Black Friday (8 page)

A
sante lost the GPS signal halfway to the airport. That happened sometimes with control towers and radar from incoming and outgoing airlines. It didn’t matter. He needed to let Danko handle the loose ends while he moved on to the next phase. There could be nothing that got in the way.

The snow tapered off. Trucks with blades and sand were already out on the streets. Asante had to slow for them. As soon as he’d speed up again he’d have to hit the brakes and skid around nervous drivers. The first snow of the season and everyone seemed to have forgotten how to drive. He had counted on that fact as being an advantage. Now it was simply annoying.

He caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. The adrenaline had been replaced by anxiety. He told those simmering blue eyes to stay calm, to be patient. Then he took several deep breaths, holding each one before letting it out slow and easy.

He told himself that no project ran completely without flaws. The brilliance of a project manager like himself relied on his ability to react and readjust. And at the same time he had to make it look effortless, to cast the illusion of calm, to let his crew see only confidence, nothing less.

Though handpicked they were followers at heart when you peeled away their individual layers of talent, whether those talents included technosavvy intelligence or physical strength. Asante believed he possessed a gift in reading other people, seeing potential where others saw mediocrity. But he could also detect weakness. Everyone had some vulnerability no matter how well hidden. Asante could find it and, if necessary, exploit it.

From his inner circle, he insisted on perfection. He expected nothing less. Anyone chosen for his crew knew this. Being selected was a commendation as well as a burden. Glitches were unacceptable. A weak link could be quickly removed and the removal was permanent. This is what made him a great project manager.

He set the small computer on the dash to see the screen better. Before he could press any of the preset buttons a call buzzed in. He checked his phone. He didn’t recognize the number though he often instructed his crew to use prepaid cell phones to prevent tracking.

“Asante,” he answered into his wireless headset.

“You tried to use my grandson,” an angry voice came back at him.

Asante knew immediately who it was. He had already been warned that the man might be a problem. “How did you get this number?”

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“Once the project has begun no one has control but me. Those are the rules.”

“You meant to kill him, didn’t you, you asshole.”

“Nor are you to have any contact with me.” Asante kept his voice calm and steady even as he disconnected the call.

With one hand clenching the steering wheel and the other on the phone’s keypad he tapped several keys, ensuring that number would be blocked.

He checked his eyes again in the rearview mirror, disappointed to find the anxiety turning to anger. Calm. He needed to stay calm. He flexed his fingers and stretched his neck from side to side.

Despite the man’s fury and accusation, his grandson, Dixon Lee, had not been a mistake or a glitch. Asante allowed himself a smile. Dead or alive, Dixon Lee had been a well-planned insurance policy. Another quick glance in the mirror. Nobody messed with the Project Manager once the project began. Nobody. Not even the assholes who special ordered the project.

Asante turned into the long-term parking lot at the airport and found a space at the far end, close to where he had stolen the car earlier. He gathered up his belongings, stuffing them into the duffel bag. Then he wiped down every single surface inside the car that he had touched. He left the car just as the airport shuttle pulled into the lot. He glanced at his diver’s watch. Plenty of time.

He took another deep breath. He hated glitches. In the old days he could predict and ward off every single one. Perhaps it was time to retire. Buy an island somewhere. He had more than enough money stashed safely away in Zurich, even before this project. He deserved the rest. A nice long relaxation, something more substantial than the short escapes that lasted only as long as a box of Cubans and a couple bottles of Chivas.

Instead of focusing on glitches, instead of thinking about Carrier #3 Asante reminded himself of other successes. It calmed him to run past projects through his mind step by step—the early planning, the stages and then the denouement. So when Asante boarded the shuttle bus he nodded to the driver with a brief smile and in his mind he began the playback of Madrid, March 11, 2004…backpacks, the train station at rush hour, bright flashes of light and most of all…success.

Saint Mary’s Hospital

H
enry Lee paced the hallway, unclenching his fists only long enough to drag nervous fingers over his bristled head and rub the disbelief from his eyes. At sixty-eight he was still vain enough to take pride in his compact, fit and trim physique. He was strong and healthy and unlike his father and grandfather Henry had done everything in his control to prevent hereditary heart disease from shortening his golden years. Everything, that is, except to make sure that his wife, his sweetheart, his Hannah, had also stayed healthy. It was simply inconceivable to him that she was in surgery right here, right now undergoing the emergency triple bypass that Henry thought for certain he had dodged.

He couldn’t help wondering if this was some cruel punishment from God though he thought he had given up on the foolishness of His existence years ago. No God Henry could believe in would take away a daughter as murderously as his own had been taken. Hannah was always the one, the believer, the healer, wanting to make sense out of madness. She was Henry’s lifeline, his common sense, his sanity. He couldn’t bear to lose her. And then to find out that he almost lost his grandson on the very same day. If God did exist He was, indeed, cruel and vindictive.

Henry looked for the boy, again, checking the waiting room and glancing around the corner. Earlier Dixon had come to the hospital when summoned, physically distraught about his grandmother, his eyes red-rimmed, his fingernails bitten to the quick. When he said he had just come from the mall Henry thought his own heart had stopped, realizing what could have happened had he not called the boy.

While the first reports came in about a possible terrorist attack at the mall, the boy remained quiet. The two of them watched the wall-mounted TV while sitting silently side by side in the surgery waiting room. No one else was there, except for a few staff members wandering in and out. No surgeries were planned the day after Thanksgiving other than emergency ones. It took several reports before Dixon—in between gnawing at his poor thumbnail—confessed and explained about his friends and how they had convinced Dixon to help them. The whole time Henry felt the blood drain from his face.

“We were told we were carrying electronic jamming devices,” Dixon told him, his eyes darting around, teeth nipping at another fingernail. “I think it might have been something else.”

“That’s impossible,” Henry said but he knew it to be quite the opposite. “I told you to stay away from those two.”

“We’ve been friends since third grade.”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re trouble.”

“I’ve got to find out if they’re okay,” Dixon told him.

“Can I borrow your phone?”

The boy was so distraught Henry handed over his smartphone without hesitating. It was better he make his own calls from the hospital’s public phones. They were less likely to be traced. He certainly didn’t want the calls immortalized on his monthly statement.

He dialed the second number, this one from memory instead of a crumpled piece of paper, his fingers still shaking from the first call.

“Hello?”

“Allan, it’s Henry. We need to have a meeting.”

“For what reason?”

“We need to reconsider.”

“Reconsider?”

“Yes. We need to stop this.”

Henry expected anger. He was prepared for it. He wasn’t prepared, however, for laughter.

He held the phone away from his ear and closed his eyes tight against the sudden pain of his clenched jaw muscles, an involuntary reaction from his early days as a boxer preparing for an upper left. This was worse than any punch. When the laughter silenced he brought the phone back to his ear.

“There’s no stopping this now. Go home, Henry. Get some sleep.”

A dial tone erupted in Henry’s ear before he could respond.

I
t was twilight by the time their motorcade of black SUVs idled at the first set of police barricades surrounding the mall. Maggie couldn’t help but notice that the short ride from the airport yielded a breathtakingly beautiful sunset, the sky clear now except for the pink-purple streaks. The only evidence of a recent storm was the glittering snow that blanketed everything in sight. That and the cold, a bitter cold that you could see in breaths that streamed from brief greetings while getting in and out of vehicles.

“Looks like even the national vultures have already arrived,” A.D. Kunze said as they passed by a lopsided line of vans and trucks with TV call letters on their sides and satellite receivers on their roofs. A helicopter flew overhead.

“It’s all part of the process,” Senator Foster told them, looking out at the reporters and cameramen assembling equipment as close to the action as possible.

Maggie noticed the senator straighten his tie in the reflection of the SUV’s window. At first she thought she was mistaken. Perhaps it was an absentminded habit. But then he brushed a hand over his silver hair. She glanced at Deputy Director Wurth, expecting to exchange an eye roll and instead found him doing the same.

“This isn’t gonna be pretty,” Kunze warned. “I was on the site at Oklahoma City. I’m telling you, nothing smells worse than charred flesh.” He pulled out of his pocket a small container of Vicks VapoRub, unscrewed the lid and offered it to the others.

Maggie declined. She had actually smelled charred flesh before.

“I didn’t think anything could smell worse than bloated flesh,” Wurth said, but dipped his finger in the proffered container and smeared a dab over his lip.

And she’d smelled bloated flesh, too. Maggie remembered without much prompting. She knew Wurth’s experience had been with hurricane victims. Her own was from floaters, victims whose killers chose a watery grave hoping to dehumanize and impersonalize them even more.

Senator Foster hesitated at Kunze’s offer, watching as the interim director rubbed a generous fingertipful over his own lip and even up into his nostrils.

“I certainly don’t want to get in the way of people trying to do their jobs,” Senator Foster finally said. “I’m here to show my support.”

Kunze and Wurth nodded. Maggie refrained and kept herself from saying, “Sure, why not take advantage of some free reelection publicity without dealing with the gruesome reality.” She watched A.D. Kunze and as they all got out of the SUV and made their way to the entrance she couldn’t help wondering if that’s exactly why Kunze was here. A high-profile case could turn his interim title into a permanent one. But why drag her along?

It was time to find out.

“I’ll need someone from security to show me where I can view the tapes,” she told Kunze as she trudged through the snow alongside him.

Maggie was grateful she remembered the slipover boots. Kunze jerked twice trying to keep his balance. It was good timing on her part. He didn’t question or challenge her, instead he simply said, “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

As soon as they got inside Kunze grabbed Wurth by the elbow, already taking control.

“We need access to those security tapes, Charlie.”

“Not a problem.” But Wurth’s eyes were already upward along with his attention. Maggie realized the man couldn’t wait to get to the third floor.

Kunze noticed the distraction, too. “The sooner we connect the bombers the sooner we can get some warrants.”

“Of course,” Wurth said, tugging off his gloves and stuffing them into his pocket with one hand while the other hand started punching numbers into his cell phone. “I’ll get someone down here.”

“And Charlie, I sure hope to hell your local guys thought to secure those videos,” Kunze said.

“Not to worry. Of course they took care of everything. Just hang on, okay?”

“I’m just saying I better not see videos of those backpacks on the local news.”

“We’ve got it taken care of, Ray.”

Maggie stayed back. She’d been a part of these multi-jurisdictional cases before. She knew all the collegial talk from the flight here was over. It was time to let the pissing contest begin.

N
ick allowed Yarden to cue up the video for him. He had already tagged several segments from cameras on the third floor, particular instances that had drawn attention before the bombs went off.

“We were watching them,” the little man told Nick, as his long fingers flew around the computer keyboard, poking with incredible ease and efficiency. “Shoplifters often use backpacks. And they’ll work in teams. That’s what we thought was going on.”

Yarden sat back and let the first video play. He folded his arms over his chest, shooting glances at Nick, as if anxious for his reaction. Nick leaned forward. The film was grainy, black and white but the angle was decent. The backpacks looked ordinary. Not trendy. Big and bulky and, from the shift in this young man’s walk, heavy.

Yarden keyed up another video on a second monitor, but left the first playing.

The second young man was shaggy-headed, a bit shorter and thin. The backpack was identical.

At first glance it bothered Nick that these guys looked like older versions of his nephew, Timmy and his friend, Gibson. Clean-cut young men, ordinary with confident strides. There were no slumped shoulders. No shifty eyes or heads darting from side to side. They didn’t look at all like nerds or social misfits. Nothing like perhaps Klebold or Harris who had been responsible for the Columbine school shootings.

What was even more disturbing to Nick was that they didn’t look anything like he expected a suicide bomber to look. Did he expect brown-skinned Arabs? Yeah, he did. And he knew he wasn’t alone. Someone suggests suicide bomber and the mind readily conjures up that racial profile.

“They aren’t exactly what you’d expect, are they?” Yarden asked as if he could hear Nick’s thoughts.

“No. Not exactly.” He avoided glancing at Yarden, wanting to at least appear objective. He suspected the security officer was looking for Nick’s approval, hoping to bond, confidants taking sides in what could turn into a finger-pointing showdown. “Do you have any decent front facial shots?”

“All of us have been upstairs helping.” Yarden suddenly sounded offended. “I only had a few minutes with these before I left to pick you up.”

“Sure. I understand.”

“I thought that was supposed to be your job.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right.” Nick could play the diplomat if needed.

“I found a flash. And one of the explosions.” Yarden started stabbing at the computer keys again, ready to please and make up for not having what was requested. He fast-for-warded a video clip, shoppers in full-speed animation. Then he stopped and freeze-framed, taking a few more seconds and zooming in before he started the video again.

Nick watched, amazed that even without sound the wall of bricks exploding in front of him made him wince.

“Where is this camera?”

“All of these are third floor. This one is around the corner from the food court.”

“Play it again,” Nick asked. “Only this time in slow-mode. And zoom out.”

“Zoom out?”

“Yes.” He didn’t even glance at Yarden to acknowledge his skepticism. Instead, Nick leaned forward and waited.

The shot took in the entire stretch of the long hallway, brick walls on both sides. One side had interruptions of doorways. The other was solid. Signs hung above the doorways and in several other locations. Nick watched the wall explode again. It was the side with the interruptions.

“What’s on the other side of that brick wall?”

“There’s not much down this hallway. Some offices. Restrooms.”

“Play it again,” he asked.

This time just before the wall exploded, Nick pointed at the monitor. “Stop.”

Yarden responded quickly.

“Zoom in on this sign.”

Yarden obeyed immediately, no hesitation. The sign read WOMEN.

“Is the men’s restroom next door?” Nick asked.

Yarden quickly consulted a map of the third floor that was spread out across a bulletin board.

“The men’s restroom is clear down at the end of this hall and,” Yarden said, his voice higher than normal, “on the opposite side.”

“So this explosion came from—”

“The women’s restroom.”