by Gregg Loomis
“I almost always do going to and from the base, but it’s nice to have your own wheels on weekends when …”
“When what?”
She shook her head. “The keys, that’s it, the keys.”
“The keys?”
“The keys to the car. I used to lose them every other day, so I started putting them right here.”
She pointed to a roundish lump of metal that might have begun life as a compressor for a household appliance. “Right here, next to Complaint. That’s the name of the sculpture.”
Full title Complaint: The Fridge’s Compressor Has Gone Belly-Up? he wondered.
But he said, pointing, “That looks like car keys to me.”
She was staring. “It is. But I didn’t put them there. I left them next to Complaint when I took the cab to the airport.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Jason scooped them up. “Take a quick look around. See if anything else is not where you left it.”
Her eyes widened. “What are you saying, that those … those people have been in my house?”
“I’m not saying anything. Just take a look around. If everything else is in its place, then the odds are you simply put your keys in a different spot.”
A few minutes later, she returned from an inspection tour. “Everything looks normal. Guess I was mistaken.”
Jason tossed the keys up and caught them. “Then get on that hot bath. I’ll get the aspirin. By the way, why do you lock your car when it’s in the garage?”
“Man at the service department where I bought it said to, something about cutting down on the drain of the battery.”
Jason chose not to admit he had never heard of an electrical system that went into slumber mode when the car was locked. A few years ago, he’d never heard a GPS that spoke to you either.
Two flights down, Jason entered the garage. A flip of the wall switch illuminated stacks of cardboard boxes on the far side of a concrete pad, the River Styx of unused but not-yet-unwanted items. Between them and Jason a red Mazda MX-5 Miata gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
Jason took a step forward and stopped. The driver’s window was not flush with the convertible top. Moving to the side, he could see the door wasn’t shut tight.
Locked?
Not with the door not completely closed.
An unlocked car that should have been locked.
A key not where it was supposed to be.
Absurd.
Rather absurd than dead.
Kneeling, Jason looked under the car. At first, he saw nothing unusual. Only when he lay on his back and inched underneath the automobile did he find what he suspected was there: a bundle duct-taped to the frame. Two wires, undoubtedly a negative and positive, ran up into the engine compartment, most likely attached to the ignition. That was why the keys had been needed: to get to the hood lock inside the car.
Jason knew only two things about homemade explosive devices: he was not qualified to do anything but call on the experts, and that they were often unstable. The device might be set to explode when the ignition was turned on, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t go off on its own.
Judith was in a flimsy bathrobe when he returned upstairs. Under any other circumstances, the bathwater would have long cooled before they got into it.
“What do you mean, ‘Get dressed and get out’?” she demanded.
“I mean there’s something attached to your car, most likely an explosive device.” He was reaching for the phone. “I’m calling 911.”
She stared at him as though he had announced the landing of space aliens. “An explosive … A bomb? But who, how … ?”
“I think we can guess who.”
“But you said you didn’t expect reprisals. Besides, how did they know … ?”
Jason had the phone next to his ear. “I said I didn’t expect any reprisals after GrünWelt was exposed. It’ll take a day or two for the info on that computer to be circulated. As for the how? Who knows? Anyone who can use a computer can find out pretty much anything they want. Your registration at the El Convento, the fact we were both on the same flight out of Ponce. GrünWelt may be a criminal organization, but no one said they were stupid.”
“But where I live … ?”
“My bet is they not only know where you live but your birth date, where you’ve traveled in the last few years, your favorite restaurant, anything they want to know. Like it or not, privacy died with the World Wide Web. Now, we can stand here and lament the fact, hoping that bomb beneath our feet doesn’t go off or …”
She turned toward the bedroom. “I hear you five by five.”
53
1200–1250 North Quaker Lane
Alexandria, Virginia
Twelve Minutes Later
The flashing red, blue, and white lights gave an otherworldly pall to the residents of the condominium complex who had piled out into the street at the sounds of sirens and large diesel engines. Two fire trucks, half a dozen police cars, and an ominous, boxy-shaped truck with BOMB DISPOSAL UNIT stenciled on the side blocked the street already closed by yellow crime-scene tape. Four men in heavily padded uniforms had entered Judith’s garage as the crowd murmured and waited.
A burly black cop in uniform made his way through the assemblage to where Jason and Judith stood. “You Ms. Judith Ferris, the owner of that condo?”
Without taking her eyes off the place where the four bomb-squad members had gone, Judith nodded. “That’s Dr. Judith Ferris and yes, I am.”
The policeman produced a notepad, turning to Jason. “And you are?”
“Jason Peters, a friend of the doctor’s.”
The officer seemed to struggle to get this down on his notepad. “You the one who called 911?”
“Yes.”
The policeman nodded to a pair of men in cheap, off-the-rack suits who were making their way through the spectators as he shoved the pad back into his pocket. “I’ll have some more questions when they finish.”
The two were like Laurel and Hardy. The thin one, Laurel, was black and appeared to be in his forties. Hardy, white and losing his hair, was wheezing from the exertion. As though on cue, they both flashed their creds.
Hardy announced, “Franklin. Firearms, Alcohol, Tobacco, and Explosives.”
Laurel said, “Johnson. Firearms, Alcohol, Tobacco, and Explosives.”
Jason said nothing.
Hardy asked, “You got ID?”
Both Judith and Jason produced driver’s licenses.
Franklin handed Judith’s back. “Mr. Peters, your license shows an address in Chevy Chase. That your residence?”
Jason shook his head. “That’s my US address. I reside outside of the US.”
Franklin and Johnson exchanged glances.
“And just where might that be?”
“Most recently, Italy. My employer requires I live abroad.”
“And just who might that be?”
Jason handed them a business card with his name on it. Below that was “Contract Defense, Inc.” If anyone checked, they would find the company in good standing with the State of Maryland. A closer inspection would reveal a lawyer in Baltimore was the sole agent named in public documents, all that was required for a corporation whose stock was not publicly traded. The attorney-client privilege would block further inquiry.
Johnson put the card in his wallet. “Any idea how that bomb, if it is a bomb, came to be in Dr. Ferris’s condo?”
“None whatsoever.”
Johnson’s eyes narrowed. “But you did recognize it as an explosive device, did you not, Mr. Peters?”
“People don’t usually leave gifts wired to other people’s cars.”
A sharp elbow from Judith dug into his ribs. “And I spent some time in the military. I have a good idea what a potentially explosive device might look like.”
Franklin opened his mouth just as the bomb squad emerged from the garage, signaling for their truck to move up. Bot
h Johnson and Franklin turned away.
“Stay put,” Johnson said in what could be construed as a command. “We’ll want to talk later.”
Judith watched them go. “Do you always smart-ass federal agents?”
“Only when they ask stupid questions.”
She took a step back, looking him up and down. “Just who are you, Jason Peters?”
“You know who I am.”
She shook her head. “I thought I did. Oh, I know what your service jacket says and that you work for a ‘private contractor’ who does jobs for the government. But what kind of work? I had to kill a man to save your ass and I almost got killed myself in San Juan. Now people are putting bombs under my car. What next, I get machine-gunned down on the street? I like you, Jason Peters, maybe even a little more than that. And I appreciate the excitement you’ve brought into my life. Oh, man, that scene on the George Washington campus was a total rush. But enough is enough. Whoever you are, I’m not willing to die for you.”
Jason had the distinct feeling he was being told good-bye in much the same manner he had departed from a dozen or so women. He didn’t like the feeling of being dumped.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I don’t like the odds of my reaching retirement while I’m around you. Looking over my shoulder the rest of my life isn’t what I intend to do.”
“I told you, once GrünWelt is exposed as a criminal organization, you have nothing to fear.”
“And in the meantime? And what about whatever is involved in your next ‘contract’? I’m getting nothing but negative vibes here. Either I’m with you, risking my neck or I’m sitting home wondering if you’re coming back. Not very attractive options.”
Jason started to say something but she put up a hand and continued. “It would be all too easy to fall in love with you, Jason. Then I’m hooked, really hooked. Let’s say I’m cutting my losses here.”
“I understand.”
The hell of it was that he really did.
He backed away slowly. “Tell our two federal friends whatever you want when they come back. In the meantime, I’m outta here.”
“Leaving me holding the bag to explain everything?”
“Your idea, not mine.”
“But they have your business card; they’ll track you down.”
“Better men have tried. It’s been great.”
By this time, Jason was at the periphery of light from the condos and the emergency vehicles. Another step and he disappeared like a phantom, leaving Judith to wonder if she had done the right thing.
54
Chevy Chase, Maryland
Two Days Later
6:42 a.m. Local Time
Phineas Simpson rarely came to work this early but a client needed a current balance sheet in a hurry to satisfy a potential purchaser. So, here he was, pulling his Prius into one of the dozen empty parking places in front of the three-story, black-glass office building that was the twin of a dozen such structures, each on its own eighth of an acre of manicured lawn, grass now shining in the early morning light with the rainbow colors of water supplied by a sprinkler system.
At the moment, Phineas’s interest was not in the grass, the sprinkler system, or even the day’s work ahead. He was watching as a huge black Lincoln Town Car slid silently into a parking place in front of the building next door. In the three years he had worked here, that building, or rather, its occupants, had been the subject of speculation. There was no flow of workers, only an occasional visitor, most of whom arrived in that same car, or one just like it, visitors who uniformly had coat collars turned up or hats pulled low and who inevitably looked around before walking swiftly inside as if fearful of being recognized.
This morning’s arrival was different.
The driver, a black man in a black suit, opened the passenger door. Out climbed the largest woman Phineas had ever seen. A brightly patterned cloth was wrapped around her in a manner that matched the turbanlike headgear she wore. Phineas had never seen her before, although several of his coworkers had reported sighting such a creature. She had, of course, been the subject of wildly divergent speculation. An African ruler of some sort in exile? An extension of an African embassy?
The small plaque beside the front door was no help. It only bore the street number and a single word: “Narcom.”
Whoever she was, she exhibited none of the furtiveness of her infrequent visitors. Instead, she waved a cheery good morning to Phineas as he sat in his car and walked in no particular hurry to the building’s front door, leaned over presumably to insert a key, and let herself in.
Phineas’s curiosity would have taken a quantum leap had he known a little more about what he was looking at but could not see. First, the golf-course quality of the lawn concealed dozens of buried weight sensors. The step of anything larger than an average dog would set off an alarm as well as show up on an electronic map. The smoked glass standard in the office park was absent here, replaced by darkened glass reinforced to withstand any projectile smaller than an artillery round. She had used no key. She had exposed her right eye to an iris-recognition system that automatically opened a locking mechanism that would have done credit to Fort Knox. Once she was inside, it locked itself again.
Momma passed through the indirectly lit lobby, treating the man behind the 24/7 reception desk to a smile. The desk itself served to conceal both a small armory of automatic weapons and an elaborate silent alarm that could be activated by a single button.
In her office on the third floor, a timer-activated pot yielded a single cup of black Haitian coffee. She took the cup to the sofa opposite a fruitwood-inlaid French desk from which she took several newspapers. She sipped as she read, nodding her approval.
The New York Times
August 3
BERN — In a surprise move, Swiss authorities have frozen bank accounts of GrünWelt, the international Green and anti–global warming organization, under international treaties waiving Swiss bank secrecy laws where international criminal activity is suspected.
The Swiss police, Interpol and unnamed law enforcement agencies have so far declined comment but a source who spoke on the condition of anonymity speculated the action was taken as the result of the discovery of an arms cache in the headquarters of a heretofore unknown branch of GrünWelt in San Juan, Puerto Rico, along with seizure of both written and computer records that implicate the organization in a number of violent acts directed against institutions and persons not subscribing to the concept of man-caused global warming.
Ivor Klingov, CEO of GrünWelt, denied any connection with the San Juan group and was quoted as saying …
Momma folded the paper, placed it back on the desk, and exchanged it for another.
The Washington Post
August 5
SAN JUAN, PR — Heime Norriaga, spokesperson for the Puerto Rico office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, announced today that records of an alleged branch of the international conservation and anti–global warming organization GrünWelt seized in a raid days ago reveal a course of extreme and violent action against those with whom the organization disagreed as to the source of global warming or the fact of warming itself, as well as possible worldwide industrial sabotage and possible ties to a Chinese-owned company.
Although declining to make public the names of those arrested, Mr. Norriaga stated the charges included weapons possession and possession of false identification, including forged passports. He also stated six of the men had international criminal records, as well as connections to the former Soviet special service.
It is unclear what other charges …
“Go gettum, Jason,” Momma said to no one in particular, again swapping papers.
Chicago Tribune
August 6
LYON — At its headquarters here today, Interpol announced that records seized in Bern earlier this week definitely demonstrate the international anti–global warming and conservationist organization GrünWelt subsidized
a secret branch in San Juan, Puerto Rico, and was, in turn, owned by a company suspected of having ties to the Chinese government. The duties of the San Juan “office” were not the slogans and peaceful advocacy of ecological “green” causes for which GrünWelt is known but intimidation, violence and, in at least one instance, murder.
Additionally, Interpol claims to be decoding special computer programs that may link the organization to a number of unexplained mine disasters, oil leaks and spills, gas explosions and other catastrophes of which GrünWelt seemed to have knowledge before the events occurred.
Interpol has posted names and photographs of suspects not in custody in all 29 participating nations. A spokesperson for Greenpeace and other “green” organizations denounced GrünWelt as …
Momma drained the last drops of coffee as she dropped all three papers into a magazine rack. Sitting behind the desk, she picked up the phone, the only object other than a computer monitor on the leather-inlay surface.
A response was almost instant. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Our man Jason Peters, find him.”
“How soon do you need that information?”
“No rush,” Momma replied. “But somewhere down the line we gonna need him again an’ I ’spect he don’ wanna be found.”
EPILOGUE
Sark, British Channel Islands
November
Painting the placid blues and greens of the Tyrrhenian Sea upon which Ischia floated so placidly was very different from portraying the gray violence of the English Channel. The wind was as native here as the rock outcroppings, the fields of yellow sea oats, and the universally unpaved lanes from which almost all motorized traffic was banned. The wind hummed, sang, or howled. It was rarely silent.
And it changed the seascape from second to second. As Jason set up his easel—he had learned the hard way to make sure it was secured lest it take flight—the dove-colored waves were frothing against the rocks below in rhythmic surges. By the time he had mixed his pigments, the water had become a darker gray, spitting angry foam.
