Blaze of Glory (14 page)

Moyer removed his balaclava and tucked it into his back pocket. The others did the same. “Whatcha got, Shaq?”

“Three rooms, Boss.” He pointed to the back of the basement. “Believe it or not, there’s a small movie theater behind those double doors. We checked it and it’s clear.”

“That explains the popcorn smell,” Moyer said.

“What we have behind these doors”—Rich motioned to another large pair of open double doors—“is a type of workshop. Not nearly as entertaining as a movie theater, but it has a few interesting points.” Rich turned and walked into the room. Moyer and the others followed. “Okay to flip the lights, Boss?”

“Sure. Apparently we’re the only ones here to see it.”

Rich flipped a light switch and stepped to the side. Moyer glanced around the room. Long work tables, roughly built from two-by-fours and solid-core doors for the work surface, dominated the space. An aluminum rack to one side stood nearly empty, supporting only two long, dark robes.

Moyer moved deeper into the room and saw a metal drum that bore a label: PE-4. It looked to be about fifty gallons.

“Colt?”

“PE-4.” J. J. stepped to Moyer’s side. “Very much like our C-4. PE stands for plastic explosive. Think FORMEX. The designation tells us it’s British. The Italians call theirs T-4.”

“I know what it is, Colt. I’m asking if you’ve checked it out?”

“Oh, sorry. I have. The barrel is only a third full.”

“Judging by the container, it’s commercial grade.”

J. J. nodded. “Used on structures, road building, and the like. It’s still in powder form.”

Moyer watched the barrel as if he expected it to move. When mixed with water, the material became pliable and easy to stretch, perfect for creating bombs that fit around a body.

“Any idea how many bombs they could make with two-thirds of a barrel?”

“A lot.” J. J.’s jaw tensed. “More than I care to think about.”

It was more than Moyer wanted to consider, too. “Polo, get whatever numbers you can off the label and get your people on it. See if we can’t trace it back to the supplier.”

“What good will that do?”

“It will make me happy.”

Moyer’s tone chilled the room. “We missed them. We got here too late.” He took a moment to rein in his anger. “All right, let’s get busy. Shaq, take Junior and Doc and search the upstairs, and I mean
search
it. I want to know if there’s so much as a cockroach with a limp. J. J., you’re the demo guy, I want you to see if you can’t find something of use in this work room. Data and I will take the first floor. Polo, as soon as you get your people running down the info on the PE-4 supplier, you join us. Are we clear?”

Each man answered in the affirmative, but before Moyer dismissed them, Zinsser spoke up. “Boss, when I was using the spy cam to check the rooms before we entered, I saw a den with a computer. I’d like to check that out.”

“Do it.” Moyer glanced at the others. “All right, ladies, let’s get busy.”

“LOOKS LIKE YOU’VE WORKED a computer before?” Moyer stood two feet back of the seated Zinsser, watching him enter keystrokes so fast his fingers seemed to blur.

“Who hasn’t? It’s all part of the new Army, Boss. They don’t call me Data for nothing.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to milk info from this thing, but the hard drive has been wiped. Apparently our friends want to keep a few things secret.”

“An untrusting bunch. If the hard drive has been scrubbed, then why are you messing with it? Let Polo take it back to his people.”

“Time, Boss. I have an uneasy feeling that there is more going on than we know about.”

“How so?”

“I’m just guessing, right now, but there seems to be a pattern in the chaos. Think about the bombings we assume are related to El-Sayyed: a Baghdad hospital; a London shopping mall; a movie theater in Barcelona; an elementary school in the same town; and Paris.”

“Go on.”

“If you pardon the pun, Boss, they’re all over the map. Baghdad makes sense. Suicide bombings will continue there for decades.”

“I hope you’re wrong.”

“So do I, but I doubt it. London also makes sense. England has a huge and growing Islamic population. A small percentage of those are extremists. Maybe we can make the same argument for Barcelona and Paris, but it seems a stretch. Why so many suicide bombings? Why all female bombers? There has to be a motive.”

“Everyone agrees with that. That’s why we’re here.”

“Agreed, Boss, but we missed them. If we know their motive, then we might be able to stop them before they finish their task.”

“And you’re going to get that off the hard drive?”

“Doubtful, but I think it’s worth a try. The only way to completely clean a hard drive is to give it an acid bath or pound it to powder. I want to try something first, Boss . . . with your permission of course.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“It will take a few minutes, but I think I can get this baby to go online. If so, I’ll download a recovery program and see if I can’t rebuild something useful. FBI does it all the time.”

“Boss?”

Moyer watched Shaq enter the room. “I found this in one of the bedrooms. It was under the mattress.”

“You found toilet paper under the mattress?”

“You said to search the place. You say
search
and I search. It’s why I’m your favorite.”

“Careful, you’ll make the others jealous.” Moyer took the folded tissue.

“Go easy with it, Boss. There’s something inside. Several somethings.”

Moyer unfolded the thin, white paper. He could feel small, hard objects inside. “This isn’t going to make me gag, is it? Why did you fold it all up again?”

“I wanted you to experience the full effect.

Moyer peeled back the last layer and stared at the contents. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Yeah,” Shaq said, “I had the same response.”

“Fingernails? Why would anyone hide fingernails under a mattress?”

“Look closer, Boss.”

Moyer pushed the fingernail ends to the side and saw a word written in pink: Mexico. There was also a number: 110877. Moyer keyed his radio. “Polo. I need you in the den.” He released the key, then activated it again, “Sir.” Moyer was team leader and in complete charge of the mission, but he forced himself to remember that De Luca held officer status and they were in his country.

Thirty seconds later De Luca plowed into the room like a freighter. The man exuded industrial strength confidence. “Found something?”

“Shaq and his team found this.” He held out the opened package. “What do you make of it?”

“Fingernails? A woman’s fingernails.”

“We got that much,” Shaq said. “If El-Sayyed held women here, we might expect to find female fingernails.”

De Luca glanced at the big man. “They have nail polish on them.”

“Yeah, so . . . Oh.”

“Since when do Islamic women wear fingernail polish?” De Luca studied the fragments and toilet paper. “Mexico and a license plate number.”

“Of course,” Moyer said.

“It’s a commercial number; the kind used for trucks and buses.” He bent over Moyer’s outstretched hand. “Are you married, Boss?”

“I am.”

“Then you know what lip liner is,” De Luca said. “The person who did this had access to makeup.”

Shaq frowned. “Why would the black hats let the women keep makeup?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Moyer thought for a moment. “Shaq, the room you found this in, does it overlook the driveway?”

“It sure does, Boss.”

“So she could have seen any vehicles parked there?”

“Affirmative.”

Moyer nodded. “Polo, can you get a chopper in the air to search for a bus.”

“Yes. It’s still dark, but we have military craft that can see in the dark.”

“Make the call, then help Shaq check outside for any tracks that fit a large vehicle.”

“Will do,” Shaq said.

“Fingernails,” Moyer said to himself. “This has to be a first.” Then to Zinsser he said, “Hand me the satellite phone. It’s time to report in.”

“Don’t sound so down, Boss. You had no way of knowing this was a dry hole.”

“I’ll let you tell Colonel Mac that.”

“No thanks.”

CHAPTER 17

TESS, HER DINNER RUINED by imagined fears and believing sleep would be impossible, returned to her office. It was nearly 10:00, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to be home alone with her thoughts. She had just finished the last swallow of vanilla latte when the phone in her small office rang. The sound of the phone seemed out of place at this hour. “Tess Rand.”

“Dr. Rand”—the caller spoke in a heavy French accent—“this is Inspector Adnot D’Aubigne with ICPO. I expected an answering service.”

Tess did a mental search to unravel the initialisms. “ICPO—International Criminal Police Organization?” Tess had often thought how the designation made it sound like the organization was populated by criminal police.

“
Oui,
Dr. Rand—Interpol. I am sorry to bother you at this late hour.”

“No problem. It may be late here but it must be the wee hours there. You are in Europe aren’t you?”

“Oui. Paris. My work requires some odd hours. We understand that you are doing research on female suicide bombers.”

Tess had sent out a formal request to military and police organizations for information. “I am. I take it you have something for me.”

“Oui.” He paused. “Are you able to understand me, Dr. Rand? I am told by my American friends that my accent is a little . . . what is the word?”

“Thick?”

“Oui, thick.”

“I understand you just fine. Your English is much better than my French.”

“Thank you.” D’Aubigne paused then launched into the matter. “We have been working on the bombing that recently took place in Paris.”

“The one at the fashion show.”

“Precisely. As I’m certain you know, it is important that details of such investigations be kept secret, but we have something that may interest you, but I must ask that you keep this in the strictest confidence. Of course you can tell your superiors.”

“I understand the need for discretion.”

“Of course. We have been examining the body of the bomber. As you might guess, such an examination takes time and is quite difficult since very little identifiable biological material remains. We recovered several large bones and a good portion of the skull as well as a fair amount of skin tissue.”

The image turned Tess’s stomach. No matter how difficult her job seemed, it could never be as bad as the crime scene investigators who had to gather body parts and sort them.

“Are you still with me, Dr. Rand?”

“I am, Inspector. Just making a few notes.”
And trying to keep my dinner down.

“Of course, we sent DNA samples out for examination and possible identification. The bomber was a woman named Michele Tulle, Middle Eastern descent, twenty-four years old, and a well-known entity to French police.”

“Well-known entity?”

“She had a criminal record and was known to be a prostitute.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I am being serious, Dr. Rand.”

“I know you are, Inspector. Please go on.”

“Prostitution is not illegal here. Brothels and procuring is, but not the individual’s right to sell sexual favors.”

“Procuring?”

D’Aubigne hesitated. “Helping someone sell sexual acts . . . um, I believe you call it
pimping.
”

“I see.”

“Most of Michele Tulle’s skin was burned, but we did find some whole segments. They were heavily tattooed.”

“Let me get this right. The suicide bomber was a tattooed prostitute?”

“Yes, she also had been arrested several times, the last time just two weeks before she blew herself up.”

“This is unexpected.”

“You assumed she was radical Islamic?”

“Perhaps, or, at very least a practicing Islamic woman.” Tess leaned over the desk, resting her elbows on the surface as if the news had deprived her of breath.

“We made the same assumption. This does not fit the pattern we’ve come to expect.”

“Why would such a woman turn herself into a walking bomb?”

“My experience tells me anyone will do anything if properly coerced.”

“What would coerce a young woman to slip on an explosive vest and kill herself and everyone around her?”

“I only know of one thing with that kind of power, Dr. Rand.”

“What is that?”

“Love.”