Hildebrandt found that it was becoming difficult for him to distinguish his personal failure to apprehend Paul Devinn from the human consequences of that failure. He could imagine how frustrating it must be trying to cuff a serial killer—a forensic scour of the latest crime scene each time halving the distance to the assailant, but never quite closing the gap.
Fortunately, the FBI CIRG team had been able to use plant security records to place the security contractor’s van near the epicenter in the minutes leading up to the blast. That there was anything left of the vehicle was part of the mystery. Buried beneath twisted office chairs and a one-ton snowplow blade was what he believed were the flattened remains of a Ford Econoline van, vehicle identification number WFMHC4313NE227421.
Hildebrandt heard his cellular telephone ring. “Hello?”
“Is this agent Hilderman?”
“This is Ed Hildebrandt. Can I help you?”
“My name’s Eric Walker, I’m a corporate ombudsman with Hertz Leasing. I’m calling about an agreement we had to monitor two open credit card accounts in our system.”
One of which was probably a flyer, Hildebrandt recalled. He placed his hand over his exposed ear in order to hear the telephone. “Has something turned up?”
“The Maryland State Police have issued an all-points bulletin for a rental car flagged to one of the credit cards.”
“Good. When was this?”
“It came across my screen this morning. I’m told the police contacted us late in the day Friday.” The Hertz representative explained what the company knew about the use of the vehicle during the alleged abduction. Apparently, the rape victim had pocketed a business card she found in the trunk of the vehicle used during her abduction. Along with forensic analysis of automotive carpet fibers, they were able to link the name of a Chicago pharmaceutical rep to a specific series of rental agreements. “I thought you guys ought to know, in case you didn’t already.”
Hildebrandt watched as the Caterpillar’s turbocharged diesel engine belched a dark plume into the gray dawn sky. The chain attached to its bucket on one end and buried wreckage on the other became taut. Above the diesel roar came snapping and shrieking, as the wreckage slipped forward—and stubbornly hung up. The big tractor’s forged iron tracks bit into the ground...a loud pop announced the crushed vehicle ripping clear of the other debris.
“Did the state police provide you a number for contacting them?” Hildebrandt wrote it down on the palm of his hand. He really had no desire to play footsie with state cops over details of their investigation.
Thanking the man for the call, Hildebrandt blinked his eyes and squinted to see through the cloud of ash. Yards of rubble had not insulated the vehicle’s carcass from the inferno; wheel rims and a chromium door handle were about all to suggest it had ever been a vehicle. Everything glass and aluminum had been shattered or melted away, including, in all likelihood, the vehicle’s identification placards. He waited for clues in the expressions of workmen armed with powerful grinding wheels that at least one VIN had survived.
Minutes later the sparks stopped spraying. One of the men pulled something from the driver’s doorframe, slid his Plexiglas shield back over his forehead and studied the object in his hand. The recovery laborer turned and headed toward Hildebrandt.
“Melted?” Hildebrandt asked, reading the man’s face.
“No.” He held up the distorted remains of the aluminum placard, about the size of an index card, for Hildebrandt to inspect. “It’s ground off.”
“Ouch. They shouldn’t ought’a done that. It’s illegal.”
“I bet all of ’em are ground off.”
Hildebrandt looked at the wreck. “Do you think you can find the engine serial number?”
“No problem.”
The seasoned New Jersey recovery workers took the setback in stride. Armed with six-foot pry bars, a sledgehammer, and an oxy-acetylene torch, they attacked the flattened remains of the engine compartment. Meanwhile, somber-faced men and women from the Critical Incident Response Group—the second to be dispatched from Quantico in less than a week—huddled nearby, to partake in debate as to why the terrorists’ explosive device had not shredded the van’s sheet metal body. Could it be this was not really the vehicle? Word of the mutilated VIN placard brought minutes of quiet reflection. The alleged terrorists were being detained by the Bureau for questioning, but were refusing to talk. Instead of detonating a high-order explosive device, had they launched a grenade? It was suggested that this could explain the wholesale failure of emergency shut-off valves prior to the blast—but then, how had the terrorists concealed from security whatever it was they had used?
Forty minutes later, the difficult tasks of cutting and prying and hammering had come to a halt. The sweat-streaked, soiled face of a man twisted as he struggled to pry the fender apart from the engine block while his partner wedged himself in between. Residue vulcanized onto the crankcase had to be wire brushed away. The critical region of the serialized engine block was finally exposed.
Hildebrandt accepted the grimy slip of paper from a callused and bloodied hand.
The laborer assured the FBI investigator the serial number was accurate. “I checked it three times.” Steady pools of white and hazel examined him from beneath the rim of a hard-hat. “When you find the other mother-fuckers who did this, save us the time and expense of a trial.”
Hildebrandt smiled and thanked the man. He began the half-mile trek back through the debris field to where he had parked his car. While pausing near the refinery complex perimeter, he speed-dialed Agent Brophy’s telephone number.
“So we don’t have the VIN?” Brophy responded with deep disappointment. He had spent all day Friday, and as soon as businesses re-opened this morning, working the Internet, phone, and fax machine from inside the Newark office. Compiling a database of vehicle identity numbers for every registered late model van in the northeastern United States was no small task, a list that had to include every privately owned van whether stolen or not, and every leasing company van whether currently leased or not. By late Friday evening, three turned up as registered to Carl Smith, and these were subsequently confirmed as legitimate by local authorities. A fourth C. Smith recently rented a late model Ford Econoline, the same type that the injured security guard described as having been driven by the two apprehended suspects. If Paul Devinn, a.k.a. C. Smith, fronted the vehicle for use by the Iranians, he had done so very cleverly. Unlike the practice of the major nationals, the Elizabeth, New Jersey rental outfit had accepted cash on the deposit instead of a credit card.
“Just get Ford Motor to cross-reference the engine to the VIN,” Hildebrandt suggested. “How long a drive is it to Baltimore?”
“Two hours or so. Why?”
Hildebrandt relayed his telephone call with the Hertz representative.
“Bingo—that’s two independent leads!” Brophy whistled. “This guy sure keeps himself busy. I say we shoot on down there.”
“No kidding. Get hold of Ford and try to make it snappy. I’m coming by to pick you up.”
“Hold the phone. Do you happen to remember that truck we saw leaving the GWB?”
“With the hydraulic crane attached to the bed?” Hildebrandt tried to envision the truck that he and Brophy had witnessed supposedly driving off with evidence. It had been too dark to see the faces of the figures seated inside. “The transit authority guy said there was a deputy assistant director at the wheel.”
“Yep. There aren’t many outfits rent them, but one responded to our inquiry last night. Guy left me some nasty words about the Bureau making him run all the way down to Newark Airport to retrieve his truck.”
“There’s a moral to this story?” Hildebrandt climbed behind the wheel of his car.
“Good public servant that I am, I called the guy back to find out if we owed him a drop-off charge. Guess whose name was on the invoice? ‘C. Smith.’ ”
“No way. The rental guy’s records are all fucked-up.�
��
“That was my reaction. But how many crane trucks do you suppose were rented that night, and how many ended up at the only New York metropolitan airport open for business? Both this crane truck Smith, and the Econoline Smith, plopped down cash. There’s also no record that a Mr. Lee ever rented one of his trucks.”
“Maybe the guy on the GW bridge was wrong when he told us who was behind the wheel. Or another rental company, then.”
“There’s only two. The other outfit claims not to have rented that model for over a month. Look, why not? The Bureau’s linked the Iranians to both attacks, and we already think Devinn fronted the refinery truck.”
“Uh-huh. Although, I once heard that Smith is a pretty popular name.”
“Duh-huh. I went ahead and sent a rookie out to compile a description of both Carl Smiths.”
“We have enough on our hands without trouble-shooting some poor schmuck’s book-keeping, but I guess it’s worth a sniff. So here’s a question for you. What’s it mean if we learn the FBI brass was driving off with Devinn?”
“Right!”
“No, really.”
“Hell...I hate to even think of it... Internal Affairs?”
The hunt for Devinn was confusing enough on its own, Hildebrandt thought. The potential for their investigation to take on new dimensions daunted both men into a long silence.
“I think we can safely postpone that,” Hildebrandt finally said. “At least until we have a chance to first go back and really quiz the transit authority guy. So, where are we on Smith’s credit card number?”
“Right. The same credit card number has so far shown up on C. Smith’s Four Seasons hotel invoice and the elusive rental car. By now the Maryland cops have probably pieced together this much just by chasing down the corporate lawyer abduction.”
Hildebrandt reluctantly agreed. Other than the outstanding Hertz account, they didn’t seem to have much of anything. “It’s unfortunate that the rental car hasn’t been flagged passing through any toll booths.”
“He might be sticking to secondary roads. There haven’t been any sightings by local police.”
Hildebrandt maneuvered his car through the barricade erected by the National Guard and headed for the Parkway. He figured that Devinn simply swapped plates with somebody in a mall parking lot who hasn’t discovered it yet. “Doesn’t the guy drink, eat, or sleep? Where does he get his cash?”
“I’m working that angle with Treasury.”
“These vehicles seem to be the only place he’s revealing himself. If you’re right about him renting the crane truck, then the last two rental transactions...Nick, we must’ve spooked him! These last two were cash transactions. Either he’s spooked or he’s being very, very cagey.”
“If he’s so cagey, why not just use another identity we don’t know about yet?”
Devinn isn’t only outsmarting us, Hildebrandt thought, he keeps raising the stakes.
104
THE ELABORATE SOUND SYSTEM of the Situation Room reproduced the grisly transmission with such clarity that one might easily imagine oneself standing on the bridge of the doomed ship. A voice identified as that of the communications officer repeated his mayday alert. Dominating the background could be heard the executive officer informing all hands to brace for another impact, the staccato of Phalanx weapons fire and spent brass clattering over the deck, followed by a shouted expletive and a massive explosion.
CIA Director Lester Burns could not help but note the reactions around the table. The Chief of Naval Intelligence, Joint Chiefs Chairperson, and the Navy Secretary displayed conflicted emotions, mostly regret, and perhaps a level of guilt imbued with silent respect for the professional aplomb with which their brethren had conducted themselves. By contrast, the National Security Advisor and Defense Secretary shifted uncomfortably, listening in awe to what must seem to any political careerist as unfathomable carnage, while experiencing—Burns rather suspected—rekindled distrust at the apparent lack of revulsion in their military counterparts seated across the table.
Following the momentary break in transmission, the commo’s urgent voice returned. There was mayhem in the background as he tried to rush his mayday before the third of four incoming missiles; these the White House audience already knew would overwhelm the cruiser’s defenses. A barely audible hum, accompanied by a repeating time-stamp tick, signaled the end of USS O’Keefe’s final transmission.
Defense Secretary Erskin Daley broke the ensuing silence. “Mr. President, the JSTAR also intercepted telemetry between the missiles and the two frigates that fired them.” Neither Iranian warship had withstood the subsequent return salvo. Unlike the O’Keefe, both Iranian warships sank with all hands. “So, we know something about the missile type. The news isn’t good.”
“Sunburns?” asked CIA Director Burns with a disturbed frown. A cash-strapped Moscow had long tendered the SS-N-22 mach 2.5 missiles throughout Asia and the Middle East.
“They were Russian, all right. Russian Yakhont.”
“Carrier-busters,” Burns breathed. “Are we sure?”
“We matched the telemetry to data files produced by the Agency,” Daley said with a vicious sneer. “But as you are asking me, I suppose it’s a legitimate question.”
President Denis looked up from cradling his head in his hands. “How many people did we lose?”
“Dead or missing, twelve officers, ninety-six enlisted.”
“What sort of missile did you say this was?” asked the President’s national security advisor.
“The Yakhont cruise missile is an advanced supersonic, anti-ship surface-skimmer,” Burns replied. “The Raduga Design Bureau in Dubna developed it. The Russians began fielding them a decade or so ago. We know China has acquired them. We’ve had suspicions but no real proof that any had actually been sold to Iran.”
President Denis leveled his gaze on Burns. “Any other surprises we ought to know about, Lester?”
Burns didn’t reply.
“Mr. Daley?”
“Yes, sir. Of forty-eight Tomahawks launched, at least thirty-nine impacted their intended targets.” He proceeded to explain that early damage assessment was difficult; their overhead imagery remained heavily obscured by smoke from petroleum fires, and they were waiting for a ground imaging radar spysat to complete a pass. Meanwhile, the U.S. Navy was calling it roughly seventy percent, which Daley considered a solid achievement given the rules of engagement—none of the impacted targets included military radar installations or any of Iran’s defensive assets, notwithstanding their two frigates. Conversely, Iranian MiG 29s armed with air-to-air missiles destroyed eight American cruise missiles. “Ahwaz received relatively minor damage,” Daley said, “but we still succeeded in wiping out, oh, thirty per cent of Iran’s refining capacity. We also think one of our Tomahawks may have been either jammed or malfunctioning before landing harmlessly into a vacant mosque.”
“Did you say mosque?” The Secretary of State latched onto the thing landing suddenly in his lap. “Our friends in the press won’t report that as being harmless.”
Secretary Daley looked at his fellow cabinet member and said nothing.
Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairperson General Marcia Fuller responded matter-of-factly. “Sources on the ground verified there weren’t any worshippers inside. Besides, Mr. Secretary, over a hundred grieving American families won’t care what your friends say.”
The President rose abruptly from his place at the head of the table. “They’ll say that we gave Tehran a taste of their own medicine. Let me know what’s in store for the families of these lost sailors...have someone on Laynas’s staff help you with preparing a statement.”
“Very well, sir,” Marcia Fuller replied resignedly.
The post-operation briefing was adjourned. Herman waited outside the Sit Room and approached the President as he stepped through the doorway. “Howard, I’ve got a suggestion to make, if I may.”
Denis glanced wearily at his security advisor. “Meet me
in the office.”
TWO HOURS WAS THE BLINK of an eye by standards of international diplomacy, or as in this instance, the lack of it. President Denis had quickly agreed with Tom Herman that the matter called for leveraging his cozy rapport with Dietrich Schumpeter, current administrator of the International Monetary Fund. The links of the communication chain closed quickly. The Russian president hastily canceled plans to attend the Chaykovskiy Conservatory and convened his aides with a translator inside his Kremlin office.
“What is going on, Mr. President?” asked President Vladimir Smirnoff, expending probably most of his English vocabulary, his Muscovite accent betraying annoyance.
Denis and Herman waited as Smirnoff’s translator delivered the Russian version of their apology for disrupting the president’s evening.
Denis’s translator today was an attractive NSA linguist named Renee Pierce. “No matter, Mr. President,” Ms. Pierce translated the Russian’s reply. “We altered our schedule to assess developments...”—Smirnoff refrained periodically from his dialogue to allow its translation, a cumbersome exercise that nonetheless became automatic—“...to assess these disturbing developments in Iran. I extend Russia’s condolences for the loss of America’s servicemen.”
Denis chose to remain silent.
Smirnoff, by way of Price, resumed. “I have already expressed my concern that what we see transpiring in the Gulf region...poses risks, even of redrawing geopolitics...but I am getting ahead with this. Why now and of all things would you propose Russia accelerate payment of her debt?”
“You surprise me, President Smirnoff,” said Denis, according to script. “Events in the Arabian Sea make it clear that Russia has at her disposal financial resources other than this miniscule $96 billion dollar loan.” Denis intentionally included in that number the $22 billion Paris Club debt under dispute by the Duma.
Silence. Smirnoff blurted another question. Pierce translated: “What does this mean?”
Denis leaned forward and placed his lips close to the desktop conference phone. “Why, Russia sold Iran the Yakhont missiles which today killed over one-hundred Americans. I trust Iran had to pay dearly for the ability to slaughter Americans. So why would you need such a loan?”
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