by J. C. Fields
A young deputy stuck his head into the room and said, “Sheriff, no wants or warrants on him. No criminal record either. Got in trouble once for toilet papering, but that’s it.”
The sheriff said, “Thanks, Nick.” He then turned to Kruger. “Let’s go to my office. We can wait for the deputy there and discuss how my department can assist you. Can I offer you some coffee while we wait, agent?”
Kruger shook his head. “No, thanks, I’m fine.”
On the way to the sheriff’s office, Lamb made a detour into a small kitchen area and poured himself a mug of coffee. “Well, I think I will.”
After they were in Lamb’s office, Kruger said, “My plan is simple. I will arrange for a federal search warrant. Timing is up to you and when you can be ready. If we find anything connecting him to the explosion, your department will arrest him and get credit for cracking the case. I’ll question him and get out of your way. Good publicity for your next election. Unfortunately, after the announcement of his arrest, your small community will be overrun with FBI and media.”
The sheriff nodded. Kruger continued, “I’m with a separate part of the FBI that profiles individuals like Cooper and I don’t think he’s the only one involved. However, my opinion is in the minority within the agency. There will be an agent arriving who’s in charge of the overall investigation. He’s a man you will want to shoot five minutes after you meet him.”
Lamb’s indifferent expression did not change as he said, “He hasn't met me yet.”
Kruger was quiet for a few moments, then smiled and said, “Glad you have a sense of humor. You’ll need it with Agent Dollar.”
“I’m not joking.”
Kruger looked Lamb in the eye and saw no hint of humor. No, I don’t suppose you are, he thought.
Kruger spent the next half hour briefing the sheriff on the layout of Cooper's farm house and land. He was interrupted only a few times with questions, so it went quickly. A knock on the sheriff's door produced a quick “Yeah,” from the sheriff.
A short deputy, no more than five-feet-seven, entered the office. His strong upper body, slim waist and skinny legs created the illusion of a Y. The deputy’s head was shaved, with a dark brown and gray mustache and goatee. His eyes were green with dark black circles on the outside of the iris. He appeared to be in his 20s, but Kruger couldn't be sure. Sheriff Lamb said, “Agent Kruger, this is Deputy Dale Hickman.”
Kruger stood and extended his hand, which the deputy shook briefly and then returned to a parade rest posture. He said, “You called me in, Sheriff, what's up?”
Lamb took the picture of Thomas Cooper and handed it to Hickman and said, “Can you identify this man?”
“Yes, sir. Name’s Tommy Cooper. He's a volunteer fireman for Atmore. Why?”
“Do you know him?”
“Not real well.” The deputy paused as he stared at the picture. “Worked a couple of fires and auto accidents with him, but I don’t know him personally.”
The sheriff said, “What do you know?”
“Not much. Talked about being in Iraq, said it sucked. Lives on the farm his grandparents gave him when they passed on. Don't know anything about his folks, don’t think they’re alive. What's going on, Sheriff, he done somethin' wrong?”
Lamb nodded to Kruger and said, “Agent, do you want to tell him?”
Kruger summarized what he had told the sheriff, excluding the explanation of what would happen when the media found out.
The deputy looked back at the sheriff and said, “He seemed like a good guy. Kind of hard to believe it.”
Kruger said, “Deputy, it's hard to judge people sometimes. Like I said, my evidence is circumstantial, but I believe he’s involved.”
Sheriff Lamb stood up and said, “Dale, get the guys together, put your vests and helmets on, we’re going to take a ride.” He turned to Kruger, “I need that search warrant. Let's get this over with.”
Kruger was impressed with the readiness of the small county department. While they didn't have an overabundance of sophisticated equipment, they had a dedicated and well-trained SWAT team. It was late afternoon when the caravan came to a stop in front of Cooper’s driveway. Kruger had accompanied the sheriff in his squad car with five cruisers and the county’s armored van following. After calling Seltzer, Kruger had a federal warrant issued for the search of Thomas Cooper’s farm. The sheriff had it signed by a local judge, and they left for Cooper’s property.
As Kruger watched the armored van and two patrol cars slowly drive down the gravel driveway, the silence of the afternoon was shattered by automatic gun fire from the farm house. Not small arms, but heavy, large caliber automatic rifle fire. The armored van stopped 50 yards from the farm house, steam spewing from under the hood. Kruger heard Sheriff Lamb curse, pick up the radio and yell, “Goddammit, return fire.”
In the chaos that followed, the relatively small caliber AR-15s carried by the deputies had little effect on the farm house. The deputies had taken refuge behind their squad cars and were returning fire as best they could. Kruger heard Hickman call out over the van’s loud speaker system, “Tommy, put your weapon down and come out with your hands above your head.”
Even using Sheriff Lamb’s binoculars, Kruger was unable to see inside the small farmhouse, so he directed his attention to the barn and outbuildings. He saw something inside the larger barn that brought back a long forgotten memory of a long forgotten investigation in Iraq. Realizing he had to get to the barn to confirm his suspicion, he tightened the tactical vest he had borrowed from the sheriff, zipped up his FBI windbreaker, and pulled his FBI cap down over his eyes. He laid the binoculars on the front seat of the sheriff's car and checked his Glock 19 to make sure it was primed. Taking it in his right hand, he looked for the best path to the barn. Then he bent over and started running. Lamb yelled for him to stop, but Kruger ignored the request as he used the squad cars and trees to avoid the attention of the occupant of the farm house. Several times, Kruger dove to the ground when bullets pinged close to his position. Finally, after zig-zagging his way to the barn, he arrived without getting shot.
Once inside, he holstered the Glock and went straight to a stack of boxes partially covered by a blue tarp. He yanked the tarp off and stared at fifteen shipping cartons. He looked around the barn and found a claw hammer to pry off the top of one of the crates. The contents of the carton made him shiver. Wrapped in their original factory protection were cushioned bricks of C4 explosives. He backed away from the cartons, retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and hit a speed dial.
Seltzer answered on the second ring, “What've you got?”
“Alan, get the military or somebody down here. I've got C4 coming out my ass. This is our guy. Hope he doesn't off himself before we can talk to him.”
The explosion obscured Seltzer’s response. The barn shook, dust fell from old rafters and the building creaked from the concussion. Realizing what had happened, Kruger brought the phone back to his ear and heard Seltzer yelling in the phone, “Sean! Sean, answer me, are you okay?”
Kruger said, “Yeah, I'm okay, we’re too late. The house just exploded. I'll call you back when I know more.”
All of the gunfire ceased with the destruction of the farm house and the silence was deafening. Sheriff Lamb's patrol car screeched to a halt several feet from the barn, and he ran into the barn. He stopped, stared at Kruger and yelled, “What the hell did you do that for?”
Kruger pointed to the crates and said, “Get several deputies and DO NOT let anyone enter this barn until the military gets here.”
Lamb walked over to the open crate, stared at the contents and said, “Ah, shit.” He immediately went back to his squad car and started barking orders.
Kruger walked out of the barn, stared at the smoldering remains of the farm house and mumbled, “Damn it, I needed to talk to him.” As he watched, deputies started getting organized putting crime scene tape around the remains of the farm house. A few small fires were burning within the debris, but no
thing seemed to be getting out of control.
Realizing more explosives could be stored in the other buildings, Kruger hurried over to check their contents. He carefully searched the first one and found only lawn mowers and garden tools. The second building was being used as a garage. Parked inside was a Chevy Malibu, the same car he had seen in the picture taken at the Atlanta airport long term parking. He checked the license plate and confirmed it was the car from the picture. And on the front passenger seat was a cell phone.
Using his windbreaker to cover his hand, Kruger opened the car door, grabbed the cell phone, slipped it into his pocket and closed the door.
Chapter 20
Alexandria, VA
Thursday
Roy Griffin woke, disoriented, to the sound of a phone ringing. By the time he was coherent enough to understand it was his cell phone, the call was sent to voicemail. He retrieved the caller ID and immediately knew it was not good news. His wife was in California visiting her mother and normally did not call after 9 p.m. Eastern Time. The cell phone showed the time as 1:05 a.m.
Skipping the voicemail message, he immediately called her back. She answered on the first ring.
“Roy, Mom’s cancer is back.”
Roy could tell she was crying. “How bad is it, Cheryl?”
“They’re not expecting her to live through the weekend. Please come home, I need you. She needs you.”
“Okay, I’ll get the first flight I can find this morning. Are you at the hospital now?”
“Yes, she’s asleep. I’m planning to stay the night.”
“Okay, tell her I’ll be there as soon as possible. Try to get some rest.”
“I will. Be careful. I love you.”
“I love you too. I’ll call you back as soon as I know about my flight.”
Roy ended the call and started going through a check list of what he needed to do. His first step was to call his administrative assistant, then call United to make a reservation. He didn’t have to pack; he was going home. But he would need a small suitcase with briefing papers. Finally, he would need to call the limo service for transportation to the airport.
By 2 a.m. he was done. His flight would leave Reagan International at 7 a.m. and arrive in San Francisco just after 11 a.m. Pacific Time. A limo service would pick him up in three-and-a-half hours.
Lying back in bed, his thoughts turned to his mother-in-law. She had been his biggest supporter during his run for Congress. In fact she was his campaign’s primary fundraiser. Her contacts and influence paved the way for winning the election. Many a late night were spent sitting in her living room, enjoying a good Napa cabernet sauvignon and discussing what his priorities would be once he was in Congress. She never doubted for a moment he would win the election. In her mind, it was inevitable. The realization she would be gone soon brought a tear to his eye. He would miss her encouragement, her guidance and her sense of right and wrong.
Memorial Day was only two weeks away and Congress was already getting ready for recess. Knowing he would not get back to sleep, he got up, opened his laptop and sent his assistant an email outlining his plans. He would not return until the second week in June. Staying away from Washington for an extended period would make Cheryl happy. She detested the place. Now they would both need to stay in California for a while to settle his mother-in-law’s extensive estate.
***
Billy Reid arrived early in the congressman’s neighborhood. One more reconnaissance to confirm when Griffin started his morning run. This morning, something was wrong. He watched the limo driver place a black suitcase in the trunk as the congressman entered the car’s back seat. Once the driver was behind the wheel, he backed the limo out of the driveway and sped away. With his pickup two miles away in the mall parking lot, following the limo was not going to happen. An unfortunate development. As he rode back to the pickup, he wondered where the congressman was going and how long he would be gone.
When he returned to his apartment, he checked the congressman's website, there was an update in his Schedule a Meeting link, The Congressman will be in his home district until after the Memorial Day recess. He will return to Washington the second week in June. Billy stared at the message. Griffin would be away from Washington for the next four weeks. A full week outside the timeline he was supposed to follow. He wasn’t sure how Ortega would react, but there was not much he could do about it.
The communications to and from Ortega took most of the afternoon, but confirmed he would wait until the congressman returned. The job had to be done in Washington, D.C.
Billy had no problem waiting. He had plenty of money, plenty of video games, and now plenty of time to immerse himself in the experience.
***
Ortega read the first message from Billy, frowned, and deleted the message. He tapped his finger on the table next to his laptop. There would have to be another target before the congressman. There could not be a four-week gap in the assassinations. Pressure had to be kept up or the news media would lose interest. If the news media lost interest, so would Congress. If Congress lost interest, their demands—when made—would be ignored.
It was time to utilize Cooper's expertise again. After finishing the email draft to Cooper, he sent the text message with the new password.
The media coverage of the Kansas City operation had been splendid. Glancing at the clock on his laptop, it was time for a news update. He turned on CNN and stared horrified at the images on the TV. CNN had a helicopter hovering over the sight of a massive explosion on a farm outside of Atmore, AL. What shocked Ortega was the image of Thomas Cooper's driver’s license picture superimposed on the screen.
Had Thomas accidently detonated one of his bombs, or was it something else? He turned the volume up: “…first reports from the scene tell us a routine arrest attempt by the Escambia, Alabama, County Sheriff's Department may have led to an explosion leveling the residence of Thomas Cooper. There are no details on whether Mr. Cooper was present. It is also unknown if actions by the sheriff's department triggered the explosion.”
The image shifted from an aerial view of the chaos to an announcer sitting behind a desk.
“Preliminary reports indicate the detonation originated from within the house. In addition, we are told by a confidential source Cooper was a person of interest in the Kansas City bombing that occurred last Monday. No other details are known at this time.”
Ortega tried to remain calm as he listened and stared at the TV. The anchor continued, “We now have a correspondent on the scene. We take you to Scott Burnett.”
The view switched to a reporter standing in a road. Behind him, in the distance, the smoldering remains of the house served as a backdrop.
“We are standing at the entrance to a small farm seven miles east of Atmore, Alabama. This is as close as local law enforcement will allow us at this time. Neighbors have identified the owner as Thomas Cooper. He’s described as an outstanding young man, volunteer fireman and Iraq war veteran. We are told he volunteers at a local animal shelter and helps his neighbors during hard times. The sheriff's department has not made any comments at this time. Scott Burnett, CNN.”
Ortega started pacing. He rubbed his forehead with his hands and his breathing quickened. Mumbling to himself he said, “Has the FBI found one of us faster than expected? I knew someone would be caught, but Cooper had only completed one job.”
He stopped pacing and stared at the TV again. “Did you set off the explosion yourself, Cooper? If you did, I hope you made sure your laptop didn’t survive.”
As he watched the images on TV, the question about the laptop, and wondering if the FBI could discover anything incriminating, made him breathe even harder. He placed his palms on his forehead and his eyes widened.
“Oh shit. Cooper’s cell phone has my number on it.”
He walked to the night stand of the hotel room, where his cell phone was located, and turned it off. Taking the back off the phone, he removed the battery and SIMM card. He fl
ushed the SIMM card down the hotel toilet. Tomorrow he would get another phone and inform the remaining members of his team about the new number.
The CNN reporter was introduced again and said, “We’ve been told additional FBI agents are in route to this location to assist the lone FBI agent currently on site. Both the on-site FBI agent and the Escambia County Sheriff's Department have not issued a statement or answered any of our questions. One development we’ve observed over the past hour is an increasing number of deputies guarding a barn behind the house.”
“Wait a minute.” There was a pause as the reporter turned to his right. “I’m seeing a convoy of military Humvees rapidly approaching. They just made a detour across a corn field heading directly toward the barn we just mentioned.”
Ortega continued to stare at the TV.
“Damn, they found the C4.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Cooper, you idiot.”
The camera followed as five Humvees sped across the field toward the barn, the lead vehicle stopping in front while the others parked strategically around the building. As each stopped moving, soldiers emerged in full battle dress armed with automatic weapons. An older uniformed man without a helmet stepped out of the lead Humvee. He was met by a tall man in a blue polo shirt and a man with a FBI windbreaker. They all hurried into the barn as two other soldiers quickly closed the doors to the barn. Two additional soldiers took up station outside the door and stood guard. As the camera continued to focus on the barn, the correspondent said, “I believe we just saw the sheriff of Escambia County and the FBI agent meet the commander of the military convoy.”
Ortega stopped paying attention. He knew exactly what had happened. Cooper had stored all of their C4 in the barn. All the work they had done to secure it was now wasted.
He slammed his fist on the desk and screamed, “Damn you, Cooper.”
After several more minutes of watching the events in Alabama, he started packing.