Critical Mass

by Steve Martini

  “It would have been nice if you asked,” said Joselyn.

  “There was no time,” said Hirshberg.

  “There was what, four hours on an airplane crossing the country?” she told him.

  “Nonetheless, we have a few questions,” he said. “These notes, the name Grigori Chenko in your wallet, Mr. van Ry. What is it?”

  “Ah. Notes I took at Sverdlovsk, Russia.”

  “Ah yes. The information I believe came to us from the institute?” Hirshberg was checking with one of his assistants who nodded.

  “Ms. Cole. These phone numbers on a note from your wallet.”

  “Those are friends down in California.”

  “I see. We can check them out.” He handed the note to one of his assistants. He didn’t believe her. She was now burning at the tips of her ears.

  “And this?”

  She looked at what he was holding in his hand but couldn’t make it out.”

  “It’s a business card,” said Hirshberg. “Port-a-John Sanitation Service, Oak Harbor, Washington.”

  He drew a blank stare from her. Then suddenly she remembered. The business card that Belden had left on the bedside table. The one she picked up as the Navy SEAL tried to get her out of the room.

  “I forgot all about it,” she said. “Belden left it behind, in the room.”

  THIRTY

  OAK HARBOR, WA

  The FBI had the business card from the pocket of Joselyn’s blouse for nearly seven hours by the time she reached Washington, D.C. They wasted no time checking into it as a lead.

  Two agents drove to the small town of Oak Harbor on Whidbey Island, only a short distance from the base. They found the owner of Port-a-John Sanitation Service. The man was able to identify Belden from a photograph as one of several men at a site near Deer Harbor on Orcas Island. The man had rented them a portable toilet and delivered it, the kind usually used at construction sites and outdoor events.

  “The reason I remember is ‘cuz they were a little strange.”

  “In what way?” said one of the agents.

  “There was a building there. You know. One of those fabricated metal jobs over a concrete floor. It was all closed up. When they heard me drive up, one of them came out through a side door and told me where to set the unit down.

  “When I finished, I realized I’d forgotten to have him sign the paperwork. So I went in the door. Knocked on it, but nobody answered. I guess they didn’t hear me. So I let myself in. I thought they were gonna kill me.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But two of ‘em grabbed me and forced me back out the door. Roughed me up. I had a good mind to put the unit back on the truck and take it away.”

  “Could you see what was inside the building?”

  The guy made a face, like “not much.” “Some tools. A cutting torch. They pushed me outside real quick. They signed the papers, and I got the hell outta there. These guys were on the thin edge. You know what I mean? Why are you interested in them?”

  The agent ignored the question. “Could you see what they were working on?”

  “Oh, yeah. It was a truck. They were welding something on the back of it.”

  “What kind of truck?”

  “Search me. I was busy being pushed out the door. But it looked like a tank.”

  “You mean an armored tank?”

  “No. Like a small tank truck, the kind they use to haul chemicals. Like I say, I damn near put the john back on my truck and left. Not that they would have missed it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was a perfectly good bathroom in the building. It was right by the door. I heard it flush when I was outside.”

  DEER HARBOR, ORCAS ISLAND, WA

  A score of high-powered rifles with expert marksmen from the Skagit County Violent Crimes Task Force, along with FBI agents and sheriff’s deputies from Island Country, surrounded the place.

  It was a fabricated metal building just as the man had described. Once they were set up with positions for covering fire, the tactical squad moved in. They hit the side door with a battering ram. The metal door took two shots before it gave, and officers with M-16s went inside.

  They were there less than a minute before one of them came back to the door and gave them the all-clear sign. Handheld radios on secure frequencies announced that it was secure, that nobody was inside.

  The FBI agents in suits moved in. The tac-squad started to cordon off the building and the driveway around it with yellow crime-scene tape.

  The building was deserted. There were a few tools scattered around on the concrete floor, what looked like an expensive portable torch and some wrenches. There was a makeshift bench set up near the center of the floor.

  They were inside only long enough to take some quick pictures and get a reading on a Geiger counter. Radiation levels were high.

  “I want everybody out now,” said one of the agents. “Call the NEST team. Tell them we need them over here now.”

  The men started to move out. One of the agents kicked something with his foot, and it slid across the concrete floor.

  It was a metal sign, the kind with magnets on the back used to display the name of a business on the door of a vehicle. He walked over and slipped the blade of a small penknife under the face of the sign and flipped it over so that it was faceup. On the other side was the name:

  A-ONE SEPTIC

  DENVER, COLORADO

  LUCK. #CZ 14869

  WASHINGTON, DC

  The Justice Department was picking up the tab for accommodations, at least until they were released. Gideon and Joselyn were driven to the Hay-Adams Hotel on Sixteenth Street, not far from the White House. They were given fresh overalls, this time with “FBI” printed on the back, clean underwear, toothbrushes, a few toiletries, and adjoining rooms with two agents camped outside.

  “For house arrest, it isn’t bad,” said Joselyn. She grabbed the robe from the back of the bathroom door as she talked to Gideon through the partially closed adjoining door to his room.

  “I’m going to take a shower. Change my jailhouse jumpsuit. The sooner I get out of here, the better.”

  “Don’t you like the White House?” said Gideon.

  “The place is fine. I can’t say as much for the people in it,” said Joselyn. “That’s why I need a shower.”

  She disappeared into the bathroom, dropped her clothes on the floor, turned up the hot water, and allowed it to run over her body, like a waterfall.

  With her eyes closed, the pelting beads of water hitting her bruised face, the events of the past twenty-four hours played themselves back in her mind like a bad dream. She couldn’t get the dead Navy diver out of her thoughts. Five minutes under the spray, and she began to shake and cry uncontrollably.

  The reality of what had happened suddenly hit home. It came with a force and permanence that Joselyn never expected. It wasn’t a film or make-believe. A young man with his entire life in front of him had died before her eyes. His wife, if he had one, would never feel his arms around her again. His mother and father would in this world never set eyes on him. She did not want to think about whether the man had children. In less time than it took to blink, his life had been snuffed out by a bullet as he tried to save hers. She was crying not only grief but guilt. She was alive, and he was dead. If she hadn’t been there, he might never have entered the building. He might still be alive.

  The water poured down her body, mixed with her tears until she was drained. Exhausted, she leaned against the tile wall, steadied herself, and turned off the water.

  Quickly she toweled herself dry, put on the clean underwear, a T-shirt in place of a bra, and the terry-cloth robe. She wrapped her hair in the towel turban-style and walked back out into the bedroom.

  “How was it?” It was Gideon. He was standing in the door between their rooms.

  “Great. I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

  “Your eyes. They are very red.”

  �
�Oh.” She took the pointed end of the towel that hung down from her head and wiped them. “I got soap in them.”

  “Ah. I see.” Gideon could tell she had been crying. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not really.”

  “We could raid the mini-bar,” he said.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Let’s see.” He took the key from the top of the bar and opened it. “We have peanuts, M&Ms, a chocolate bar.”

  “Sounds awful.”

  “How about something to drown your pain?” When he stood up he was holding three tiny bottles with seals around their caps.

  “Now that sounds good.”

  “Vodka, whiskey, or scotch?”

  “Scotch. With a little soda if there’s any in there.”

  “Just the thing.” He came up with a can of club soda.

  “If we were in Amsterdam, I would give you something a little more potent. Something from one of the brown cafés.”

  “What’s that?”

  He thought for a moment, while he popped the can and opened the bottle.

  “I suppose you would call it a pub, or tavern, maybe a coffeehouse. All three. They are very old. Some of them have been open for hundreds of years. You can find them on every street in the old part of town. And their walls on the inside are very brown. They are never cleaned or painted. They serve wonderful blends of coffee—along with mind-altering drugs.”

  She looked at him and laughed.

  “What’s the matter, you don’t believe me?”

  “No. I believe you. It’s just that I can’t see you doing drugs.”

  “It’s the Dutch national pastime,” said Gideon. “By American standards, we are a sinful people. Very permissive. At least in Amsterdam. Drugs are considered a recreational necessity.”

  “Try selling that one to the group we met with today,” said Joselyn.

  “Free sex is regarded as a constitutional right.”

  “We are different,” said Joselyn. “Over here it’s just one of the perks of public office.”

  “Aw, empty.” Gideon picked up the ice bucket, opened the door to the room, and stuck his head out.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  One of the agents came to the door.

  “I think the ice machine is on the next floor. We are getting drunk. Would you mind?” He handed the bucket to the FBI agent and closed the door.

  He turned, folded his arms, and leaned against the door. “Well. We have some time to kill. What shall we do?”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m a little too tired. You’ll have to exercise your constitutional rights with someone else tonight.”

  Gideon laughed and blushed a little.

  “I could mine your thoughts,” said Gideon.

  “You mean pick my brain?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would be poor pickings indeed, at least tonight.”

  “You are not convinced that Denver is the target?”

  The call from the FBI at Deer Harbor had come in when they were in the White House.

  “It was that obvious?” said Joselyn.

  “Well, when you told the president that he had his head wedged securely up his rectum … ”

  “I never said that.”

  “No. But the implication was quite clear.”

  “Well, if the hat fits,” said Joselyn.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because the Belden I knew is not a man to make mistakes. Not like that. A sign left on the floor?”

  “As I recall, Denver was the scene of a major trial for domestic terrorism.”

  “Very convenient,” said Joselyn. “I’m sure Belden thought of that. In the meantime, the FBI spends its time combing highways that cover half of the western United States, searching for a truck that may or may not exist.”

  “Ah. But the witness they talked to saw the truck.”

  “But did he see what was in it?” said Joselyn.

  “A septic truck would be a perfect cover. Who is going to want to search it?” said Gideon. “And the tank on the back can be lined with lead. You are not going to pick up any emissions from the device, even if you run it through a portal monitor.”

  “Maybe,” said Joselyn. “But if you want to know what I think.”

  “I do,” said Gideon.

  “I think Belden’s not that stupid. I don’t think he’s the kind of man that makes that many mistakes. First the business card on the table, then the sign in the garage. Why did he leave them?”

  “Maybe they meant nothing. Maybe they were in a hurry.”

  “No. He took everything out of his pocket because he wasn’t comfortable sitting there slapping the hell out of me on that bed. He put it all on the side table, and when he was finished he carefully picked everything up, except the business card. He leaves that there.”

  “He was finished with it,” said Gideon.

  “He was finished with me, but he wasn’t gonna leave me lying around.”

  “You could identify him.”

  “So could the man who rented him that portable John.”

  Gideon thought for a moment. She had a point.

  “Think about it. According to the agents, this guy drives up to the building and they immediately come outside. They don’t stay with him and keep an eye on him. They don’t ask if he has a receipt or anything to be signed. They tell him where to put it and then they go back inside. When he knocks, they don’t answer. But when he opens the door, they allow him to come inside just long enough to see the truck before they make a big scene and throw him outside.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that Belden wanted him to see that truck. The same way he wanted me to see his plane go up in smoke. To serve a purpose. Our port-a-john salesman just did. He has the federal government looking in all the wrong places.”

  “You have a very devious mind,” said Gideon. “Are you always this paranoid?”

  “Only after I’ve been pushed off a ferry, kidnapped, beaten, and shot at.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t simply because the president dismissed your views about Mr. Belden and his plans?”

  “I grant you the president doesn’t have a very high opinion of women or their views.” They wouldn’t listen to her, and she was angry. They weren’t interested in her judgment, only the information she could give them. But she had dealt with Belden firsthand, the only one in the room with that experience. Joselyn was convinced that she was right.

  There was a knock at the door. Gideon opened it.

  “Thank you.” He took the ice bucket from the agent, closed the door, and walked over to finish mixing the drinks. He handed Joselyn hers.

  “Thanks.” She sipped slowly from the plastic glass.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Joselyn. “Tomorrow I’m outta here. It’s their problem.”

  Gideon arched his eyebrows. “There’s a nuclear bomb loose in your country and you don’t care?”

  “You haven’t heard. Apathy in America is chic. As long as they don’t set the thing off under my bed, it’s none of my business.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t think you do.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Because I saw the way you looked when you talked about that sailor. Tonight when you told them how he died. I think it is easy to be apathetic when we think about death in the abstract. But a two-kiloton nuclear weapon is no abstraction. It would kill thousands of people. It would make what happened on that island seem tame. Entire families would cease to exist. They would die horrible deaths.”

  Gideon took a drink from his glass, swallowed it, and then chewed on a small sliver of ice.

  “You know,” he said. “There were people in Hiroshima whose shadows were printed by the blast on the concrete walls of buildings and pavement. These shadows can still be seen. Some of the bodies that made them were never found. It was as if they never e
xisted. There are those who have seen these shadows scorched on the hard ground, to whom they are mere curiosities of history—images of a time that has passed. If that is all they have come to be, then they are indeed the angels of apathy.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  SEATTLE, WA

  Oscar Chaney pulled to the curb in a loading zone and turned off the diesel engine and the headlights. He sat quietly behind the wheel for almost a minute, checking the rearview mirror to make sure no late-night strollers or homeless vagabonds were wandering in the area.

  It was now after midnight. A solitary street sweeper, its emergency light dominating the deserted lanes, was doing doughnuts down on Fifth Street cleaning the pavement, while the stoplights flashed red at the intersection.

  Chaney could see the federal courthouse two blocks away. Its five-story block monolith was dimly lit by security lights, as janitors finished up their nightly chores.

  With gloved hands, Chaney checked the passenger door on the truck to make sure it was locked, then opened the driver’s door and stepped down onto the running board and from there to the curb. He checked the street one more time. The last thing he wanted was someone who might be able to link him to the truck.

  He checked his watch. The meter maids wouldn’t start patrolling the streets until just before rush hour. A large truck in a traffic lane, even at a loading zone, would be an item to draw their attention. Chaney wanted to make sure that they didn’t simply tow it away to the city’s impound yard.

  He reached behind the seat and grabbed the two magnetic signs. They were identical to the one he’d left on the floor of the garage at Deer Harbor. The only difference is that these identified A-One Septic as being located in Bellevue, Washington. He pushed the locking button down on the driver’s door and closed it, then placed one of the magnetized signs on the door. He went around the truck and put the other sign on the passenger door.

  Chaney already knew that the authorities had raided the empty garage. One of his crew had stayed behind to observe and report on intelligence.

  He knew that the minute the meter maids reported the vehicle for towing, police computers would go nuts. They would match the name on the truck with the name on the sign from the garage. The Feds would stop wasting their time and resources searching the highways between Washington State and Colorado, and turn their attention instead to Seattle. They would waste several more hours clearing the area and bringing in experts to check for radiation before they took the first tentative steps to disarm the device. It would be mid-afternoon on the west coast before they realized their mistake.