by Clancy, Tom
“This was designed to stop us, not kill us,” Stoll said.
“Tell that to Mac,” Hood said.
“Chief, I’m sorry,” Stoll replied. “He was in the wrong place. All I’m saying is that whoever created this wanted to shut Op-Center down.”
Jefferson Jefferson appeared in the thinning smoke of the doorway. “The base has been sealed, and an emergency rescue team is on the way.”
“Thanks. Now get yourself out of here, but wait for the ERT at the top of the stairs,” Hood said. “Tell them to come here.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man replied. He remained in the doorway for a moment looking at the body on the floor.
“Go,” Hood said.
Jefferson turned and left. Hood heard his footsteps as he retreated. Except for distant voices and Matt’s strained breathing, Hood heard nothing else. Op-Center seemed as lifeless as poor Mac. It was strange. He was able to compartmentalize the death of the man. It was a terrible event, but Hood would mourn later as he had Charlie Squires, Martha Mackall, and too many others. It was much more difficult to get his brain around the idea that Op-Center was a marble-silent tomb. This facility had given his life purpose, the only direction he seemed to have. Absent that, Hood felt as dead as Mac. Except he was still breathing.
Mike would say that means there’s still hope, Hood thought. Maybe that would follow. Right now, all Hood felt was helplessness bordering on fear. He knew he had to get that under control. He had to focus.
Hood went over to Stoll. The computer scientist was squatting beside the jagged ruins of the water cooler and the adjoining debris field. Stoll had removed a penlight from his shirt pocket. He had taken it from an emergency supply kit in the Tank. He was examining the floor closely without touching anything. He looked like a boy studying an anthill.
“Does this tell you anything?” Hood asked.
“The bomb was not homemade,” Stoll said.
“How can you tell?”
“They used eighteen-gauge clear sterling copper wire,” he said through the handkerchief as he pointed with the penlight. “That gives an electromagnetic device a bigger pulse than standard twelve-gauge gold copper wire. But that is only true if the copper is free of impurities. A bomb maker needs some pretty sophisticated thermographic and harmonic testing equipment to qualify wire of that size.”
“I assume the military has that capability,” Hood said. “Who else?”
“A university laboratory, an aircraft or appliance manufacturer, any number of factories,” Stoll told him. “The companion question, of course, is in addition to having the technical wherewithal, who would have the logistical chops to put an e-bomb inside a water bottle?”
“Or a reason,” Hood said, thinking aloud.
“Yeah,” Stoll replied, rising. “I don’t imagine that Chrysler or Boeing has it in for us.”
The emergency rescue team arrived then, their flashlights probing the misty air. The smoke had achieved a consistency that made visibility a little easier. Mike Rodgers was the first man to enter. Seeing him, in command of the team and the situation, gave Hood a boost.
“Be careful where you step,” Rodgers said. “This is a crime scene.”
The four men who followed turned their lights on the floor. They walked carefully to the body of Mac McCallie and tried to revive him.
“Are you two all right?” Rodgers asked Hood and Stoll.
Hood nodded. “Did everyone get out?”
“Yes,” Rodgers said. “Bob complained, but the blast killed all the electronics on his wheelchair, so he did not have much choice. The wheels locked when the servomechanisms got fried.”
“Jesus, what about Ron Plummer?” Hood said, suddenly alarmed. “He has a pacemaker—”
“He’s okay,” Rodgers said. “We took him up with Bob. The med techs got to him right away.”
“Thank God,” Hood said. It seemed strange to thank God in the midst of this carnage. But Hood was grateful for that one bit of good news.
Hood, Rodgers, and Stoll moved aside as two of the rescue technicians carried Mac away on a stretcher. They moved quickly, even though there was no need. The other two ERT personnel went deeper into the facility to make sure there were no other injuries or individuals who might have been overcome by smoke.
“The base commander put a team to work getting a generator running,” Rodgers said.
“Matt, how long until the computer monitors and fluorescent lights go dark?” Hood asked.
“It’ll take another ten or fifteen minutes for the internalsystem gases to lose the electromagnetic charge,” Stoll said.
“We should probably get out of here, let the cleanup crew draw out the smoke,” Rodgers said.
Hood nodded. The cleanup contingent of the ERT would be moving in with large potassium permanganate air purifiers. These big, fifty-pound units would clear eight hundred cubic feet of air per minute.
The three men headed toward the stairwell. Op-Center looked ghostly, with only the milky glow of the dying overhead lights and monitors.
“Matt, I don’t suppose any of the hardware outside the Tank would have survived,” Hood said.
Stoll shook his head. “Most of the files are backed up there, so at least the data is secure. But it’s going to cost a bundle to replace the nuts and bolts. The computers, the phones, the PalmPilots, the CD and DVD data disks people were using. Even the coffeemakers and minifridges. Hell, we must have at least a thousand lightbulbs that are useless now.”
“You’ve still got your team,” Rodgers said. “And that includes me, Paul. I did not get around to changing the date on my resignation.”
Hood was not a sentimental man, but that one choked him up. He thanked the general, though the sound came out more gulp than word.
“Getting back to who had the ability to pull this off,” Stoll said, “I have to ask if either of you has any idea who might have done this.”
Neither man spoke.
“I mean, it may not be the most tactful question to ask, but could it have been the guys we are investigating?”
“It could be any number of individuals or groups,” Hood said. “Maybe the New Jacobins in Toulouse looking for a little revenge.”
“Forgive me again, but that doesn’t fit,” Stoll went on. As ever, his pursuit of knowledge was chronically unencumbered by tact. “Like I said back there, this could have been designed to produce far more fatalities than it did. The New Jacobins and some of the other people we’ve crossed swords with would have been happy to reduce us all to binary digits.”
“Matt’s right,” Rodgers said. “I know what it’s like to lose a man, Paul, but this was designed as a flash-bang not as a kill shot. Someone wanted to blind us.”
“Who?” Hood asked diplomatically.
The general did not answer. The question became rhetorical rather than leading. The men reached the narrow stairwell. They started up single file. Stoll was in the lead with Rodgers behind him.
“What we should do is plan to meet in the Tank as soon as possible,” Hood went on. “Put all the possibilities on the table and cross-reference them with known modi operandi.”
“I don’t think we’ll be able to go back down there today,” Rodgers said. “Which is just as well, because I want to do some nosing around.”
“Need any help?” Hood asked.
“No,” Rodgers said firmly.
Hood left it at that. What was implied was far more important than what was said. Rodgers wanted to make sure that Op-Center’s investigation of Admiral Link had not hit a nerve.
The men reached the parking lot on the south side of the building. There was a small picnic area with tables. Op-Center employees stood and sat around them, alone and in very small groups. A few were smoking, even fewer were talking. It was strange to see no one using a cell phone or laptop. The blast had destroyed them all. There were misty clouds inside the cars parked nearest to the building. Their electronic components had also been burned out.
&n
bsp; Most eyes turned to Hood when he emerged. The team knew, intuitively, that he would be the last man out.
Hood moved among the group to where Bob Herbert was sitting. He wanted to make sure his colleague was okay. Herbert said he was. He said it without emotion, which bordered on disinterest to Hood. But at least there was no anger. That was progress. Hood then told his team about Mac McCallie. There were a few moans of disbelief and several quiet oaths. Mac could be a severe pain in the butt who damn near counted every staple. But he was a professional who put in long hours. If employees needed something to do their job, he made sure they got it, ASAP. Hood also promised that they would find whoever had infiltrated their organization and planted the bomb.
The 89th Medical Group was stationed at Andrews, and ambulances began arriving to give each of the dozens of employees an on-site examination. Installation commander Brigadier General Bill Chrysler also arrived by staff car. Hood stepped from the group to meet him.
It was just now hitting the director that his facility had been e-bombed. Op-Center had been virtually destroyed. Hood felt violated, overwhelmed, and demoralized. Paradoxically, he was also starting to feel what Liz Gordon had once called “impotent rage,” the desire to lash out in the absence of a target. Worse, he knew he had to stifle every one of those feelings. Unless the team was very lucky, this would not be a quick fix nor an easy one. And finding the perpetrator was not the only immediate problem. Hood also had to make sure that the CIOC or the press did not start positioning this as a publicity stunt or a grab for additional funding. He also had to make certain that the CIOC did not decide that it was easier to shut down Op-Center than to fix it. After what Hood hoped would be a brief meeting with Chrysler, his top priority would be to get in touch with Debenport and let him know that Op-Center was vigorously pursuing the investigation of the USF Party.
After all, they had something that they did not have before : a very personal reason.
THIRTY-TWO
Langley, Virginia Tuesday, 3: 44 P.M.
Darrell McCaskey had spent several unproductive hours at the British embassy and then at FBI headquarters. He had been looking for suppressed criminal records pertaining to any of his key players. He was searching, in particular, for someone who might have sold drugs or had a drug habit at one time. Someone who would have known how to inject William Wilson under the tongue.
There was nothing.
Dispirited, McCaskey was en route to Central Intelligence Agency headquarters in Langley, Virginia, when Maria called to tell him the news about an explosion at Andrews Air Force Base.
“Are there any details?” he asked.
“Only that eyewitnesses reported seeing a glow over the northwest corner of the base.”
“That’s where Op-Center is,” McCaskey said.
“Which is why I phoned,” she told him. “I tried calling Bob Herbert and Paul, but I only get a recording from the phone company saying there is a problem with the number I dialed.”
McCaskey thanked her and tried calling them himself. He got nothing. He phoned the office of Brigadier General Chrysler and was told about the explosion. It appeared to be an electromagnetic pulse weapon. Everyone was still there except for Rodgers. McCaskey decided not to return. If there were a plot against Op-Center, it was best to keep the resources disbursed. If there were a plot against the investigation, McCaskey refused to let this stop him. He had called in a favor with Sarah Hubbard, a friend at the Company’s Central Intelligence Crime and Narcotics Center. McCaskey wanted to see a medical director at the Directorate of Science and Technology. There was an aspect of the murders that troubled him, and he needed answers. Hubbard said that Dr. Scot P. Allan was the man he wanted. She set up the appointment for four P.M.
McCaskey parked and went to the main entrance of the new headquarters building, a commanding white brick facade topped by a high, proud, hemispherical archway. The roof of the enclosed arch was made of panes of bulletproof glass. Compared to this showplace, Op-Center was downright homely. McCaskey went through the security checkpoint, where he was given a color-coded day pass to stick on his lapel. Then he waited for someone to come and get him. The former FBI agent felt a stab in his soul when he saw the sun slanting through the glass. The white stone gleamed, and there was a healthy sense of purpose to the men and women who moved through the corridors beyond. McCaskey thought of Op-Center and how badly the building and its occupants must have been wounded. He was glad, then, that he had not gone right back to Andrews Air Force Base. He needed time to process the fact that his home for the last six years had been invaded and disfigured.
A clean-cut young man arrived promptly to take McCaskey back to Dr. Allan’s office. There was no conversation as the two men made their way along nondescript white corridors. This was the Central Intelligence Agency. People were trained to listen, not to speak.
Dr. Allan’s book-lined office was toward the rear of a wing that included several laboratories, computer centers, and offices. Sports memorabilia was tucked between the volumes and hung on the wall between the diplomas. There were family photos in hand-painted frames, probably made by a daughter or son decades before. Compared to Matt Stoll’s little tech hut, this was Mount Olympus.
Dr. Allan was a powerfully built, outgoing man in his late fifties. He had a long gray imperial beard at the end of a long face, full white eyebrows, and longish gray white hair. His brown eyes were dark with purpose. He looked like Uncle Sam dressed in a white lab coat with red stains on the sleeves. The all-American icon covered with blood.
“It’s toluidine,” the physician apologized, noticing McCaskey’s gaze. “Working on a red dye.” He did not tell him what it was for; this was the CIA. Allan motioned McCaskey to have a seat. He shut the door, then sat behind his desk. “I don’t have a lot of time, Mr. McCaskey, but our mutual acquaintance said this was urgent.”
“Yes, Dr. Allan. Thank you for seeing me.”
“I had no choice,” Allan informed him. “Ms. Hubbard wields a great deal of power here.”
“She does?”
“Your friend controls the block of Redskins tickets.” Allan smiled. “It’s important to stay on her good side.”
“She always had an angle.”
“That is what government service is all about,” Allan remarked. “Access and control. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Sir, I believe that Ms. Hubbard forwarded verification of my security clearance,” McCaskey said.
“She did. She also told me that you were investigating the murder of William Wilson for the NCMC.”
“That’s right,” McCaskey said.
“Speaking frankly, why did you want to see me? Do you suspect that someone here was involved?”
“Not someone who is presently employed here,” McCaskey said.
“Good,” Allan said. “I never discuss coworkers without their knowledge, especially with outsiders.”
“We are part of the same team,” McCaskey reminded him.
Allan just smiled.
“Doctor, I recall reading a top secret white paper about Company assassination policy in the 1960s,” McCaskey went on. “It discussed the twenty-five-year-long moratorium instituted after the failed attempt to kill Fidel Castro using toxins in a cigar and poison in his beard.”
“That is commonly known,” Dr. Allan remarked.
“Yes. But there was a footnote I found interesting. It said that all of the Company’s past and recent chemical attempts on high-value targets involved cyanide-based compounds. I need to know if that is true.”
Dr. Allan suddenly seemed less relaxed. “Mr. McCaskey, the Redskins have a shot at the Super Bowl this year.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I do not want to jeopardize my chances of seeing the game in person. That said, you are poking a finger in extremely sensitive areas.”
“Sir, I know this is a very difficult question—”
“Difficult? You’re asking me to explain what I may or may not do to abet
murder,” Dr. Allan said. “That is not a routine question.”
“I appreciate that, but there is some urgency involved. Someone just attacked Op-Center—”
“What do you mean, attacked?” the doctor asked.
“They hit the place with an explosive device of some kind,” McCaskey told him. “I have not been able to talk with my colleagues to get specifics. I’m guessing it relates to this investigation, and I need to find the people who are behind it. Any information you can provide may help.”
Dr. Allan tapped his fingers anxiously on the desk for a few moments. Then he folded his hands. “Mr. McCaskey, I really wish you had not dropped this at my feet.”
“I’m sorry, sir. But there it is.”
“Yes,” Allan said. He thought for another long moment. “Aw, hell. We’re on the same team, Mr. McCaskey, and if you ever try to quote me, I’ll deny everything. I think you are on the wrong trail.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, the lethal injection described in the news accounts of Mr. Wilson’s death. Potassium chloride is not a compound that we use for the purpose you just described.”
“Do not or would not?”
“Both,” Dr. Allan replied. “It just isn’t anywhere on our radar. For the purpose of incapacitating an enemy, potassium chloride is too unpredictable. Individuals have different levels of tolerance. A dose that would kill one person might end up giving another nothing more than an irregular heartbeat.”
“If that’s true, why would someone have used it on William Wilson?” McCaskey asked.
“Three reasons. First, the compound is readily available online. Doctors routinely prescribe is as a counteragent for potassium depletion caused by high blood pressure medications. Finding out who ordered it, and from what national or international source, will be virtually impossible. Second, as you saw, potassium chloride is far more difficult to detect than cyanide. Third, the killer obviously had time to make certain the compound worked.”
“Would you think a military medical technician would be familiar with its use?” McCaskey asked.
