Cloudburst

by Pearson, Ryne Douglas

  Art read over a brief summary of findings prepared by his second, Special Agent Eddie Toronassi, affectionately known as Joker by those fortunate enough to have avoided being a victim of his near legendary practical jokes. Art called him Eddie.

  “The shooters weren’t born on the fifth floor,” Art said, sipping from his convenience store cup of coffee. The Hilton’s kitchen was closed. “They came from somewhere.” He looked up. “Where?”

  “You got me, boss.” The third-generation Italian-American agent had spent an hour putting the report together. He wanted answers as much as Art. “You know what: These guys were stupid. They did things all wrong.”

  Art coughed up a swallow of coffee. “You might find some different opinions on that one.”

  “Sure.” Eddie’s eyes, crystal blue like cheap marbles, lit up. “They killed a whole slew of people—”

  “A whole slew of people?” Art responded, flipping to the last page of the report: the casualty list. “The president, his national security adviser, the British foreign secretary, fifteen Secret Service agents, six local cops, six government aides—four American and two British—and two bystanders. Twenty-two injured. Shit, Ed. I’d call that a fucking accomplishment.”

  “Yeah, but they were sloppy in some ways, and smart in others. Kinda cocky, yet paranoid.” Eddie’s face expressed mild bewilderment.

  “What do you mean?” Art leaned back in the swivel chair he had borrowed from the front desk.

  ‘Take the rifle we found—the parts, anyway. The stamp markings were bored out. I talked to one of the ATF techs, and he said that it must’ve been taken apart and sanitized. And from what he said it’s not easy. It’s not the same as filing down some serial numbers like they did on the receiver. That’s solid steel, so a file does the trick. All that’s there is a shallow gouge. The numbers that are stamped on are a whole different story. When they make the guns there’s a lot of sheet metal used. He says it’s easier to manufacture and—”

  “I’m up on how they’re made, Ed.”

  “Okay.” Eddie had a tendency to get excited when detail work was needed. It was his forte, and a small embarrassment at times. He continued, “So the stamp in the sheet metal is another identifier. When you file it down you end up with a hole. You’ve gotta practically cut out the stamped part and weld on a patch flush with the rest of the metal. To me that sounds like someone who wants to cover his trail.”

  Art continued to listen attentively as Eddie reached across the table and took the bag which forensics had delivered earlier. “Then they’re stupid. Kinda like they don’t care if it helps us ID ‘em. I’m not talking about flaunting anything. Just carelessness ... no, indifference. It just didn’t matter.” Eddie shook the contents of the clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was a blackened, melted lump of plastic whose previous form had been narrowed down to some type of credit card, though any further specifications were impossible to obtain. “And that...” He motioned to another of the Ziplock bags. A single wallet-size picture shielded by the body was the only contents, showing a young man and an even younger female child, each dark-haired with obvious Mediterranean features. “I mean, we don’t know who the people in the picture are, but it’s a clue. If I was gonna do this, I’d wanna ditch this stuff before I did any shooting.”

  “Ed, these guys were suicidal. They didn’t have to hide their identity.”

  “Then why clean the weapons? Huh? Why the trouble?”

  Art thought for a moment. “Apparently the shooters didn’t give a damn if they were fingered, but they wanted the trail to stop with them.”

  Eddie nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking.” He tossed the evidence bag containing the plastic lump on the table. The other one he held up. “You’ve seen the picture?”

  “Yeah.” Art took the bag and studied the faces through the plastic. “But I’m trying not to jump to any conclusions.”

  “You think it, too.”

  “What? That the shooters might have been Arabs? Just because of this.” He slid the bag across the table. “Come on.”

  Eddie sniffed a laugh and pulled out a handkerchief. Damn cold! “How’s your jaw?”

  The stitches were hard to the touch. “I guess I’m going to have a macho scar.”

  “You were lucky.”

  Art remembered having been ready to dash across to the 818 just before it blew. “More than you think, Ed.”

  Another agent brought in a box of coffees. Eddie took one and slid a chair around. “We’re gonna run dry here in not too long. What’s next?”

  “Like always. Who? Who were the shooters and where were they from? How? They got inside the security zone; that is not supposed to happen. How did they do it, and what help did they get?”

  “Another ‘Who?’ “ Eddie said.

  “Correct. And why? Suicide is something you think about. What pushed them to do this?” The inevitable assumption of some kind of fanatical terrorist bent on death, or glory, or whatever they called it, flashed in Art’s mind. Remember Beirut. Those people were crazy. And the picture. He couldn’t let a snapshot of two Middle Eastern-looking kids influence him right now. It could help, though.

  Art exhaled heavily through his nose. “We have to start with ‘Who?’ The other stuff is going to all come from that.”

  “So we’ve got two guys, almost surely male.” Eddie pulled the flimsy lid off the cup. He never could stand drinking through those flip-up openings. “We have nothing on a physical makeup yet.”

  “Who has the bodies?”

  “You mean the pieces,” Eddie corrected. “The county coroner. Stan is with him. You know he told me the only way they could tell right away that there were two bodies was the arm count. They found parts of three.” He laughed. “Maybe it was one guy and he was a Medusa or something.”

  “You’re sick, Toronassi.”

  The conversation was interrupted by another agent. “Sir, they want you outside.”

  A minute later Art and Eddie were standing at the base of what had been the original rubble pile, which was now divided into several smaller mounds of debris as the sifting progressed. They looked up at the gaping hole in the front of the 818. Floodlights, still providing illumination in the early-morning din, outlined the damage. A full four floors were literally gone, blown out both front and back of the tall structure. Art wondered what times out here were like when the 818 was really a tall building. Now it was dwarfed in the shadows of its steel-and-glass successors to the east, and barely rose above some of the buildings along the Wilshire corridor to the west.

  “Best guess so far is fifteen pounds of C-4,” Eddie said, referring to a military-use explosive. “Hellish.”

  Art didn’t respond. He just turned away, amazed that anything had survived as evidence.

  “Sir,” an overall-clad agent said.

  “Jefferson.” Art extended his hand, not recognizing the agent.

  “Agent Mike Stafford” came the reply, very formal and businesslike. “San Diego forensics.”

  “Right. You work with Dan La Verne.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s a good guy. Has he still got that enormous dog?”

  “Irish wolfhound, sir. He calls him Sir Galahad. I met the mutt at a barbecue he threw out at his ranch near Fallbrook.”

  “What do ya know. Small world. What have you got for us?”

  “This.” He reached into his breast pocket.

  Eddie smiled. “Bingo!”

  Art took the bag, smaller than the evidence holders. It held a single key, which appeared to be untouched by the blast. “Where did it come from?”

  “Embedded in a piece of buttock we found a little while ago,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Over there. The location makes me think it was one of the bad guys. We found some other parts there earlier. This was deeper.”

  “In his ass. Can you beat that.” Art held it up to the light cast by the floods. “Awfully clean.”

  Stafford shrugged. “It
was probably in his back pocket. We were able to pull some fibers out with it. Those might help us, but that…not with body oils and the like. We couldn’t pull a print, or even a partial off of it in a million years. I thought you guys might be able to use it.”

  They could. Art turned to his second. “There’s no marking on it.”

  “We could tell what model from the book,” Eddie said. “Hell, there’s probably a locksmith around here who could tell us quicker than that.”

  “In a while. We can move on it now. This means they drove here.”

  That was almost a surety, Eddie thought. “I’d bet on it. And if they drove here ...”

  “Right.”

  Minutes later they had twenty agents redirected to several locations within walking distance of the 818.

  London

  The young Irishman set the one Samsonite down on his right and knocked four times as he had been instructed. They said four, didn’t they? After pausing thirty seconds he knocked again, three times. There was no answer, which meant he could proceed. He inserted the key and opened the door to the modest second-floor flat. The front room was furnished comfortably, he noticed, but he did not linger to enjoy the decor. An easy kick closed the door behind him. The hall ahead led to the bedroom, or so it should if his instructions were correct.

  They were. He laid the one Samsonite at the head of the single bed, and the other at the foot. The key to the flat was left on the one at the head.

  He gave the room a look from where he stood. It was nice. Nicer than anything he’d ever lived in. The colors were peach and blue, and the only window was catching the afternoon light. Back to his duty. He opened the second suitcase and removed its contents: a leather shoulder bag and a cloth sack which held the valued contents. As per his instructions he put the sack into the shoulder bag and closed the case. On his way out he noticed that the flat lacked some of the small things that came only with occupancy. Pictures and the like. This piqued his curiosity but did not break his discipline. He resisted the urge to explore, which was natural, having never been far from Belfast before.

  With the brown leather bag slung on his right he exited the flat, locking the door before closing it behind. He could feel the other key in his shirt pocket without having to touch it. But he was nervous and ran a hand up just in case. In case what, you fool? You already locked the bloody door! To himself he shook his head. Iain would have to pass this one on to him.

  The other flat was a half a kilometer away. He would leave the shoulder bag there and drop the key in the WC. Then, he would be on his way. The underground would be near, as would a bus stop. He would try the underground, he thought. It would be fun. Just a phone call left to place in a few hours. It wasn’t really work, then, was it, lifting up a telephone? It was all the better, though. He understood the need for a routine.

  It’s not too bloody bad, this job.

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  He looked little like a soldier at the moment. He was, in actuality, much more. The shorts were military-issue swim trunks, but the T-shirt, emblazoned with a neon Nishiki logo on both the front and back, was non-regulation. That was excused, even expected, at the Stockade, the former military jail, which at present, and for the past decade and a half, housed the world’s most elite counterter-rorist force: Delta.

  “Gotcha!” Captain Sean Graber blurted out. He had been at Demon Ninja for over an hour already and had, as yet, made it through only two of the twelve known levels. There would be more, he knew. New computer games from the Demon series had never disappointed him.

  “Slay a nuclear robot or something?” Buxton asked. He was a lieutenant, right below Graber in team seniority, and he dressed equally as comfortably.

  “A dark lord,” Graber answered without looking. “You want a try next, Chris?”

  “Yeah, right.” Buxton snickered and went back to his book.

  The eight men of Charlie Squad, Special Operations Detachment Delta, had been on alert since 1330 the previous day. That was a precaution and basically it required the team to be near their barracks—the unit rec room in this case—and have their gear ready. The latter was accomplished soon after the alert in the indoor firing range. They all checked the sighting and performance of their three standard weapons. Any special needs would be taken care of as required.

  “Captain.” It was Major McAffee.

  Graber paused the game and came to a relaxed attention, as did Buxton. “Sir.”

  “The rest of your squad, Captain—where are they?” McAffee looked all business. He wore the old-style olive drab BDU—Battle Dress Uniform—but not the favored baseball-style cap.

  “Back of the building. I think it’s a game of three on three.”

  Blackjack, as the major was informally known, eased his stance. It was his job to ensure instantaneous readiness of the team on alert, and it was doubly important to him since he would lead any team that went into action. He was second in command of the ground forces of JSOC—Joint Special Operations Command.

  The major noticed the computer was on, the image of a sword-wielding white knight frozen on the twenty-six-inch screen. “A good guy, I presume.”

  Graber looked over his shoulder, smiling away from his superior. “A good guy, sir, of course.” The smile now was obvious to the major. “Good guys are always in white.”

  McAffee wouldn’t allow a smile, though he wanted to.

  “I’m sure you mean clothing, Captain.” The major’s skin was a dark chocolate brown, and there was a rumor among the team that his nickname was race-related, though they couldn’t figure out how or why. “Or are you referring to my tan?”

  “Clothing, sir. Naturally.”

  “Good.” The major heaved his chest out exaggeratedly and cocked his head to the side, pretending to examine the blond-haired captain. “You’re looking pale, Captain. Kinda pasty I must say.” His head shook, then he turned and walked out. “That boy’s gotta see the doc,” he said just outside the door, then he was gone.

  “That’s one for the maj, Sean,” Buxton said, his own face covered with a wide grin. “Pasty! That’s a good one.”

  Graber shook it off and laughed at the exchange. Mock verbal battles could be a hell of a good time. It was the real kind that scared you shitless.

  “Okay, level three...watch out!”

  Langley, Virginia

  On the seventh floor of the Central Intelligence Agency’s headquarters, DCI Herb Landau was at work behind his light oak desk, which jutted out from a wall unit of bookcases and framed the director with the scene of the damp Virginia country behind him. Lines of rainwater trickled along the double window, which ran half the length of the wood- paneled wall and was more a transparent continuation of the wall than a true window. It did not open and its layered, tinted surface made the inclement weather seem more ominous than it truly was. It was the first good rain after summer. Landau had his chair swiveled and was watching the storm.

  A knock at the door was a courtesy as Deputy Director, Intelligence Greg Drummond strolled in carrying his soft briefcase, one that he used only inside the Agency’s secure building. It made transferring sensitive files easier and less cumbersome than using the pyro-lock leather-over-steel attaché case required when transporting such material outside the confines of Langley. The DDI’s office was three doors down from the DCI’s, but he was a stickler for security procedures, and dutifully put the copy of the requested file in his case.

  His boss smiled when he entered, stretching his hand across the nearly barren desk. Those were two of the things that made working for Herb Landau pleasant: He always greeted you with a handshake when first seeing you for the day, and he was impeccably organized. Work on his desk was in neat, square-edged folders, which found their way back to the file cabinet when he was through with them. Personal items were few. A picture of his wife of fifty-two years, Adella, and one of the entire family: six children, seventeen grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. And there was the c
lock. It was a gift from his longtime friend, the late president, upon his confirmation by the Senate as the Director of Central Intelligence, and it was as indicative of Landau’s thoughts on decor as anything could be. A simple wooden-cased timepiece, no bigger than a normal windup alarm clock, with two hands and a crescent moon which turned bright at night and dark in the daytime.

  “Morning, Herb.”

  The DCI glanced at the clock. Its sleeping moon face stared back. “Hardly, Greg. Is he here yet?”

  The DDI nodded and pulled two chairs close to the desk and sat down, wondering why the director’s chairs were more comfortable. His domain in the Agency was the Intelligence Directorate, whose role and territory were all those things that collected, gathered, or generated intelligence data for the nation. Analysis of the data was also his turf, and, surprisingly to some, he had no idea how many people actually worked for him. Often the other major directorates—Science & Technology and Operations—overlapped with Intelligence and each other, but their primary roles were what their names indicated. Intelligence calls were his.

  “Did you bring your copy?” Herb motioned to the case.

  “Sure did.”

  A security officer knocked, then opened the door for the guest. Bud DiContino entered. His hands were free, having left his briefcase on the Executive UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter, which would wait for him on one of Langley’s five marked pads. Another seven were routinely used some distance away from the official ones.

  The DDI stood to greet the acting NSA. “Mr. DiContino, I’m Greg Drummond.”

  “How are you doing?” Bud shook his hand, then the seated DCI’s. “I met you at the assessment conference at Meade a month ago, right?”

  “That’s right,” Drummond answered. He liked the acting NSA, but had no overt reasoning for his feelings. He just seemed to be, at least, not a bastard, like so many appointees could be. “You did a good job. That was nice stuff on the low-grade-warfare concept.”