He walked past his front steps without so much as glancing sideways at his neighbor’s house. Then he continued around the corner and into the alley behind the row of houses. He’d been as quiet as he could opening the back gate and making his way across the narrow yard, not wanting to attract any attention from his neighbor. But when he stepped into the kitchen and reached for the light switch, he stopped, his hand in midair.
What’s this? Something is different.
He scanned the semidarkened kitchen, where he could see fairly well because of the alley streetlight. Nothing seemed to be out of place. And certainly no place here for someone to hide. The door to the front hall was open, and there was light coming from the front streetlights there, too. He listened, but all he heard were normal sounds: the next-door neighbor’s heater running down in the basement; the ticking of a small clock on the electric oven, the night wind stirring halfheartedly across the back porch, pushing a small draft of cold air through the partially open kitchen door.
Then he had it. Not a sound. A smell. The smell of food.
He had neither cooked nor eaten cooked food in the house since he’d been there. But he could definitely smell food, and it was an exotic scent. He finally recognized it: the same scent that had permeated the apartments of the Arab underground in Hamburg and, later, Berlin. Middle Eastern spices. That’s what he was smelling. And since it wasn’t likely to be coming from his neighbor’s kitchen, it meant that someone who stank of Middle Eastern food had been in his house, and maybe was still there. He lowered his hand and felt for his pistol, easing it out of the pocket. Then, one-handed, he shed his overcoat, hat, and shoes as soundlessly as possible while still standing just inside the back door. He slipped the safety off the gun and nudged the slide back to make sure a round was chambered. He nudged the kitchen door shut with his heel.
He’d made no effort to keep quiet when entering the house, so if someone was waiting, they’d know he was inside. They. More than one? But where? He could see down the hall. He moved to his left in stocking feet, sliding across the linoleum until he was standing partially in the dining room and could see into the living room. The brace structure was still in place, and the living room furniture all looked right. Nothing visibly disturbed. Sliding his feet across the floor again, he went around the brace and into the living room, crouching slightly, gun ready, until he reached the front door. He checked the locks, but everything was in order. He peered up into the darkened stairwell.
Upstairs, then.
No, wait. The basement.
He stepped into the hall, staying close to the wall to avoid creaking boards, listening carefully for any signs of movement upstairs, but still he heard nothing. The door to the basement was under the stairs. He reached for the knob but then stopped. He knelt down and sniffed the door handle. The stink of Middle Eastern spices was on the doorknob itself.
All right.
The light switch for the basement stairs was right next to the door. He flipped it on, not opening the door.
If you’re down there, he thought, now you know I’ve found you.
He peered back around the corner of the stairs to make sure there wasn’t someone coming down the hall behind him, but there were no looming silhouettes—only the rectangles of amber light from outside flanking the front door. He recalled the layout of the basement: open-backed steps going down ten feet to the dirt floor, whitewashed rough stone walls, a concrete pad where the oil-fired heater and its service tank stood. Duct work and cast-iron bathroom drain-pipe spidering across the ceiling. The old coal scuttle at sidewalk level in the front wall. An ancient but apparently serviceable submersible pump sitting in a shallow well in the middle of the floor. A single-bulb light fixture hanging from the floor joists.
No place to hide at all once that light was on. Plus, anyone lurking down there could be so easily trapped. So, it was not likely anyone was down there. Not now anyway.
There was a latch bolt on the hallway side of the door. He slid the bolt into the closed position, then went upstairs, turning on lights as he went, making no effort to be quiet now. He was sure that someone had been in the house. Had been in the basement and was now gone. It just felt that way, and he’d learned to trust his instincts when it came to an ambush. The upstairs was clear, the marble blocks, the tools, everything just as he’d left it. He left the light on in the hall bathroom and in the room he was using as a bedroom, then went back downstairs. He thought he knew what was going on now.
He confirmed that the front and back doors were locked, and then he looked in all the downstairs closets and behind the furniture. Then he grabbed a flashlight and unlocked the basement door. He went halfway down the steps and looked around. The dirt floor was too hard-packed to show footprints, but the smell of food was present even down there, just barely discernible over the smells of heating oil and old plaster dust. He went over and examined the coal scuttle, which was big enough for a large man to get through, if he was then willing to drop seven feet from the sidewalk level onto the hard-packed dirt floor. But all along its sides, there were spiderwebs that obviously had not been disturbed in years, and the whitewashed stone walls bore no scuff marks.
So, the heating system. He went over to the heater, which contained the oil burner itself and the fan chamber, all attached to a large square metal duct that rose into the ceiling and then began branching out into feeder and return lines between the floor joists. He checked the cover of the heater control panel, which was attached by four small Phillips-head screws to the base of the heater. He pointed the flashlight at them and each one showed bright metal.
Suspicions confirmed.
He went back upstairs to the kitchen and peered out the back windows. Then he rooted around in the drawer that contained small household tools and found a screwdriver. Back in the basement, he unscrewed the cover plate and lifted it off. He found a maze of old fuzz-covered wiring, some switches, metal contacts, plastic splice caps, and one brand-new white wire that led to a small plastic cigarette pack–size box taped into an empty corner of the control unit. A second wire, this one black, came out of that box and went up through the connector fitting that transmitted power to the control panel. Tracing that wire, he found that it led across the back of the heater itself and over to the fuel tank. A tiny hole had been drilled high on the back of the fuel tank to admit that wire into the tank.
There were two fill fittings and one air vent on top of the tank. One of the fill fittings was hard-piped to a two-inch-diameter metal pipe leading to the fill valve out on the street. The other had a screw cap, which, upon close inspection, revealed a wafer-thin band of metal with what looked like a printed circuit engraved on it. This was wrapped tightly around the threads and made contact with the cap. He stood there for a moment. If he opened that cap, he might activate an antitampering circuit or other booby-trap device. But he knew what had to be in the tank. The electronics pack stuck into the controller box was probably a timer, set to go off a few minutes after noon on Friday.
Mutaib’s solution to his loose-end problem.
He would have to think about how to disable this bomb, because he would need a full minute, perhaps two, once the attack had been completed. Not much more, but definitely a better escape window than the mere seconds this device would probably allow. He’d planted some bombs of his own before, and he knew that cutting a wire could lead to uncertain and often adverse consequences. And since he didn’t know anything about the control or timing circuitry, he didn’t dare risk it. He knelt down on one knee and looked at the bottom of the fuel tank. Then he smiled. There was a drain valve, untouched, from the look of it. He looked over at the sump pump. That pump should move oil just as well as water.
Early Friday morning, he would drain the fuel tank and pump the heating oil into the city’s sewer system with the sump pump. The actual bomb couldn’t be very big, because it had to fit through that two-inch-diameter fill tube. Mutaib’s explosives man was probably counting on a two-stage f
uel-air explosion: a low-impulse explosive that would burst the tank and vaporize three hundred liters of heating oil into an explosive cloud that would fill every cubic centimeter of the basement, with ignition following in milliseconds by the much higher energy of the second-stage explosive. An entire basement full of fuel vapor would be quite sufficient to blow the entire duplex, both sides, into next week. But if he drained the fuel, not that much would happen. A fire perhaps, but he would have already started some of those by then.
And now he didn’t feel quite so bad about what he was going to do to Mutaib. He smiled again. As if he ever had.
11
SWAMP BALANCED A PAPER CUP OF COFFEE IN HIS LAP AS Bertie steered his Volvo sedan through the gate complex of the CIA headquarters building in Langley, Virginia. He had no government identification to show the gate guards, but Bertie was apparently senior enough to overcome that problem. Swamp was able to produce his retired Secret Service agent ID card when it came time to be badged into the building itself. The security guards had given that token offering a patronizing smile.
He was surprised when he saw Bertie’s office up on the fifth floor. “I didn’t know spooks had real corner offices,” he said. “I thought it was all secret handshakes in dark hotel rooms.”
“Most of us in the Agency are just bureaucrats with really expensive phones,” Bertie replied. There were three telephone consoles on his desk, one of which was set up for video teleconferencing. “Here’s the paperwork.”
Swamp was surprised, and showed it.
“Yeah, well, I thought you’d bite, so I took the liberty of having the Personnel Department write up the contract last night. Your security clearances were gapped for less than twenty-four hours, so we figured you hadn’t had time to go over to the Commies. That basically says you’re working exclusively for us as a contract consultant, one whose duties will be specified by competent authority in the due course of time, et cetera, et cetera. Here’s your walking-around paper.”
Bertie passed over a leather credentials folder that had Swamp’s photograph already laminated into the identification papers. Bertie smiled when he saw Swamp blink.
“This is the counterintelligence directorate,” he said. “We have a photograph of every federal law-enforcement officer in the country in our databanks. Plus your fingerprints and, of course, all your personal history, based on the Bureau’s background investigation. Those creds took fifteen minutes. Here’s your building pass, good for six months. I assume you have your own weapon?”
Swamp was almost too surprised to answer. “Uh, yeah, I had one issued on a subcustody basis yesterday morning. But that was before, uh—”
“Before they canned you for living up to your reputation. What were your plans for today, before DHS began behaving badly?”
“I had a canvass going of all the major realtors in town to see if any of them had done any business recently for the Royal Kingdom Bank. Your idea, actually.”
Bertie nodded, remembering. “When I was telling you to back off, wasn’t it? But that was then. This is now. Do you have any allies left?”
“Detective Cullen over in the District. And I can touch base with Gary White to see if he’s had any further responses from the realtors I called. I left them my OSI office telephone numbers. My previous office, that is. Otherwise, no. Now ask me about enemies.”
“Enemies are the people who still want your hide even after you’re gone. You don’t have any enemies.” He took back the contract, which Swamp had signed. “We’ll set you up with a virtual office here. Two numbers. One will always go to an innocuous-sounding voice mail. The other will go to a human operator who will make like you’re some kind of big deal. You know, ‘Mr. Morgan is not available. I can put you through to one of his executive assistant’s voice mail.’ And both are programmable, okay?”
“So if I tell some fibs about who I am…”
“Right, as long as you also tell your assigned operator, preferably in advance, although those people are pretty fast on their feet. Here’s what we want: Find this guy Hodler, Heismann, whatever his name is. Don’t apprehend. Locate him; then let us take it from there. We’ll probably give the arrest to the Bureau, given their long-standing love affair with the Secret Service. Plus, we all know how busy Hallory and company are just now.”
“I feel faintly disloyal,” Swamp said.
“Swamp, if you’re right, this would be a strike against the entire American government. All of which goes to hear the address to the joint session. Which law-enforcement outfit saves the day is of no consequence, right?”
“I guess,” Swamp said. Then nodded his head. “Yes, right, of course.”
“Okay. There’s nothing more for me to tell you. I’ll get one of my staffers in here to take you to your car.”
“My car?”
“It’s equipped with satellite tags so we know where it is at all times, so no cathouse visits on government time. It has a dash-mounted cell phone, which should operate even when Hallory shuts down commercial service all over town Friday. If you’re stopped by cops or involved in an accident, it has license plates that will come up ‘Back off and call your supervisor’ on any law-enforcement computer. It has a panic button, which will alert the operations directorate that you are in real trouble. To be used only when you’re in real trouble, obviously.”
“These wheels have an operating manual, I hope? I mean, I normally drive an extremely low-tech ten-year-old Land Rover.”
“Is it green, with a dented right rear fender?” Bertie asked with a grin. “Like the one down in our garage?”
Connie won her bet with herself. Morning rounds brought a bright-eyed staff physician who wanted to do a comprehensive exam and case review, with an eye toward possible early discharge. Connie kept a straight face and displayed the appropriate reverence while he poked, prodded, watched her make a Pilgrim’s Progress to the bathroom and back, discussed pain-management modalities, and then asked her if she had somewhere to go. She asked him to get Patient Affairs to help set up home health-care services and get a hospital bed, making it clear that she would be able to pay for said services outside of insurance channels. A rep from Patient Affairs showed up an hour later and put all of that in train for that very afternoon, including transport from the hospital at three o’clock, assuming that was all right with her. She also showed Connie some paperwork that should get her hospitalization insurance to work even though her parent company was defunct.
Connie then decided to devote the rest of the day to getting an assisted shower, lunch, and then a long nap. Jake called in at ten o’clock and asked how she was getting on, and she told him that she was better and stronger. He asked if they were going to let her go yet and she told him that they were working on it, and that she hadn’t forgotten his kind offer. The longer the day went on, the more she wanted to just go home, and she didn’t need Jake or anyone else getting in the way just now. If they could turn on the nursing service today, she’d take a shot.
A different delivery company brought the rest of the marble at nine o’clock on Thursday morning. There were ten pieces in the truck, each wrapped, banded, and individually palleted in the back of a large step van. Heismann asked what the total load weight was, and the driver told him fourteen hundred pounds. Each piece was two feet long and roughly ten inches square. They’d brought a large hand truck that could be used to cart the pieces up the front steps and into the house. Heismann told them to bring it all inside and to put the pieces again at extended intervals along the living room wall to spread out the weight.
Now, for his remaining loose end. He gathered up all the faked documentation that had come along with both loads of marble and packaged it up in one bulky envelope. He addressed it to the U.S. Secret Service at the headquarters address listed in the Washington phone book. He included one of Mutaib’s business cards, on the back of which he wrote in English, “Proceed with the attack.” He walked back out to the street and put the envelope in the corner m
ailbox. Yes, the Ammies could trace the rental of the town house back to the bank, but this would make it—what was the word?—personal. The police might even check the mailbox after the attack. That would make it very personal—and quick. He still had every intention of going to the bank after the attack, but this would be insurance in case he couldn’t manage it.
At 10:15, Swamp parked his Land Rover in the commercial parking lot across from the District police headquarters. Bertie’s staffer had shown him all the new bells and whistles, and then how to get out of the CIA compound without getting shot. He’d used the cell phone to call Lila back at the inn, and she didn’t even know the Rover had been taken. This wasn’t his father’s CIA, he concluded; these guys were good.
He met with Jake Cullen and Shad Howell in the Homicide office, where the coat trees were all sporting police uniforms hanging in dry-cleaning bags. Swamp suggested they go to an interview room, which they did, and there he brought the two detectives up-to-date on where he was with the Hodler matter, and also his new status as an Agency contractor.
“They do that shit?” Shad asked. “Thought they had their own operatives.”
“For real operational intelligence work, yes, those are Company people. But they hire all sorts of folks to do odd jobs—language people, technical experts, journalists, ex-cops.”
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