We both went to bed early. We had a long day ahead of us.
I was exhausted yet unable to fall asleep. I tossed and turned and thought about the next day’s plans, rehearsing them, looking for holes. Then I tried to clear my mind. I breathed in and out. I stared at the clock on the bedside table.
My restless mind didn’t give up the struggle until maybe two in the morning.
74
I got up early—I’d barely slept, actually—but Dorothy was already up, drinking room service coffee and staring at her computer screen.
“Where’s the package?” I asked her. I knew she’d be tracking it.
She nodded. “Looks like it’s in some sort of central sorting facility in DC. Any more messages from Vogel?”
“Not yet.” My head was pounding, and my eyelids felt like they were made of sandpaper. I’d been too keyed up to sleep. I looked at the remains of our dinner, still on the dining table, with disgust. My stomach was tight.
“When’s Merlin coming back?” she said.
“I’m meeting him at his place, in Dunkirk. He’s got a garage where we can work.”
I checked my e-mail and found a message from Merlin, listing which of the items from what he called the “Nick Heller scavenger hunt” he’d found, and which he hadn’t. He’d struck out on two of the most important things, the tranquilizer rifle and the electric blasting caps.
He’d e-mailed me before five o’clock, so I knew he was up. I called him.
“Morning,” I said. “You feeling energized today?”
“Not yet. Mostly hungover. Too much Scotch last night.”
“I need you battle-ready.”
“I’ll be okay after I’ve had some more coffee. I went through half a pack of cigarettes last night.”
“You nervous about today?”
“I’m . . . out of practice. I do technical surveillance now, you know? It’s tame stuff. Compared.”
“You’re not trying to worm out of this, are you?”
“I’ll be there. For you. For a brother.”
“I appreciate it. It’ll be fine. Can’t find a tranquilizer gun?”
“Incredibly hard to find, Nick. They sure don’t sell them at Cabela’s. I mean, they’re sold to licensed veterinarians and wildlife rangers and zookeepers and whatever. Give me a couple of days and I can get one, but not this morning.”
“Couple of Tasers, then. Police-grade if you can get it.”
“No problem. I have a contact for blasting caps, now. A buddy just called me back. He can get us two.”
“Two’s enough.”
—
I drove out to Maryland, leaving Dorothy behind in the hotel suite, stationed at her laptop. On the way I stopped at a Wells Fargo branch and withdrew a lot of cash.
Merlin lived in a small bungalow in a development in Dunkirk, Maryland, not far from the Patuxent River. He’d turned his garage into a workspace and parked his Honda in the driveway. The garage was immaculate, with a couple of workbenches and tools hanging neatly on pegboard mounted on the walls.
He’d already done some of the hard work. He’d popped open a couple of cheap cell phones and had fished out the wiring. Each phone was now connected by electrical wire to a blasting cap.
“Nice work,” I said. On the workbench next to the blasting caps were two cylinders wrapped in brown paper on which was printed: HIGH EXPLOSIVE. DANGEROUS. 8 OZ. DYNAMITE. CORPS OF ENGINEERS, US ARMY. A couple of red gasoline jugs sat on the floor nearby.
“Where’d you get the dynamite?”
“I drove out to the Aberdeen Proving Ground. Pat Keegan still teaches there.”
“Keegan. Of course. I should have thought of him. What about the stingray?”
“Hold on. It’s in my car.”
He returned with a piece of equipment—surprisingly old-fashioned-looking given how extremely sophisticated it was—the size of a small suitcase. It was white, with switches and LED lights and indicator dials on the front.
“Merlin,” I said, “you got it! How?”
“Calvert County sheriff’s office. They didn’t need it today, so it’s going ‘missing’ for a few hours.”
“You’re amazing.”
“Nah. A guy there owes me a lot of favors, that’s all.”
The stingray was a powerful surveillance tool used by government agencies and law enforcement. But its existence is generally kept secret. Basically, it’s a cell phone–tracking device that acts like a cell tower. It puts out a signal stronger than nearby cell towers, forcing mobile phones or devices to connect to it first, instead of to a real tower. So it allows you to capture cell numbers in the vicinity, and numbers dialed, and other data. The US Marshal’s service uses stingrays in planes, flying over areas where they suspect a fugitive is hiding; they can nab their fugitive based on his cell phone number. It essentially lets law enforcement track your location without a warrant. It’s real Big Brother stuff.
We fell silent for a moment, and then Merlin said, “Do we even know where his house is yet?”
My cell phone rang. “Maybe,” I said.
It was Dorothy. “The package is in Thurmont.”
“At the post office?”
“Right.”
“That’s early. Let me know when it moves again.”
I ended the call and said, “Not yet. We will.”
Working quietly, we assembled the components of two bombs, each in a cheap nylon duffel bag that Merlin had lying around.
Shortly after eleven-thirty, my cell phone rang again.
“It’s moving,” Dorothy said.
“Out of the post office?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” I said to Merlin. “It’s time to get going.”
“Can I smoke in your car?”
“Afraid not.”
“Vape?”
“Rather not.”
“Then hold on. I’m gonna need a cigarette first.”
75
The night before, Tom Vogel had gotten a call from Ellen Wiley.
Her stalker problem was worse. Now her stalker had tried to break into her Georgetown house. She wanted to hire the Centurions to start immediately. Not in a week. Tomorrow.
He e-mailed her a contract, which she promised to sign and express mail back to him, along with a check. He’d given her a PO box. He was expecting the package.
He was not expecting what was inside.
Not a signed contract and a check, but a gift. A book Ellen thought he’d enjoy.
A hardcover whose spine was about an inch and a half thick. A book that might raise eyebrows but not provoke suspicion.
Because glued into its spine, and therefore hidden, was a small round flat disc no bigger than a silver dollar. A battery-operated GPS tracking device. Whose movements Dorothy could follow on her iPad.
I’d considered staking out the post office instead, waiting for someone to unlock his PO box, and then follow him. Simpler, maybe. But these people were hyper-vigilant. Tailing people like this would be like putting a leash on a snake. It’s just going to slip you.
No, this way was more sophisticated. I figured that Vogel wouldn’t go to the post office himself. He’d send an underling. And the underling wouldn’t open the package. He’d bring it right to Vogel.
But then Vogel, expecting a signed contract and a check, would pull out the book. A gift from Ellen Wiley. He’d consider it strange: idiosyncratic, but not alarming.
And if my intelligence was right, Vogel didn’t keep a regular office. He lived in a compound. The express mail package would be brought right to his home. The tracker would tell us precisely where it was.
And then I was going to pay him a visit.
—
Dorothy called back about ten minutes later. “The package is leaving the town of Thurmont
and heading to Gorham, the next town over.” I hadn’t even heard of these Maryland towns.
“Okay,” I said. “Merlin and I have to go make a pickup. Keep updating me.”
“On it.”
She called back a few minutes later, when Merlin and I were driving in the Chrysler. “It’s stopped moving.”
“Where?”
“I have the location on Google Earth. It’s pretty much what you expected—a large house surrounded by woods, fenced in.”
“How many buildings?”
“Two. One small one that looks like a garage. Then the main compound.”
“What about the entry?”
“As far as I can tell, just a gate.”
“No booth?”
“Nothing that elaborate.”
“Okay. Long driveway?”
“More than a driveway. A long road that winds through the woods and then broadens out to a clearing, where the house is.”
“You have the street address. Can you get any info on the house from the county, or the town? Maybe even blueprints?”
“Give me five minutes. I’ll call you back.”
—
Merlin drummed his fingers on the dashboard as I drove. He was wracked with nervous energy. I could tell he wanted another smoke.
I said to him, “You know where we’re going?”
“Yup. You got the cash, right?”
“Got it.”
“You have the address now?”
“We do.”
“So it worked, the tracker.”
“Apparently.”
“What if he discovers it?”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen. He’ll see it’s a book, open it, see the inscription, probably be a little baffled and a little annoyed.”
“And suspicious?”
“Not likely.”
“If he does? If he rips open the binding and finds where you glued the tracker?”
I shrugged, said nothing.
“Then he’ll be waiting for you. For us.”
“Let’s just hope that doesn’t happen.”
A long silence followed. Then my phone rang: Dorothy.
“No blueprints online with the city or the county,” she said. “But I found something interesting. A couple of building permits issued by the building inspector in Gorham. One was to build an outbuilding, a shed of some kind. The other was for the construction of a safe room.”
“In Vogel’s compound?”
“Right. On the ground floor. The walls are made of steel panels and ballistic-proof composite. It’s got its own generator.”
“Okay. Anything on the security system?”
“Nothing.”
“Can you send me a screenshot of the house?”
“Sure thing.”
I hung up. “All right,” I said to Merlin. “Change of plans.”
76
The UPS truck pulled into the private road and came to a stop at the gate.
It was a tall black wrought-iron gate, simple and spare, devoid of any scrollwork or curlicues. All along its top were sharp spear points.
The driver noticed the stone pillar on the left side of the gate, on which were mounted a camera and an intercom. He advanced his truck a few feet more, leaned out his window, and pressed a button.
After fifteen seconds or so, a voice came over the intercom: “Yes?”
“UPS. Package for Thomas, uh, Vogel. I need a signature.”
Another pause. Less than ten seconds this time. “All right.”
Slowly the gate slid to the right, and when it was fully open, the brown truck proceeded down the unpaved tree-lined road, which wound through the woods for quite a while. Finally the road opened up into a clearing, and there was a house, large and rambling, handsome, but not at all imposing.
It had a low-pitched roof, with generously overhanging eaves. Exposed, scalloped rafter tails. Dormers both gabled and hipped. The windows had single-paned bottom sashes with multi-paned top sashes.
The casing around the front door was wide, as was the casing around the windows, with their detailed mullion work. The house was built in the Craftsman style, and it was clearly done with great pride and attention to detail.
I was impressed. If Vogel had really built this house with his own hands, he did excellent work.
Merlin, who was driving, shut off the engine and handed me the electronic clipboard. While he went to the back of the truck to retrieve one of the duffel bags, I came around the hood to the front door. I rang the doorbell.
If Vogel came to the door, I was ready. But I didn’t expect him to, and he didn’t. Someone else opened the front door, a bulky guy with short black hair and a steroid-poisoned look. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt and had overdeveloped pecs.
“Thomas Vogel?” I said through the screen door.
“I can sign,” the guy said. “Where’s the package?”
“It’s a big piece of exercise equipment. Before I take it down from the truck, can you eyeball it, make sure it looks right?”
The guy shrugged, looking a little uncertain, pushed open the screen door, and came out. I took a quick look at the small foyer inside, the living room next to it, and I froze the image in my mind.
I led the way to the back of the truck. There, I pulled open the roll-up door, and he saw the nearly empty cargo bay. All we had back there were the stingray and a pile of zip ties and one of the two duffel bags. Merlin had already placed the other duffel at the back of the house.
I saw Merlin approach but hang back, watching me.
The guy said, “What the hell—”
But my right arm was already swooping around his right shoulder and hooking his thick neck in the crook of my elbow. He flung his fists out and back at me, but it was useless. Grabbing my bicep with my left hand, I drew my shoulders back, and it tightened up like a scissor. I squeezed, compressing the carotid arteries on either side of his neck.
Within ten seconds, he slumped. He’d be unconscious for only a few seconds, really, but when he came to he’d be swimming out of a daze and sluggish. It took Merlin and me about a minute and a half to zip-tie his hands and legs, hog-tying him. I ripped off a length of duct tape and taped his mouth closed.
I left him on the ground. With the truck in the way he couldn’t be seen from inside the house.
I picked up the electronic clipboard from the ground where I’d dropped it.
One down. The problem was that we didn’t know how many guys lived or worked in the compound, how much protection Vogel maintained. But I was sure this guy wasn’t the only one.
“Ready?” Merlin said.
“Just a second.” I jumped into the cargo bay and found the Ruger 22. “Okay,” I said.
Merlin punched a number into one of the cheap mobile phones.
He waited, looked at me. I could hear the distant ringing through his phone’s earpiece.
Then came the explosion.
It was louder than I anticipated, an immense cracking, echoing boom that rumbled and roared and shook the ground. From where we were standing, we couldn’t see it, but I knew the dynamite in the duffel bag had ignited the gasoline and created a vast fireball. The early-afternoon sky, already bright, blazed even brighter, tinged with red, and black smoke smudged the sky.
Whoever was inside the house would now turn their attention to the back of the house to see what the hell was going on. Probably most of the guards would race around to that side of the compound. It was a diversion bomb, which usually worked when I was in the country. A classic and effective technique. It would buy us a few crucial seconds.
I looked at Merlin and nodded. “I’m going in,” I said. “If you don’t hear from me in fifteen minutes, call the police.”
While he stayed back and made sure that
the guard remained bound, I hoisted the second cheap duffel bag and started toward the house.
77
Slowly, as if I belonged there, as if I owned the place, I walked around the back of the truck, to the front door, pulled open the screen door, and entered the house.
I was in the small foyer. There was a painting on the wall, something forgettable, an umbrella stand, a demilune table. All very ordinary and domestic. Nothing compoundlike about it at all.
Only then did I notice the closed-circuit TV camera mounted on the wall in the small foyer, pointed at the door.
If anyone was watching the monitors, I was in trouble. Especially if Vogel was watching. Because he knew my face. And although I was wearing a UPS uniform, I was not otherwise in disguise.
But maybe no one was watching the monitors. Maybe they were all investigating the bomb.
Or maybe not. In any case, I had to move quickly. I had a choice between going left and going right, and I arbitrarily chose left. Into a small living room that stank of old cigar smoke. The walls were raised-panel wainscoting, stained dark walnut. Mounted to one wall was a huge flat-screen TV. There was no one here. I dropped the second duffel bag in front of a long black leather couch.
Maybe the bomb had worked, and everyone inside the house was now focused on the fireball out back. Distracted, at least momentarily.
But not, as it turned out, everyone.
A tall and lanky guy appeared in the doorway. In a two-handed grip he was pointing a weapon at me, matte black, a semiautomatic. It looked like another Glock. Apparently Vogel had gotten a bulk price on Glocks.
“Freeze!” he shouted.
He was the smart one. He’d immediately connected the blast to the arrival of the UPS truck. He’d figured out where the danger was really coming from.
I froze.
“What the hell?” I said.
“Get down!”
I wasn’t holding the Ruger. That was in a pancake holster concealed by my brown UPS shirt. I was holding the electronic clipboard instead.
For a split-second I considered pulling out the Ruger.
But the clipboard, used correctly, was the better weapon at that moment.
Guilty Minds Page 28
