The Collectors cc-2

by David Baldacci

  Reuben nudged him. “Look,” he said, pointing at a sign on the wall.

  “Fire Control, Inc. We know that,” Stone said impatiently.

  “Read the name below that.”

  Stone sucked in a breath. “Fire Control is a subsidiary of Paradigm, Technologies, Inc.”

  “Cornelius Behan’s company,” Reuben muttered.

  Caleb sat fidgeting in the Nova, his gaze on the fenced area. “Come on,” he said. “What’s taking so long?”

  He suddenly plopped down sideways in his seat. A car passed by him on its way to the storage facility. After it had gone past, he sat back up and his heart nearly skipped a beat. It was a private security cruiser; in the backseat was a large German shepherd.

  Caleb pulled out his cell phone to call Stone, but the battery was dead. He was forever forgetting to charge the damn thing because he didn’t like talking on it in the first place.

  “Dear God!” Caleb groaned. He took a deep breath. “You can do this, Caleb Shaw. You can do this.” He let out a deep breath, focused and then quoted dramatically from one of his favorite poems to pluck up his courage. “Half a league, half a league, / Half a league onward, / All in the valley of Death / Rode the six hundred. / ‘Forward, the Light Brigade! / Charge for the guns!’ he said: / Into the valley of Death / Rode the six hundred.” He paused and looked up ahead where the real-life drama was unfolding with attack dogs and armed men, and his backbone began to bend ominously. The rest of his courage faded as he reflected on the fact that the damn Light Brigade had been wiped out.

  He snapped, “Tennyson didn’t know shit about real danger!”

  Caleb climbed out of the car and made his way hesitantly toward the fence.

  Back outside, Stone and Reuben headed toward the truck.

  Stone said, “Keep a lookout while I check.” He scampered up in the bed of the truck; it had an open back, with wooden slats all around to keep the cargo in. He used his light to see the painted labels on the cylinders. All but one read “Halon 1301.” The other’s label read “FM-200.” Stone pulled from his jacket pocket a small can of turpentine and a rag that he’d taken from the storage building, and started applying turpentine over the cylinder with the label FM-200.

  “Come on, come on,” Reuben said, his gaze darting in all directions.

  As the coat of paint started to dissolve, Stone stopped rubbing and shone his light on the label that had been painted over. He rubbed some more until it was finally revealed. “CO2,” he read. “Five thousand ppm.”

  “Oh, hell!” Reuben hissed. “Run for it, Oliver.”

  Stone looked over the side of the truck. The canine was just stepping out of the security cruiser near the front gate.

  Stone jumped down, and keeping the truck between them and the cruiser, they hustled toward the fence. However, the truck could not hide their scent from the dog. Stone and Reuben heard it howl, and then they could hear the four legs headed their way, followed by the two guards.

  Stone and Reuben sprang onto the fence and started climbing. The dog reached them and sank its teeth into Reuben’s pant leg.

  Outside the gate, Caleb watched helplessly from a hiding place, uncertain of what to do but trying to screw up his courage to attempt some action.

  “Hold it right there,” a voice called out. Reuben was trying to kick his leg free, but the dog was holding on tight. Stone looked down and saw the two guards, their guns pointed at them.

  “Come down from there, or the dog’ll take your leg off,” a guard snapped. “Now!”

  Stone and Reuben slowly climbed down. The same guard called off the dog. It retreated a bit, its teeth still bared.

  “I think this is all a simple misunderstanding,” Stone began.

  “Right, tell it to the cops,” the other guard snarled.

  “We’ll take over from here, boys,” a woman’s voice called out.

  They all looked over. Standing outside the gate beside her black sedan was Annabelle. Milton stood next to her, wearing a blue windbreaker and a ball cap with “FBI” stenciled on it.

  “Who the hell are you?” one of the guards said.

  “FBI Agents McCallister and Dupree.” She held up her creds and opened her jacket so they could see her badge and also the gun on her belt holster. “Open the gate and keep the damn doggie off us,” she snapped.

  “What the hell is the FBI doing around here?” the same guard said nervously as he ran over to the gate and unlocked it.

  Annabelle and Milton stepped through. She said to Milton, “Read ’em their rights and cuff ’em.” Milton took out two pairs of handcuffs and headed over to Stone and Reuben.

  “Wait a minute,” the other guard said. “We catch anybody trespassing, our orders are to call the police.”

  Annabelle got in the plump young man’s face, looking him up and down. “How long have you been in, uh, security, kid?”

  “Thirteen months. I’m weapons-certified,” he said defiantly.

  “Sure you are. But put your damn gun away before you accidentally shoot somebody, like me.” He reluctantly holstered his weapon as Annabelle held up her creds again. “This trumps the local cops every time, okay?” The realistic-looking credentials, which were part of a packet she’d had Freddy make for her just in case, were what Annabelle kept in her tampon box.

  The guard swallowed nervously. “But we got procedures.” He pointed at Stone and Reuben, whom Milton was handcuffing. On the back of Milton’s windbreaker was also stenciled “FBI.” They’d gotten that at the novelty shop along with their fake guns, badges and handcuffs. “And they were trespassing.”

  Annabelle laughed. “Trespassing!” She put her hands on her hips. “Do you even know who you’ve got here? Do you?”

  The guards glanced at each other. “Two old bums?” one of them answered.

  “Hey, you little son of a bitch,” a handcuffed Reuben roared in mock fury, and jumped forward. Milton instantly drew his pistol and placed it against the side of Reuben’s head, shouting, “Shut the hell up, lard-ass, before I blow your damn head off.”

  Reuben immediately froze.

  Annabelle said, “The big ‘pleasant’ guy over there is Randall Weathers, wanted on four counts of drug dealing, money laundering, two charges of murder in the first and the bombing of a federal judge’s home in Georgia. The other guy is Paul Mason, aka Peter Dawson, among sixteen other phony names. This asshole’s got a direct line to a Middle East terrorist cell operating in the shadow of the Capitol. We’ve been running a wiretap on his cell phone and e-mail. We picked up his trail tonight and followed it right here. Looks like they were doing a recon to steal some explosive gas. We think they were targeting the Supreme Court this time. Park a truck of that stuff in front with a timer and watch all nine justices get blown right to hell.” She looked over at Stone and Reuben in disgust. “You guys are going down all the way this time. All the way,” she added ominously.

  “Damn, Earl,” one of the guards said excitedly to his partner. “Terrorists!”

  Annabelle took out a notebook. “Let me get your names. The Bureau will want to know who to give commendations to for helping with the bust.” She smiled. “And I think I see big raises in both your futures.”

  The two guards looked at each other, grinning. “Hot damn,” the one named Earl exclaimed. They gave her their names and then she turned to Milton. “Get ’em in the cruiser, Dupree. The sooner these slimeballs are at WFO, the better.” She turned back to the guards. “We’ll bring the locals in, but only after we’ve done a little ‘interrogation’ of these boys, FBI-style.” She winked at the guards. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  They both grinned knowingly at her. “Kick the crap out of ’em both,” Earl said.

  She said, “Roger that. We’ll be in touch.”

  They put Stone and Reuben in the backseat of the sedan and drove off.

  Caleb waited until the guards were out of sight, then raced back to the Nova and followed Annabelle’s car.


  Inside the sedan, Milton took the handcuffs off Stone and Reuben.

  “Milton, you were talking some serious trash back there,” Reuben said proudly.

  Milton beamed. He took his ball cap off, and his long hair streamed down.

  Stone said to Annabelle, “When you do backup, you really do backup. Thanks.”

  “In for a dime, in for a dollar,” she said. “Where to now?”

  “My place,” Stone answered. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  CHAPTER 38

  ROGER SEAGRAVES DROVE HIS rental car slowly through the quiet streets of the affluent D.C. neighborhood, turning left onto Good Fellow Street. At this hour most of the large homes were dark. As he passed the late Jonathan DeHaven’s house, he seemed not to even glance over. Another thunderstorm had come his way. He was getting a little tired of the weather pattern. But it really was the perfect setup; he couldn’t let it pass. He kept driving slowly, as though he were just on a leisurely tour admiring the old mansions. Next he drove around the block and made his way down the parallel street, carefully noting the lay of the land.

  Observing it and coming up with a plan, however, were two very different things. He needed time to think. One observation had caught his eye: the house across the street from Behan’s. A person with a pair of binoculars was in there watching. Watching what? Regardless, he would have to take that into account when preparing his attack. And when eyes were watching, there was only one way to kill and then get away.

  After he had finished his reconnoiter, Seagraves parked his rental car at a hotel. Gripping a briefcase, he walked into the bar, had a drink and then took the elevator up as though going to his room. He waited an hour and then took the stairs down. Exiting the building through another door, Seagraves slid into another car he had waiting in an adjacent parking lot. He had something else to do tonight besides contemplating another murder.

  He drove to a motel, drawing a key out of his pocket as he exited his car. With ten quick strides he was at the door of a room on the second level overlooking the parking lot. He opened the door but did not turn on the light. He walked quickly to the door connecting to the next room, unlocked it and went through. As he stepped into the second room, Seagraves could sense the other person’s presence but said nothing. He took off his clothes and climbed into bed with her. She was soft, curvy, warm and, most important of all for his purposes, a shift supervisor at NSA.

  An hour later, each of them satisfied, he dressed and smoked a cigarette while she showered. He knew that she had taken the same steps he had to avoid being followed, and the NSA had so many employees it simply couldn’t keep track of them all. And she’d never given anyone any reason to show interest in her, which was why he’d recruited her for his operation. And they were both single, so even if the rendezvous were discovered, it would be put down to simple sex between two consenting adults who happened to be federal employees, which, as yet, was not illegal in America.

  The water in the shower stopped. He knocked on the bathroom door and opened it. He helped her out of the shower, gave her naked ass a squeeze and dropped another kiss on her.

  “I love you,” she said, nuzzling his ear.

  “You mean you love the money,” he answered back.

  “That too,” she cooed, dropping her hand to his crotch and pressing against him.

  “One a night,” he said. “I’m not eighteen anymore.”

  She gripped his muscular shoulders. “Could’ve fooled me, baby.”

  “Next time,” he said, slapping her butt hard and leaving a red mark.

  “Be rough again,” she said, breathing in his ear. “Make me hurt.”

  “I don’t know any other way.”

  She pushed him against the wall, her damp breasts wetting his shirt, and ripped at his hair as she tried to stick her tongue all the way down his throat. “God, you are so damn sexy,” she moaned.

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  He tried to pull away but she wouldn’t let go. “The money wire goes out on schedule?” she asked in between jabs of her tongue.

  “As soon as I get my cash, you get yours, sweetie.” And she cooed again, and this time let him free after he’d given her butt another hard slap, leaving a mark on the other cheek.

  Yes, stupid, it really was all about the money.

  While she finished in the bathroom, he walked back into the other room, flicked on a light, grabbed her purse off the nightstand and slid the digital camera out of one of the inner pockets. He thumbed the twenty-gig hard drive out of the slot and used his fingernail to scrape off a small black veneer from the back of the inch-long drive. He stared at the miniature object for a few seconds. Tiny in size, it represented at least $10 million, maybe more, to an eager buyer in the Middle East who did not like America knowing his plans of death and destruction for those who opposed him.

  The information on this black gem would balance out the fight, at least for a little while, until NSA figured out that their new surveillance program had been compromised. Then they’d change it, Seagraves would get another call and he, in turn, would make a call. Then a few days later he’d go to another motel, screw the lady again, peel off another veneer and make another eight figures. Repeat business was his staple. They’d continue to do it until NSA started to realize that the mole was somewhere close. Then Seagraves would shut the operation down at NSA, for a while anyway, since bureaucrats tended to have short memories. In the meantime he’d just go after another target. And there were so many.

  He used a bit of gum to stick the piece of veneer containing digital details of NSA’s surveillance program behind one of his front teeth. Then he went to the first motel room he’d entered, where another change of clothes hung in the closet. He showered, changed and left, walking along the street for a few blocks, then grabbed a bus, rode it to a rental car shop, slid into another leased ride and drove home.

  He spent an hour digging the information out of the tiny device and another hour putting it in proper form for passing on. As a spy Seagraves had long been an enthusiastic student of secret codes and the history of cryptology in general. Nowadays computers encrypted and decrypted messages automatically. The most secure systems used keys consisting of hundreds or even thousands of digits—far longer than the actual messages being encrypted. At the very least, breaking the strongest of these keys required enormous computing power and thousands if not millions of years. This was so because modern-day cryptologists assumed that the coded messages would be intercepted and thus had engineered their encryption systems for that eventuality. Their mantra could be: You can intercept it, but you almost certainly can’t read it.

  Seagraves had opted for a more vintage method of encryption, one that, because of the way the messages were communicated, might be even more unbreakable than the modern-day, computer-generated juggernauts for one simple reason: If you couldn’t intercept the message, you had zero chance of reading it. There was something to be said, he mused, for the old ways. Even the NSA, with all its technological might, could learn a lesson from that.

  After he had finished that task, he fell into bed.

  Instead of sleeping, though, all he could think about was his next kill. That would enhance his precious “collection” by one.

  Back at his cottage, Stone quickly brought the others up to date on what they’d found. When he’d mentioned the hidden lettering on the cylinder reading “CO2, 5,000 ppm,” Milton had immediately gotten on his laptop where he’d stored pertinent downloaded files from the Internet. After Stone had finished speaking, Milton said, “CO2 is almost never used in occupied spaces because it can suffocate people as it instantly takes oxygen content out of the air to extinguish fires. At five thousand parts per million it would be rapidly fatal for someone standing nearby; he’d be overcome before he could escape. And it’s not a pleasant way to die.”

  Annabelle made a coughing noise, stood and went over to look out the window.

  “And I presume it has a coo
ling effect,” Stone said hastily, eyeing her with concern.

  Milton nodded as he scanned his screen. “With high-pressure systems there’s a discharge of dry ice particles. They call it a snow effect because it rapidly absorbs heat, reduces ambient temp and helps prevent flash and reignition of the fire. The snow turns to vapor under normal temperatures and leaves no residue.”

  Stone added, “By the time Caleb and DeHaven were found in the vault, the O2 levels had probably returned to almost normal, and any lingering chill would be put down to the extraordinary levels of cooling in the vaults.”

  “But if DeHaven were killed by CO2 suffocation, wouldn’t that have turned up in the autopsy?” Reuben asked.

  While they’d been talking, Milton’s hands had been flying over his keyboard. “Not necessarily. This is information I downloaded earlier from a site sponsored by a national medical examiners’ organization. While carbon monoxide poisoning can be detected postmortem by the cherry-red appearance of the skin, carbon dioxide exposure doesn’t leave such clear-cut signs.” Reading from the screen, Milton said, “The only way to detect low levels of oxygen in a person is through a blood gas test which measures the ratio of oxygen to carbon dioxide in a person’s blood. But that test is only done on the living to see if oxygen levels need to be increased. It’s never done postmortem for the simple fact that the person’s dead.”

  Caleb added, “From what I was told afterward Jonathan was pronounced dead in the vault. He wasn’t even taken to the emergency room.”

  Stone said, “The cylinder they removed with the label FM-200 was the one I focused on, for obvious reasons.”

  “I’m not getting what you mean,” Reuben replied.

  “The library’s scrapping the halon system. If I’m right and they brought in a cylinder full of deadly CO2 with the wrong label to disguise it, they wouldn’t have been bringing halon back to the library; that would have raised suspicion.”