End Game

by Alex Lukeman

  Nick fell asleep. He dreamed of bright lights and darkness and someone talking to him. In the morning he couldn't remember what the dream was about.

  Chapter 9

  The lights in Elizabeth's office hurt Nick's eyes as he walked in. He pulled sunglasses from his pocket and put them on.

  "I love the look," Stephanie said. "With the bandage around your head and the sunglasses you look like the invisible man, except I can see most of you."

  "Don't pay any attention to her, Nick," Elizabeth said.

  "I try not to."

  "How's the headache?" Selena asked. "Did it go away?"

  "It's okay."

  The headache had settled down to a dull ache. It didn't bother him much. What bothered him was an intermittent sound like someone talking, far away. Like words he couldn't quite make out. It had to be an aftermath of the hit he'd taken on his head. He figured it would go away after a while. In the meantime, he pushed it to the back of his mind.

  He sat down.

  "What have we got?"

  "Freddie analyzed the tire tracks by the trailer in Texas," Stephanie said. "Several vehicles, none of which were found at the scene. Tire impressions from a medium-size truck, like a U-Haul rental. That would be consistent with the truck that blew up in Missouri."

  "Do we know anything about the terrorists?"

  "There's not much left of them to identify, but we have the recording from the trooper's camera. It's a miracle it survived. Everything's on it, right up to the instant of the explosion. There's quite a bit of footage showing the driver. The sound isn't great, but you can hear the trooper tell someone to get back inside the cab. The camera didn't capture whoever it was."

  "Let's look at it," Elizabeth said .

  Stephanie keyed up the recording. The large monitor on Harker's desk lit with a shot taken through the windshield of the trooper's vehicle as the car pulled up behind the truck. A digital readout recorded the date, time, and speed of the vehicle being tracked.

  "Sixty-eight," Stephanie said. "They have a speed trap in that area. The speed limit goes from seventy to sixty along that stretch, but the sign is hard to see. That's why the cop pulled him over."

  The truck signaled, moved over to the side of the road, and stopped.

  "Freeze it there," Nick said.

  "Texas license plate," Stephanie said. "I ran the numbers. The truck was registered to a company and address in Houston. The address turned out to be a vacant lot and the company doesn't exist."

  "Why doesn't that surprise me?" Nick said. "What was the cop's name?"

  "Costello. Jerry Costello. He had a wife and three kids."

  "Bastards," Selena said. "There's always somebody left behind."

  "Let's see more," Nick said.

  The recording started again. Costello appeared in front of the camera, walking toward the truck. They watched as he talked to the driver through the window. They saw him unsnap his holster and step back.

  "Right there is when he realized something was wrong," Steph said.

  The sound on the recording was poor, but they could hear Costello ask the driver to get out and show him the load. The man who got down from the cab was about five foot nine and dark-haired. He wore a white shirt open at the collar and dark trousers. The trooper followed the driver to the back of the truck. The door came open.

  "Looks like a load of furniture," Nick said.

  "Wait," Stephanie said .

  They watched Costello take out his flashlight and shine it into the interior of the truck. Then they heard him tell the driver to start unloading. The man's face was shiny with sweat. He said something to Costello.

  "Hold it there," Nick said. "What did the driver say?"

  Steph paused the video.

  "I had to run it a couple of times to figure it out," she said. "What he says is, 'It is much work to me.'"

  "English isn't his native language," Selena said.

  "He doesn't look like he's from the Middle East," Nick said. "Look at his face, his eyes. There's a touch of Asia there."

  Selena said, "I think he must've had a beard not very long ago. See how his skin is lighter where a beard would be?"

  "You're right," Nick said. "If he's Muslim and a terrorist, they would have told him to shave so he wouldn't stand out."

  "He could be Eastern European," Elizabeth said.

  "He could be," Selena said. "Or somewhere farther east. Russia, maybe. Or one of the former Soviet republics."

  "I think you're right," Nick said.

  "Hood isn't going to like it if we tell him the Russians might be behind this," Stephanie said.

  "I didn't say that," Selena said. "I said he could be from that area. He doesn't look like an ethnic Russian."

  "Let's see the rest, Steph," Elizabeth said.

  The video began again. They heard Costello tell someone to get back in the cab of the truck. The driver started to take a chair down from the truck. Then everything went white.

  Selena turned the lights back on. Next to one wall of the office was a whiteboard set on a rolling frame. Nick got up and brought it over.

  "Okay," he said. "Let's brainstorm it. What do we know? What don't we know?"

  "We know one bomb is out of commission," Selena said.

  Nick picked up a marker and made a note on the board.

  One bomb accounted for.

  "One down, three to go. "

  "Tire tracks in Texas indicated one truck like the one that blew up. The logical conclusion is that the other bombs were moved in some other way. Maybe by ship."

  Nick wrote on the board.

  Others? Ship?

  "We don't know that the other bombs aren't still in the country," Selena said.

  "There were only tracks for one truck in Texas."

  "Yes, but maybe they handed the others off along the way."

  "They used a phony address to register the truck," Nick said. "Are there any other vehicles registered to the same address?"

  "No," Stephanie said.

  "Is it possible for someone to arm the other bombs?"

  Can bombs be armed? Nick wrote.

  "I'll find out," Stephanie said.

  "Anything else?"

  "We really don't know much, do we?" Selena said.

  "What about forensics in Missouri?" Elizabeth said. "They might find something in the wreckage."

  Forensics on scene, Nick wrote.

  "That's going to be tricky," he said. "Everything's contaminated."

  "How about satellite shots over the Gulf?" Selena said. "If they transferred bombs to a ship, there could be photos. If we can pick up the transfer, we might be able to track wherever the ship is going."

  "I've been running through satellite coverage that was over the area at the time," Stephanie said. "Maybe we'll get lucky, but so far I haven't found zip."

  "It figures. That would be too easy," Nick said.

  "A B-61 bomb is about twelve feet long," Elizabeth said. "A boat wouldn't have to be very big."

  "Great," Nick said. "Do you know how many boats there are in the Gulf that can handle something twelve feet long? "

  Nick looked at the list on the whiteboard.

  Selena said, "The hijackers had to know the code for the truck's onboard computer. It's the only way to get the doors open without triggering all the safety features."

  Nick wrote on the whiteboard.

  What about the code? Traitor at OST?

  "We have to find out how they got it," he said. "Someone programmed it. We start there. We follow the trail. We identify anyone who knew the code, then put them under a microscope. Finances, relationships, history, the works."

  "I've already identified two people who knew the codes," Stephanie said. "One of them works at the Pantex plant. His name is McAllen. He's the one who would have deactivated the system when the truck arrived. The other is a man named Campbell at OST headquarters. He sent the code to the truck's computer at Dyess. I don't know yet if he got the code from someone or ge
nerated it himself."

  "Campbell and McAllen. It sounds like a Scottish comedy duo," Selena said.

  Selena got up for a cup of coffee.

  "I wonder how long it will be before this leaks."

  "Not long," Nick said. "Twenty square miles of Missouri contaminated with plutonium is a big deal. They can't hide that. The media are going to have a field day when they figure out it came from a stolen bomb. They don't have a problem with scaring the hell out of everybody. It's good for business. If people think terrorists are running around the country with a nuclear bomb, it will create panic."

  "Washington will put out some kind of cover story," Stephanie said.

  Selena said, "Elizabeth, what are you going to tell DCI Hood?"

  "I'm going to tell him we're in deep shit."

  Chapter 10

  Roger Campbell was getting drunk. It was only a question of time before they found out what he'd done. The thought of how those bombs might be used made him sick to his stomach. It wasn't supposed to come to this.

  His job at OST paid a decent salary. The federal bureaucracy was a place where you could settle in for your entire working life, knowing you weren't going to get fired unless you really screwed up. Your benefits were guaranteed forever. Roger had been in the game long enough to have reached the grade of GS-15, which meant he now made a hundred and eighteen thousand dollars a year, with future raises. With what his wife brought in working as a real estate agent, it was enough to live a comfortable, upper middle-class lifestyle. Life was good. There was more than enough money. Or there would have been, if Roger didn't like to gamble.

  Blackjack was his game. There was something about watching the cards appear, the anticipation of gain or loss. There was no high like it.

  21 wasn't like playing craps. With blackjack you had some control over the result. Roger knew all the rules and odds, all the ways to increase his bet when the cards appeared to be in his favor. He knew when to split, when to double down, when to take a card, when to stand pat.

  What he didn't know was when to quit.

  Things hadn't been going well the last few months. The cards had turned against him. He'd been sitting in a bar after work, nursing a whiskey and a beer, wondering what he was going to do. He'd borrowed money from people you didn't want to owe money to, a lot of money, money he didn't have.

  Roger signaled the bartender for another drink and thought about how he'd gotten into the mess with the bombs. Thinking that if he could just get out from under his debt, he'd never touch the cards again.

  Two large men sat down on either side of him. Roger's heart started pumping.

  "Hello, Roger."

  "Luca. Listen, I'll have something for you next week, I promise."

  "Something isn't gonna cut it, Roger. You owe me a hundred large, plus the vig. You're up to a hundred and eighty grand. You have that, Roger?"

  "You know I'm good for it, Luca. Please, give me one more week. I'm working on something."

  It was a lie. Roger had no idea how he was going to get the money. The bartender came over. The two men ordered beers. Luca waited for the bartender to leave.

  "Why don't you tell me about that, what you're working on? What are you gonna do? You already took out everything your house was worth and pissed it away at the tables, right?"

  "How did you know that?"

  "I know everything, Roger. I know where you sleep, where you eat, what time you take a crap in the morning. I want my money."

  The man sitting on the other side of Roger said, "I don't think he's got it, boss."

  "I think you're right, Louie," Luca said. "I don't think he's taking us seriously. I think he needs a lesson."

  Roger clenched his whiskey with both hands. "I am. I am. I am taking you seriously."

  Luca gripped Roger's arm, hard, the fingers like steel.

  "I'm glad to hear that. Tell you what, Roger. I've got a proposition for you. You do something for me, I'll cancel your debt."

  "You will?"

  Luca crossed his heart with his finger.

  "On my mother's grave. All of it, even the interest."

  Only a drowning man knows what it feels like to be pulled from the water. Roger felt like that.

  "What do you want me to do? "

  "Not much, really. I want you to get something for us from where you work."

  Luca told Roger what he wanted.

  "I can't give you that," Roger said. "That's treason."

  He looked in Luca's eyes. There was nothing there except darkness.

  "See, Roger, Louie here, he likes to hurt people. Don't you Louie?"

  Roger turned to look at the big man sitting on the other side of him. The bones in Louie's face were crooked. His face was pitted with acne scars. His nose was broken and irregular, his eyes flat and empty. His hands rested on the bar. They were huge, like clubs, the knuckles swollen and scarred where they'd been broken.

  "Yeah. It kinda turns me on, you know what I mean?" Louie said.

  "Louie likes to use a baseball bat to hit people he doesn't like. Sometimes a hammer. Right, Louie?"

  "Yeah. I like the way it sounds. Kind of crunchy."

  Roger felt a jolt of pure, fear-based adrenaline, like his stomach had sunk through the floor and someone had shot him up with speed. His heart tried to beat its way out of his chest.

  It was a bad feeling.

  "You have any idea how it feels when someone smashes your toes with a hammer, Roger?" Luca said. "One by one? You oughtta see how Louie can swing a bat. I tell you, he could of been in the majors. The kind of money you owe, means it don't stop with the toes. Louie gets through with you, you probably won't walk again. You won't look so good, either. See, we gotta make sure no one thinks they can get away with not paying. We're gonna make you what they call an object lesson."

  "Or he could just do what you want, boss," Louie said.

  "That's right. He could just do what I want. What do you think, Roger? You gonna help me out? "

  Pain had never been something Roger handled well. He thought about Louie swinging a bat at his knees. Smashing his toes. Breaking his face.

  "You'll clear my debt? You promise?"

  "Like I said, on my mother's grave. You think I'd disrespect my mother?"

  "All right," Roger said. "I'll do what you want."

  Luca slapped him on the back.

  "Atta boy. I thought you'd see reason. Here's what you're gonna do."

  That had been a little more than two months before. When the shipment of bombs out of Dyess crossed his desk, Roger called Luca and gave him the details of the shipment and the code to disarm the trailer.

  Now the bombs were missing. People had died. That wasn't supposed to happen. He'd probably end up in prison. He didn't think he could handle prison. Terrible things happened to people like him in places like that.

  Roger looked at his empty glass. He thought about having another drink, then decided he'd go home and think about it tomorrow. What was that old movie line? Tomorrow is another day?

  His car was parked a block away. He was surprised to see it was nighttime. The sun had disappeared while he was in the bar and it was getting chilly. He pulled up the collar on his jacket. He felt a little drunk, but okay to drive. As long as he kept to the speed limit and didn't do anything stupid, the chances of getting caught were slim. He sure as hell wasn't going to walk twelve miles to get home .

  This part of Albuquerque was run down, off the beaten path. Roger liked bars that weren't filled with crowds of millennials looking to get laid. He walked toward his car. The street was empty except for a homeless man sitting on the pavement, leaning against a chain-link fence surrounding a weed grown lot. He held a cardboard coffee cup up in front of him as Roger approached. Words were scrawled in black marker on a cardboard sign hung around his neck.

  Broke and hungry

  Please help

  Roger dug some change out of his pocket and dropped it in the cup as he passed by.

  "Tha
nks, brother," the man said.

  The man drew a pistol from under his tattered jacket as Roger walked past and shot him in the back of the head. Roger's skull exploded and he fell forward onto the pavement. A few seconds later, a black BMW pulled up. The homeless man climbed in and the car sped away.

  Roger's blood flooded the cracked sidewalk, spilling into the street.

  Chapter 11

  The news Campbell had been murdered was a bad start to the day.

  "Do you think he's the one who gave up the code?" Selena asked.

  "We still have to look at McAllen, but it's a good bet it was him," Nick said. "Someone's cleaning up. What are the chances of random street violence taking out one of the two people who knew the code?"

  "It could be a coincidence."

  "I don't believe in coincidences."

  "I don't either," Stephanie said. "I went online and looked hard at Campbell. He was in financial trouble. He took out a second on his house not long ago. The money was gone as soon as it showed up in his bank account. He was behind on his payments and his bills."

  "There's your motive," Elizabeth said.

  "If he was paid off to give someone the code, where did the money go?" Selena asked.

  "I didn't find anything unusual except for the debt. No sudden large deposits."

  "He made good money," Nick said. "He spent it somewhere."

  "Was he an addict?" Selena said. "Addictions eat up money fast."

  "Sex, drugs, or the tables," Nick said. "The old standbys."

  "There were emails on his computer from a casino offering comps. You know, upgrades, a free room, that sort of thing. The kinds of things they give to a high roller," Stephanie said.

  Selena nodded. "If a casino was trying to get his business, he was a gambler. Sooner or later, the house always wins. No wonder he was broke."

  Freddie's electronic voice interrupted .

  I have just received a forensics report from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Would you like to see it?