who’s he?”
“Owns the western wear shop in Lander. There’s also someone else involved.”
“I’m listening.”
“Gordon Lyon. He’s the Chairman of the Fremont County Board of Commissioners.”
Kruger took his cell phone out and started making calls.
Chapter 42
Landers, Wyoming
Kevin Marks glanced at the time on his cell phone and hesitated before accepting the call. Phone calls at three minutes after one in the morning meant problems. “Yes.”
He heard a familiar voice. “Blake was arrested by the FBI an hour and a half ago.”
Fully awake, Marks threw back the covers and sat on the side of his bed. “Where’s he now?”
“Don’t know. They never showed up at the courthouse. My guess is they’re on their way to Cheyenne.”
“Where’d they arrest him?”
“In the sack with his girlfriend.”
“Shit.” He paused. “Have you spoken to her?”
“No. The FBI has her in custody, too.”
Marks remained quiet as his mind raced. “Okay, make yourself invisible.”
“That was my plan.”
The call ended and Marks went to his closet. He knelt, moved several pairs of cowboy boots and lifted the carpet in the back corner revealing a floor safe. He entered the combination into the keypad and the door popped open. He withdrew a passport, three bundles of hundred-dollar bills, a Platinum American Express Card and a Springfield Armory .45ACP 1911. These he placed on the bed. Next, he retrieved a medium-sized duffle bag from the closet and placed those objects inside. Next came under garments—several pairs of jeans, numerous pullover shirts and a pre-packed men’s toiletries bag.
After getting dressed in black jeans and a black sweatshirt, he headed for the garage and his Ford F-150.
***
When Kruger and JR arrived at Marks’ Western Wear the next morning, they found numerous FBI agents speaking to employees in hushed conversation throughout the store. They were escorted to the owner’s office where Kruger saw Frank Reed, his arms crossed, standing in the middle of the room watching two agents searching desks and filing cabinets and one working on a laptop. He turned as they entered. “Where’s the sheriff, Kruger?”
“In custody.”
Red faced, Reed lowered his arms and his nostrils flared. “I’m submitting a report about your actions last night.”
“Good, because I’ve already submitted one about your inactions. Now tell your people to get away from the computer. I have an expert who will examine it.”
Reed crossed his arms again. “I don’t report to you.”
Kruger’s mouth twitched. “I suggest you ask your team to give us some privacy.”
The three agents in the room stared at Reed as he nodded. They all filed out, leaving Reed, Kruger and JR alone in the room. Reed pointed to the computer hacker. “Who’s he?”
“Our computer expert.”
“Thought you wanted privacy.”
“He’s very trustworthy.” Turning to JR, Kruger nodded at the desk and JR went to the laptop sitting on it. Returning his attention to Reed, he said. “You were saying?”
Reed glared back at Kruger. His arms folded. “What’s this bullshit about you being an assistant director?”
“As of five minutes ago, you report to me. Your inaction in this investigation is under review and your status as an Agent in Charge is suspended for the moment.” He opened his ID wallet and displayed his new identification.
Reed’s face turned white and his eyes widened. “I don’t believe… I thought…”
“You thought wrong. Now, if you want to keep your job, I suggest you get rid of the attitude and start acting like an FBI agent.”
Reed’s shoulders slumped as he stared at Kruger. “What do you need me to do?”
“Take a few agents and get to Marks’ house. See if you can determine where he is. According to what we’ve been told, he normal
ly comes in before eight. It’s almost nine.”
With a slight nod of the head, the ex-SAC left the office.
JR looked up. “That was rude.”
“Not as much as I wanted to be.” He paused briefly. “What’ve you got?”
“We might have a problem.”
Kruger’s eyes narrowed. “With?”
“The trucks might have already left.”
“How the hell…” He paused, closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. “How can you tell?”
“There was an email sent from this computer last night.”
“Can you trace where the emails went?”
“Given some time, yes.”
“Take all the time you need, as long as it’s within the next ten minutes.”
JR chuckled and started typing.
***
Ryan Clark showed his FBI credentials to the young woman behind the desk on the second floor of the County Courthouse. Jimmie Gibbs and Sandy Knoll stood behind him with two Fremont County deputy sheriffs trailing them. All five men were serious and unsmiling. She looked wide eyed at the badge as Clark said, “We need to speak to Commissioner Lyon.”
“He’s in a meeting with the other commissioners.”
“Where?”
She pointed to a door to her left. The five men proceeded in the indicated direction and Clark opened the door.
Sitting at a large conference table were two men and a woman, Lyon removed his glasses and stood. “What’s the meaning of this intrusion?”
Clark withdrew the arrest warrant from his inside suitcoat breast pocket. “Gordon Lyon?”
“Yes, I demand to know what this is…” He didn’t finish his sentence as the two Fremont County deputies moved behind him.
Holding the arrest warrant in his right hand, Clark said, “I’m Special Agent Ryan Clark, FBI. Gordon Lyon, you are under arrest for conspiracy, domestic terrorism and the death of six federal agents.”
One of the deputies smiled as he cuffed the man’s hands. “You have the right to remain silent…”