by Peter Telep
And extending an olive branch to a murderer who was licking the blood off his fingers for seventy years was an ineffable mistake.
Senecal did not mention exactly how he had taken care of the problem, nor did Dresden ask. An accident, perhaps. Something low key and discreet. Dresden did know that Ahmose and his son were taken back to Canada, and he assumed their lives ended there. He should not feel these splinters of remorse. He should close his eyes and purge decades of obsession from his system. That door had been closed forever, and the infidels had won. He would allow this victory to fill a void in his heart and surge through his veins.
Dresden’s phone rang. The call was from Tom Barryman, Executive Director of Shipping at UXD in Texas and the man who had given Dresden and Susannah a tour of the company’s static detonation chamber. Barryman was the most loyal employee Dresden had at UXD and a man with whom he had wanted to become better friends; however, Dresden’s wealth and influence raised barriers of awkwardness between them, and, over the years, Barryman had politely declined many of the free ski trips and visits to Arizona spas Dresden had offered with the excuse that he would take what was due like any other worker because his father had taught him that they were independent men who did not accept handouts. While that might be true, Dresden sensed that Barryman considered himself a “simple man,” and was unnerved by the prospect of socializing with the ultra rich. That was a shame, because Dresden truly admired his dedication and commitment to excellence, and he wished he could express that he and Senecal had come from the same stock.
With bated breath, he answered. “Tommy, how are you? Don’t tell me you’ve reconsidered that trip up here? Like I said, we’d love to have you and Jenn stay with us. We’ll show you New York like you’ve never seen it before.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not calling about that. And I’m sorry to bother you.”
“It’s no bother. What do you need?”
“Well, you know me, sir. Twenty years as a cop, eighteen for you. I’m a straight shooter. I don’t lie or try to cover up anything. I run a very tight ship here. Nothing gets by me. Nothing except this.”
Dresden braced himself. “What do you mean?”
* * *
Tom Barryman had never been diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, nor did he believe his insatiable desire for organization was anything more than a method to bring structure and order into his life. Two college-aged daughters and an opinionated wife had turned his home into a disorganized dungeon run by females. He would make up Bible quotes just to get their goat, saying things like “a house run by women is a house in chaos.” His wife had tried in vain to find that quote, while he sipped his beer.
A place for everything, and everything in its place. What was wrong with that? Being organized brought peace. And along with peace came closure, which was why he had grown frustrated with the Dallas Police Department. There had been too many unsolved crimes and not enough resources to pursue them. Loose ends drove him insane. UXD was different. Shipments of expired explosives and munitions arrived. Shipments of recycled material left. They met their quotas, followed their strict security guidelines, and by five p.m. every week day, Barryman trundled off to his pickup truck, feeling like a hero.
This particular day had begun routinely enough. A frosty morning of forty degrees in Columbus, with enough electricity in the air to shock him as he left his pickup. As always, he walked past the yard, counting the trucks in his fleet and noting which ones belonged to his subcontractors. He had a feeling he had miscounted, so he stopped and repeated. He came up two shy. Unusual. And annoying. Before grabbing his coffee, he arrowed straight for his office and pulled up yesterday’s shipping reports. The two trucks in question had left the facility at 9:41 p.m., bound for the Port of Houston. They had not returned. And worse, the paperwork for those shipments was no longer in the system, as though the inventory and the delivery had never existed—or had been deliberately erased. Barryman had inspected those trucks himself. He knew their ID numbers. He called the customs broker at the port, who said they had no record of the shipments, let alone any confirmation that he had received them.
While he was on the phone, a group of supervisors, led by the head safety inspector, came by, doing their weekly walk around and safety check. The company had prided itself on zero accidents and zero shipping errors in the past five years, and prior to that, the only employee accident was a back injury and the only shipping mistake had been a shortage to a client who had changed his order at the last moment, before the new software had been put in place.
After double-checking the files and questioning Carlos, one of the forklift operators who had loaded the trucks and had confirmed that the load was in there and that everyone had signed off accordingly, Barryman was at a loss.
He stood there in the middle of the warehouse, feeling as though the walls were expanding into a universe without laws. Everything was random and chaotic now. He was but a lonely and meaningless spec pitted against forces that obeyed no rules and who served no masters. He was losing it. The goddamned trucks had been there! He had seen them! He closed his eyes and swore to himself.
No, a security breach like this could not be kept a secret. Mr. Dresden had treated him like family and was always offering gifts. He deserved to know immediately about this.
“Tommy, do me a favor, just keep this to yourself for now,” Dresden instructed. “Because if those trucks are really missing—and this is an inside job—then the people who did this may still be there, watching you.”
“Are you serious?”
“We’ve had security breaches at some of our other companies, and it’s sad to say, but most of them were perpetrated by employees.”
“Not on my watch, sir.”
“I understand how you feel.”
“Okay. What should I do now?”
“Nothing. Lay low. I’ll follow up on my end with security and with our DOD liaisons.”
“Are you sure? We need to move quickly on this.”
“Trust me. Business as usual for you, Tommy. I need you to be safe. I’ll take care of everything.”
* * *
Dresden was already in tears as he ended the call and used the prepaid phone they had given him to dial another number. “It’s Tom Barryman. Yes, the one you thought might be a problem.”
“We’ll take care of it,” answered a man whose Middle-Eastern accent was unmistakable.
After hurling the phone across the living room and listening to it smash across the title, Dresden bolted from the sofa and faced Victoria, who scowled at him. “If it’s about money, we already have enough,” she said. “If it’s about business, it’s not worth the pain. Now stop with your ridiculous tantrum and come have breakfast.”
Dresden sprang across the room, clutched her by the shoulders, and began shaking her, screaming, “You don’t know anything!”
* * *
The last thing Tom Barryman remembered was heading into the rest room. Even though Mr. Dresden had told him to shut down his investigation, he could not help himself and planned to consult with the plant’s overnight security chief, who he had summoned back to the plant to see if he knew anything. The man was on his way.
Barryman flickered open his eyes. Searing pain throbbed at his temples. The nape of his neck ached and felt swollen. The world tipped twice on its axis before he realized he was lying on his side, his arms and legs bound with what felt like electrical cord. His mouth had been taped closed, and he wet his lips against the adhesive. They had done nothing to clog his ears, nothing to hide that steady and agonizingly familiar hum and reverberation of the static detonation chamber, fully online.
He realized he was lying on a crate inside the loading room. The conveyor carried him into the first airlock, and the heavy, reinforced door dropped behind him like a guillotine. He could already feel the heat pressing down as the conveyor rattled on, moving him into the second airlock and then into the elevator that carried him up toward the fe
eding chamber. It took only four seconds to reach the top, during which time Barryman recalled his wife’s smile, his daughters graduating from high school, and his old Labrador retriever’s sigh as he balanced his head on Barryman’s knee while Barryman read his Sunday paper.
Another conveyor led to the chamber, and he glimpsed the security cameras mounted around the machine, realizing with tearing eyes that they had been turned off. His murderers were not as detail-oriented as he was—because they had chosen an imperfect way to dispose of him and his body. In exactly six more seconds, he would plunge into the chamber and be cooked alive at 1,022 degrees Fahrenheit. Neither his bones nor his teeth would be fully destroyed because that would require temperatures in excess of 1,400 degrees, a number he was familiar with after having his uncle cremated. However, if his remains were mixed with munitions parts, they might be hidden from discovery. Perhaps that did not matter. Perhaps everyone in his department was in on the plan. Carlos had given him a strange look when he had asked about the trucks. Even Mr. Dresden had told him to stop investigating. Was that because he was afraid for Barryman’s life? Or because of something else?
Remarkably, Barryman was able to consider these facts as the chamber doors opened. This was a testament to his prevailing calm born during his eight years in the Marine Corps and nurtured on the streets of Dallas. His was a life of absolute joy, absolute despair, and everything in between. A good run. A life worth living. He thrust out his chest in defiance.
But then... survival instincts took over.
He writhed and screamed behind the tape—
As he plunged into the fires.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“An unquestioning belief in the chain of command can be even more dangerous than the enemy.”
—Corey McKay (FBI interview, 23 December)
Johnny had requested the police reports from North Carolina, the ones cited during their interrogation/interview. He noted how Detective Paul Lindquist from Holly Ridge had been following up on the LaPorte-Shammas connection. Lindquist had called one of Shammas’s colleagues, Dr. Mohammad Nazari, an American citizen who taught at the University of Northern Iowa. The campus was within a mile of the McDonald’s in Cedar Falls, the number enumerated in Morse code on Shammas’s courier card. That card, along with the second one, was under biometric analysis by the Federal DNA Database unit. Furthermore, Nazari’s personal residence was also in Cedar Falls, on West 4th Street.
Plesner agreed that they needed to follow up, but he remained skeptical because their raid on the enclave had sounded the alarm. If Nazari was involved, he might be long gone by now. Nevertheless, Lindquist’s report and the McDonald’s connection were the best leads they had, so they hopped on a plane and flew to Chicago, where they made their connection for Waterloo. The Bureau provided them with lock boxes for their pistols and ammunition so they could check them through. While they kept their personal smartphones, Plesner provided several throwaways that they could use at their discretion.
Johnny tried to explain his current situation to Elina without telling her they were now contractors for the FBI. He emphasized that they were much safer now and had more help. She seemed suspicious and argued that she was tired of the Keys and wanted to come home. He shut his eyes and whispered, “Soon.”
While they were flying up from Richmond, Plesner had moved full-speed ahead with the investigation. The Bureau’s Omaha, Nebraska field office covered all counties in Iowa, and two special agents handpicked by Plesner drove up and conducted surveillance on the McDonald’s. They met privately with the store’s manager and showed him photos of Shammas, Rasul, and Nazari. He confirmed that the latter two were regulars. He denied ever allowing them to use the restaurant’s phone to make or receive personal calls. However, the restaurant employed over twenty people, and each would have to be interviewed.
Plesner also provided more background on Rasul, whose full name was Rasul Abdi Yusuf. His parents had emigrated from Saudi Arabia, but he was an American citizen and graduate student at the university with a full assistantship in the Department of Technology. In addition, he had worked part-time for UPS as a package handler in their Cedar Falls warehouse. With a warrant in hand, special agents paid a visit to Rasul’s one bedroom apartment and found it completely cleared out. A forensic team was still examining the place. Those agents also searched Nazari’s office at the university but came up empty.
Meanwhile, Nazari’s car, a white Ford Fusion with Iowa tags, had already been flagged and added to a highly classified case file drawing information from multiple law enforcement databases, including the National Crime Information Center. If Nazari attempted to cross the border into Canada or Mexico, license plate readers at those checkpoints would instantly ID his vehicle. Of course, Nazari need only use a rental, one provided by jihadi colleagues masquerading as prophets of peace and hiding behind innocent Muslims in Islamic centers like the one in Cedar Falls. Another special agent, was, in fact, posted outside that location. Plesner said she was armed with an IMSI catcher or International Mobile Subscriber Identity device called a “Stingray.” The Stingray mimicked a cell phone tower and could locate a particular device, interfere with its signal, or even intercept calls and texts. While the jihadi leadership was aware of the Stingray’s existence via numerous articles published on the web, Plesner maintained that just one call placed by an uninformed or naïve individual could establish probable cause to raid the center.
As Plesner had shared the work of those agents, the enormity of their task finally registered with Johnny: here they were spearheading a major FBI investigation. Just a few hours prior, Corey was sitting on the plane and expressing how dumbfounded he was over Plesner’s change of heart. They all shared that sentiment and agreed with Plesner’s frustration regarding the Bureau’s inability to do what it did best. Johnny knew exactly why Plesner had hired them; however, he still found it mind-blowing that a pogue at his level had the audacity to improvise like this. Those guys usually spent more time covering their butts than shaking trees.
Johnny had yet to inform Mark Gatterton of their new contract, and he was hesitant to do so, given Plesner’s orders for their work to remain strictly confidential. As far as they knew, Plesner was the only one aware of their operation, and this, Willie had pointed out, was both a blessing and a curse. Yes, security would remain tight; however, they would only learn what Plesner knew, and if intel was miscommunicated or incomplete, then they had no other way to vet the information. This, Willie had contended, was a weak link in their chain. Josh had stressed that security was more important. Willie agreed but said that if something went south, Plesner could use them as the perfect fall guys—which reminded Johnny that Plesner may have already covered his ass—by hiring them in the first place.
Local time in Cedar Falls was 2014, with an overcast and oppressive sky, along with temperatures hovering in the forties. Johnny and Corey had been dropped off a block away from Nazari’s three bedroom ranch and, slipping through shadows clinging to backyard fences, they closed with the residence, approaching from the rear. Meanwhile, Josh and Willie would advance from the east side, securing the front door and garage. Earlier in the evening, while they had been reconnoitering the neighborhood and searching for potential spotters, Johnny had shaken his head at Nazari’s American flag and white picket fence. They made his stomach turn.
Once he and Corey arrived at that aforementioned fence, they bounded over it, then raced across Nazari’s yard. Leaves and acorns crunched beneath their boots. An atmosphere of utter calm settled across the yard as they reached the back door and hunkered down on either side. Johnny fought for breath as the scent of burning oak from a neighbor’s fireplace ushered him back to the morning after his brother’s death. Without warning, he choked up. This burst of emotion surprised him. Downrange meant downrange; there should be nothing else on his mind.
“You’re Johnny Johansen. I know all about you. Easy day, no drama.”
Corey cast a worried gl
ance, and Johnny rose with a reassuring look. He tipped his head toward the windows, where the blinds were open, and the house lay in utter darkness. Johnny fired up a penlight, then edged forward. A hand swipe across the dusty glass exposed an empty den with adjoining kitchen. No furniture, as though the place had gone into foreclosure a year ago. He directed the light inside for a better look, then motioned to Corey to check the other window. Seconds later, Corey turned and shook his head.
Johnny sent Willie a text message, telling him and Josh to move up and check the front windows. Meanwhile, he and Corey split up to peak through the side windows. Johnny smudged the glass and spied another empty bedroom.
They met up at the front door with weapons drawn. On a lark, Johnny turned the handle. Open.
“Wait,” whispered Josh. “Alarm?”
“Let’s see,” said Johnny, pushing open the door.
“Well that’s too easy,” said Willie.
“What does he care about locking up?” asked Corey. “He took off with everything.”
The front door had a mail slot beneath a pair of frosted glass windows. Envelopes and flyers were splayed across the tile, directly in their path. They ignored them for now, moving swiftly to clear the house, relying on their old “fill, flow, and go” tactics from the Marine Corps. When they were finished, they linked up in the foyer, where they sifted through the mail. Johnny shone his light on the envelopes: junk from the local Ford dealership, flyers from the supermarkets, and insurance companies advertising via official-looking letterhead to fool residents into opening their garbage.
