Judy stood straight to make an argument. She glanced at Cynthia, looking for support, but Cynthia had decided to remain neutral by leaning over to zip up her boots. Judy crossed her arms, glaring at Charlie.
“Don’t be ‘Iowa Stubborn,’” Charlie said, glaring back.
“Music Man. Meredith Wilson.” Judy replied, recognizing the reference.
“Correct. No more arguments, okay?”
“Oh, hell,” Judy said, turning toward her desk.
“You two are hilarious,” Cynthia chuckled. “You quote Broadway musicals at each other?”
“It’s a guilty pleasure we share,” Charlie smiled. “She can also match me lie for lie, another gift we share.”
“You see that as a gift?”
“It is in our game. You must be pretty good at it yourself. You’ve been fooling Heinrich for months.”
“He frightens me, Charlie. I think it was Nietzsche who said ‘convictions are more dangerous foes to truth than lies.’ It’s the kind of warped thinking that allows terrorists to do the things they do.”
“According to Tony, Heinrich’s only conviction is about money. DHS has tied him to an overseas account with a recent deposit of three million dollars, and Tony thinks that’s just a down payment.”
“That’s a lot of money. I spoke to Scott tonight. He’s terribly embarrassed about not seeing through Heinrich from the beginning. He blames himself for the murders of the food supervisor and your friend Josh,” Cynthia said, shaking her head. “I’ve never heard him so despondent.”
“I understand the instinct to own the responsibility for things gone wrong. That’s certainly the way I feel about getting Lin in trouble. But until we’re out of danger, self-blame is a waste of energy.”
Using his Spectrum ID, Dudiyn had encountered no trouble entering the Larned Garage, and he’d parked in the last row, next to the food trucks marked with the names of Cobo eateries. It had taken several hours to blend the chemicals, pack the mix into the pipes, and connect the phone detonators. He’d worked in the well of the church van, sitting behind the passenger bench, with the back vents open to get a bit of air. The windows were tinted, but he’d used only a headband-mounted penlight to illuminate his handiwork.
He was sweating and irritable from hunger. Earlier in the day, the activity in the garage had been impressive, with the deliveries of catered food, a group meeting of valet parking staff, and regular rounds of security patrols. But it was almost 7:30 p.m. and quiet now. He donned the green Spectrum jacket over his T-shirt and jeans, stepped out of the van, and hefted two bags onto his shoulder. He scanned the entry lock with his card and walked confidently into the Cobo service circulation area, then entered the back lobby and stepped into the nearest men’s room. He made sure he was alone, then propped open the lavatory door with an orange cone. With the set of master keys Heinrich had provided, he unlocked the janitor’s closet and retrieved a cart with mop and bucket, blocking the entry to the restroom.
He had to do something about his body odor or it would attract attention. He put the plastic bags into a stall and, shirtless, stepped up to the sink, then pumped a handful of soap from the dispenser and lathered his armpits. He soaked a stack of paper towels, and wiped his underarms, face, head, chest, and the back of his neck, then used another stack of towels to wipe himself dry. He used scissors to cut clumps of his beard, leaning over the commode to let the hair fall. He opened the bag with his janitor’s uniform, and pulled out a long-sleeved, light-blue shirt with a name tag that read “Albert.” He paused to listen for any noise from the open restroom door before sitting on the commode and removing his shoes and socks. He pulled off his black jeans, careful to slip them over his ankle holster and the Kel Tec P32. He used a few of the discarded paper towels to wipe his pubic hair and groin, then donned the blue cotton work pants. He put his two cell phones into the pockets and clipped his key ring onto the belt loop, then slipped on the black socks and work shoes. He stuffed the empty plastic bag with his jeans, boots, and scissors, retrieved the safety razor and left the stall to stand before the mirror. Within fifteen minutes he was clean-shaven. He buttoned his shirt, tucked it, and gave himself a once over.
Heinrich had messaged a few minutes ago to meet him near the loading dock. Dudiyn messaged that he was on his way. He shoved the bag with his dirty clothes and Spectrum gear into the supply closet and locked it, then draped a handful of black trash bags over the janitor’s cart and pushed it down the hall.
Dudiyn paused at the north stairwell of level one. Continuing along the hall would lead to the meeting rooms, so he took a left at the corridor leading toward the dock area. He lifted the mop and bucket combo from the cart, and placed a small bag into his back pocket. There was activity all around him, but he proceeded with the invisibility of a uniformed man doing menial work. A Mack security patrol rolled toward him. Head down, he busied himself with the mop against an imaginary, stubborn stain on the baseboard. The patrol gave him only a fleeting glance. As a teenage inmate, he’d swabbed miles of floors in one of Chechnya’s most notorious prisons. There, he had also continued his education in how to execute a kill in close quarters and how to build a pipe bomb.
Dudiyn wheeled the bucket past the facilities storage hangar where staff were using chain hoists to unload giant reams of red carpeting. He pushed through the plastic barrier of the loading dock. Out of a shadowy corner, twenty feet away, Heinrich emerged on foot.
“You look different without the beard,” Heinrich said.
“That’s the point.”
“We shouldn’t be seen talking.”
“You called me.”
“Yes, but something has come up. The Mack team is using a color-coded band system to identify staff on the floor. If you don’t have the bracelet, you’ll be noticed.”
“So get me a band.”
“I’m working on that. But for now, you should stay out of sight. If you’re nabbed before you plant the bombs, the whole thing falls apart.”
“So, how do we set up the diversion?”
“Give me the mix; I’ll plant the chemicals.” Heinrich said holding out his hand.
Dudiyn was still itching to kill Heinrich. He imagined shooting him right now. His small weapon would make only a minor noise. He’d prop Heinrich in the golf cart and return it to the shadows of the loading dock where it might not be found for hours, maybe not until tomorrow. He could plant the chemicals in the seating areas himself, and then hide out until he could place the bombs. Of course, if he were spotted without the bracelet, he’d increase the risk he wouldn’t complete the job or escape Cobo.
“Are the receptacles in place?” Dudiyn asked.
“They’ll all be in place by ten or eleven. There’s still plenty of time.”
Dudiyn looked at his watch. It was almost nine now. “Any chance of getting me some food?”
“The exhibitor receptions are going on. I’ll see if I can pick up something.”
“Okay. I’ll lay low until I hear from you. But don’t take too long.”
Heinrich watched Dudiyn’s departure, then stepped into the facilities room where a dozen workers were moving crates, loading lifts, and rolling out red carpet. Those who noticed him nodded or turned away to avoid a greeting. He knew the staff at Cobo didn’t like him, and some feared him. He liked it that way. He watched their activities for a while, leaning on the manager’s desk. His real reason for being there was to get one of the yellow bracelets the men were already wearing. Believing no one was paying attention to him, he opened the top drawer, looking for the bands.
“Can I help you, Mr. Heinrich?”
Facilities supervisor Dennis Calhoun had entered the storage area and was standing behind him. Heinrich wasn’t startled. He just turned and gave the man a blazing stare.
“I wanted to see if we were on schedule for the overnight activities,” Heinrich said. “I see the men are using the wristbands. That’s good.”
“Yes, it seems like a good plan.�
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“Can I see one of the bands?” Heinrich asked.
“Sure. They’re in that envelope on top there,” Calhoun said, pointing.
Heinrich pulled a few of the bands from the envelope and dropped them onto the desk. He lifted one, pretending to examine it. “A low-tech solution.”
“Right,” Calhoun said. But he was already looking at his clipboard, and counting the crates of velvet roping his men were pulling from the walls.
Heinrich slid the bands across the desk into his palm and replaced them in the envelope. All but one. He walked over to the crate Calhoun was examining and watched a few minutes more.“Keep up the good work,” he threw out, before he turned and walked out of the storage areas.
Calhoun stared at the man’s back a few seconds, glanced at his desk, and returned to his inventory count.
Heinrich drove his cart near one of the visitor seating areas on Cobo’s second level. The new furniture was contemporary— leather and chrome with sleek plastic cubes that served as tables. The three planters, made from the same material as the tables, held large palm fronds, which provided aesthetic balance to the hard furniture. Dudiyn had put the chemical mix into pill bottles that could be easily opened and poured. Heinrich stopped at one of the planters, opened a vial, and tipped it into the soil. The entire action took less than ten seconds. He put the golf cart into gear and moved to the next area.
Dudiyn retraced his steps to the main corridor, swabbing with his mop along the hallway. When he reached the janitor’s cart, he spotted another cart outside the toilet where he’d changed clothes. He walked the fifty yards to the restroom, carrying his mop, bucket, and a handful of trash bags. Inside the door, a uniformed lady janitor gathered paper products into her arms. She was short, Hispanic, and wore a yellow paper band on her wrist. The woman looked up, startled, when he entered the room. She formed the beginnings of a smile, which disappeared quickly when she realized she didn’t recognize the uniformed worker. Dudiyn kicked aside the cone that held the open door, and the woman dropped the bathroom tissue. Her scream was cut short when his strong hand pressed one of the plastic bags hard against her face. Now he had the colored bracelet that would ensure his safe access through the halls of Cobo.
He recovered his own cart from the corridor, pushed both carts into the restroom’s vestibule, and affixed an “out of order” sign on the external door, then locked it. The restroom would be his headquarters until he could begin positioning the bombs. He removed boxes, brooms, dust mops and gallon jugs of cleaning fluids from the supply closet, placed the dead woman in the rear, and rearranged the supplies to hide her body. Dudiyn then piled paper and rags together into a makeshift pillow. He was hungry, but since he couldn’t eat, he would sleep.
Amy maintained a discreet distance from Mr. Kwong. Close enough for him to signal if he needed anything, but far enough away to honor tradition and assuage the sensibilities of the business and government officials attending the Guí Motors VIP reception. They had flown from the Chinese mainland to Detroit, Michigan, to witness the acknowledgment of Chinese auto manufacturing on the world stage. On Wednesday, Guí Motors would receive a citation for their work from the U.S. secretary of commerce, the governor of Michigan, and the Detroit Auto Dealers Association. Amy understood the importance and symbolism of the honor.
Before she’d entered high school, her parents had related numerous times the story of the beating death of Chinese-American Vincent Chin. Chin had died at the hands of two Detroit autoworkers disgruntled by the influx of Japanese automobiles to the U.S. The killers had mistaken Chin for Japanese.
Amy saw her boss beckon. “Yes, Mr. Kwong.”
“Please escort Mr. Zhéng and his translator to the smoking area.”
“Yes, Mr. Kwong,” Amy said, tilting her head in a bow.
She led the way to the semi-enclosed balcony designed to accommodate smokers. It was still snowing, and a brisk wind blew from the nearby Detroit River. A few other smokers on the other side of the balcony huddled in a tight group. Mr. Zhéng, wearing only his suit and a scarf draped around his neck, stepped away from the others to light his cigarette. His translator, a tall bespectacled man, joined Amy under one of the patio heaters.
“Is it always this cold in Detroit?” he asked.
“It is cold a lot of the time,” Amy said.
The translator shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and shivered. His client was pacing, smoke following him. Zhéng lit a second cigarette.
“You seem a modern woman,” the translator said, assessing Amy.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Yes. Although the businessmen we work for are intent on finding honor in the work of the future, they remain steeped in the traditions of the past.”
“Well, you seem a man of modern sensibility. How did you come to have this job?”
“My family has worked for Mr. Zhéng for a long time.”
“I have my position through family connections also.”
Mr. Zhéng discarded his cigarette butt in the ashcan and made his way to the door. The translator and Amy fell in line behind him. Zhéng wiggled his finger, and his employee stepped up to walk with him.
Seven other automakers were holding preview parties on Cobo’s second level, and a few of their departing guests ambled along the displays of cars to the elevators. As Amy followed her charges back to the Guí exhibit, she saw Geoff Heinrich in a golf cart parked near the visitor seats. She thought he might be waiting to have a conversation with Mr. Kwong. Mr. Zhéng returned to his colleagues, and Amy fixed a stare on her boss until he noticed and approached her.
“What is it, Amy?”
“Are you meeting with Mr. Heinrich tonight?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“He’s waiting over there,” Amy said, pointing behind her. But when she and Kwong turned to look, Heinrich was gone.
Heinrich had been able to plant six vials of chemicals on level two. It had taken no more than twenty minutes and would have gone faster, except he consciously tried to avoid the location of the security cameras. He had two vials of chemicals left. He contemplated where to put them, then had an idea. He paused in the corridor near the Guí Motors exhibit. The party was well underway. He turned his cart in the direction of the south service elevator, rode up one floor, and pulled his cart into the main corridor of the third level. It was quiet. This floor had mostly administrative offices. Only the communications staff, preparing for tomorrow’s press day, and maybe staff from the general manager’s office would be working this late. Heinrich turned toward the administrative offices, but before he reached the east-west corridor, a Mack patrol turned the corner and headed his way. They stopped side by side; Mandy Porter sat in the passenger seat.
“Are things quiet tonight?” Heinrich asked the driver.
“Yes,” Hoyt said icily.
“And how are you tonight, Ms. Porter?” Heinrich said with the smile of a cartoon cobra.
“Perfect,” Mandy said with her own venom.
“Well, carry on,” Heinrich said, and continued down the corridor.
“He’s a piece of work,” Mandy said, looking back over her shoulder.
“More like a piece of shit,” Hoyt responded.
The facilities staff were positioning the waste/recyclable stations across from the food vendor stations and lavatories on all levels of Cobo Center. The shrink-wrapped packages were made up of three connected containers for paper, trash, and bottles. Each level was to have a minimum of twenty stations. Later, janitors would come by to line the containers with oversized trash bags, and Spectrum staff would place stand-alone recyclable bins next to the trash stations on levels one and two.
Charlie, Cynthia, and Judy were near the BMW display, monitoring the preview activities and doing an informal count of the guests. They’d already stopped by the receptions at General Motors, Hyundai, Guí, and Honda.
“I count about thirty guests,” Judy said.
“Right,”
Cynthia said, jotting on her clipboard. “So far, that’s the smallest gathering. All we have left is Toyota and Ford Motor.”
Charlie turned the key in the ignition of the golf cart and proceeded down the hallway. Ahead, they saw a Spectrum team placing recyclable boxes next to the waste stations. The boxes were the standard white cardboard containers marked with the ubiquitous recyclable logo and the iconography of a man discarding paper debris into a U-shaped basket. One of the team members waved for Cynthia to stop, and Charlie slowed down. When Cynthia hopped out for a discussion, Charlie asked Judy a question. When she didn’t respond, Charlie turned toward the back seat. Judy was concentrating on something across the corridor, her brow furrowed. Charlie had learned to trust Judy’s advice, as well as her silences.
“Something wrong?”
“I’m not sure.”
Before Charlie could question Judy further, Cynthia returned to the cart, and they continued to the Ford exhibit, which took up a large portion of the exhibitor floor.
“Are your guys on track?” Charlie asked Cynthia.
“Yep. They’re almost done with the recyclables distribution. They’re headed next to back-of-house storage to pick up stanchions and rope.”
Judy and Cynthia did an eyeball count of the Ford guests and made a few notes. Next was the Toyota exhibit. Although the Ford exhibit space was larger, the Toyota gathering had more people. Over one hundred visitors were laughing, drinking, and admiring the cars, in particular the new Lexus LS460. Over the last year, U.S. car sales were weakening while Toyota was becoming the leader of the pack.
“Well, it’s a quarter of ten; Cobo’s security should be coming around in a few minutes to make sure the exhibitors are clearing out their guests,” Charlie said, looking at the schedule. “Let’s get back to the office and finish the briefing book so Judy can get back to the hotel.”
Wake Me When It's Over Page 23
