Chapter 18
I DIDN’T SLEEP much that night. I think I had awful nightmares about the Weasel. And about the holocaust in Sunrise Valley, Nevada.
Early the next morning I had to sign permission slips so the kids could go on a field trip to the National Aquarium in Baltimore. I signed the slips at four-thirty before they were up and while the house was still dark, then I had to sneak off to work. I didn’t get to say good-bye, and I don’t like that, but I left love notes for Jannie and Damon. Such a nice pops, right?
I drove to work with Alicia Keys and Calvin Richardson on the CD, good company for the trip and whatever lay ahead.
These days, Major Threats was being run out of FBI headquarters in D.C. Since 9/11, the Bureau had shifted dramatically—from what some people felt was a reactive, investigative organization to a much more proactive and effective one. A recent addition, a $6 million software package at the Hoover Building, included a 40-million-page terrorism database dating back to the ’93 bombing of the World Trade Center.
We had a blizzard of information; now it was time to see if any of it was worth a damn.
About a dozen of us met on the subject of Sunrise Valley that morning in the Strategic Information and Operations Center command on the fifth floor. The obliteration of the small town had been listed as a “major threat,” even though we had no way to tell whether it was. So far, we didn’t have a single clue as to what Sunrise Valley was really about.
There still hadn’t been any contact with the bombers, not a word from them.
Surreal. And probably scarier than if we had heard from them.
This particular conference room was one of the jazzier and more comfortable ones: lots of blue leather armchairs, a dark wooden table, wine-colored rug. Two flags—an American and a DOJ—lots of crisp white shirts and striped ties around the table.
I had on jeans and a navy windbreaker that read, FBI TERRORISM TASK FORCE. And I felt that I was the only one dressed correctly for the day. This case sure wasn’t going to be business as usual.
The room was loaded with heavy hitters, though. The highest-ranking person was Burt Manning, one of the five executive assistant directors at the Bureau. Also present were senior agents from the National Joint Terrorism Task Force, as well as the top analyst from the new Office of Intelligence, which combined experts from the Bureau and the CIA.
My partner for the morning was Monnie Donnelley, a superior analyst and a good friend from my time at Quantico.
“I see you got your personal invitation,” I said as I sat down beside Monnie. “Welcome to the party.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this. It’s like sci-fi, or something. It’s so weird, Alex.”
“Yeah, it’s all of that.”
On the screen at the front of the room was the special agent in charge from the Las Vegas field office. The SAC was reporting in about the mobile crime lab that had been set up inside the town limits of what had been Sunrise Valley. She didn’t have much new, though, and the meeting quickly moved on to threat assessment.
This was where everything got a lot more interesting.
First, there was a discussion of domestic terrorist groups such as the National Alliance and the Aryan Nations. But nobody really believed those simpletons could be responsible for something as well planned as this. Next up was the latest on al Qaeda and Hezbollah, the radical jihad movement. These groups received a solid couple of hours of heated discussion. They were definitely suspects. Then formal assignments were given out by Manning.
I didn’t get an assignment, which made me wonder if I would be hearing from Director Burns soon. I didn’t particularly want to hear from him on this one. I didn’t want to travel out of Washington again, especially back to Nevada.
And then it got really wild.
Every pager in the conference room went off simultaneously!
Within seconds, everybody had checked his pager, myself included. For the past several months all terror threats got flashed to senior agents, whether it was a suspicious package on a New York subway or an anthrax threat in L.A.
The message on my pager read: TWO SURFACE-TO-AIR MISSILES MISSING AT KIRTLAND AIR FORCE BASE IN ALBUQUERQUE.
CONNECTION TO SUNRISE VALLEY SITUATION BEING INVESTIGATED.
WILL KEEP INFORMED.
Chapter 19
NO REST FOR THE RIGHTEOUS, read a placard on the wall near the canteen and soda machines. At 5:50 that night, we were called back to the conference room on the fifth floor. The same august group as before. Some of us were guessing that the Bureau had finally been contacted by whoever was responsible for the bombing of Sunrise Valley. Others thought this might have to do with the missile thefts from Kirtland.
A few minutes later, half a dozen agents from the CIA arrived. All in suits with briefcases. Uh-oh. Then came half a dozen hitters from Homeland Security. Things were definitely getting more serious now.
“This is getting hinky,” Monnie Donnelley whispered to me. “It’s one thing to talk the talk about interagency cooperation. But the CIA is really here.”
I smiled over at Monnie. “You’re sure in a good mood.”
She shrugged. “As General Patton used to say about the battlefield, ‘God help me, I do love it so!’”
Director Burns entered the room precisely at six. He walked in with Thomas Weir, the head of the CIA, and Stephen Bowen from Homeland Security. The three heavies looked extremely uneasy. Maybe just being there together did it—which succeeded in making all of us nervous, too.
Monnie and I exchanged another look. A few agents continued to talk, even as the directors took their places in front. It was the veterans’ way of showing that they’d been here before. Had they? Had anyone? I didn’t think so.
“Can I have your attention,” Director Burns said, and the room immediately went quiet. All eyes were glued to the front.
Burns let the quiet settle in, and then he continued.
“I want to bring you up to speed. The first contact that we received on this situation was two days before the bombing in Sunrise Valley, Nevada. The initial message concluded with the words ‘it is our hope that no one will be injured during the violence.’ The nature of ‘the violence’ wasn’t revealed or even hinted at. We were also instructed not to mention the initial contact to anyone. We were warned that if we did, there would be serious consequences, though these consequences were never spelled out for us.”
Burns paused and looked around the room. He made eye contact with me, nodded, then moved on. I wondered how much he knew that the rest of us didn’t. And who else was involved? The White House? I would think so.
“We have been contacted every day since then. One message went to Mr. Bowen, one to Director Weir, and one to me. Until today, nothing of consequence had been revealed. But this morning each of us received a film of the bombing in Nevada. The film had been edited. I’ll share it with you now.”
Burns made a rapid, circular hand signal and a video began to play on the half a dozen monitors around the room. The film was in black and white; it was grainy and looked handheld, like news footage. Like war footage, actually. The room was very quiet as we watched the video.
From a distance of a mile or more, one camera angle revealed the army trucks and jeeps arriving in Sunrise Valley. Moments later the mystified residents were escorted from their mobile homes into the trucks.
A man pulled a handgun and was shot dead in the street. Douglas Puslowski, I knew.
The convoy then drove off quickly, raising great clouds of dust.
In the next shot, a large, dark object tumbled into view from the sky. While it was still in the air, there was an incredible explosion.
The film of the actual bombing had also been edited but showed footage from only a single camera. The editing was mostly a series of jump cuts. Jarring, but effective.
This was followed by a long shot of the explosion. The plane that delivered the bomb was never in the shot.
“They filmed the whol
e damn thing,” Burns said. “They wanted us to know that they were there, that they are the ones who bombed the town out of existence. In a few minutes they’re going to tell us why. They’ll call on the phone.
“The person making the calls has been using phone cards from public phones. Crude but effective. So far, the calls have originated from grocery stores, movie theaters, bowling alleys. Pretty much untraceable, as you know.”
We sat mostly in silence for a minute or two. There were only a few private conversations going on.
Then the quiet was broken—the phone at the front of the room began to ring.
Chapter 20
“THIS WILL BE on speaker for everyone to hear,” Burns told us. “They said it was permissible, even advisable for all of you to be here. In other words, they expected an audience. They’re very big on rules, as you’ll see.”
“Who the hell is they?” Monnie whispered up close to my ear. “See, it is sci-fi. Aliens, maybe? That’s my bet going in.”
“We’ll know in a minute, won’t we? I’m not betting against you.”
Director Burns pushed a button on his console, and a male voice came over the speakers. The voice was heavily filtered.
“Good evening. This is the Wolf,” we heard.
The hair on the back of my neck rose immediately. I knew the Wolf; I’d chased him for nearly a year. In fact, I’d never known a more ruthless killer.
“I’m the one responsible for the destruction of Sunrise Valley. I’d like to explain myself—at least, as much as you deserve to know. Or should I say, as much as I want you to know at this time.”
Monnie looked over at me and shook her head. She knew the Wolf, too. The news couldn’t have been worse if the call had come straight from hell.
“It’s good to be able to talk to all of you, so many self-important people gathered together just to listen to my ramblings. The FBI, CIA, Homeland Security,” the Wolf continued. “I’m so very impressed. Humbled, actually.”
“Do you want us to talk, or listen?” Burns asked.
“Who am I speaking to? Who was that just now? Would you mind identifying yourself?”
“It’s Director Burns, FBI. I’m with Director Weir of the CIA and Stephen Bowen of Homeland Security.”
There was a crackling sound over the speakers that might have been a laugh. “Well, I’m just so very honored again, Mr. Burns. I’d have thought you would assign a lackey to speak to me. At first, anyway. Someone like Dr. Cross. But, you know, it’s better that we talk top-to-top. That’s always best, don’t you think?”
Weir from the CIA said, “You specifically requested ‘the first team’ in your earlier contact. Believe me, this is the first team. We’re taking the bombing incident in Nevada seriously.”
“You actually listened. I’m impressed. I’ve heard that about you, Mr. Weir. Although I foresee some possible problems between us in the future.”
“Why is that?” Weir asked.
“You’re the CIA. Not to be trusted. Not for a minute . . . Don’t you read your Graham Greene? Who else is on your first team?” the Wolf asked. “Stand up and be counted.”
Burns went around the room, listing who was present. He omitted a couple of agents, and I wondered why.
“Excellent choices, for the most part,” the Wolf said once Burns had finished the roll call. “I’m sure you know who to trust, and who not to, who you can depend on—with your very lives. Personally, I’m not keen on the CIA, but that’s just me. I find them to be liars and unnecessarily dangerous. Does anyone there disagree?”
No one spoke, and the speakers crackled with the Wolf’s laughter. “That’s interesting, don’t you think? Even the CIA doesn’t disagree with my scathing indictment.”
Suddenly the Wolf’s tone changed. “Now listen closely to what I have to tell you, you morons. That’s the important thing now, you have to listen to me. Many lives can be saved if you do. And you must obey.
“Does everyone get that? Listen and obey? I want to hear you. Please, speak up. Do all of you fucking understand?”
Everyone spoke at once, and although it seemed absurd and childish, we understood that the Wolf was showing us he was in control, total control.
Burns suddenly spoke in a loud voice, “He’s gone! He hung up! He’s off the line, the son of a bitch!”
Chapter 21
WE WAITED LIKE his puppets in the conference room, but the Russian mobster didn’t make contact again. I knew the bastard well, and I didn’t expect him to call us back. He was playing with us now.
Eventually I went back to my office, and Monnie Donnelley headed to Virginia. I still hadn’t been assigned to the case—not officially, anyway. But the Wolf had known I would be there in the crisis room. He’d singled me out for a gratuitous insult. Just his style.
What was he up to? A mobster using terror tactics? Starting a war? If a small group of madmen in the desert could do it, why not the Russian Mafiya? All it seemed to take was a ruthless enough leader, and money.
I waited and wondered if the terrible uncertainty I felt was part of the Russian’s plan to increase the pressure and stress. To control us? Test our patience?
And, of course, I thought about Geoffrey Shafer and how he might be connected. What was that all about? I’d already pulled up most of the recent data on Shafer. We had put an old girlfriend of Shafer’s—his therapist—under surveillance. Her name was Elizabeth Cassady and I was trying to get a look at the notes from her therapy sessions with Shafer.
Later, I checked in at home and talked to Nana. She accused me of eating her corn bread and I blamed it on Damon, which got a cackle out of her. “You have to take responsibility for your actions,” she scolded.
“Oh, I take full responsibility,” I told her. “I ate the corn bread, and I’m glad. It was delicious.”
Shortly after I got off the phone I was called down to a meeting in the crisis room. Tony Woods from the director’s office addressed a roomful of agents. “There have been new developments,” he began in a solemn tone. “All hell has broken loose in Europe.”
Tony Woods paused, then went on: “There were two more terrible firebombings about an hour ago. Both were in Western Europe.
“One bombing took place in the northern part of England, in Northumberland, near the border with Scotland. The village of Middleton Hall—population, four hundred plus—is no more.” Woods paused. “This time the townspeople weren’t evacuated. We don’t know why. There were close to a hundred casualties. It was a horrible bloodbath. Whole families died—men, women, and some children.
“We have already received a filmed segment from Scotland Yard. A local policeman took it from the Cheviots, which are a range of nearby hills. I’ll put it on for you to see.”
We sat and watched the short film in total, stunned silence. At the end, the local policeman himself spoke to the camera. “My name is Robert Wilson, and I grew up here in Middleton Hall, which is gone. There was a single main street, a couple of pubs and shops, houses of people I knew. There used to be an old Royal Engineers bridge into town, but that was blown up. Our local pub—gone. As I stand here, looking over this wasteland, I am reminded of why I am a Christian. What I feel most is hopelessness about our world.”
Following the moving tape, Tony Woods told us about the bombing that had taken place in Germany. He said he had no accompanying videotape as yet.
“The damage in Lübeck was not quite as horrifying, but it’s bad. A group of college students apparently resisted. Eleven of them were killed. Lübeck is in the Schleswig-Holstein region of Germany, near the border with Denmark. It’s a farming area. Secluded. The Wolf has made no contact about the bombings. Nor were we warned ahead of time. All we know is, it’s escalating.”
Chapter 22
WHAT NEXT? And how soon would it happen?
The tension during the next waiting period was excruciating. A madman was out there blowing up small towns and wouldn’t tell us why, or if the attacks would continue and
get worse.
For the time being, I concentrated my attention on a close study of the psychopathic Weasel—reading and re-reading everything in his thick file. More than I wanted to, I could see his face, hear his voice. I wanted to bring him down. I went through notes from the psychiatrist who’d treated Shafer when he’d lived in Washington. Not only had Dr. Elizabeth Cassady been Shafer’s shrink, she’d been his lover.
The notes were mind-boggling, to say the least, especially given the nature of their relationship and how it had developed—and also how wrong she’d been about Shafer. As I read, I made notes on Dr. Cassady’s notes.
FIRST ENCOUNTER
XX-year-old-male, self-referred with stated chief complaint—“I’m having trouble at work focusing on my projects.” Stated that what he does is “classified.” Also described people at work telling him that he has been behaving “strangely.” Client said that he is married, father of three: twin girls and a boy; stated that he is “happy” at home and with his wife.
IMPRESSION
Well-dressed, very attractive, articulate male, somewhat restless, and with considerable presence. Somewhat grandiose in describing his past accomplishments.
RULE OUT
Schizoaffective disorder
Delusional disorder
Substance-induced mood disorder (primarily alcohol or recreational drugs)
Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder
Borderline personality disorder
Unipolar depression
INTERVIEW #3
10 minutes late for appointment today. Irritable when questioned about this. Stated that he felt “spectacular,” and yet seemed ill at ease and anxious in session.
INTERVIEW #6
When questioned about home life and earlier discussion of problems with sexual functioning, became somewhat inappropriate: chuckling, pacing, making sexually explicit jokes, and asking about my personal life. Stated that when he and his wife are together, he engages in fantasies about me and that this causes him to ejaculate prematurely.
London Bridges Page 4
