Welsh opened his mouth to speak, and the secretary once again held up a hand to silence him. "Now I'm telling you this formally, Richard. I want you to go back to North Carolina. I want you to keep me completely informed about the progress of the investigation. I want you to maintain good relations with everyone down there. And I want you to keep your opinions to yourself."
Welsh was on the verge of an explosion. "What about my report?" he said tightly.
"Leave it on my desk," the secretary said pleasantly. "Thank you, Richard, that will be all."
Welsh shot up out of his chair so fast that the secretary automatically rolled his own chair back a foot. Welsh turned quickly to go, then turned back and flipped his report onto the secretary's desk. Then he got the hell out of the office before he did anything else.
This time he went directly to Carol's desk. She listened quietly, careful not to interrupt, as he recounted what had happened. "Discourteous," he said at the end. "Discourteous. Well, isn't that just fucking sweet."
"What are you going to do?"
"Drive on," said Welsh. "If the shit comes rolling downhill on you, just say 'Fuck it' and drive on."
CHAPTER 15
From the expression on his face, the owner of the Vienna, Virginia Ford dealership would rather have had leprosy than four FBI agents sitting across the desk from him. Not just one or two, but four of them. He surrendered his sales records without argument and let off a little of the stress by berating his secretary for being too slow.
"I knew there was something funny about that fellow," Sam Warders confided to Special Agent MacNeil. The polar opposite of the sleek, gelled-hair, capped-teeth car dealer, you could just picture him wearing green checked trousers on the golf course, belly hanging over the white belt.
"Do you usually handle customers personally?" MacNeil asked, coldly officious. "Or was this a special case?"
"No, no," Warders said quickly, eager to correct such a horrible misunderstanding. "It was just that I was here, and it was an unusual sale…corporate account but just one vehicle…cashier's check in full…He's a drug dealer, isn't he?"
"You still haven't answered my question," MacNeil pointed out.
"Sorry, what was the question again?"
The four agents sat there quietly, staring at him. Other than experienced criminals, very few people can stand up to that sort of blank, impersonal, cold-hearted authority. Warders's equilibrium deserted him. Desperate to fill up all that empty air, he began talking himself into knots.
"Well, look, I know it was an unusual transaction, but it's not like he came in here with a suitcase full of cash, is it? I ask you boys. Is it?"
"So you do a lot of cash transactions?" MacNeil asked.
"No, no, no," Warders said. MacNeil thought the man would have hit himself had he been alone.
"We need every possible bit of information on this man," MacNeil said. "And we expect your complete cooperation."
"Certainly, certainly," said Warders, relieved that the pendulum had somehow swung him back on the same side as the law. "As you can see, sir, we have a scan of his driver's license." He swung his computer monitor around.
"Yes, I see," said MacNeil, looking at the multi-hued smudge of the photo.
"Check the Department of Motor Vehicles?" asked the agent sitting next to him.
"Even money the license is fake," said MacNeil.
"No, sir," Warders said firmly. "You see, we check all documents very carefully." MacNeil glared at him, and Warders pouted and sank lower into his chair.
"It's a shame we don't have his face," said MacNeil. He turned back to Warders. "We'll have an artist come in and talk to you and your employees."
Warders squirmed in his chair, clearly uncomfortable about something. "Well, sir, um. . . ."
MacNeil decided to provide a little motivation. "Have you been audited recently?" he asked, as if it was just a matter of personal curiosity.
Warders flinched. Clearly his day, if not his year, was on the way to being ruined. "We have security cameras," he said.
"Do you?" MacNeil said calmly. "Well, if the footage of that day hasn't been overwritten with the latest episode of Dancing With The Stars, your government will be very grateful."
CHAPTER 16
Ali was putting the final touches on his operation order when the Sergeant Major knocked on the door of his room.
"The two spies have appeared with the car," Musa said. "And the third is back from Virginia with the materials."
"Any problems?"
"If there were, they did not say."
"I am surprised," Ali said. "I did not think they would manage it so soon."
At that moment Karim crashed into the room. "The car has arrived," he announced excitedly. "When can we begin work on it?"
Ali and Musa smiled at each other. "I was just about to discuss that with you," Ali said. "My research is finished, and the time has come to see if our intelligence is correct. If it is not," he said to Karim, "then we will have to obtain more Kalashnikov ammunition and do as you suggested."
Ali had in his hand one of the prepaid cell phones the spies had purchased at the local Wal-Mart. "Time to make a call to the Marines," he said.
Musa and Karim both sat down. "I do not need any help," Ali said. "You may begin putting the car together." Disappointed, they rose and walked out the master bedroom. "Close the door behind you," Ali called out. "And under no circumstances am I to be disturbed."
Musa nodded from the doorway.
"Try not to blow yourselves up," Ali said gruffly.
"1 will do my best," Musa said, smiling at him.
Ali looked at the phone and took a deep breath. He hoped he had not lost his American accent. The dialog he wanted to use was on the pad in front of him, alongside the list of telephone numbers obtained from Base Information. Ali took a deep breath, and dialed a number.
The phone was picked up on the second ring. "Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune, Public Affairs Office, Corporal Melvin speaking. May I help you, sir?" came the monotone reply. Ali was momentarily startled—the introduction had lasted so long he thought it was a recording.
"Ah, yes." Thrown off his stride, Ali stumbled a bit. "This is Bob Perkins from Pennsylvania Times magazine." He remembered the magazine from his last time in America. Ali thought Pennsylvania was far enough away to make it unlikely the Marines would check. "I was wondering if I could speak to someone who could answer a few questions?"
"If you'd hold for a moment, sir, I'll connect you with one of our Public Affairs officers," the corporal said.
"Thank you very much."
The line clicked open again in less than thirty seconds. "This is Second Lieutenant Humphrey. How can I help you?"
To make it sound official, Ali identified himself again. "Ah, yes, I was wondering if you could give me some comment on the recent incident that occurred on the beach near you, where the police officer was killed."
"Well, sir, that did not occur on this base. Therefore, the Marine Corps has no jurisdiction over it. So you'll have to get in touch with the FBI for any information."
"Yes, but it was so close to you. Have you taken any kind of precautions?"
"Well, sir, as a general precaution the base has gone to a yellow alert, which is a security condition."
"And what does that involve?" Ali asked.
"Oh, increased intelligence gathering, heightened security at the gates, that sort of thing. It's nothing drastic," the lieutenant hastened to add. "Just one step up from our normal procedures."
"So you're not really worried."
"No, sir."
"Thank you, Lieutenant." Ali gave it just the right amount of pause. "Say, now that I have you on the phone, what's the possibility of us sending a reporter and a photographer out there to do a feature?"
"On what?" the lieutenant asked, with friendly suspicion in his voice.
"My editor is a former Marine," Ali explained. "And he wants to do a story on the new infantry weapons y
ou people have now. You know, take pictures of them being fired and talk to some Marines. A short photo story with captions."
"I think we could arrange that," Lieutenant Humphrey said. "You know, we have an extrensive combat town and some firing ranges that simulate urban fighting. The Marines use live ammunition and throw live grenades. It's very exciting stuff—it would make great pictures."
"That's exactly the kind of thing we're interested in," said Ali, not having to manufacture the elation in his voice. "Just the foot soldier's weapons, you know, no tanks or anything."
Lieutenant Humphrey, used to dealing with the press, did not correct him on the use of that despised term, "soldier."
"An infantry company firing on the range," he said. "Rifles, machineguns, AT-4s, that sort of thing?"
"What's an AT-4?" Ali asked. He knew very well, but he didn't want to give anything away.
"Oh, I'm sorry. It's an antitank rocket launcher."
"That's exactly what we would want to see," Ali said. "And those other things you mentioned. Now we wouldn't want any kind of a special show, just an average . . . company, did you say? I'm not familiar with these military terms."
"Yes, sir, just an average company firing."
"When could you let me know about that?"
"Well, sir, I'd have to call Range Control and see when a company will be doing that kind of firing."
"I don't understand," Ali broke in.
"When a unit wants to fire on the ranges," the lieutenant explained patiently, "it has to send a request to Base Range Control—they assign the ranges. I'll call and see when a company is scheduled, and we'll try to match it up with your itinerary. But as I was saying, I'll have to clear the whole thing first with Base and then with Division. Then I'll be able to get back to you."
"It will take some time, then?"
"Yes, sir, things move pretty slow in the military. It'll be at least three weeks before I can call you and set something up."
"I understand," said Ali. "Well, before I make you go to all that trouble, let me make sure I can get approval here. The whole thing was only a rough idea my editor had."
"I see," said the lieutenant who was becoming a bit impatient. He was obviously a man used to being jerked around by the press.
"Why don't I make sure up here," Ali continued, "and then I can get back to you."
"All right, would you like to give me your contact num—"
"Thanks for everything," Ali interrupted. "Goodbye." He broke the connection.
Ali thought it over. He couldn't wait that long for the information, and his cover story wasn't likely to hold up through the number of calls it would take to arrange a visit. As he liked to say: Make up a good plan and then be flexible. He glanced at the notes he had made and checked the Camp Lejeune special map on his computer, a topographic map that detailed the entire base, including the various firing ranges. Range Control, yes, that was obviously the next thing to try. He would have to be very careful.
Ali waited until the lunch hour to make the next call, reasoning that military units were the same the world over. Camp Lejeune Information provided the phone number once again. This time the phone rang for a bit before it was picked up. And this time Ali was ready for the introduction.
"Range Control, Lance Corporal Banotz speaking. May I help you, sir?"
"Yes, Lance Corporal. This is Lieutenant Humphrey from Public Affairs."
"Yes, Sir?"
"I have some people from the press who want to see infantry weapons being fired, and I want to take them to a range where all the weapons can be used."
"Yes, sir, that would be either Golf-3 or Kilo-305."
"I also want them to see those urban combat ranges, I can't remember what their names are. . . ."
"You mean the K ranges, Sir. They're right next to Kilo-305."
Ali tore over the map, trying to find them. "I can't seem to find them on my map."
"They're on the other side of the river, sir," the lance corporal said, trying to be helpful. Public Affairs, Jesus.
"I found them," Ali said. He had. "Now, could you tell me when an infantry company will be firing on those ranges? With M-16s, machineguns, AT-4s, and preferably mortars." Don't be greedy, he told himself.
"Jeez, I don't know, Sir. Everybody's gone to lunch. I'm just the phone watch."
"I realize that, but I'm working on very short notice. Isn't there a list somewhere? I'd really appreciate your looking."
Banotz had been about to flip the lieutenant off; can't help you, sir, I'm just a lance corporal. But this guy didn't sound like the usual dick officer. "If you'd hang on for a minute, Sir, this week's firing schedule is on the board in the other room. I'll pick up in there."
"I'd really appreciate it," Ali repeated, with utter sincerity.
A few seconds later Banotz picked up the phone again. "Sir? This week we've got a unit firing the K ranges and K-305, but they're only shooting mortars and machineguns, nothing else."
"What about next week?" Ali asked.
"Sorry, Sir, only this week is on the board."
"Isn't there a list somewhere?" Ali asked in desperation.
"I dunno, Sir. Wait a minute, here's the binder with the approved range requests. This may take a bit."
"I'm awfully sorry to bother you like this, but it's very important. You know how these things come in at the last minute."
"That's okay, sir." There was the sound of rustling pages. "These are listed by unit, not range."
Ali was silently praying on the other end of the phone.
"Got one, Sir! Tuesday next week there's a rifle company firing M-16s, SAWs, M-240s, AT-4s, and 60mm mortars on K-305. And they're firing the K ranges the same week, M-16s and grenades. I'll give you the unit and the dates and times when you're ready."
"Fantastic," Ali breathed. His pen was poised over the paper. Lance Corporal Banotz read out the information. "I want to thank you very, very much, Lance Corporal," Ali said.
"No sweat, sir. Have a good day."
"You too," Ali said, hanging up. He looked at the information as if he could not believe it, then slammed his fist onto the table in exultation. "Yes!" he shouted. "Yes!"
They had rehearsed the construction of a car bomb many times in Iran. The Guards broke into teams in the garage, each assigned a specific task. Musa and Karim would supervise the overall operation.
The explosive had been created in the bathrooms. The precipitation took some time and care, but otherwise it was basic chemistry. Except that any wrong move during the process would have blown the house to matchsticks. The resulting powder was functionally equivalent to the military explosive PETN. It now rested in plastic storage bins, safe from moisture and disturbance.
Three different types of firing systems had been brought from Iran, each capable of detonating all the explosive. To power them the Guards mounted three 12-volt lantern batteries under the driver's seat.
The first system consisted of an impact switch mounted just behind the front bumper. The switch was a plastic box half the size of a pack of cigarettes. At its heart was a microchip. When the bumper received an impact of more than twenty pounds, the chip would be crushed; two seconds later the circuit would close, firing a blasting cap.
The second system was a dead man's switch mounted on the steering wheel. Really just a spring-loaded lever. When the lever was pressed down, the system was armed; when it was released, the circuit would close.
The third system was a simple digital clock timer.
Once the systems were installed and the electric wiring run back to the driver's cab, the Guards were ready to place the explosive. The plastic storage bins fitted beautifully into the trunk and back seat of the car, strapped down to keep them from shifting.
PETN was very powerful but relatively insensitive. It would need to be detonated by a primary explosive. Which in this case was plastic explosive. Enough remained from what the Guards had brought from Iran in their shoulder bags, along with detonating
cord and blasting caps.
Musa and Karim watched while the Guards prepared the charges. The olive-green plastic wrapping was removed from the one and one-quarter-pound bars of C-4. This C-4 was American, and the bars were labeled "CHARGE, DEMOLITION, M112." The explosive was white, similar to but slightly suffer than children's modeling clay. Each bar was broken in half, releasing a distinctive smell of marzipan. The Guards cut four-foot lengths of detonating cord, quarter-inch waterproof cord filled with high explosive. Each piece of cord was doubled, and an overhand knot tied at the loop, leaving both ends hanging free. The knot was pressed into the center of a half bar of C-4, and the other half bar was placed over it. The two halves were sealed together with electrical tape. The knot was buried in the center, and the two ends of detonating cord hung free. Two blocks of C-4 were inserted into the PETN powder in one of the storage containers.
A separate ten-foot-long piece of detonating cord was made into a loop by tying both ends together. Then the two trailing ends of det cord that protruded from each block of plastic explosive were tied onto the longer loop. The ring was taped against the inside of the trunk to protect it.
All that remained was to connect the explosive to the firing systems. Musa and Karim stepped in to take over this final step. Once the last connection was made, the car would be ready to explode. If there was a mistake, they would know of it in Paradise.
The electric blasting caps were smooth silver cylinders two inches long and slightly thicker than a pencil, filled with very sensitive explosive. From the base of each trailed two thin twelve-foot-long electrical wires. Karim selected three caps from a padded plastic box. He gently taped them onto the central ring of detonating cord, passing the wires to the Sergeant Major in the driver's cab.
"Are the positive and negative wires shunted together?" Musa called nervously. "Of course," Karim said.
"Well, I hope you know that the static electricity in your hair can explode them if you do not have the circuit closed," Musa said.
"I know," said Karim. "You should be calm, it is not good for your health. See how relaxed I am?"
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