Latent barged out of the command center tent and spun back around, yelling into the entryway. “Goddammit! Where are my fucking fingerprints? We should have had an ID on this dead asshole already! I want some prints, and I want them yesterday.”
A muffled set of “yessirs” ushered out.
“Baker! Damn good work. Unbelievable work.” He leaned towards her and said, “Before we sent you into the Thoughtstorm building, I took a look at your personnel file. You were raised by your grandfather? Let me tell you something, Jana. He would be very proud of you right now.” The sentiment, sincerity, and thought of just how right he was reminded Jana of the emptiness of her past. Her throat tightened.
“Thank you, sir,” was all she could muster. “Sir, about Uncle Bill, I’m betting he’s going to have an ID for us on the subject at Millstone. He’s got everyone working on it.”
“I know he does, Baker,” said Latent. “Bill and I just talked. Listen, Mr. Williams has been invaluable up to this point.”
“But?”
“But I’m afraid it’s going to get a little dangerous from here on out. Besides, Bill wants Cade working with him directly. He’s still poring over Rupert Johnston’s papers, and Cade might be instrumental in spotting anything in those writings that would tip us to the last bomb chucker. There’s an NSA jet inbound to pick him up.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jana.
“We’ve got more agents than we need on these civilian interviews,” said Latent. “So far we haven’t turned up shit. I tell you what, that jet won’t be here for a little while. Why don’t you two report over there to Agent Hill. He’ll give you a few houses that are just outside the containment zone to canvas. I know it doesn’t sound like exciting work, but if there’s a thirty-eighth terrorist with a nuclear device out there, we can’t catch him if we don’t know what he looks like, what he’s driving, or where he’s going.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Baker, keep your eyes open for anything, anything at all. It could be the littlest thing that catches him right now.”
Forty-five minutes later, Jana and Cade knocked on their seventh door. The previous six interviews of civilians produced exactly the result that Jana anticipated, nothing. Latent was right, this was boring work.
“Well, this has been a colossal waste of time,” said Jana.
“Hey remember, Agent Baker, he said the littlest thing could be important right now.”
“Damn, you might as well be an agent yourself,” she said.
“Who is it?” called a female voice from behind the home’s front door.
“Federal agents, ma’am.” Cade looked at her; Jana just shrugged. “We have some questions, please open the door.”
The woman was in her late twenties and carried the burden of a little black-haired boy, whose legs swung wildly against her sides. The grin on his face was as wide as a banana.
“LOONS, Mama, loons. Loons, Mama, loons,” said the boy, his eyes darting up to the ceiling each time.
“Hush, honey, hush,” said the mother. “Let’s talk to these nice people. I’m sorry, he gets a little excited. How can I help you?”
“FBI, ma’am,” said Jana holding out her credentials. “As you know, there’s been an incident a few blocks over. We’re asking residents if they’ve seen anything unusual in recent days or weeks.”
“LOONS, LOONS, LOOOOOOOONS, Mama, loons!”
“Now hush, honey. I’m real sorry about that. Yes, I saw all the commotion. And you evacuated four square blocks? Wow. That must be some incident.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, ma’am. He’s just fine. Have you seen anything unusual that you can think of? Anything at all?”
“Mama-loons, mama-loons, mama-loons!” The words rolled off the boy’s tongue with the rhythm of a freight train clicking across the tracks. The boy laughed hysterically and buried his face in his mother’s hair.
“Now, honey! Here, you go play.” She put him down, and he ran off, dragging a white security blanket along with him, giggling the whole way. “Loonloons, loonloons, mamaloons . . .”
Jana smiled at the boy. “What’s he saying, by the way? What are loons?”
“Oh! Loons, yes. That’s his word for bal-loons. He’s obsessed with balloons. A four-year-old. Can’t clean up his room but he can darn sure blow up a balloon all by himself. I don’t know what made him start spouting off about balloons just then. Anyway, ah, no, I can’t say I’ve seen anything unusual. Was there anything specific?”
“We’re trying to locate anyone who may have seen people going or coming from the house. Here’s a card with a number you can call. If you think of anything, even a small detail, please let us know. We appreciate your cooperation.”
As the door closed, Jana and Cade walked to the next house.
“That just about cracks the case, huh?” said Cade.
“Well, sometimes you get to knock on a few doors asking inane questions, and other times you get to go to a nuclear plant and tell the supervisor you’re going to crack his skull if he doesn’t cooperate. You take the good with the bad, I guess.”
86
“Sir? We’ve got an ID on that body in the basement. NCIC flagged his fingerprints, not to mention the driver’s license in his wallet. His name is Shakhar Masmal Kundi, a Saudi national. He entered the country several years ago on a student visa. Now he’s on a work visa.”
“Who sponsored the visa?” said Latent.
“Apparently the Nuclear Regulatory Commission did, sir. IRS has his last known employer listed as the Millstone Nuclear Power Station.”
“That’s our man. Well, we’ve traced our source of who stole the uranium we’ve been finding all over that house.” Latent shook his head, and his scowl tightened.
“Isn’t that good, sir? We’ve identified another piece in the puzzle.”
“Good? . . . What? Oh, yeah. Well, hell no it’s not good. Right now, what I need is an identity of someone who’s still alive. Somebody drove that uranium out of here, presumably in the form of a bomb. We’ve got to have a face, a vehicle, something to go on.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, I’ve got a team headed back to Millstone right now. We’ll dig up anything we can about him.”
Latent replied, “We’ve got one team on the ground in Oman and one in Jordan. Get them both on a plane to Saudi Arabia ASAP. I want them doing a thorough background on this guy. And call the Saudi consulate in DC. I want their cooperation on this.”
The younger agent scrambled off with a look of justified entitlement on his face.
Latent dialed Uncle Bill’s number. “Bill? What cha got for me?”
“Stevie. Man, was just about to call you.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ve got the identity of your uranium thief,” said Bill.
“Hold on,” said Latent, “let me guess. Is his name Shakhar Masmal Kundi?”
“You were always an asshole,” said Uncle Bill.
Latent laughed. “Seriously, what have you got on him?”
“He worked at the plant for about a year and a half. And by a not-so-miraculous coincidence, his last day of employment was the same day as the train derailment—the day he stole the uranium.”
“Funny how that works out,” said Latent.
“Steve, this is serious stuff. This was a coordinated effort. And not just an effort to quit your job on the same day that you steal forty pounds of enriched uranium either,” said Bill.
“How do you mean?”
“The timing of the theft was perfect. I mean fucking perfect. It was no coincidence that the guy was in the uranium storage room at the exact moment that the train was derailed. This took serious, coordinated timing. Think about it. They had to set up the bridge to detonate. They had to know they’d have a train coming by at that exact time. They had to plan how to set the charges so the train would derail off the right side of the bridge, catapulting most of it into the water, but with the last few cars smashing into the shore, right on top of pa
rt of the nuclear facility. The result was that the safety systems inside the facility sensed what it thought was an earthquake. The facility went into lockdown. The reactor was scrammed. You should see these surveillance tapes. That place went into chaos. They looked like little ants down there.”
Latent said, “So, let me follow this. The terrorists timed the explosion to coincide with the exact arrival of the train, during a window they knew their inside man would be able to be in the storage room . . . they knew the percussion from the blast and impact from the train hitting the roof would cause the safety systems to trip . . . what then? He just grabs the stuff and walks out?”
“That’s exactly what he did. Nobody noticed. It was pure chaos. Utter chaos. Oh, Shakhar Kundi? He goes by the name Shakey.”
“Shakey. Great. It will be all over the news. A guy named Shakey steals nuclear material. Those media assholes will love that one. Listen, I know they sent you all the surveillance tapes. But how do you know it was his last day of employment? How did you know he went by the name Shakey?”
Bill laughed. “Personnel records, internal memoranda, e‑mail chains . . . and don’t ask how I got those.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t worry, I won’t. Hey, by the way. He’s dead, you know.”
“Who?” said Bill.
“Shakhar Kundi, Shakey. I’ve got his body right here in front of me at the Hiroshima Hilton. We pulled it out of the basement. He died a couple of hours ago.”
The line went as silent as if the call had dropped. Latent waited a moment and said, “Bill?”
“He’s not dead, Steve.” Uncle Bill’s voice dropped an octave. “He’s alive and well. I’ve got Shakey Kundi on a surveillance camera at a gas station on Route 119 just outside of Charleston, Kentucky. This was forty-five minutes ago.”
87
Cade and Jana returned after canvassing their thirteenth house. They were tired, hungry, and their feet were sore.
“Come on,” said Jana. “Let’s head over to the command center. I’ve got to get something to eat and find out what else is going on. And it’s probably time you get to the airport.”
Cade grabbed Jana by the arm.
“Is that what I think it is?” he said, pointing to the right.
Jana looked over. Inside one of the plastic habitrail enclosure tunnels leading away from the Hiroshima Hilton was what looked like a body.
“I bet you’re right,” said Jana. “Come on.”
The body was laying just inside the translucent sidewall of the enclosure. The man wasn’t resting. He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t acting. The man was dead. His eyes were still one quarter cracked open, but there was no life in them. Aside from the bloodshot red and purplish hues, the eyes were coated with a stale, milky quality. Cade shuddered. Neither of them spoke.
Cade said, “He looks . . . bloated. I guess the radiation exposure did that. God, look at his skin. It looks like it would peel off. I mean, look at his hands; the underside of his fingers are peeling.”
The two stared and shook their heads.
Stephen Latent was on a dead run towards the command center tent when he burst in through the opening. The agent walking out the door never had a chance. Latent, in a flashback to his football days at Georgetown, reflexively leaned his left shoulder in and knocked the blue windbreaker to the ground. Without so much as skipping a beat, Latent began yelling.
“Everyone, listen up! Put out an APB to every law enforcement agency within three states of Kentucky! We’re looking for one Shakhar Kundi. Get our field office in Louisville on full alert. We need every man we’ve got headed in that direction. We need air transport. Get on the horn to the National Guard. They’ve got a detachment on Staten Island, and I think there’s a Naval Air station attached to it. We need every damn plane or chopper they have. Move!”
“But, sir!” said an agent with a buzz cut and black glasses. “Shakhar Kundi is dead. I don’t understand. His body’s right over there . . .”
“Trust me, he’s not dead. We’re looking for a white van. Unmarked, at least on the left side.”
Jana heard all the yelling and came running in. She noticed the blue windbreaker’d agent lying on his back, his moans barely audible.
“We don’t have a license plate on that yet. NSA is working on it. Give me a map of Kentucky!” yelled Latent. “And someone start searching on everything about Kentucky. I want to know stadiums, parades, events . . . anything that is big. Any event that’s going to happen, starting right now.” He stared around the wide tent at agents still frozen in place. “Give me a map of Kentucky!”
The chatter level escalated as agents scrambled onto phones, shouted orders, and banged on laptop keyboards.
An agent with a buzz cut so tight that it looked like it would prick your finger if touched said to another much taller agent, “I still don’t get it. You were the one to pull the prints off that body. Those fingerprints came back as Shakhar Kundi. I mean, he’s lying on the ground in that plastic tube over there. Why are we looking for a dead guy who’s supposedly driving a white van in Kentucky?”
“I know, I know,” said the tall agent. “Those prints were perfect. NCIC doesn’t lie.”
Cade interrupted them. “You say you took fingerprints from that dead guy?”
“Yes,” said the taller agent. “We were in the basement. We were the ones that found him. We scanned his prints with one of these,” he said, holding up the handheld scanner. “Ran it through NCIC. The prints were clean. A perfect match.”
“Well, how could you be sure the prints were good?” said Cade. “What with the skin on his fingers peeling off and everything.”
The two agents looked at each other.
“Skin peeling off?”
“Yeah. Come on,” said Cade, “take a look for yourself.”
They walked over to the edge of the habitrail enclosure and knelt down.
Cade pointed. “Look. See how the skin on the ends of his fingers is peeling. God, that’s disgusting. It looks like cellophane. Like he’s shedding or something.”
Agent Fry looked over at Dan Keller and said, “Holy shit. Look at that. Did you see that before? When you were printing him? I was trying to get him to talk. Did you notice it?”
“Hell no,” said Keller. “I know that wasn’t there before. Well, I don’t think it was anyway.”
“We better have a closer look.”
Keller looked at him. “The Michelin man suits again? Ah, shit.”
88
The tarmac on the Staten Island Naval Air Station bustled with activity. The noise from small jets and helicopters made it hard to communicate. Agents boarded several corporate jets, and others jumped into Hueys for the ride out to LaGuardia to take a larger plane to Kentucky.
“So I guess this is good-bye,” yelled Cade as he braced against the jet wash that buffeted the two of them.
“Just for now,” yelled Jana. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s the best thing. Uncle Bill wants your help deciphering Rupert Johnston’s papers. You knew him best, and we’re desperate to see if there are any hidden clues in those writings that might point us to a time or location. And,” she said, looking back at the plane, “the director thinks we’re headed into harm’s way. It’s a nuclear device we’re after. God help us if the damn thing goes off. He doesn’t want to risk a civilian getting hurt where we’re going.”
“I understand. It’s just that I thought we’d be able to finish this thing together. It’s not like I have a job to go back to or anything.”
“I guess not,” said Jana. “Look, they’re calling for me. And that’s your jet over there. Call me if you learn anything, and I mean anything.”
“Hey, don’t get yourself killed, okay?” Cade said, smiling. “It’s been a long time since I kissed a girl.”
Jana blushed. “That’s not what it seemed like to me.”
There were fourteen agents crammed into a Gulfstream Four that was designed to seat twelve. As the jet taxied towards the runway,
Latent grabbed the headset hanging from the fuselage interior.
“Pilot. Get a move on. We’re not on a pleasure cruise. What? I don’t give a shit about your procedures. You get this thing in the air, and I mean right the hell right now. And no, don’t bother waiting for clearance from the tower. As far as you’re concerned, I am the tower.”
The jet rocketed down the runway, banked hard left, and picked up a straight course for Lexington, Kentucky.
“Pilot, what airport are we headed for? What? BluegrassAirport? You’re making that up, aren’t you? All right, never mind. Get on the comm, make sure there are two choppers waiting there for us. That’s right, heated and ready.”
Latent spun his swivel chair to face the other agents, and all eyes locked on him.
“We’ve got three HRT groups in-air. They might be on the ground before we are. Also, Navy SEAL and Army Delta Force teams are airborne and en route as well. We’re headed for Lexington, but we still don’t know our final destination. NSA has eyes on every damn camera they can find and hack into. The problem is that since this asshole was spotted on a rural route—where’s that map again—okay, Route 119. It’s a rural highway. He’s likely staying off the larger roads where we’d be more likely to find cameras. Yes, Agent Baker, what is it?”
“What’s the plan, sir? I mean, once we’re on the ground. If we don’t know where he’s headed, where do we go?”
“I know, I know, we don’t have his agenda. We’re going to cover every event we can. Everyone should pray NSA can tip us either by spotting the vehicle on a camera or finding out some other way. Who’s got that list of Kentucky events?”
“Sir?” said another agent. “With the emergency alert system active, telling people to remain in their homes, wouldn’t all these events be cancelled?”
The Fourteenth Protocol_A Thriller Page 30
