Out of Time

by David Klass

  “I’m gonna say good night, Dad. You’ve got an early drive out to Mitchellville. . . .”

  Tom started to stand, but then his father’s heavy hand was on his shoulder, and the old man was speaking in a muted, confessional tone that Tom had never heard before. “I’ve never said this to anybody, but there’s a part of us that always admires them. We hunt them and we hate them, but on some level they’re doing the forbidden things we want to do and getting away with it. They’re smarter than we are until the day we arrest them, and they’re having more fun than we are, and if we didn’t have a bit of their dark side we couldn’t understand them and we couldn’t possibly catch them. Right?”

  Tom was silent for several seconds. He was surprised at the depth and honesty of his father’s admission. “Okay, right,” he finally admitted. “On some level I guess I admire his goals, even if—”

  “I was bullshitting you,” the old man said, very pleased with himself. “You think I admired the serial killers and scumbag rapists I was hunting? That’s the kind of horse manure FBI agents say in bad movies. There’s not a bone in my body that wanted to be like them. Never. Not for one second. But now we’ve established that you admire the man you’re hunting, and for that reason alone, you’re never gonna catch him.”

  Tom’s hand clenched around the beer glass. “I’ll catch him,” he said softly.

  “Why didn’t you go to Silicon Valley, Tom? You interviewed. You went to all the fancy schools. You could be pulling in some big bucks.”

  “I’m doing okay. Dad, I’m gonna go now.”

  “Finish your beer. Was it to honor me? Because I don’t have long left?”

  “No, that’s ridiculous.”

  “You’re damn right, it is ridiculous. Because—to be very frank—you never gave a flying fuck about what I did. And it’s too late now. Live your life.”

  Tom shrugged the hand off his shoulder and stood up to face his father. “It wasn’t to honor you. But maybe I’m doing it for the same reason you did. To catch bad guys. It’s the family business, isn’t it? Grandpa Vic. Uncle Will. You. And now me. And he’s definitely one of the bad guys. There’s no way to justify the killing of innocents, no matter the ultimate goal.”

  His father stood also. They were almost the same height, but his dad still had him by half an inch. “I suppose it is the family business. Good night, Tom. Go out on a date once in a while, try to get laid, and make your mother happy.”

  But Tom was looking past him at the TV, where a newsflash had interrupted the third round of the MMA fight. There was footage of a moonlit river winding through a dark and mountainous ravine and a wrecked dam and people being evacuated in ambulances and on helicopters. Tom glanced at his watch and then back at the TV. “It’s him.”

  His father turned and studied the TV screen. “Green Man? How can you tell?”

  “The dams on the Snake River are perfect targets for an environmental terrorist. They stopped wild salmon runs, and there have been legal challenges to them for years. They’re important infrastructure, but they’re also deeply symbolic—exactly what he looks for.”

  “You glanced at your watch,” his father said. “Does he always strike at the same time?”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “But the timing is important somehow? It’s part of his signature?”

  “I can’t talk about that,” Tom said.

  “You can’t talk about it to me?” his father repeated, and suddenly there was rage in his voice. “The fuck does that mean? Like I can’t keep my mouth shut? Listen, you little asshole. . . .”

  But Tom wasn’t listening to his father anymore. He had climbed up onto the bar and turned up the volume manually, and he listened as the newscaster mentioned the first casualty reports and how a family of six on a houseboat in the reservoir beneath the dam had drowned—including four young children.

  THREE

  “The explosive was precisely delivered by a large drone to a lower bulwark section of the Boon Dam deemed critical by our experts. A top structural engineer on a good day couldn’t have picked a better spot.” Brennan paused to sip coffee and looked out at the three hundred agents in folding chairs, many of whom were taking notes on laptops. In the dim hall their screens gleamed and silhouetted their faces with a bluish tint so that they looked like an army of trolls. “Arched dams are curved so the hydrostatic pressure from the river presses against the arch and actually strengthens the dam. But if compromised in the right way, that stress point creates a potential structural weakness, and Green Man exploited it perfectly.

  “As many of you know—and this is not public information—he times his attacks to coincide with an environmental doomsday clock run by a radical environmental group based in Sweden. The Östersund Clock claims to take into account a variety of factors, including global warming, and is ticking down to what they term ‘midnight,’ when the harm to our planet will be irreversible. Their clock is now at eleven thirty P.M., and the explosion at the Boon Dam occurred at exactly the equivalent in Idaho Mountain Time.”

  Slides came on the large screen behind Brennan that showed what was left of the dam, and he could feel the reaction in the room and even hear a few gasps. It was one thing to hear the details, but it was another to see two billion dollars of damage. “In other words, he picked his target expertly, researched it thoroughly but somehow covertly, and he hit a bull’s-eye at the exact second he wanted.”

  The army of trolls felt their leader’s anger, and the tension in the large hall amped up. “We suspect a plastic explosive—probably Semtex. Given the damage, there must have been more than eight kilograms. It’s extremely difficult to build a drone that can carry such a heavy payload and fly that precisely.” Photos came on the screen of several tiny black shards that had been extracted from the concrete or fished from the reservoir. “So far only a few fragments of the drone have been recovered. It had what our bomb people call a suicide cap. The main charge of plastic explosives took out the dam, but there was a much smaller charge committed to destroying the drone itself, the blasting device, and all traces of the explosive. Every bomb maker has a distinctive signature, but the suicide cap erased whatever we could have learned about Green Man.

  “As in the previous five incidents, a hand-typed letter—sent through the mail—arrived at a major urban news outlet this morning addressed to a senior editor, taking credit for the attack and explaining his reasons for it. He varies the city, but this morning it was Manhattan and the New York Times. You can read his letter on your website of choice since it’s exploding on the Internet. For reasons I can’t go into, we’re sure it’s Green Man. It was written in the same logical, circumspect tone as the other letters, and it expresses his reasons for blowing up the dam and his conclusion that given the environmental threats to our planet, active resistance is not only warranted but a moral imperative. Our forensics people are poring over the letter, the stamp, the typeface, the paper—so maybe we’ll get a break, but we didn’t from any of the other five. As in those other letters, he ends by apologizing for what he terms the ‘tragic collateral loss of life.’”

  Brennan’s gruff voice softened, as it always did when he turned to the casualties. “Three Idaho Power and Gas workers were killed outright, and two more dam staff are critical. The blast damaged the dam sufficiently so that the pressure from the Snake River cracked through. In the ensuing flood of spill-water into the reservoir below, two houseboats capsized and the families on them drowned. Total loss of life is now at twelve but expected to increase. Preliminary damage estimates are well over two billion dollars, and the Snake River in the Boon Canyon has largely resumed its normal course.”

  Brennan waved a hand, and the overhead lights came on full. “We have seventy agents on-site, and over two thousand local and state police and airport security folks are working with us, following up every lead. The manhunt is now national in scope and unparall
eled in the number of agents and ancillary investigators and the combined and diverse expertise brought to bear. But bottom line, he struck again and he got away. Questions? Grant?”

  A tall African American agent in the front row stood. “Sir, for the drone to have been steered into the target so precisely, Green Man must have had a ringside seat. He had to be close and also have a direct view of the dam’s downstream face.”

  “There are over thirty hills, mesas, and cliffs above the downstream side of the dam that would have given him the proximity and viewpoint he needed,” Brennan said. “We have forensics teams on-site scouring them, but so far we haven’t found anything. Many of them are hard-rock formations and wouldn’t preserve prints, and all indications are that he wears special clothing and shoes and is methodical about not leaving anything behind. Yes, Dale?”

  A wide-shouldered man in khakis and a blue jacket stood. “The Boon Dam is one of the soft targets we monitor by satellite. Wouldn’t he have left a thermal image, and wouldn’t the transmitter of the drone have sent a heat plume?”

  “We had a direct overflight. Our eye in the sky didn’t pick up anything. He’s finding some way to mask it. Hannah? What data can we get you?”

  A middle-aged Asian woman stood and said in an unexpectedly booming voice, “That part of northern Idaho is very rural. Only a handful of airports. Just a few interstates. Once he struck the dam, he had to get out fast. The more images we can get in the hours right after the blast from airport cameras, gas stations, tollbooth cameras—”

  “He would never drive on an interstate,” a voice blurted out from the back.

  Brennan held up his hand. He was a big man, and his upraised palm looked like a catcher’s mitt. “You, in the back, who just spoke out of turn. Stand up.”

  Everyone in the room turned to look as a rail-thin, gangly young man with unkempt black hair, who looked like he should still be in college, stood awkwardly at the very back.

  “I don’t recognize you. What’s your name?”

  “Tom Smith, sir.”

  “Did I call on you, Agent Smith?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Agent Lee was asking a question, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, sir. Well, she wasn’t exactly asking a question, but she was talking, sir.”

  “But now you’re talking. So go ahead and talk.”

  “I meant no disrespect, sir. But Green Man doesn’t take major highways. At least not when he’s on a mission. He would never do that. He doesn’t use airports. He probably carries his own gas with him.”

  “Are you psychic, Agent Smith?”

  “What, sir?”

  “Are you clairvoyant?”

  There were some laughs. “No, sir. But I—”

  “Too bad. Because if you were psychic, we wouldn’t need to cover all the bases and painstakingly gather the information that eventually breaks these cases. Sit down and contain yourself. Hannah, we already have thousands of those images heading your way, but if we’re missing any catch-points, please let me know.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, and sat down.

  “We’re done here,” Brennan announced. “The media is already making a meal of this, and several news stations and websites are coming close to lionizing him for mass murder. They’re highlighting that this may help bring back the Pacific salmon and barely mentioning that two families were killed. Their names haven’t been released yet, but I know them.”

  Brennan stepped forward, and his voice was now almost painfully soft. “The Terry family from Boise. Fred Terry and his wife, Susan, and their six-year-old, Sam, found drowned in his tiger-striped pajamas. And the Shetley family from Riverton. Jack, a doctor. His wife, Mary, who worked for the fire department. And their four kids, including their oldest child, Andy, thirteen, whose Facebook page says he wanted to be a first-responder hero like his mom. That’s it. Go catch this bastard.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  Tom put his laptop in its case and stood up, not making eye contact with those around him. A mocking whisper from behind him asked, “Hey, clairvoyant guy?” but he didn’t turn around. “Are the Redskins gonna win this weekend? Can you give me the score?”

  There were hoots of laughter. Tom kept his head down and headed for the nearest exit.

  Someone stepped in his way, and a voice said commandingly, “Agent Smith.” It wasn’t a question.

  Tom looked up and saw the tall African American agent named Grant who had asked a question from the front row. “Yes?”

  “Commander Brennan wants to see you.”

  “Sure,” Tom said. “Whenever he’s—”

  “Now.”

  FOUR

  Tom followed the tall agent out of the hall, down a long corridor, and out a side exit into the crisp Washington morning. A gleaming black sedan idled at the curb. “Back seat,” Grant told him. “If I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut.” Tom took a deep breath of cold October air, opened the rear car door, and climbed in.

  Brennan reclined on the leather seat, checking his cell phone and eating roasted sunflower seeds from a brown paper bag. He was a large man—nearly six-foot-four and close to three hundred pounds—approaching seventy, and he sat in a lazy sprawl that took up most of the spacious back of the sedan. He made no gesture of welcome to Tom but said to the driver, “Let’s go, Don,” and the sedan pulled out into traffic. Tom waited silently as Brennan peered down through his reading glasses, finished typing a text and sent it, and finally lowered his phone and looked at him. “Are you trying to commit career suicide before you have a career?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know who Hannah Lee is?”

  “Only by reputation. I’ve never met her. I’ve heard she’s superb.”

  “She does what you were hired to do, only she’s been doing it for fifteen years and you’ll be very lucky if you ever get to be half as good at it as she is.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend her or you, sir.”

  “You didn’t offend me, but it pisses me off when people speak out of turn at my meetings. As for Hannah, she has a long memory and sharp elbows, and she’s in your direct chain of command. I would apologize to her. Do you do meek?”

  “When necessary.”

  “Humbly and meekly, then.”

  Tom looked at him and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  The big man crunched a seed between his molars, and it was a little like a whale feeding on plankton. “Tom Smith? Not exactly a memorable name.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir, I didn’t choose it, sir.”

  “I once knew a Warren Smith.”

  Tom felt himself tense and kept silent.

  “A hard man in many ways, but just about the best field agent I ever worked with, and I’ve worked with thousands. Any relation?”

  Tom hesitated, but it was clear that Brennan knew everything. “I asked my father not to get in touch with you.”

  “What makes you think he did?”

  “Because I asked him not to. I also assume he asked you not to tell me that he’d called you.”

  Brennan smiled slightly. “I never reveal intelligence sources. I can well understand that Warren probably wasn’t the easiest father in the world. But his deductive instincts were uncanny, and he always told me the truth, and those are two qualities I value highly. Let’s see if you can keep that family tradition alive. What exactly did you want to get across so badly that you blurted it out of turn today?”

  Tom could smell the salt on the sunflower seeds. “It doesn’t take a clairvoyant to know that you’re chasing somebody who’s taking exactly the right precautions.”

  “Yes, but how and why is he taking those precautions? Don’t hold back, Tom. Your father didn’t edit, as I’m sure you know better than anyone.”

  “It’s clear that he understands your methods perfect
ly. If you continue to search for him in ways he can predict, you’ll probably never catch him.”

  “And just how does he come to have our playbook? Do you think he’s an FBI agent?”

  “Or he could work in some other area of law enforcement. Maybe he just watches a lot of crime shows on TV.”

  “There are lots of Law & Order junkies out there. We have a pretty good record of catching them no matter what they watch or read or look up on the Internet. In fact, the more they think they understand how we’re looking for them, the easier it usually is to catch them.”

  “You wouldn’t have gotten the Unabomber if his brother hadn’t turned him in. This guy’s much smarter than the Unabomber. You’ve had two years, and he’s struck six times and sent you all his justifications, and you still don’t know squat about him. Forgive my bluntness, sir.”

  Brennan ground seeds between his molars and swallowed with a sour grimace. “You do remind me of your father. Not many data analysts fresh out of grad school would tell me I don’t know squat.” His cell beeped, and he glanced down at the screen and said: “Don, Rayburn in five.” He tucked the phone away and said, “I’ve got three hundred of my sharpest and most experienced agents searching in every possible way, and thousands more helping. You really think we won’t catch him?” His blazing dark eyes were now trained on Tom.

  Tom met the formidable gaze. “He selects and researches his targets in ways that you don’t understand and can’t anticipate. Once chosen, he plans his missions meticulously and builds his own explosives. He understands forensics and data, so he’s not going to leave footprints or thermal plumes near a target or buy gas with a credit card or anything stupid like that. He engages with you on his own terms, and he’s apparently very capable of sending those hand-typed letters without giving you any clues to his identity. He refuses to engage further or be drawn by your psychological experts into revealing anything else about himself. If you continue to search for him in conventional ways, I don’t see this turning around, unless . . .”