Collateral Damage

by P A Duncan

  “Not until now, when we named him,” Mai said.

  “And six weeks ago, you weren’t interested in what I had to say,” Alexei added. “That was a mistake on my part. I should have persisted, and I take full responsibility for not doing so.”

  “Mr. Brasseau,” Mai said, “my proof may not be empirical enough for you, but here it is. John Carroll went to war when we told him to, and we gave him a Bronze Star for killing the enemy. The aftermath wasn’t easy for him. He believes the government he once served with pride wanted to make him a killer for hire. He can’t understand why the Army hounded him for a refund of $1,000 of combat pay, when the mistake was the Army’s, not his. Small things to us, but to him, it was proof of oppression. He’s an all-American hero who’s been dragged into a dark place that took his soul. Rather than stop him when I could, I tried to give that soul back to him. That may have been the biggest mistake of my career.”

  Finally, Alexei thought, she can admit that.

  “We analyzed the information, scant as it was, Mr. Bukharin provided,” Brasseau said. “Our conclusion was no active threat.”

  Mai shook her head. “The problem is these militias, paramilitary groups, anti-government nuts are white men for the most part. The FBI is mostly white men. Of course, your analysts would conclude people who look like them are harmless gun nuts who like to dress in camo and play paintball war games. If these armed militias consisted of people of color, your reaction would be different.”

  Brasseau didn’t roll his eyes but came close.

  Mai closed her laptop, slipped her feet back in her shoes, and stood. Unsure what she was planning, Alexei rose, too.

  “The rest of you fine American citizens can sit here and do nothing, but this British citizen is going to stop John Carroll. My apologies for having disturbed you, Mr. President.”

  “I don’t understand,” Randolph said.

  “This is our matter now,” said Alexei.

  “What does that mean?” Brasseau asked.

  “Need to know,” Alexei told him.

  Brasseau again lunged to his feet. “Mr. President, I’m detaining these two.”

  “You have no grounds, Emmet,” Vejar said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Alexei said. “If we don’t report to our Director, he’ll take care of the situation.”

  “You’ve crossed a line into intimidation,” Brasseau said.

  Randolph stood. “Director Stark, Director Brasseau, you will alert your respective offices in the Becker Building of a bomb threat.”

  Brasseau’s pinched lips hardly moved when he said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Of course, Mr. President,” Stark said.

  Randolph walked to Mai and Alexei. “I hope you’re wrong,” the President said, “but do what you can.” He lowered his voice so only they could hear. “I need assurance none of what you may do gets connected to this office.”

  “That was our assurance from the beginning,” Alexei replied.

  “Then, do your best, and God be with you.”

  38

  Inspiration

  Washington National Airport

  The Cessna Citation waited on the ramp outside Washington National’s Signature Aviation. Its pilots, however, were in recurrent training.

  “Do you have a Citation pilot available?” Mai asked Signature’s night manager. “I can co-pilot.”

  “I’ll make some calls,” he said and pulled out his Rolodex.

  Mai turned away and saw Alexei at another phone where he’d been calling airlines. They’d changed into more casual clothes from the stash kept in the aircraft, and Mai missed seeing him decked out in his suit. He’d looked damned good in it.

  Stop. No time for such thoughts.

  He looked at her and shook his head. No commercial flights fitting their timeframe. Mai looked at her aircraft. It had been a while, but this qualified as a bona fide emergency.

  “I have a single pilot exemption,” she said when Alexei came to stand beside her.

  “Which means?” Alexei asked.

  “My plane is certificated for two pilots, but when I demonstrated an equivalent level of safety with only one pilot, I got an exemption.”

  Both eyebrows lifted. “Are you current?” he asked.

  “Of course. We’ll wait a half-hour for the manager to find another pilot. If not, you can read the checklist for me.”

  His frown deepened. “All right.”

  “While we wait, I’ll go re-read the pilots operating handbook.”

  She headed for the airplane, smiling to herself, and he called to her back, “Mai, you were joking, right?”

  After he’d crammed his six-feet, two-inches into the cockpit’s right seat, Mai handed Alexei a collection of laminated cards.

  “This is gibberish,” Alexei said.

  “Not to me. Read each step, I respond, move on,” Mai said.

  Alexei checked the time—0405. After only a few items, he saw she anticipated what he was going to say and had her hand on the switch or instrument before he spoke. That was reassuring.

  Somewhat.

  Both engines started immediately, the systems powered up, and gauges came to life. Mai adjusted the radios, donned her headset, and signaled Alexei to do the same.

  “Washington Ground,” Mai said into her mic, “Citation one five four two foxtrot, over.”

  “Roger, four-two fox. We are in curfew. Over.”

  “Washington Ground, check the IFR flight plan on file. Over.”

  “Stand by, four-two fox.”

  “He’ll contact a supervisor because of the national security notation,” Mai explained.

  “Four-two fox, Washington Ground. Cleared GPS direct Kansas City. Squawk 7232. Taxi to runway 36, position and hold. Contact Washington Tower on one one niner point one.”

  “Roger,” Mai said and repeated the clearance. “Say altitude.”

  “Four-two fox, your discretion. Advise the tower of desired altitude. Airspace will be cleared.”

  “Roger, Washington Ground, four-two fox on the move.”

  Mai’s hands on the throttle were certain, confident, and the jet moved forward. Once in place on the runway, Mai called the tower. Another exchange of aviation jargon and Mai looked at Alexei. “Tighten your seat belt. I’m doing a maximum performance takeoff.”

  He decided he didn’t want to know what that meant and tightened his harness.

  Her feet jammed hard against the pedals, Mai pushed the throttles all the way forward. The engines screamed. The whole plane shook. She released the brakes, and the airplane surged forward, pressing him back against the seat.

  Mai called out the speed in ten-knot increments until, “Vee one, rotate.” And they were in the air, climbing faster and steeper than he’d experienced before. Mai turned northwest, and it seemed to Alexei they barely cleared the high-rises in Arlington. The engines were still at full throttle. The national security clearance meant she didn’t have to abide by noise abatement procedures.

  At 0411, a record number of calls came into the FAA’s noise complaint hotline.

  They flew away from the sunrise, night air making for a smooth flight. Mai set the autopilot.

  “What’s our ETA?” Alexei asked.

  That got a smile from her. “ETA?”

  “I picked up some jargon. When?”

  “We should be on the ground by 0615 local.”

  “Not a lot of time.”

  “We’ll make the best of it. If Brasseau did what the President told him to do, maybe this will go smoothly.”

  “I don’t trust him,” Alexei said. “While you were changing clothes I called the ATF in Kansas City.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched down. “Of course.”

  “Lucas Walker had already heard from Stark. Walker’s personnel are a potential resource for us, Mai.”

  “One of those senior agent things you’re only now telling me.”

  “Things moved fast. That’s all. Now you know, and we won’t t
ake this on alone.”

  “Unless Brasseau undercuts us. Think about it. He wasn’t hostile until after Fitzgerald retired.”

  “What do you know?” Alexei asked.

  “Only that Fitzgerald uses his contacts well,” Mai replied. “He probably has something on a lot of people, something they don’t want to be public knowledge. I suspect Brasseau wouldn’t want it known he flagellates himself to scourge his sins.”

  “He what?”

  “He belongs to this holier-than-thou Catholic group called Opus Dei. They’re into ritualistic scourging. Very medieval. Brasseau flagellates, naked. After Analysis profiled him, I bribed someone in his chapter. I’d hoped for pictures.”

  “One of those things you’re only now telling me?”

  “Touché. I didn’t use it against him tonight because, as I said, this isn’t about us.”

  “As long as I get to use it at some point.”

  “Like the ammunition casings from Killeen,” Mai murmured.

  “Point taken. Let’s stop one-upping each other since this isn’t about us.”

  She had a sardonic response prepped, he could see, but a transmission from air traffic control interrupted with a handoff to another ATC facility. They stayed quiet, but the time seemed to pass too quickly. Soon, Mai received instructions to begin her descent. Alexei’s mobile phone, in his jacket back in the cabin, began to trill.

  “Probably Walker,” he said.

  “Checklist duty again,” Mai said. “Tighten your harness.”

  “Again? Why?”

  “I may not have been truthful about my currency. I’m rusty on landings. Report me to the FAA after we save American democracy from itself. Now, please, darling, the before-landing checklist.”

  “Now, I’m darling. Seats and belts.”

  “Secure,” Mai replied.

  The early morning landing was successful, if not a bit teeth-rattling. Mai peered out the windscreen at the dark, empty general aviation ramp. “I see the ATF isn’t generous with cars and drivers this time,” she said, as she stopped the aircraft. Lights came on in the general aviation terminal, and Alexei saw a man moving around inside.

  “I’ll go see if our friend there can find us a car,” Alexei said, folding his frame to keep from banging his head. “See if it was Walker who called my phone.”

  Mai went to the cabin and found Alexei’s phone but hesitated to play the voice mail. What if she heard Karen Wolfe’s voice? No, he wouldn’t have told her to listen if he thought he’d get caught.

  Lucas Walker’s voice filled the cabin. “Hey, Alexei. Stark said to do what I can. The FBI word is limited support, but I don’t work for them. I’ve called in the whole office early, and my buddy on the sheriff’s bomb squad agreed to run an exercise this morning. We’ll meet you at the Becker Building.”

  The whole office. Including Karen Wolfe?

  Alexei reentered the cabin. “The FBO manager is having a rental car sent over,” he said.

  She replayed the message for him, and he didn’t react to the “whole office” remark. He wouldn’t though.

  “I don’t remember how many agents are in his office,” Alexei said, “but perhaps with the sheriffs we can establish a perimeter, stop the truck before it gets to the building. If we have to shoot Carroll—”

  “Then, we shoot him.”

  He went to the storage locker in the cabin. “Extra ammo?”

  She nodded, and he passed her several magazines for the Beretta. He handed her a ballistic vest. Mai shook her head. “If he sees me with cops and wearing a ballistic vest, I won’t be able to get near him. If he’s still carrying Black Talons, our vests won’t stop them anyway.”

  Alexei took her by the arms. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Don’t doubt me now.”

  “Lead, and I’ll follow to the ends of the earth. Besides, you promised me sex. Let’s get John Carroll and find a hotel room.”

  “Why do men think about sex before everything else?”

  “Because we’re men.”

  She stopped him from leaving and kissed him. He smiled again. “Ah, inspiration.”

  39

  The Unexpected

  Kansas City, Missouri

  April 19, 1995

  Alexei parked a few blocks south of the Becker Building. He and Mai jogged through the empty streets toward it. Alexei counted Walker and fifteen ATF agents in utility uniforms and a half-dozen deputies with two dogs. Walker was the only African-American among them. They’d have to do. The only woman agent with the ATF wasn’t Karen. He glanced at his watch. Almost seven.

  Walker came to them. “One of the deputies has an FBI buddy. He called him to ask what was happening,” Walker said. “So, the deputies aren’t buying in. They’ll sweep with the dogs inside and out, but that’s it.”

  Mai looked at the deputies and elevated her voice. “It’s not in a shoebox wrapped in brown paper. It’s in a truck.”

  One deputy muttered something to the others, and they laughed.

  “Let them sweep,” Walker said. “We’ll put them to use later. I figure a perimeter, thin as it may be.”

  Alexei nodded. “Let’s get started.”

  “I’ll recce,” Mai said. To Alexei in Russian, she added, “For the getaway car.”

  “Disable it,” he replied, also in Russian. “Maiya, byt’ ostorozhen.”

  I’m always careful, she thought, but she nodded and headed north.

  The city map from the car rental office was a primitive resource, but it gave Mai a starting point. She searched an arc two blocks away from the Becker Building. She stopped at a community center more or less on a straight line from Becker. Some instinct urged her to the rear.

  In a far corner of the parking lot sat a battered, yellow car.

  “Yes!” she murmured and jogged to the car.

  She circled it from a distance in case Carroll had booby-trapped it. Its Arizona license plate was the same one she’d seen on his other vehicles. She took out her mobile and called Alexei.

  “What have you found?” he asked.

  “A car matching the description with his Arizona license plate.”

  “Can you disable it?”

  She looked around to make sure she was alone and tried the door. Locked. She tried the bonnet for a release. None. “It’s locked.”

  “Leave it. We know he’ll be there eventually.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  “No, continue the sweep and get back here. We need everyone for the perimeter.” He hung up.

  What could she do? Let air from the tires? No, he’d see that. She went to the rear of the car and squatted before the license plate. Using a Swiss Army Knife from her jacket, she worked on the screws holding the plate. It came free, and the screws went into her pocket. She tucked the plate in her waistband at her back, beneath her jacket. She checked to make sure he didn’t have a plate on the front and saw the sign on the dashboard.

  When Mai came from behind the community center and headed for the Becker Building, two olive-skinned men with close-cropped beards approached her. As they passed each other on the sidewalk, the taller one twirled a key on a ring on his index finger. He smiled and nodded to Mai and didn’t break eye contact. She returned the nod but glanced back over her shoulder. When she emerged from between two buildings and had the Becker Building in sight, she forgot them.

  Cars lined the circle at the front entrance. Women carried sleeping children inside. Mai stopped short.

  The Becker Building had a daycare center.

  40

  Show Time

  Department of Justice

  Washington, DC

  Three receptionists handled incoming phone calls to the Department of Justice. This morning one had called in sick. One dealt with the few calls at this hour, and the other chatted with the interdepartmental mail courier. The phones stayed quiet until one rang.

  Message pad ready, Stan Gellman answered, “Department of Justice, Mr. Gellman. How ma
y I direct your call?”

  “I’m nobody special,” the caller said. “The federal building in Kansas City has been bombed. I’m standing across the street from it. It’s gone.”

  Before Gellman could consult his bomb-threat checklist, the caller hung up. “Weird,” he said.

  “What?” asked his co-worker, handing mail to the courier.

  Gellman looked for his log sheet. “Oh, some nut case called to say the federal building in Kansas City was bombed.”

  “First nut case of the day. Better you than me.”

  The courier was wide-eyed. “Wha…what happens now?”

  “I’ll log it. Nuts call all the time,” Gellman said.

  “How do you know it’s not true?”

  Gellman looked at the courier with indulgence. “If a federal building had blown up, this place would be hopping.”

  Kansas City, Missouri

  Elijah hung up, the force of his laughter shaking the phone booth. Anyone could call in a commonplace bomb threat. This was foreshadowing, but they’d think he was a crank caller.

  Today, Yahweh would avenge Vicky and Sammy Weaver, the dead at Killeen, Ira Mathis, Patriot City. And Lewis.

  He let the memory of finding Lewis’ body fill him with righteous anger. He fueled that anger further with the thought of how the traitor Sergei had told him to look over his shoulder. Elijah smiled.

  “Look over my shoulder now, asshole,” he murmured.

  He walked toward the truck with John Carroll behind the wheel. Elijah smiled again. Lewis had been right about this one; the disaffected were easy to sway. The human mind sought simple answers, not the complex. Elijah had those facile answers down pat: God’s will, God’s law, don’t question God’s plan. You want purpose? What better purpose than God’s plan?