Collateral Damage

by P A Duncan

  “Had we been able to see the alleged computer files, we would have had more to go on,” Brasseau added.

  Alexei said, “Ms. Wolfe can attest to their existence. The technical aspects of the booby-trap that destroyed those files are in your copies of this briefing.”

  “Technical findings from The Directorate,” Brasseau said.

  “Do you have computer data forensics specialists?” Alexei asked.

  “I’m not sure what they are.”

  “Our computer specialist can brief you separately on this.”

  “With the files?”

  “Director,” Randolph said, holding up his copy of the briefing, “this states the files were quote eradicated by a string of code incorporated into the originating computer’s base code. The code string was activated when the files were opened on a different computer end quote. I’m no expert, but I understand that means the files aren’t available.” The two men exchanged a glance a child could read. Randolph turned to Alexei. “Proceed,” Randolph said.

  “Some financial support might have come from a fortune the Nazi war criminal accumulated over the years and from people who thought they were contributing to a church. The Nazi alluded to a PAC, and other funds may have come from armed robberies. Teams of two and three instructors plus some trainees would often leave Patriot City for several days at a time. Those trips were called ‘fund-raising.’”

  “Did you go on these fund-raising missions?” Brasseau asked.

  “No.”

  “Would you tell us if you had?”

  Alexei pinned Brasseau with a glare. “Director, if you want to call me a liar, have the balls to say it.”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Randolph said. “Mr. Bukharin, back to the armed robberies.”

  “In the briefing is an analysis providing circumstantial evidence the four subjects have done them.”

  “Like Robert Matthews’ group in the eighties,” Brasseau said.

  Alexei wondered if the FBI director realized he’d agreed with him.

  “I see the timeline here and the locations of those robberies compared to the subjects’ known travel routes,” Brasseau said. “This is evidence I can work with, provided I had names. Did you examine armored car robberies, again like Matthews and The Order?”

  “Next page. The ones occurring during the timeline were in parts of the country the subjects didn’t frequent. That doesn’t preclude they were responsible, and, in fact, members of the Patriot City network may have carried them out.”

  “This is sufficient to obtain warrants, Mr. Bukharin,” Brasseau said. “If we had names.”

  Alexei ignored him again and looked at Randolph. “A possible source of funding is from an external terrorist network. Al Qaeda.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Brasseau muttered.

  “Hold off on that a minute,” Randolph said. “Go back to the black box analogy. Weaponry was the second element, you said. All these subjects were in the military, right? I don’t see anything in the briefing about their receiving training in demolitions or explosives.”

  “No need. Public sources describe how to make bombs, but they may have received explicit instructions from middle eastern experts.”

  “Al Qaeda again?” Brasseau said, his tone contemptuous.

  “They’ll offer almost anything for free if it means problems for the United States. Subject number one admitted he had made small bombs and detonated them on a farm.”

  “And that’s not illegal?” Brasseau asked.

  “It may not be,” Stark said. “How big were the bombs?”

  “One or two pounds.”

  “That might break some local noise ordinance, but it’s not a federal matter. Emmet, homemade explosives of that size have had widespread agricultural use for decades—removing stumps, deeply embedded rocks, and so on.”

  Alexei said, “Our research found a 1960s-era pamphlet from the Agricultural Extension Service. It has step-by-step instructions on how to build small ammonium nitrate bombs. Hundreds of thousands of those pamphlets were distributed throughout rural America. That information is public domain, so people copied it and pass it along at gun shows to this day. When I was undercover in Patriot City, the Nazi asked me if I knew how to construct bombs or had contacts who knew. When I responded I didn’t—”

  “You don’t know how to build a bomb?” Brasseau asked.

  “I do and how to defuse simple ones, but my cover persona would not have had that knowledge. If you’re asking if I taught Patriot City how to make bombs, the answer is no. The Nazi told me he had another source, one he didn’t trust but would use.”

  Brasseau turned to Stark. “Did your agent corroborate this?”

  Stark shook his head.

  To Alexei, Brasseau said, “Then, this is simply anecdotal.”

  “With all due respect to Ms. Wolfe,” Alexei said, “she wouldn’t have been included in such discussions. These idiots have a backward view of a woman’s place, and it’s not in strategic planning sessions on conducting acts of terror.”

  “No pillow talk?” Brasseau said.

  How much time would I spend in jail for smashing that smirk off his face, Alexei wondered.

  “Emmet,” Vejar said. “Irrelevant and highly inappropriate.”

  “I agree,” said Randolph. “I’ve had enough myself of your attitude and interruptions myself.” Randolph checked his watch. “We’ve been at this for a while. The steward will have lunch ready by now. A bathroom break and some lunch and we’ll resume in an hour.”

  24

  Waiting Game

  Mount Vernon, Virginia

  Alexei hadn’t cleared the driveway before Mai started pacing the office. Too counterproductive, she decided, and put that nervous energy to good use. She changed into her running clothes and took off. At almost every step, she second-guessed her decision to let Alexei do the briefing.

  What had led to such self-doubt?

  She’d come to terms with Alexei’s women a long time ago—or thought she had—but one-upping him had overtaken the mission. If not for that, John Carroll would be in an interrogation room being questioned three ways to Sunday.

  No, one-upmanship was only part of it. She’d grown tired of Alexei’s calling the shots. That hierarchy had made sense when she was green. She’d more than proved herself but still had to defer to Alexei.

  Yet, she’d had the opportunity to stop John Carroll and hadn’t called on her experience. She’d stood fast on her principles, ignored her operational knowledge. As a fledgling operative, she’d drawn a line. She’d only kill in self-defense. Alexei had never ordered her to go beyond those parameters.

  He’d stopped expressing his disapproval, but she could read him.

  Next time, she thought, I’ll pull the trigger.

  She increased her pace again. Endorphins kicked in, and she ran without thinking. When landmarks showed her she’d gone four miles, she reversed course, slowing down. She estimated it was close to noon when she jogged up the driveway, waving at each set of new security cameras along the way. Some poor slob in Directorate Headquarters had to spend long hours watching their comings and goings. She should at least acknowledge him or her.

  Mai bypassed the house and trotted across the back lawn, down to the dock. After her cool-down stretches, she sat on the wooden planks, legs out in front of her, and leaned back on her elbows. The river was slow today, the susurrous sounds of the water lulling her into something elusive, calm.

  It also reminded her she had to pee.

  She levered herself to her feet and headed for the closest bathroom—in Alexei’s workshop/boathouse. She and Alexei had lived in The Monstrosity—she wished he’d agree to erect a sign—for almost five years. She could count on one hand the times she’d entered his sanctum sanctorum. For a moment, the combination for the keypad eluded her, but she remembered in time.

  After emerging from the half-bath and drying her hands on paper towels, she went to the door separating the
workshop from the boat house and peered through the window. The boat rested in its sling, covered, clean, and pristine. The boathouse wall went to the edge of the bulkhead, and a crane raised and lowered the boat. Alexei had designed both halves of the structure. At the time, she’d paid little attention to it.

  Alexei hadn’t used the boat since last summer because of their travels and his sojourn to Patriot City. Cruising the Potomac was something he and Natalia enjoyed. Mai had gone along a few times, but it wasn’t enough like flying for her. The boat’s batteries were probably flat, and she made a mental note to call the marina he used for service to come out and make it seaworthy. Well, river-worthy.

  Why was she being so solicitous of his needs?

  Alexei’s proclivities had interfered with the mission.

  Karen Wolfe had asked her why she stayed.

  Why, indeed?

  For one, the sex was incredible. Nothing had changed that.

  Time to let go of her animosity—and her ambivalence. It was her business why she’d stayed.

  Mai studied the well-appointed woodworking shop. A wall of pegboard held a neat arrangement of hand tools. Built-in shelving held power tools. She studied the arrangement of some ducting and realized he’d installed an elaborate vacuuming system to keep the place free of sawdust. She wondered where it went. She’d have to ask.

  Alexei had arranged his supply of wood varieties by type and length. He wasn’t this anal unless it was about his piano and music collection, but she thought the workshop reflected him: ordered, efficient. Masculine.

  Mai looked at the clock on the wall. Well past noon. More than four hours into the briefing. Before she started second-guessing herself again, she saw a light blinking on a phone she didn’t know about.

  A phone where he could listen in on any line in the house. She didn’t have qualms about listening in on Natalia’s conversations, but she wondered how many of her chats with Terrell he’d overheard.

  A phone he could make calls from that Mai wouldn’t know about.

  “Fisher,” she answered.

  “What took you so long to answer?” Alexei asked.

  “I went for a run and had to pee,” she said. “The loo in your workshop was closest.”

  A significant pause. “You’re in the workshop?”

  “Well, now I wonder what you’re hiding here.”

  “Nothing. You never go there.”

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t disrupted your careful layout of tools according to purpose and, yes, I believe, color.”

  He laughed, low and stirring. “A man in a house full of women needs his own space.”

  “Is the briefing done?”

  “We broke for lunch.”

  “How is it going?”

  “Randolph and Vejar are following along, asking the right questions. Stark, the ATF guy, blows hot and cold. Brasseau has a hidden agenda I’ve yet to understand. Don’t you wish you were here?”

  Of course, you ass, she thought, but said, “As a spy on the wall.”

  “Randolph asked after you. I was jealous.”

  Good God, she thought. “What do you think Brasseau’s issue is?”

  “Unsure. Maybe Hollis Fitzgerald.”

  “Bloody hell, the man burns you, people with guns invade our house, and Brasseau holds a grudge?”

  “Randolph and Brasseau do not get along. Negative body language, some near-hostile exchanges, and much glaring.”

  “Brasseau’s a bit of a moral prig. It must be hard for him dealing with Randolph. At what point in the briefing are you?”

  “Finishing the discussion about the ATF’s Patriot City report.”

  Resentment raised her hackles. “Who’s giving that?”

  Another pause. “Damn it, Mai, the ATF director.”

  He wasn’t lying, but he was angry with her. Too bad.

  “You haven’t made the proposal yet?” she asked.

  “No, and Brasseau’s unrelated questions are frustrating me, and—”

  Mai heard other men’s voices in the background.

  “Randolph and the others have returned,” Alexei murmured. Louder, he said, “I’ve got to go, darling. I love you.”

  “I don’t believe you said that in front of everyone.”

  “No worries. They’re discussing the President’s mulligan.”

  “His what?”

  “Later, darling. ‘Bye now.”

  He hung up, and she was tempted to move a tool out of place. That, however, would be childish and vindictive.

  25

  Waking Dreams

  Somewhere

  Images flickered behind his eyelids. Grainy like old movies but in color. He could see the blood. He smelled it, too, and burning rubber, metal, and flesh. Music pumping through his headphones drowned sounds of gunfire and artillery, low-flying jets, rumbling tanks. If he looked outside, they’d be there.

  All the men he’d killed.

  The first Iraqi soldier he’d taken out had been a fuzzy image in his night vision aiming scope. Probably left the bunker to take a piss, but if he’d seen the battle group, he could’ve made a radio call. No need for the targeting computer, he’d sighted by eye. Two 7.62 mm rounds sped through the night, and safe in his tank, he’d watched the Iraqi’s head explode like a watermelon with a cherry bomb inside. He’d raked the bunker with his 25 mm cannon. The idiots must have stored their gasoline inside because the explosion lit up the night.

  Burning men ran until they dropped, crawled until they died. He’d wanted to puke, but the radio crackled with cheers from his buddies.

  The Iraqi zombies would be in the parking lot, waiting to kill him.

  The first time meth brought the headless Iraqi into his waking dreams, John Carroll thought it funny. The guy bumped into things, but Carroll knew the dead man could see him. Carroll recognized the sing-song language when the dead man called him a killer.

  Then, there were more of them. The nest of soldiers he’d taken out while under fire from their position.

  He’d spotted them targeting the lead Bradley and ordered his driver to put his tank and its guns between the Iraqis and his buddies. He used his machine gun to pick off the enemy, one shot, one kill, like the snipers he admired. The cannon took out the rest.

  The citation for his Bronze Star read, “…put himself between the enemy and his fellow soldiers with no thought to his own safety. U.S. casualties were diminished because of his action.”

  He wanted to tell the dead Iraqis he was sorry. Dead men didn’t want apologies. They wanted to be alive.

  And the Basra Road. Aircraft strafed and bombed the retreating army, the tanks coming behind to pick off stragglers. By the hundreds, Iraqi soldiers died in burning vehicles, hidden when combat engineers bulldozed everything under the sand.

  The CD in his Walkman ended, but he stayed seated, scenes replaying in his head, one leg twitching. Meth kept the nightmares away but not the waking dreams. Meth made him alert; it also made him want to crawl out of his skin.

  He jerked the headset off and reached for the TV remote. His fingers brushed his Glock, resting on the nightstand. Take it, he told himself, put the barrel in your mouth, pull the trigger, and you’ll see no more dead men.

  The Glock went into his hand, its familiarity comforting. People could and did disappoint, but guns had a certainty. If you kept them clean, they did right by you. Every time.

  Three short raps on the door. So soft he wasn’t certain he heard them. Three knocks again, more insistent.

  The fantasy came unbidden. It was Siobhan. She’d come inside and start to undress him. He would back her toward the bed and…

  She had no idea where he was. He’d wanted it that way. Once the mission was complete, he’d drive to Boston and find her. She would understand what he’d done and why, and they’d be together.

  The knocking became pounding, and he went to the peephole.

  Certainly no one’s fantasy. He tucked the Glock in his waistband and opened the do
or for Prophet.

  Prophet looked around. “This has to be the worst hotel yet,” he said.

  “It was on your itinerary. The cheap part is good. My funds are running low.”

  “I have cash for you. Did you speak to Lamar?”

  “Yes.”

  “In person?”

  “Yeah. He’s cool. How about Jerry?”

  Prophet smiled in that creepy way he had. “He’ll cooperate. If not, do what I told you.”

  Carroll kept his face neutral. “Yeah.”

  Prophet dropped his duffel on one of the beds and unzipped it. He handed Carroll a thick roll of cash. “That’ll keep you for a while.”

  “Thanks.”

  Prophet rummaged in the duffel again and this time handed Carroll a small card. An Arizona driver’s license with his picture but in the name of Robert Worf.

  “This is great quality,” Carroll said. “I got pretty good with an iron and laminating plastic, but this’ll fool a cop.”

  “It should. One member of my network works in the Arizona DMV and made that. Look closer.”

  The issue date was April 19, 1993. April nineteenth was also listed as his birthday. Carroll smiled. “Symbolism. Cool.”

  Prophet stretched out on one bed, his hands behind his head. “Is everything in place?”

  “Not the fuel, but that’s last minute, so I don’t have to store it. Uh, one thing.”

  Prophet sat up, fixing Carroll with what Carroll called his lizard stare. “What is it?”

  “Someone stole the dynamite and detonator cord I had stored.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. Lamar was checking regularly.”

  That was a lie, as Carroll learned when he’d returned to Lamar’s trailer after discovering the theft.

  “When I went to check on it, my key wouldn’t work in the lock. I asked the owner why she changed the lock. She said she hadn’t. I figured it was the cheap lock I bought. I used bolt cutters on it, and the storage unit was empty. I couldn’t call the police. Obviously.”