Black Friday (23 page)

S
omething nagged at Maggie ever since they’d left Minneapolis. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Even Patrick’s charm and boyish naivety couldn’t distract her. She was pleased that he wanted to move their relationship beyond the barriers they had imposed, though both of them seemed to tiptoe around each other. He was a good kid, smart, kind and self-reliant. But she knew he had no idea what he was getting himself into. His adventure over the last day may have left him feeling invincible. But tracking professional killers was something that should be left to the professionals.

She’d already talked to Charlie Wurth about how they could utilize Patrick at Sky Harbor, but only at the lowest level of risk. She wanted him in her sights at all times. All of them would be connected with a wireless communication system. Not two-way radios that could be tapped into, but something limited only to their task force. They’d all wear Kevlar vests under their traveling clothes. And GPS tracking systems. She tried to put in place as many precautions as possible, but she knew if Patrick ended up getting hurt she’d never forgive herself.

She glanced at Nick poring over the maps with Wurth in the back of the plane. How could he believe she didn’t trust him? That she’d lied to him? Who was she fooling? As soon as she had seen him sitting at the controls in front of the surveillance monitors and knew he was the investigator for the security company, she didn’t trust his judgment. Whatever chemistry existed between them didn’t seem to run deep enough to include trust and loyalty.

She had almost let herself get lost in their kiss, lost in Nick Morrelli’s charm. It felt so right at the time, but there had to be something more, an anchor more solid than chemistry. Or was it simply her? Would she ever be able to trust a man enough to let him into her life? Had she not learned anything in the last two months?

Before boarding she had checked her voice messages. There was an early-morning one from Ben. He joked about her leaping over cars, said he was worried about her and to call when she got the opportunity. He didn’t sound like a doctor simply worried about a patient. Outside of Gwen and her partner, R.J. Tully, she wasn’t used to having someone worry about her. She wasn’t used to having someone want to take care of her. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

Suddenly she realized what was nagging her. It wasn’t Patrick or Nick or even Ben. It was something A.D. Kunze had said earlier. Why couldn’t she put her finger on it? She’d read a good deal of the debriefing file before realizing it was a debriefing of Special Agent Raymond Kunze. He’d failed to mention that not only had he conducted some of the early witness interviews, he was also one of the first agents on the scene.

She glanced over at him. He was stretched out and sleeping, a blanket pulled up to his chin. Fourteen years ago Kunze would have been about her age, an experienced agent who had probably already seen his share of the horrors people could do to each other. But nothing prepares you for mass murder.

During their trip from D.C. yesterday he had mentioned Oklahoma City. He’d come to this scene at the personal request of the Minnesota governor and the state’s senior senator and he’d even brought along a profiler to connect the dots. For someone who, after fourteen years, still believed that John Doe #2 assisted Timothy McVeigh and then disappeared into the Oklahoma City landscape, Kunze had been anxious to wrap up the mall bombing in a neat, simple package. Had he purposely tried to sway the investigation in the wrong direction by insisting they consider Citizens for American Pride, a fringe, white supremacist group? A group that had never perpetrated violence in the past. Had Kunze already known about Henry Lee’s secret group? Or suspected that it existed?

Maggie pulled her laptop case out from under her seat and started rifling through the contents. She pulled out the file folder she’d received on their flight from D.C. Inside were the warnings or what Kunze and Senator Foster had considered warnings. The copies of memorandums were poor quality. They mentioned phone calls and e-mails, but there were no transcripts of the calls, no copies of the e-mails. The memorandums talked about vague warnings but went into great detail about the group called Citizens for American Pride, CAP for short. What Maggie was most interested in, was where the warnings had been sent. Who received the e-mails and phone calls? Why had Kunze been so convinced the group was responsible?

Finally on the last page, toward the bottom, there was a brief note, almost a footnote: “Approximate times of e-mails and phone calls not recorded by Senator Foster’s staff.”

So it had been the senator who had received the warnings.

Maggie slumped down in the leather chair, tapping the corner of the file folder against the chair arm. It was exhausting trying to figure out any of this. Henry Lee had told her that Citizens for American Pride was a smokescreen, a distraction. But Kunze still believed the group might be involved. He’d even suggested they may have been used.

There were a lot of things about this case that didn’t add up, no matter how hard she tried to look for the obvious. Smokescreens, kidnapping, hired bombers and secret organizations.

Kunze had mentioned Occam’s razor and now Maggie remembered another adage: Don’t speculate about hypothetical components. The simplest answer was usually the correct one. Was Phoenix the simplest answer or mere speculation? Was it possible that they were headed to the wrong airport? Could the Project Manager have chosen Las Vegas?

She shifted in her captain’s chair, sank the back of her head into the soft leather and closed her eyes. One thing A.D. Kunze didn’t quite understand and William of Occam would never have considered or included in his principle was exactly what Maggie counted on—gut instinct. She’d bet her life on it any day of the week and hopefully she could count on it one more time.

E
verything had gone smoothly. No more glitches. Asante was pleased.

The crew in Minneapolis had disbanded, destroying or taking with them anything that could be incriminating. And if they had gotten sloppy, or even if they were detained, it didn’t matter. None of them had met him or seen what he looked like. They knew absolutely nothing about him. He had a new SIM card in his cell phone. He’d even reprogrammed his computer. The numbers they had been using to reach him, no longer existed. There was no way to connect any of them to Asante, which was just another mark of a brilliant project manager. Even members of his crew were cutaways. No one would be able to reach him now. Not the people he’d hired, nor the men who had hired him. Everything was in place.

The white Chevy TrailBlazer he’d chosen from the Las Vegas airport’s long-term parking lot had proven to be a comfortable ride. It had also been a plus that the SUV didn’t have an OnStar navigation system. The owner had accidentally left a printout of his flight itinerary on the passenger seat. He wouldn’t be returning until the following week.

As extra insurance, before Asante left the parking lot he drove around until he found another white Chevy SUV. The second one was an older model Chevy Blazer, but it had served his purpose. He exchanged the two SUVs’ license plates easily in the middle of the night with no one around to notice.

Asante had driven straight through, all three hundred and fifty-nine miles with only one interruption. He’d exited his route to stop at a storage facility a few minutes after crossing the Nevada/Arizona border. The entire trip had taken him just over six hours.

Now he ate dinner in his hotel room, a feast by room service standards. He could see the airport from his window, continuous blinking lights as the last of the evening flights came in and went out. That was one thing he liked about Phoenix. You could see forever without buildings getting in the way. He wondered if the blast tomorrow morning could be seen from this very window.

Asante finished the last of his dessert, wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin and shoved the tray aside. Standing, he could see the hotel’s parking lot from this window, too. The Pullmans were in the Chevy TrailBlazer, packed and ready. Everything else he needed for tomorrow he had pulled from his duffel bag and laid out on the second double bed.

He fingered the Carolina Panthers baseball cap. It was beginning to show some wear though he’d taken good care of it over the years. He’d never watched a Panthers game in his life. In fact, he’d bought the cap at a convenience store in Junction City, Kansas. It had been an impulse buy at the time. Asante didn’t believe in lucky charms but this ordinary ball cap had come close to being one.

He rubbed his hands together and glanced around the room. Everything was in place. No glitches. He’d get a good night’s sleep.

Sunday, November 25
Sky Harbor International Airport
Phoenix, Arizona

N
ick wished he had Jerry Yarden here to help him. The quirky little man had an eye for details and a knack for electronic security equipment. He would have had everything in place by now. Instead Nick had been at it since midnight, working with two security technicians, installing and preparing equipment he’d only just learned to operate a few weeks ago.

Because Sky Harbor had been one of the airports on UAS’s list for equipment upgrades they had also been sent samples of the new system. Last night when they arrived at the airport, Nick had contacted UAS’s manager on-site. The man had been taken off guard by the surprise visit but impressed with Nick’s credentials. That he had the Deputy Director of Homeland Security along with him had probably helped. Nick obtained the sample equipment and the two technicians with only the explanation that they would be conducting a test. Then he set out to install the wireless cameras in the areas he and Charlie Wurth had selected. Areas that up until now didn’t have cameras.

These new models were small but if the Project Manager was the professional they all expected him to be, Nick didn’t want to take any chances that he’d notice them. His technicians took on the challenge with enthusiasm, looking for ways to hide or obscure the cameras while allowing them to have full functionality. Nick was pleased with the results, though none of the cameras would matter if he wasn’t able to identify the Project Manager from the police artist’s sketch. Just the thought made his heart pound and his palms sweat.

Wurth was being selective as to who he alerted and he’d convinced Nick that no one else under the employment of UAS should be included. Other than Henry Lee, they had no evidence that anyone at UAS was involved in the attack, but Wurth insisted they take the extra precaution. He didn’t want to risk word trickling through the ranks and getting to the Project Manager. Nick agreed.

Wurth did, however, warn TSA. He had air marshals on-site. He had arranged for a bomb squad and sniper unit from Quantico to arrive last night. In the early morning hours while Nick and Wurth roamed around the airport, Wurth pointed out team coordinators for the bomb squad. They were dressed as housekeeping, busy securing their stations. Their carts were identical to the airport housekeeping staff, only—according to Wurth—these carts contained what Wurth called “safe containers” instead of bathroom cleaner.

Wurth had also pointed out a hallway that now was blocked off with UNDER CONSTRUCTION signs and sawhorses.

“There’s an exit and armored vehicle stationed and ready to take the bomb to a vacant airstrip.”

Nick liked how Charlie Wurth made it all sound so organized and simple. Like maybe it could really work, they could actually prevent this attack.

“We’ll have all three terminals covered,” Nick told Wurth as they finished their final pass-through. “We’ll have limited views of the ticketing areas. Once he leaves those areas I won’t be able to follow him.”

“Understood.”

“Here in Terminal 4 there are ticket kiosks on the second level.” Nick pointed up the escalators. “The one to the right of the escalator is sort of hidden out of view. It’d be easy to leave a bag there and not have anyone notice for a short while.”

“I’ll get someone stationed to watch.”

The two stood in front of the long line of US Airways counters. Both of them had their arms crossed over their chests, feet spread apart, standing tall and straight as they took one last look around. Staff had started to come in, opening doors, turning on computers. But it was still quiet compared to what it would be like an hour from now.

“We’re ready,” Wurth said without moving from his stance and sounding confident.

Nick simply nodded. He wondered if Charlie Wurth had problems with his heart banging against his rib cage.

Terminal 4a
Sky Harbor International Airport

M
aggie watched Patrick from above the ticket area. She stayed on the second floor, close to the rail, but away from the escalators. Looking down on him in his blue jeans and gray hooded sweatshirt, she couldn’t shake the feeling of how much he looked like those college boys at Mall of America.

Wurth had equipped all of them with wireless headsets that slipped on over the ear and allowed them to communicate with each other while looking like ordinary passengers, talking on their cell phones. They agreed to keep conversation to a minimum but Maggie insisted Patrick do check-ins at fifteen-minute intervals.

“If I can’t see you, I want to hear you,” she told him earlier as she helped him into his Kevlar vest.

They had been wandering around for a couple of hours now, disguised as passengers, carry-on cases over their shoulders. Patrick had a worn duffel bag and a smartphone. He stopped periodically to look like he was reading or sending text messages. An ordinary kid going back home or back to college after a Thanksgiving holiday. Maggie was impressed. He looked convincing despite his eyes wandering around the entire area, not stopping on any one face long enough to be suspicious. He was better at this than she expected.

Somewhere Nick was watching monitors that corresponded with the new wireless cameras he had installed, several in each terminal’s ticket areas. He’d studied the sketch of the Project Manager. They’d all studied the sketch, but only Patrick seemed totally convinced that he’d recognize the man.

New passengers came up the escalators. The first flights of the morning had already left. Maggie felt certain it was to be another morning attack but it could end up being a long day.

She opened a paperback novel and leaned on the rail. It looked like she was reading but her eyes were still looking down below, watching the entrances, scanning the figures in the check-in lines and examining any of the men lingering off to the sides. She also kept checking the faces coming up on the escalator.

“At the newspaper stand,” she said, suddenly noticing a man stopped there, wearing a navy blue jacket, trousers, sunglasses and dragging a large, black Pullman.

She glanced down at Patrick and saw him casually wander closer, pretending to be interested in the headlines of the newspaper through the glass on the machine.

“Nope, I don’t think so,” he said, this time holding up the phone to his ear so anyone who might not see the wireless headset would know he was on the cell phone.

“I’m gonna stop off at the restroom. Talk to you later.”

The ticket area quickly got crowded again. Bodies and luggage pressed tight, waiting to check in, lined up at self-serve kiosks. She noticed A.D. Kunze down below talking to a woman in a housekeeping uniform. She certainly didn’t look like a sniper or a member of the bomb squad, but then that was the whole idea, wasn’t it.

When Maggie glanced back she didn’t see Patrick. Her breath caught as she searched, straining to keep from looking like she was searching. Where had he gone?

“Patrick?”

In answer, she heard a toilet flush. She saw Kunze look up at her but he didn’t smile until he turned away.

Okay, so she was being an overprotective big sister. A few minutes later she noticed Patrick come out of the restroom but he disappeared out of her sight again, just behind the down escalator.

Relax, she told herself. She needed to relax.