by Jim DeFelice
He leaned out, got his foot on it, then climbed over.
“Fisher, what the hell are you doing?” shouted Macklin, coming into the room just as he swung out.
The FBI agent leaned back over. “You wouldn’t want to do this every day, would you?” he said, climbing in. He scraped his shoe against the side of the building, but the height was a powerful incentive and he kept his momentum going forward. He got into the building.
“What the hell are you doing?” Macklin asked again.
“Trying to figure out how Faud got in and out. And whether he was planning on coming back.”
“He won’t be coming back now, that’s for sure,” said Macklin.
“Guy’s going to run out of places to stay eventually.” Fisher walked to the bathroom. There was soap and toilet paper but nothing else. Fisher leaned over and sniffed the soap. “Ivory,” he declared.
“Yeah?” asked Macklin.
“Same stuff he used at DeGarmo’s.”
“That’ll close the case.”
“Just what I’m thinking,” said Fisher.
“Want to dust it for prints?”
“You’re starting to get the hang of the sarcasm thing, Macklin. Keep it up and in a couple of years you’ll actually say something biting.”
* * *
Fisher decided that the bomb had been left for the same reason some people slid hairs in door cracks and dusted the floor with powder: It would clearly and emphatically demonstrate that the apartment had been discovered. That didn’t mean collateral damage wasn’t welcome, only that it wasn’t first on the priority list.
“I think he’d have some sort of vantage point to watch from, or be nearby when the bomb blew,” Macklin told Fisher. “What if we search every apartment the fire escape connects to?”
“That’s twenty-one apartments,” said Fisher.
“We should at least make sure he’s not living in another one here, and that this is just a decoy.”
The bomb had gotten NYPD somewhat more interested in what was going on, and Macklin now had the manpower to do the interviews. On the other hand, the explosion had alerted the other occupants of the building, and Fisher figured anyone dumb enough be a terrorist or hide one would be smart enough to lie about it or, smarter still, to have fled. Still, there was always the chance that someone might remember something about a cross-dressing neighbor with five o’clock shadow. Besides, they were still mired in the straw-grasping phase of the investigation, and so Fisher didn’t object — as long as he didn’t have to do any of the interviews.
“What are you going to do?” Macklin asked.
“Climb the fire escape.”
“It’s getting pretty dark.”
“It is, isn’t it,” said Fisher, going to the blown-out window and stepping through the frame.
* * *
A pair of mangled beach chairs sat folded at one side of the roof, but otherwise it was empty. The small door at the top of the stairway locked from the inside. Fisher jiggled it but it wouldn’t give. Picking the lock was no good; Fisher had to go all the way down and then trudge up the stairs to see if there was a bag or other hideaway.
A simple dead bolt secured the door to the roof; there were no bags or keys hidden anywhere that he could see, and his second search of the roof failed to turn up anything except a fifty-cent coin near the edge of the roof. A ladder led from the back of the building to the adjacent roof. Fisher climbed over it and continued his search, still without results. A third roof sat adjacent to this one, eight feet lower and across a narrow alley.
The sun had gone down quite a while ago, but the lights from a building across the street made it possible to see, though not particularly well.
Which was why he wasn’t sure whether the long narrow object near the front of the roof was a ladder or not.
The easiest way to find out was to jump across. Fisher did so, rolling onto the flat surface and bumping into a large can of roofing tar. Fortunately, its top remained intact; Fisher was already down to his last reasonably clean suit.
The object he’d seen was a long two-by-four with three shorter pieces of wood nailed to it. Fisher took it to the side and hooked it over the brick lip on the adjacent building. The board made it possible to get up to the other side without too much trouble, though it creaked under his weight.
So the guy who used it was a little shorter and at least as skinny, Fisher thought.
The FBI agent picked up the edge of the board and flipped it back to the other roof, then jumped back to examine the roof. There was no stairway down; the roof was accessed through a flat trapdoor that was not only locked but chained.
A small bag was wedged in a crack in the low wall at the front of the roof. Fisher held it up and saw that it was marijuana, or at least something herbal. He stuffed it back in place and continued his search in the shadows. As he did, his stomach began to growl. Wondering if he could hunt up a midnight hot dog vendor, he went back to the ladder board and hooked it into place. He was just reaching across when he saw the tar bucket he’d knocked into earlier.
The thing was, the tar on the roof was dry — very, very dry.
And who tarred a roof in March?
Old can, probably used as a seat.
Or a hiding place. Fisher pried it open.
The remnants of tar had congealed long ago. Newspapers had been stuffed into the top, and in the middle of the newspapers sat a small knapsack. There was a shirt inside, along with a gas mask, an autoinjector similar to the one he’d found at Mrs. DeGarmo’s, and a set of night goggles.
Chapter 13
“Hey, Colonel, how are you doing?” said the voice on the cell phone when Howe answered.
A very recognizable, if inconvenient, voice.
“I’m very busy right now, Fisher.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“It was my answer,” said Howe.
“Listen, I need some advice.”
“This is a real bad time, Fisher. I’ve had a tough few days and I’d like to relax.”
“Tell me about it. I just missed getting blown up by a nail bomb in New York City.”
“What do you need advice for?”
“If you had an E-bomb, how would you drop it? Would you rent a plane?”
“How do you know it’s going to be dropped?”
“I don’t. That was what the experts said when we were talking about it. You would use it over a set of transformers or a big switching yard, someplace where you can have a big impact. So I’m figuring airplane.”
“Or a cruise missile,” said Howe. “Or a UAV.”
“What’s a UAV?”
“Fisher, where are you?”
“At the moment I’m standing in a hallway of a prewar apartment in Chelsea, watching some crime scene guys pull nails out of the wall.”
“Can you get to a secure phone?”
“If I have to. Take me an hour and a half, though.”
“Call me back on this line with your sat phone, then I’ll call you.”
Howe killed the cell phone. There was a secure phone at NADT he could use, but of course that meant leaving Alice.
She was in the kitchen, clearing the dishes from dinner.
“I’m going to have to go,” he said.
“Now?”
“In a few minutes, yeah. It’s, um… it’s important.”
“And you can’t talk about it.”
He shook his head.
“Is it related to the other day?” she asked.
“No.” His answer was honest — he didn’t think it was at first — but as he thought about it he decided it might be. It was too late to take it back, but the realization made him feel guilty, as if he’d deliberately lied.
“Very mysterious,” she said, closing the dishwasher. Alice walked to him, sliding her arms around his waist to his back, pulling him down to her lips. “When did you have to leave?”
Chapter 14
Howe’s story about the UAVs gave
Fisher a tenuous connection with the Koreans, but the agent had already used up his quota of tenuous connections on the case.
“You have any evidence there were other UAVs?” Fisher asked as they discussed it over the secure connection. Fisher was using Macklin’s office; he pushed back in the seat and gazed up at his reflection in the overhead mirror.
The man looking down at him frowned. Fisher decided mirrors were overrated.
“No evidence at all,” said Howe.
“How about the CIA or somebody. Would they know?”
“The CIA didn’t even know they existed until I saw them,” said Howe. “One of them was just recovered a few days ago. It’s being shipped back for inspection. One of my guys is going to be on the team looking at it. I mean, one of NADT’s guys.”
“Could they have smuggled one of these UAV things out of the country?”
“If they could get an E-bomb out, sure. They’re pretty small. The North Koreans exported all sorts of weapons, Fisher. They used to sell Scud missiles all over the world. We could’ve stopped them, but we didn’t.”
“Mistake, huh?”
“You have any serious questions?”
“If you had one of these E-bombs, you could drop it from a UAV?” asked Fisher.
“You could. Or you could just fly the UAV to a specific point and altitude, then detonate it. There’s a problem, though, from what I’ve heard. The UAV they found has no engine in it.”
“You can’t just slap a motor in the sucker, huh?”
“It’s harder than you think. Has to be pretty small.”
“Who makes small engines?”
“There are a couple of manufacturers. U.S. ”
“Can I get a list?”
“Sure. There’s another problem. You have to control it somehow. Controlling an aircraft over many miles can be pretty tricky. Even something like the Predator—”
“Why do you have to control it?” asked Fisher. “Can’t you just program the course in, if you’re going to blow it up anyway?”
“You could, I think,” he said.
“Who would know?”
“I can find somebody at NADT for you.”
“What’s his number?”
“I’ll have him call you. Won’t be until Monday.”
“Sooner the better.”
“Monday.”
Fisher prodded a cigarette from his pack. He was out of matches and his lighter had no more fluid. He started rifling Macklin’s drawers, but all he found were a few old Playboy s.
Left by the drug dealers, no doubt.
“What about a sarin bomb?” asked Fisher.
“Sarin? The nerve gas?”
“Yeah. Could you put that on a UAV?”
“Sure, but there’d be no point,” Howe told him.
“Why not?”
“Has to be used in a closed area if it’s going to be effective.”
While that wasn’t precisely true, it would be much more effective if that was the case. And besides, the canisters they’d found on Staten Island were rigged for high pressure — the experts thought they would attach to a sophisticated dispersion system — but not shaped into bombs.
“Tell you what, Colonel: See if you can hunt down that expert for me before the weekend. If you can, call me. If you can’t, no big de—”
“I can’t,” said Howe before Fisher could finish.
“No big deal unless I call back and say it is a big deal.”
Howe hesitated. Fisher smiled at the face he’d be making. “All right.”
“You’re a good man, Colonel. Even if you don’t smoke,” said Fisher, hanging up.
Chapter 15
Clarissa Moore, the CIA officer heading the special study group, was waiting for Tyler when he and the others got back to South Korea. Tyler shuffled his feet across the macadam toward her Hummer, his legs so tired they felt as if there were lead weights strapped to his thighs.
“Hey,” he said, climbing into the truck.
“Hey yourself,” said Moore. “Good job up there. I heard about the UAV.”
“Saved a couple of lives in that helicopter,” said Somers, sliding in behind him.
Tyler leaned back against the seat, half-listening as Somers told the story. He recognized bits of the account, but it seemed foreign, as if he hadn’t been there but had only heard the story before.
Moore twisted around to look at him. “You okay?”
“I just need a little sleep,” he said.
“That’s it?”
No, thought Tyler. I need to escape. I need… Angel’s wings.
“Yeah, I’m beat tired,” he said, forcing as much enthusiasm into his voice as he could, trying to make it sound as if he were laughing at himself.
Chapter 16
Blitz squeezed his eyes together, trying to get them to focus. He was used to operating on very little rest, but even for him the past few days had been a real drain. He had worked over the entire weekend, with maybe a total of four hours’ sleep; it was now Monday morning and he was due to leave in an hour to fly up to New York City with the President. The latest draft of the President’s UN speech sat on his desk; Blitz hadn’t even had a chance to look at it.
Mozelle came in with a fresh cup of coffee. Blitz blinked at the coffee, then reached for it.
“Colonel Howe is outside, with one of his technical people from NADT. He says he has information about the Korean UAV.”
Blitz looked at his watch.
“Send him in. But buzz me in ten minutes if they’re not out.”
“I was going to give you five.”
Blitz took a sip of the coffee and rose, willing his body into alertness.
“Colonel, congratulations,” he said as Howe entered. “I understand you and Dick Nelson reached an agreement last Thursday. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to get to you since then, it’s been a zoo here. Has the NADT board voted yet?”
“They gave Mr. Nelson the go-ahead before he spoke to me,” said Howe.
“Congratulations.” Blitz came out from around the desk and shook Howe’s hand.
“That’s not why I’m here.”
Howe introduced Dalton; Blitz had undoubtedly met the scientist before but couldn’t quite place him. He listened for about thirty seconds as Howe went over the UAV’s capabilities, hypothesizing that it could be used to launch an E-bomb. While there weren’t any “hard connections” — he meant real evidence — the juxtaposition of the two technologies represented a real threat.
“Well, certainly,” said Blitz.
“So what are we going to do?” asked Howe.
“First thing, alert the task force investigating the E-bomb,” said Blitz.
“The FBI agent is on that task force,” said Howe. “They’re on it.”
“Good.”
“These UAVs would be very difficult to find by conventional radar systems,” explained Dalton. “We have a solution: Our integrated radar and sensor viewer could be tuned to pick them up.”
“I’m not sure I’m following,” said Blitz.
“We want to make the system available,” said Howe. “We have two.”
“We’re getting way ahead of ourselves here,” said Blitz. “They didn’t find power plants with those UAVs — or control systems.”
“There are a dozen engines that could be used,” said Dalton. “And the flight could be preprogrammed in.”
“Contracts with NADT have to go through a certain procedure,” said Blitz, pained that he had to explain this to Howe.
“This isn’t about contracts or money,” said Howe. “These units — we’ll give them to the government free. We’re concerned about the threat.”
Mozelle opened the door.
“I’ll tell you what, Colonel: Get with Teri Packard to discuss it,” Blitz said. Packard was an NSC aide who handled terrorism. “She’ll be in touch with the working group. She can talk to the military people. This way, if we need that capability, we’ll have it.”
&nbs
p; “The Pentagon is on line two,” said Mozelle, pointing.
“I’m sorry,” said Blitz. “Things are hectic this morning because we’re flying up to New York with the President to address the UN. I’m afraid I have to go.”
* * *
Howe knew a blow-off when he experienced one. Still, he followed through dutifully, going over and briefing Packard on the UAV’s potential.
“DIA is pretty sure the E-bomb was just a hoax,” said Packard. “They’re pulling people back from the task force. So is Homeland Security. FBI has only one person still assigned, and his boss wants him back as well.”
“These things are a threat,” said Howe. “They could be shipped into the country in pieces, assembled, then flown off any local airstrip — even a deserted highway in the middle of the night.”
“Granted. But there’s no evidence that they’re here.”
Howe folded his arms.
“But we can get an alert out and have you tied into the review of the UAV’s capabilities,” added Packard, trying to seem conciliatory. “It would be good to have your expertise involved.”
“Great,” said Howe, getting up.
Chapter 17
Fisher spent Saturday and Sunday chasing leads from the credit card accounts. The closest he came to anything interesting was a farm run by former hippies in far northern New Jersey; the cows looked as though they were being fed hashish in the barn. Unsure whether that would be a matter for the DEA or the Future Farmers of America, he decided to look the other way.
The visit to Faud’s apartment and the subsequent adventure with the hand grenade had prevented Fisher from following up on Harry Spageas, the man who worked at the florist near Faud’s apartment. With Macklin and the NYPD continuing their interview of the neighbors — and with nothing definitive yet from the crime people checking out the bomb — Fisher headed over to Steve’s Florist on Monday morning to see the store owner and get Spageas’s address. The fact that the owner’s first name was Rose raised certain questions about predestination and parental premonition, but Fisher never got to raise them, for as he walked through the front door he found the proprietor being questioned by a uniformed NYPD officer. Rose had filed a complaint because both of her delivery vans had been stolen the night before.
