by Leigh Barker
Ethan pushed it open and stepped in.
Lisa was sitting on a tall stool in front of a computer displaying moving graphs and bars that must mean something to her. Ethan decided to delegate responsibilities to those best skilled to handle them, and didn’t ask.
“Hi, Lisa,” Kelsey said, and got a smile in response. “Have you got anything from Creech?”
Lisa looked at the computer and appeared to understand what it was showing.
Ethan was impressed and moved closer to the monitor for a better look. It didn’t help. “What have you found, Lisa?”
She beamed at him and he realised it was because he’d remembered her name. It must be tough working in ego-land.
“Not much. The explosion was pretty intense.”
“C-4 makes a big bang,” Ethan said, and looked around at the bench that occupied three of the four walls in the lab that was four times the size of Dryer’s office. That must rankle.
“Yes,” Lisa said, “but the air-fuel bomb would’ve made a prettier fireball.” She smiled. “Before it vaporized everyone who could see it.” She looked at Ethan. “But you stopped that. A lot of people are alive who wouldn’t have been.”
He shrugged.
“Did you find anything we can use?” Kelsey asked, before Ethan could say something stupid, like it’s what we do.
She slid off her stool and crossed to the bench across the lab. “This is the rifle recovered from the scene.”
Ethan leaned over the sniper rifle he’d used to shoot out Colonel Shapiro’s windows.
“This is a McMillan Tac-50 sniper rifle,” Lisa said, and stood it up on its bipod. “It was fitted with a Schmidt and Bender PM 2 telescopic sight.” She looked up at Ethan. “This configuration is standard issue for the Canadian armed forces. But these days it’s out there for anyone to buy.”
Ethan looked the rifle over. It seemed bigger on the bench than it had in the field. It kinda put it in perspective. He reached out towards the scope, but Lisa intercepted his hand.
“I’m not finished processing that.”
He smiled. “I think you’ll find my fingerprints on it.”
“Yes, I did. And something else, more interesting.”
They waited patiently.
“What did you find?” Ethan asked, demonstrating his lack of patience.
“Gasoline residue.”
“The rifle was being handled when they loaded the tanker with fuel for the thermobaric bomb,” Ethan said.
Lisa tilted her head and watched him, waiting for him to say something they didn’t already know. He didn’t add anything.
“I found gasoline residue,” she repeated, with a look daring him to interrupt. “Which I expected, as it was probably handled by the same people who gassed up the truck.” She cut her eyes at him, but the slight smile dented the hard effect.
“You found something interesting, didn’t you?” Ethan said, and smiled.
“Yes.”
She silently counted to three.
“Ash.”
Ethan frowned. “Ash? Wood ash?”
She shook her head. “Carbonates and calcium phosphates, with traces of lead.” She pointed back at the computer monitor. “And tiny traces of arsenic, potassium, lithium, selenium, and vanadium. And silver.”
“Human ashes,” Ethan said.
Lisa raised her eyebrows. “I’m impressed.”
“I’ve cremated a lot of people,” Ethan said, with a smile.
“Ethan!” Kelsey scolded.
“No,” Lisa said, “he’s correct. There are cremated human ashes on the rifle sight.”
“But why is that significant?” Kelsey said.
“Because, if you bring me the urn, I’ll be able to match its contents to those on the sight with a hundred percent certainty.”
“But aren’t all human ashes the same? Just ashes?” Kelsey said.
“No, they’re as unique as fingerprints,” Lisa said.
“It’s the environmental differences every person experiences. No two are alike,” Ethan said, almost to himself.
“Exactly,” Lisa said. “As you pass through life, your different environmental and dietary elements change the composition of your bones. It might be that you’re a vegetarian…”
Ethan chuckled. “Not likely.”
“Well, if you were, then you’d have higher levels of strontium. Everything you eat, drink, or breathe affects your bone composition. No two people experience exactly the same influences during their lives. So their bone composition is unique.”
“So we just need to find a bad man with a urn of his loved one’s ashes and we can convict him.”
“Yes,” Lisa said excitedly.
“Leave that one with us, Lisa,” Ethan said. “Anything else of interest?”
“The rifle stock has significant contamination from linseed oil. Boiled linseed oil, to be accurate.”
“Maybe the shooter treated the stock,” Kelsey said.
“Fiberglass,” Ethan said. “Who uses boiled linseed oil?”
“Anybody who treats wood. Outdoor furniture or tools.” Lisa shrugged. “Any number of things.”
“Okay, Lisa,” Ethan said. “Keep digging and if you come up with anything else, give me a call.”
She smiled. Here was a young woman who loved her job.
They went down the corridor back to the street door.
“Pity,” Kelsey said. “I was hoping for something more… useful.”
“Like a full set of fingerprints of the terrorist?” Ethan said.
“Well, yes. That would be a good start.”
“The FBI has their bodies. Fingerprints won’t do us much good.”
“But ashes will?” she said.
“I don’t know. I just know what isn’t useful right now.”
She nodded and walked through the door he held open for her. Nobody held doors open for women any more. Did he think she was too weak to do it herself? She smiled without turning. Of course not, it was just his early training. From his mother probably. And she liked it, though she’d never say so.
Melissa was trembling as she entered the offices off Constitution Avenue. It was a familiar walk she’d done hundreds of times, but this time it felt different. This time she wasn’t one of them, she belonged to Christian. The idea hit her like a physical blow and she stopped walking. It was true, she did belong to him. Part of her was appalled, but she was excited and… yes, happy to belong to someone. She walked on quickly when staff stared at her as they passed, concerned for her or just nervous that there was a mad person in the building.
She took off her coat at her desk in front of Senator Wakeman’s office and looked around to see if anyone was watching her. It was silly, she knew that, but she felt like an outsider. A spy. She started a little at the thought, then realised she was excited. She looked both ways along the wide corridor, watching the passing staff for some sign they knew she’d changed, but all she got was more puzzled looks. She sat down at her desk before she made a complete fool of herself.
There was a pile of mail in her in-tray, but she ignored that, picked up the phone and dialed a number without thinking. A familiar call.
“Hello, Marjorie,” she said, and looked around again.
“Melissa, how was your weekend?”
She was bursting to tell her that her weekend had been the most wonderful days of her life, but didn’t. “More of the same.” She wondered why she’d said that. More intrigue. “Senator Wakeman is following the assassinations of the military officers.”
Marjorie asked the question.
“It’s because it touches on the oversight committee brief. All things military.” She forced a chuckle as if sharing an in-joke. “Can you send me anything?”
“The senator has high-level clearance,” Marjorie said. “I can send you everything we have.”
“Thank you. Let’s do lunch sometime soon.”
She put down the phone and sat still while her heartbeat returned to som
ething approaching normal.
Christian would be pleased. A vivid memory of his tanned body popped into her mind and she felt her face flush. Work. Something to take her mind off him. The mail. She busied herself opening letters and reading their contents without taking in a single word.
Her computer told her she had mail and she opened it and saw the FBI logo. She’d expected files, but she got a secure link to the FBI’s extranet, and a login. Better than she’d expected.
She created an email and called it Procurement Bid Update, in case anyone should see it on the mail server. Then she sent it to Christian.
Christian Carter read the FBI reports twice, smiling. An idea that had been hiding in the back of his mind for days strode out into the sunshine and saluted.
He leaned back in his chair and looked around his office while he thought it through. It could work. He stood and walked to the corner where the two ceiling-height windows met and looked out over downtown Houston.
He stood at the window for forty minutes without seeing the city below, then returned to his desk quickly, as if he might change his mind. He pressed the intercom button on his phone.
Five minutes later Baxter tapped the door once and came in. He was wearing an immaculate dark business suit and looked a lot more comfortable than he had in the Hawaiian shirt. He stood at the desk in silence.
“I have a little job for you,” Christian said. “One that suits your particular skills better than making mojitos.”
Chuck sat at the mahogany desk and poured himself another coffee. Hotel coffee, but he’d tasted worse. He leaned closer to the laptop screen, scanned the presidential schedule for the week and shook his head. The President was going to Alaska. What for? There are only a few voters there. True, but it would play well in the media. That meant he was going to Alaska too, and he hated the cold, which was one of the reasons he’d loved Afghanistan. For the climate. Nobody believed him.
He also liked the hotel he was in. The Ritz-Carlton, five star. Very nice, but better because Uncle Sam was paying for it, through the FBI. They just didn’t know it yet. So the next stop would be freezing his ass off in some wind-blown tundra. Outstanding.
He called the airport and booked a flight to Ted Stevens Airport, coach. He’d been tempted to try business class, but hey, there’s a story about a donkey and a straw. Dyson would see the upgrade as the straw.
He packed his spare shirt and pants into his go-bag and followed them with his shaving gear, then picked up his Glock off the desk and looked at it affectionately. He’d need it in the wilderness, but he wasn’t stupid enough to pack a firearm on a US airline. He’d stop off at the UPS office and ship it to the Hilton in Anchorage. He’d be there to sign for it, unless there was a delay, in which case he’d be unarmed.
There was a soft knock and he put the gun back on the desk and opened the door almost without looking. It would be room service with his breakfast.
“On your knees!” a sharp-suited, over-muscled guy was screaming at him. The SIG P229 in the guy’s hand was a very convincing persuader.
Gunny dropped to his knees and put his hands on his head for good measure.
The suit stepped past him without taking his eyes or his gun off him. Another identical suit followed him in.
“What can I do for our fine Secret Service today?” Gunny asked.
They glared at him, annoyed that he’d made them, or just annoyed as part of their personae.
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me your name, rank and agency?” Gunny said. “I saw that on TV.”
“Smith and Brown,” the first agent said. “I’m Smith.”
“Is it alright if I call you Starsky and Hutch?”
“Who the fuck’s Starsky and Hutch?” Smith said.
“Right. You were probably still trying to look up girl’s skirts back then,” Gunny said.
Smith rammed his knee into his back and sent him sprawling face down onto the carpet.
Gunny rolled over and climbed back onto his knees, then gave the agent a long cold look. “Son,” he said quietly, “you just go ahead and externalize your anger.” He nodded to show it was okay. “But you gotta know. You put any part of your body on me again and you’re going to be a permanent stain on that wall.” He smiled nicely at the young man.
Smith grunted, squinted, frowned. And stepped back from the madman. They wanted him alive, or he’d blow his head off right there and then. No problem. A little voice in his head added, Yeah, maybe.
Brown turned the laptop so Gunny could see it.
“You interested in the President’s movements?”
“He lives an interesting life,” Gunny said.
“You’ve been showing a lot of interest in his movements the last twenty-four hours.”
“Like I said—”
“Right. He lives an interesting life.” Brown waved his SIG at him. “Get up.”
“We going somewhere?” Gunny said as he climbed slowly to his feet, keeping his hands well away from his body in case Smith got excited. “I like outings. Will there be cake?”
“Keep talking, old man,” Smith said, “and they’ll be carrying you out of here on a stretcher.”
Gunny looked around exaggeratedly.
“What the fuck are you looking for?”
Gunny looked at the door. “I’m looking for the guys coming to help you put me on a stretcher.” Now he looked Smith in the eyes. “Because if it’s just you…” He shrugged. “I gotta tell you, you don’t look much.” He nodded towards the agent at the desk. “You and him?” He winked. “Close friends?”
Smith growled, stepped forward and threw a right cross that would’ve dropped Gunny right there and then. Had it connected.
Gunny timed it, ducked his head against his chest and spun three-sixty on his left foot. And now he was behind him and reached round and took the gun out of Smith’s left hand as easy as taking a toy from a kid. And now Smith was between him and Brown.
“On the desk,” Gunny said, and put the gun against Smith’s chin. “Unless you think you’re good enough.” He tilted his head. “Ten feet. Yeah, you could do it.”
He could see he was thinking about it.
“Good chance you’ll shoot your partner, though, shaking like you are.”
He wasn’t shaking, but looked down at his hand without thinking. When he looked up, his partner’s SIG was pointing right at his head. Between his eyes.
He put his gun on the desk.
“Son,” Gunny said, “you just made the best decision of your life.”
“You wouldn’t have shot a federal agent,” he said, without conviction.
“Maybe, maybe not. You’d have to bet your life on that.” He flicked the gun towards the bed. “Sit.”
Brown sat and Gunny shoved Smith over next to him. Then he rested the barrel of the gun in the crook of his arm and watched them tick off all the options. Until they finally got it. They didn’t have any.
“I asked you what you wanted,” Gunny said. “Politely last time.” He shrugged.
“We have orders to bring you in,” Brown said, his voice clipped and furious.
“How’s that working out for you?” Gunny said, then relaxed. “These orders. They say why you should bring me in?”
“You’ve been identified as a threat to the President of the United States.”
Gunny sighed heavily. “You fucking numb nuts. I’m a US Marine and I’ve sworn an oath to protect this country against all enemies, foreign and domestic. And that protection starts with the President.”
“Not how it looks,” Brown said.
Smith was silent and surly, smarting at being disarmed so easily by an old guy.
“I don’t give a fuck how it looks to you. But how it looks to me,” Gunny said, stepping closer, “is there’s a terrorist killing our people right here in this country. And his next target is likely to be the President.”
Brown sucked his tooth. A disgusting habit. But Gunny got the message. Meathead by-the-book
soldiers he’d seen before. But he also knew he had to go with them. The only other option was to shoot them, but he’d thought that through and decided the fallout would be too great. There was a problem, though.
“This is what we’re gonna do, son—”
“I am not your fucking son!”
“No, because if you were, you’d be a lot better at your fucking job.” He let them steam for a moment, then put the SIG on the desk.
“I’m going to let you take me in.” He raised his hand before they could get up. “Couple of things, though. One. You don’t get your toys back until we get to H Street.” He raised his hand again to stop them bitching. “Two. I’m not going to tell anybody I took them from you. I suggest you do the same. It’ll look bad on your school report card.” He waved them up. “Deal?”
They got up slowly and looked at each other for confirmation.
“Let’s go, then,” Gunny said, picking up his bag and dropping all three guns into it. He stopped at the door and let Smith go first. If looks could kill.
“Who told you where to find me?” Gunny asked.
They ignored the question. He followed Smith down the corridor with Brown bringing up the rear. It was going to be a long day.
Baxter stepped off the Gulfstream and waited for the black Merc to pull up next to the boarding steps. He climbed into the back and leaned against the seat. He’d rather be driving, but he had work to do and not much time.
There were several ways to get this done. Too many. That was always the problem with rush jobs, there wasn’t enough time to complete the analysis. The risks went up exponentially. The chances of choosing the wrong tool, the wrong place, the wrong time were compounded to the point where the job should be aborted. But that wasn’t an option. It never was. Mr. Carter was an impatient man.
Then he would have to minimize the risks. It would have to be simple. Face to face. At home.
He looked out of the side window. Messy. He loathed mess. It had to be done today. He felt a few more days would make no difference, but he wasn’t the principal. And for that he was very glad.