Déjà-BOOM!

by Wally Duff

  Why did Tony ask me about the C4 on the trash I stole from across the street? What did that have to do with any of this? He could give me the answer when he woke up.

  If he woke up.

  When I returned home, I went down to the computer room and called Linda.

  “Gotta problem,” I said, after I asked about how she was feeling.

  “Give it to me,” she said. “It’s not like I am doing much, resting at home waiting to have this baby.”

  “Before Tony was shot, he received the report from the FBI lab about the C4 from the bombing in Arlington and the ones here. He said they all matched.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “After he told me that, he asked if I thought someone had planted C4 on the trash samples I stole from the “industrial spies” across the street.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “That’s why I called you.”

  “Tell me exactly what happened that night.”

  “I stole garbage from their trash can. I gave a sample to Tony. The Chicago PD lab found C4 on that trash, which confirmed there might be a terrific story across the street, so I kept working it.”

  “Did Tony say anything about the comparison of those abortion clinic samples to the C4 you stole from the industrial spies’ trash?”

  “I didn’t ask because there was no reason to. The bomber’s C4 and the ‘industrial spies’’ C4 are would be totally different.”

  “What if the C4 from the trash didn’t match the rest of the industrial spies’ C4 they used in their plot at O’Hare?”

  “It had to.”

  “Walk me through the night you stole the trash.”

  “I lifted the lid from one of their trash cans and gave some of the garbage to Tony. The end.”

  “Think, girl, there has to be more. Go over exactly what happened in that alley.”

  I did.

  “Did you say the cop said their security system went off twice that night?”

  “He did, but I think he was wrong. I set it off, but only one time.”

  “What if someone else set it off before you did?”

  “I considered that, but why would anyone do that?”

  She paused. “To smear different C4 on the industrial spies’ trash.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “It does if someone wanted to keep you interested in investigating the industrial spies.”

  Huh?

  “Could it have been Micah?” I wondered.

  “Micah?”

  “He wanted me to help save his family from the ‘industrial spies.’ To do that, he had to keep me involved in pursuing their story.”

  “But here’s the problem with that. Unless Micah stole C4 from another source — which, by the way, is a federal crime — the only C4 he had access to would have come from the industrial spies. If he did smear C4 on the trash, it would be from the same batch they had, which was not a match, right?”

  Uh-oh!

  122

  “What if it was the abortion clinic bomber who coated the trash with C4?” I mused.

  “Why would you suggest that?” Linda asked

  “When I was blown up in Arlington, Carter maintained the bomber was actually my mole.”

  “I’m totally confused.”

  “Carter thought the bomber, masquerading online as the mole, initially contacted me to entice me into writing a story that would make national headlines.”

  “If he’s right, and the bomber is your mole, you have a big problem.”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

  “And with good reason. By exchanging emails with your mole, you have given him the opportunity to hack into your computer.”

  Not good.

  “Your mole emailed you that the bomber was going to strike at the South Side clinic?” she continued.

  I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. “He did.”

  “And, using that intel, you made plans to set a trap to catch the bomber.”

  “I did.”

  “And, by doing that, he used you to lure Tony to the clinic where he shot Tony.”

  “But why did the bomber want to murder Tony?”

  “Maybe Tony discovered something that proved the bomber and the mole are the same person.”

  “Could the bomber hack into Tony’s Chicago PD computer through my computer?”

  “I could do it, so it would be fairly easy for the bomber to do it too.”

  “Can you hack into Tony’s Chicago PD files to see what the bomber might have discovered?”

  “Of course I can. I’ll call you right back.”

  It took eight minutes.

  “I have Tony’s files on the screen in front of me. He sent the C4 sample from the trash to the FBI lab right after you gave it to him. He later sent the C4 from the three bombings here to compare them to Arlington.”

  “And?”

  “Like he told you, the C4 from each of the abortion clinic bombings here and in Arlington matched.” She took in a breath. “What he didn’t tell you was those C4 samples also matched the C4 from the trash.”

  “The trash sample didn’t match the ‘industrial spies’ C4?”

  “It did not, and Tony figured that out by comparing the original FBI report with the one he just sent in.”

  “And I asked him to do that.” I felt my throat tighten up. “And the bomber learned Tony knew that information by hacking into the police computer through my computer.”

  Can this get any worse?

  “I accessed all of Tony’s notes about the case. He guessed the C4 on the trash of the ‘industrial spies’ had actually been put there by the abortion clinic bomber, but there was no indication he knew the bomber and the mole were the same person.

  “That’s the reason the bomber tried to kill Tony, to stop him from figuring it out.”

  “And from finding out who the bomber actually is.”

  Maybe Carter was right and the mole and the abortion clinic bomber are the same person.

  And if he is, I’ve been duped from the beginning of the abortion clinic bombing story.

  Some investigative reporter I turned out to be.

  123

  It was 10 a.m. on Monday. I handed the attendant my parking pass and pulled the van into the reserved parking area of the United Center’s enormous parking lot. The outside temperature was in the mid-nineties.

  Carter was already here to begin the president’s interview. Kerry was with Alicia.

  Having lived in D.C., I wasn’t surprised by the frenzied activities associated with a visit by POTUS to our city. There were hundreds of security people mingling with the people who were coming to hear the president. At least four SWAT teams were visible. I was positive there were snipers on the roof of every nearby building.

  But what surprised me was the presence of people protesting embryonic stem cell research. How did they find out the president was here to embrace that research when he previously had been outspoken against it?

  Obviously somebody alerted them, because they were lined up across the street from the United Center and numbered in the hundreds. They waved signs and chanted various slogans opposing embryonic stem cell research, but for the moment, they seemed under control.

  I wondered if any of them would get inside.

  There were no supporters waving signs or chanting for embryonic stem cell research. Their side must not have gotten the memo about what the president was going to say today.

  The cavernous building held at least twenty-three thousand people, most of them still in the parking lot with me. By the time I made it to the priority security line, I was sweating profusely, partly because of the Chicago heat and humidity but more so because I was worried about the president and Micah’s safety.

  Is the bomber somewhere in this mass of humanity?

  If the bomber was there and he detonated a device inside the United Center, not only would the president be killed but so
would several thousand others, including my husband and me. The body count could be ten times higher than 9/11. It would be the worst catastrophe in modern American history.

  I scanned the people around me. There were over one hundred priests scattered in the crowd. They were in the regular lines waiting to enter. Some leaned on canes. Several sat in wheel chairs. And a few leaned on walkers.

  The parking lot began to look like Saint Peter’s Square as more priests arrived. If the Catholic clergy were here to protest, they might do it as soon as the president opened his mouth to introduce Micah. My bomber might not have to do anything to stop the president’s speech. By protesting inside, the priests could do it for him.

  As I moved forward, I put myself in the bomber’s place. What would I do to disguise myself?

  Penguins.

  I pictured a waddle of penguins in the parking lot. A casual observer couldn’t tell one from the other, because they all looked alike.

  Just like the priests in their black suits and white clerical collars.

  If the bomber is here disguised as a priest, how will I ever spot him?

  124

  If the bomber wasn’t going to blow up a C4 bomb, he might use his new method of choice, a sniper rifle. I remembered the Day of the Jackal. Was life going to imitate art if the bomber, disguised as one of the priests, was here to shoot the President of the United States using a homemade gun he had hidden in a walker?

  Once I reached the front of the line, I handed my purse to a guard. My backpack was still in the van. I stepped through the security arch. A second guard scanned my priority pass into his computer. The results flashed on the screen. The guard checked them. The line suddenly stopped moving.

  “Ma’am, come with me,” he said.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked.

  He stood up. “Ma’am, please, let’s not make a scene.”

  “Why would I do that? I’m a taxpaying citizen here to listen to a speech by the leader of the free world.”

  He took hold of my arm. “This way, please.”

  “I am not moving until you tell me what’s going on.”

  Another guard joined him. He grabbed my other arm. “Might want to rethink that one.”

  They escorted me inside to a room about twenty feet away from the priority entry door in the United Center. The guard holding my purse dropped it on the only table in the room.

  The female FBI agent who had interrogated me at O’Hare sat at the table. Security monitor screens hung on three of the walls. A large computer was on the table. My picture was on the screen.

  “Mrs. Thomas,” she said. “It seems like our paths keep crossing.”

  Her blond hair was way shorter than mine. She wore a white blouse, a cheap blue suit, and unstylish black shoes. She had an ear bud in her left ear and a bulge under her coat from the handgun on her right hip.

  “Is this about Arlington? If it is, that’s old news, so it’s about time you guys got over it.”

  “It is your recent involvement at O’Hare and the events that led up to it that we find more troubling.”

  “Should I contact my attorney?”

  “There is no need for that,” said a male agent who entered the room. He walked up to me. “At least not yet.”

  He wore a blue suit and a wrinkled white shirt with a dark tie. He also had an ear bud and bulge from the gun he wore on his right side.

  “Is that some sort of threat?” I said. “If it is, I want to talk to my husband. Oh, sorry, I forgot. He’s busy interviewing POTUS, who might be unhappy if you interrupt them.”

  The male agent leaned into my space. “We’re going to watch your every move. If you even twitch, we’ll escort you from the building so fast you won’t be able to blink before you’re outside.”

  I felt heat begin to rise in my face.

  “We wouldn’t let you within twenty miles of this location except for a Presidential Order making us do so,” the female agent added.

  I clenched my hands into fists, but I kept quiet.

  “The Director is not happy about this,” she said.

  It must be tough for you guys to take orders you don’t like.

  I relaxed my fingers. “May I go to my seat?”

  She handed my purse to me and pointed to the door behind me.

  125

  I stomped into the concourse and stopped. That little encounter made my blood boil.

  Jerks! I’m not the bad guy here.

  Several people bumped into me as I stood motionless, still seething about what the FBI agents said to me.

  Move before you get run over.

  It was like a Bull’s basketball game, absolute chaos. People streamed in every direction. More priests walked onto the main floor of the arena. I didn’t know there were this many in the Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago.

  It looked more and more like there was going to be a massive protest against embryonic stem cell research.

  Poor Micah. All he wants to do is cure people.

  The overwhelming odor came from sweat exuding from the people who had stood in the baking heat waiting to enter the building. The familiar cement smell of the United Center was present, too, but the food aromas were missing since the concession stands were closed.

  I sat down at the end of the fourth row of the section and put my purse on my lap. I decided to text Carter to see if he was done with the interview.

  I took my cell phone out of my purse and turned it on.

  No service. Maybe the Secret Service had the NSA block all cell phone transmissions so the president wouldn’t be interrupted.

  I scanned the arena and saw the same two FBI agents standing to the left of the stage. They watched me. I glared back.

  I checked out the main floor of the arena again. There were security personnel everywhere. There was no way the bomber got in with any weapon larger than a paperclip.

  Unless it’s one of the priests and he has a gun hidden in his walker.

  Dignitaries walked out on the stage. Our two U.S. senators, all of our Illinois representatives in Congress, and the mayor chatted with each other like they were buddies, even though most of them despised each other. Micah and Hannah hadn’t come out, so I assumed they would enter with the president.

  Lots of big hitters.

  I wondered how Carter’s interview had gone with the president. I said a prayer that the leader of the free world, all of these dignitaries, and the rest of us in the crowd would live through this event.

  126

  The lady sitting next to me, according to the pass hanging around her neck, was a reporter from USA Today. She was becoming increasingly upset by my constantly turning around to watch the priests behind me.

  “Do you have a problem?” she asked.

  “I’m, ah, looking for someone,” I said.

  She glanced at my name tag and read my name. “I remember you,” she sneered at me. “You’re the reporter from the Washington Post who caused an abortion clinic to be blown up.”

  I felt my face begin to burn. “That’s not exactly what happened.”

  “How did you get a priority pass? I heard you were blackballed from our industry.”

  I wanted to tell her I’d recently written a front page piece for the Tribune, but I was still a leper in her newspaper world — and to many of my former fellow reporters too.

  I stood up, my face burning even more. I looped the strap of my purse across my chest. “Excuse me. I have to use the restroom.”

  I have to stop this before the bomber strikes.

  The only people I could count on to help me were the two FBI agents. There was no other option.

  I hurried up to them. “You have to help me. The man who has been blowing up abortion clinics is here to kill the president.”

  “Yeah, and Michael Jordan is going to make another comeback in this building,” the female agent said.

  The male FBI agent pointed at the crowd. “Just exactly which one of these people is your killer?”
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  “I think he’s dressed like a priest.”

  “Think?” the female asked.