by Rick Mofina
Strip, gleaming in the twilight.
“Can I ask you something personal?” she said. “Sure.”
“Even if you don’t want to talk about it?” “You can ask.”
“How did your wife die?”
Graham took a few moments and he looked straight ahead.
“A car accident.”
Their rooms were separated by a few others on the motel’s upper level.
They overlooked the pool and offered a view of the Spring Mountains.
In his room, Graham had his TV turned low on CNN as he worked on his laptop. The pope’s visit to the United States dominated the news.
Graham read over his case notes. He was not ready to walk away from Tarver.
That was the truth.
But Stotter had given him an explicit order to return.
Graham checked e-mails. The autopsy on Tarver was still pending. Arnie Danton, the blood expert, had also sent an update.
Dan, given this case is supposed to be done with, I’m having a hard time getting a green light from my boss, but I’m working on it. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day.
Graham shut things down, closed his laptop, set his alarm to allow for enough time in the morning to drop off the rental and make their flights. He fell asleep as CNN featured an expert discussion on papal security against terrorist threats.
“You know, Brent, there was that chilling plot against John Paul II in Manila that narrowly…”
A few doors down, Maggie stepped into a hot bubble bath, stared at her cell phone on the tub’s lip and wept.
She was so tired, her muscles tremored in the water.
This must be what hell was like. She must have died and been damned to eternal torment by getting so close to Logan, Jake and the truth, only to find it was a lie.
All a lie.
She would never see them again.
She closed her eyes and for a moment she was with Logan and Jake on a warm beach until the cold bathwater woke her.
Maggie didn’t know how long she’d slept.
Later, her body heavy, as she got ready for bed, she decided to update her file. She’d put it in the nightstand to the right of the bed, under the Gideon’s Bible, before they went to Desert Truck Land.
But when she opened the drawer, the file wasn’t there.
Odd. She specifically remembered placing it under the Bible when she’d checked in earlier.
Maggie looked in the nightstand to the left of the bed.
Her file was there.
Strange. How did it get moved? This was not where she’d left it. Maybe housekeeping came in. Maggie picked up the phone and called down to the desk.
“No, ma’am. No one was in your room today. They’re not scheduled to clean until you check out.”
Maggie was puzzled. Weird. Maybe she’d moved it herself and didn’t remember.
She checked her door, the lock, the dead bolt, the bar and the chain, then got into bed.
As she fell asleep she tried to resurrect her beach dream.
A block away, an Impala with darkened windows was invisible among the hundreds of cars in a public lot that offered a clear line of sight on the motel through high-powered military binoculars. While one man snored in the back, the second was alert, watching the doors to Maggie’s and Graham’s rooms.
Every hour he would type an updated report on his laptop and e-mail it to his uncle in Addis Ababa.
58
Las Vegas, Nevada
Most Las Vegas dreams started, or ended, at McCarran International Airport.
The transit point for winners and losers.
Here, the consequences of first and last gambles played out with the perpetual chime and clack of slot action. After returning the rental car, Graham and Maggie found a soft-lit lounge where they waited under a cloud of defeat to check in for their flights. Maggie had tea and glumly poked at the bag while it steeped. Graham had orange juice and a muffin.
News clips of the pope greeting ecstatic Americans jammed into a stadium flashed on the TV monitors sus pended over the bar as Graham took a call on his phone from Casta, who had follow-up questions on Dixon. To take her mind off things, Maggie changed a dollar into four quarters and went to the slot machine in the corner. Lemons, oranges, bells and bars clattered from left to right, with the first coin she played. No win. It was the same for the second.
And the same for the third quarter.
Typical.
She played her last one and the first reel left a cherry at the payline; so did the second, and the third. Then the fourth. Lights flashed, pongs sounded during the rollup as the machine tallied Maggie’s win, releasing a torrent of coins into the tray.
At that moment Maggie’s cell phone rang. As she answered, she hurried outside the lounge to get away from the noise.
“Maggie Conlin?” the female caller said. “Yes.”
“This is Wanda.”
A tense moment passed between the two women. “I’m sorry about what happened yesterday at the office.”
“Will you help me?”
Seconds passed with Maggie pressing her phone to her ear. She looked at the happy families, the excited couples, the tour groups with snippets of German,
French and Japanese conversations, all streaming by in rivers of smiles.
She squeezed her phone hard.
“Wanda? You didn’t call just to apologize. Will you help me?”
“Karl is who he is. He cuts corners and is afraid you were cops and-”
“I don’t give a damn about him, I need to find my son. Please.”
“I’ll help you.”
Maggie waved frantically at Graham until he saw her. Then to Wanda she said, “We’re on our way to your office now! Soon as we get a taxi.”
“No! Don’t come. That’s a bad idea. I’ll tell you over the phone.”
“Okay, give me a second.” Graham joined Maggie. She pointed to a table, pulled out a notebook and scrawled, WANDA. WILL HELP. He gestured to his ear. “Okay, Wanda, it’s noisy here, I have to turn up the sound. Speak up, speak clearly, please!”
Maggie adjusted the sound to its maximum level then turned it so Graham could hear. Their heads touched as they listened.
Graham pulled out his notebook.
“Your husband, Jake, traded his rig with us. He looked familiar in the pictures and I checked our other files. Karl keeps a second set of books.”
“What did Jake trade for? Where did he go?”
“It was an International, but the records were changed. You won’t find it. It’s what Karl does to make money under the table. He alters serial numbers and vehicle identification numbers, then he pays guys to help him authenticate records. I’m telling you because I’m leaving him because he- I think you know what men like Karl do to women.” Wanda made a swallow ing sound like she was drinking. “And you seemed so nice.”
“Life can be hard, Wanda, I know. Is that all you can tell me about Jake?” Maggie’s voice broke. “Can’t you tell me anything else? Please.”
“Jake and Karl talked in Karl’s office for a long time. Karl made me bring them coffee. They were loud. I heard Jake say that he had a line on work and some property in Montana. That he was going to start new there, put the past and his ex behind him.”
“Ex? I’m not his ex. That’s not- Wanda, where in Montana?” Maggie made notes.
“I don’t know.”
“Nothing?”
“A couple weeks after the deal, Karl had me send Jake some paperwork he needed to make the truck ‘legal,’ so I have an address that might help you.”
“In Montana?”
“Yes, a P.O. box address care of the Sky Road Truck Mall, Grizzly Tooth Freeway, Great Falls, Montana.”
“Thank you, Wanda. Oh, thank you.”
“I saw your boy. Recognized him in your pictures, too.”
Maggie’s heart nearly burst.
“You saw him!”
“He was here with your husband. Came in to u
se the bathroom.”
“How was he?”
“A little sad-looking, little stressed. As I recall, he was with this woman, Jake’s girlfriend, I think.”
“What do you know about the woman? Do you have her name, a description?” Graham was jotting some thing, Maggie read it into the phone. “Did she touch anything that no one else has touched?”
“Don’t know. But she was pretty. Kind of dark, in an exotic way. She didn’t say much, barely smiled. Oh- I have to go, sorry. Good luck. I hope you find your son.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Maggie ended the call and looked at Graham.
“I’m taking the next plane to Great Falls,” she said. “Are you coming?”
Book Five
“Forgive me for what I’ve done…”
59
Seattle, Washington
A King County sheriff’s helicopter thudded above the city in the clear morning sky.
People filled Pioneer Square and several surround ing blocks for a glimpse of the pope. Thirty-five thou sand, according to estimates coming through Blake Walker’s earpiece.
He scanned the faces at barricades and windows overlooking the square.
This was it.
His team’s turn to protect the pope.
Everyone on the Secret Service’s advance team had been pulling nineteen-hour days for this leg of the papal visit. Drawing from the watch list and working with local police, they’d studied the Service’s Trip File and The Album, they’d interviewed all the people who had ever uttered a threat against the pope, or the president.
No major security breaches had happened in Boston, New York, Miami, Houston or Los Angeles, the previous cities on the papal visit.
In New York, a seventy-six-year-old grandmother
wrapped her arms around his neck and refused to release him as she broke down with emotion. In Los Angeles, a poor construction worker, whose wife had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, broke through the barricade and tugged at the Holy Father’s vestments before security escorted him back. Later, the pope met privately with the man and prayed with him.
Investigation and analysis of the marine border pene tration up the coast at the Strait of Juan de Fuca was ongoing. Preliminary reports had yielded nothing con clusive to constitute a threat.
Walker and senior agents continued working with all intelligence agencies. Nothing had emerged to corrobo rate the information from the capture of terror suspect Issa al-Issa obtained by secret operatives in the U.S.
U.S. and foreign intelligence desks continued to scour all chatter, reports and known activities of foreign terrorist organizations.
Walker knew that not every threat could be antici pated.
Not every action could be stopped.
But with hard work and vigilance, risks could be reduced. Unknown to the public, the traffic of threats against the pope was increasing.
Security in Seattle was overwhelming.
Uniformed officers were everywhere, along with armed officers and federal agents in plain clothes who blended with the crowd. Secret Service agents in suits formed a protective box that moved with the pope.
Sharpshooters and spotters from Seattle, King County, Washington State Patrol and the FBI and ATF lined the rooftops. Heavily armed officers patrolled the streets.
High and unseen overhead, jet fighters provided top cover to guard against any aircraft attempting to pene trate restricted airspace in a suicide attack on the pope’s stage. Such a plan was outlined in computer records found two years ago with captured Algerian terror suspects.
Walker took another deep breath and reviewed the major events on the day’s agenda.
The pope would bless a shelter in Pioneer Square run by an order of nuns. His blessing would honor a devoted sister who’d recently been murdered while performing religious duties at the shelter.
Afterward, he would meet the public at the barri cades outside the shelter as he made his way to the popemobile for the half-mile parade down 1st Avenue to Qwest Field, home of the Seahawks. Use of the infield expanded the stadium’s capacity to allow him to celebrate Mass with some one hundred thousand people.
That evening the Holy Father would have a private dinner at the residence of the archbishop for the Arch diocese of Seattle, where he’d spend the night. The next morning, he would fly to Montana for events there before going on to Chicago to conclude the tour.
Walker checked his earpiece.
The pope had just finished inside the shelter and would exit.
Agents outside the shelter stiffened.
Walker was on “the shoulder” as he scanned faces at the barricade. He assessed a tall, thin, long-haired man. Next to him, an elderly man in a ball cap, eye clenched behind a camera that had been inspected. Then a small woman wearing a kerchief and white gloves. Next to her, a young man, but Walker couldn’t see his eyes. The guy had dark glasses, blond hair and was smiling. Maybe a little too much. Where were his hands? Walker watched him as some in the crowd began to sing and cheer.
“Is he coming? Do you see him?” asked a woman wearing gold-framed glasses and clutching a tiny U.S. flag.
Walker’s stomach tightened.
Secret Service radio transmissions crackled softly in his ear.
“Halo advancing to Chariot-”
Halo was Secret Service code for the pope. Chariot was the popemobile. The alert rippled along the perimeter. Agents braced. Walker swallowed. His pulse quickened.
“There he is! I see him!” a woman in the crowd shouted, triggering deafening cheering that rose like a shock wave.
The pope emerged from the building, smiling and waving as agents escorted him along the barricades toward the waiting motorcade.
Walker studied faces. The woman with the glasses, the long-haired man, the old man with the camera. People waved, shouted. Necks stretched, they elbowed for a glimpse. Where was the young, blond-haired man? Walker had lost him. He’d moved.
The blond-haired man had moved closer to the bar ricade’s closest point. But something wasn’t right. This guy was close but Walker couldn’t see the guy’s eyes behind those dark glasses. His unease grew with the crowd’s cheering.
Walker’s heart was racing. The pope was shaking hands, reaching for people, touching people, heads, faces, cheeks, smiling, allowing himself to be touched, taking his time.
The agents wanted him to move faster to the protec tive bubble of the popemobile.
The young blond-haired man looked all wrong in his military jacket. His smile was not right and, dammit, why couldn’t Walker see the guy’s right hand tucked in his jacket pocket? The guy’s shoulder muscles started moving and his mouth opened as he called to the pope.
“Holy Father! Over here, Holy Father, please!”
His hidden hand sprung from his pocket.
Walker’s heart stopped.
Gun?
Was he leveling a gun at the pope? It looked like a barrel and fingers were positioning on the grip and trigger.
Walker’s training took over; he alerted the sniper commander, pulled at the pope’s shoulder to shield him just as two plain-clothed officers materialized, seized the suspect’s hand and took him to the ground amid shouting, screaming and chaos in the immediate area.
Walker and the other agents rushed the pope toward the popemobile, glancing back to see an agent hold up the weapon.
A wooden cross.
Likely wanted the pope to bless it.
False alarm.
Walker exhaled.
As they moved the pope to the popemobile, Walker’s earpiece crackled with a report from a spotter.
“…glint of a scope between the curtains of a window due south overlooking the square…”
Cursing, Walker glanced at some of the nearest high buildings-the Smith Tower and Columbia Center.
Both were in sniper range.
Agents encircled the pope and, in a calm orderly manner, moved him back inside the shelter. “An
unex pected delay, Holy Father.”
The pope nodded.
It was done so smoothly no one in the crowd was aware. The spotter locked on the building on 1st Avenue South overlooking the route, then the precise location, twenty-fifth floor, northeast window.
Security moved with lightning speed, those on the ground and those on the roof.
While Walker and the other agents moved the pope out of the line of fire and back into the shelter, SWAT members stormed the suspect building, seized the ele vators and ascended to the twenty-fifth floor.
Helicopters thundered over the buildings. Much of the action was lost on the public. However, some news crews detected the sudden activity and cameras were trained on the building, and reporters began making their way to it.
Something was happening.
Sharpshooters locked on the window’s exterior. Inside, SWAT members rushed from the elevator to the room. Heavily armed agents kicked the door, rushed inside to find a boy and his grandfather, watching the pope with a telescope.
The old man cursed.
His traumatized grandson stood frozen with his hands in the air and his eyes wide open.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t kill me. I’m sorry.” Then the boy started to cry.
The old man was a retired architect.
Walker’s team had argued strenuously for the win dows and curtains in all buildings overlooking the pro cession route be shut or closed. But local anger forced Seattle city officials to push back.
Later, at Qwest Field, the pope’s open-air Mass for one hundred thousand people took place without any security incidents. As did the evening’s events at the Archdiocese.
Long after the pope had retired, Walker and the other agents continued working with updates, debriefs and briefings on the Montana site.
It was well past midnight when they’d finished.
But Walker couldn’t sleep. Adrenaline from the day’s drama pumped through his system.
He soothed himself, anticipating that the next day’s events in Lone Tree, Montana-the middle of no where-would be easier than Seattle. Just as his eyes began to flutter, Walker’s BlackBerry vibrated with a bulletin.
