Capitol Offense (31 page)

“I think they’re supplying materials to terrorists. Through the black market.”

“There’s a black market for this stuff?”

“Big-time. Has been steadily growing since the mid-nineties. The main problem is transportation. This junk can be deadly. You’ve got to have a protective carrier. Most people wear protective clothing, especially if they’re handling it. Even your major-league zealots don’t want to be around it. Who would?” He sighed. “But the black market still seems to flourish. Greed and zealotry can be a lethal combination.”

“In Oklahoma?”

“You might be surprised. It’s everywhere. Haven’t you read about the Chechen bombs? The spy assassinated with radioactive materials in London? Surely you remember that Jose Padilla, the al-Qaeda terrorist, was planning to detonate a dirty bomb in the United States. The first robbery from a radiotherapy clinic occurred in Brazil; the thieves got a capsule filled with cesium-137. It usually takes the form of a powder, or sometimes a piece of silvery metal about the size of a postage stamp. They keep it in stainless-steel tubes, but that doesn’t stop the radiation—only lead can do that. Those Brazilian thieves planned to sell it but got sick before they could. In the meantime, they managed to contaminate two hundred and fifty people and kill five.”

“Geez Louise.”

“Not too long ago there was another robbery on the East Coast. These little creeps made off with twenty-seven tubes. We know the stuff ended up on the black market. The authorities couldn’t stop it, but they shut down the facility. Terrorists started looking elsewhere. That brought them to Oklahoma.”

“When did you find out?”

“When we found the irradiated body in the woods just north of the Arkansas River.”

Loving winced. “Who was it?”

“That’s the thing—we don’t know. The body was too ravaged to be recognizable. Print and DNA checks didn’t produce results. After Dr. Barkley determined that it was radiation poisoning, I started investigating the hot lab at St. Benedict’s—the only source of radioactive materials in town. After talking to the head administrator, we began an inventory and I eventually learned that some of their cesium was missing.”

“How much?”

“A scary amount. Almost twenty tubes.”

Loving whistled.

“The security in there is a lot less than what you might find at a government stockpile or a nuclear power plant. Which is why those jerks upstairs have been able to get away with this.”

“There must be some precautions.”

“Only a few of the docs have access. You need a magnetic key card to get in and you’re supposed to sign out for anything you take. Not hard regulations to get around. Especially if you have an oncology doctor working for you.”

A light went off in Loving’s head. “Joslyn Thomas worked in oncology. Would she have had access to this stuff?”

“Probably.”

“You think she was in on this operation?”

“Either that or she found out about it.” Mike paused. “Maybe her accident wasn’t all that accidental.”

“Why did you come here tonight?”

“My investigation led me to the remaining oncologist, Dr. Gary Sentz.”

“The brother of Christopher Sentz.”

“Another disturbing bit of synchronicity,” Mike murmured. “I found out about his little rendezvous tonight because I, uh, managed to find a way to intercept his text messages.”

Loving grinned. “That was one busy signal tower.”

“What do you mean? You haven’t been doing anything illegal, have you?”

“Perish the thought.” He jabbed Mike in the side and pointed. “Look! Sentz!”

Loving pushed his night goggles back into place and started up the hill, careful to cling as closely to the ground as possible.

Dr. Sentz emerged from the back door. He was wearing some kind of outfit. A big baggy uniform with a helmet.

Loving looked more closely. It was a hazmat suit. Guess he couldn’t blame Sentz for being careful, given what Mike had told him.

“What’s that thing he’s pulling?” Loving whispered. It looked like a lawn fertilizer, but Loving suspected that wasn’t it.

“That’s the pig,” Mike whispered back. “It’s a transport vehicle. Basically a covered bucket on wheels. Made of lead, of course. Hospitals keep them around to transport cesium from one facility to another.”

“Or from a facility to a terrorist.”

“That too.”

They both crept closer. Loving could pick up some of what Sentz was saying.

“… map will get you to the exchange point in the desert. Everything has been arranged. They take charge of the stuff. All you have to do is be there.”

“Why aren’t you coming with us?” Shaw asked.

“Because I’ll be the first suspect when they notice radioactive materials are missing. I have to be inside making sure everyone remembers that I was here all night.”

“Shouldn’t we be wearing one of those suits?”

“Are you planning to open the canister?”

“No chance.”

“Then you’ll be okay. I had to handle it. You don’t.”

“How do I know these guys we take the hot stuff to won’t kill us?”

“You’ve been watching too much
24
. They don’t want to kill off their source. Who knows when they might want more? Now stop talking and open the back of the truck.”

Loving steeled himself. If they were going to do something, this was the time.

“What’s the plan?” he asked Mike. “Do we move in or follow the truck?”

“I don’t want to rely on following the truck in the dark.”

“I put a GPS tracker on the back bumper.”

Mike arched an eyebrow. “I can see now why Ben pays you so well.”

“I wish.”

“But I still think it’s too risky. I want to bring these thugs in now. Especially if they have something to do with two murders.”

“I’m ready when you are.”

“Uh-uh. There’s more of them than us. And I think there’s at least one more accomplice somewhere on the premises.”

“Don’t you carry a gun?”

“Yeah, and so do both of those men up in the driveway. I don’t want to start a shootout with radioactive cesium in the crossfire.”

“Good point.”

“I’m going to crawl back to my car and radio for reinforcements.”

“Better hurry.”

“I will. It won’t take long.” He grabbed Loving’s arm. “I know your rep, Loving. Do not go in there on your own. Understand? No matter what. Wait for me.”

“Whatever you say. You’re the professional. I’m just the talented amateur.”

Mike grimaced. “Back before you know it.”

Mike skittered down the hill and into the parking lot. Loving decided to move in for a closer look. He had no intention of doing anything stupid. But the more he saw and heard, the more useful he would be later when they were trying to drag out a confession. Or to extract information about the murders.

Lying flat on the ground, he crept forward, pulling himself along by his elbows. In less than a minute, he had made it back to the retaining wall. He was barely fifteen feet away from them.

Shaw and his accomplices finished loading the pig into the back of the truck. Loving saw now why only a small but secure truck was required. Their cargo didn’t occupy that much space. But it was far more valuable than most cargo that did.

“Careful going over any bumps,” Sentz said.

Shaw gave him a harsh look.

“That was a joke.”

Shaw wasn’t laughing. “This stuff is secure, right? No chance it’s gonna go off and blow us sky-high?”

“Of course not.” He smiled. “It wouldn’t blow you anywhere. It would burn you up from the inside out.”

“Like what happened to Parsons?”

“I had nothing to do with that. That was my boss. But still … I wouldn’t take any sharp turns.”

“You want to drive this rig yourself, jerkface?”

“No, I do not. Safe journey, gentlemen. Text me when you’ve achieved you goal. We’ll meet later to distribute the proceeds.”

Sentz started back inside the hospital.

Where was Mike? Loving turned around—

The fist careened out of the darkness and knocked him in the face so hard his head slammed back against the retaining wall. He barely had a chance to react before the second blow came, even harder than the first. A thunderous hammering sound split his skull even more than the blows.

He spread his wobbling arms, trying to push himself to his feet. A well-placed kick to the pit of his stomach stopped that short. He fell back onto the ground with a painful thud.

“Hey, Shaw!” an unfamiliar voice cried. “Look what I found!”

Loving heard footsteps running toward him. He tried to get his bearings, but the pain and the darkness made it impossible.

Someone grabbed him by the hair and jerked him upward. “Know this guy?”

Even though his vision was blurred, Loving could make out Shaw’s ugly mug right in front of his face. “I sure do.”

“He made us. You know what we have to do with him.”

Shaw took a deep breath. “We can’t do it here.”

“We can’t be late, either,” the accomplice said.

Shaw slammed the flat of his hand against Loving’s face, hard. “We didn’t need this complication, Loving.”

Several replies came to Loving’s mind, but he knew none of them would help his situation.

“We’ll take care of him somewhere else, after we drop off the goods.”

“That’ll be days.”

“You in a hurry?”

“No, but—it seems kind of dangerous. He could get loose or something.”

Shaw shook his head. “Give him some of that stuff. You know. Like you gave Thomas at the hotel.”

Loving’s ears pricked up. Did he hear that right? It was hard to hear anything over the ringing in his head.

Loving heard something liquid pouring from a bottle, followed by a strong acrid scent permeating the night air. He didn’t like this at all.

Shaw was back in his face. “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you, Loving? Had to butt into stuff that didn’t concern you. Turn against the cops and cuddle up to the cop killer.”

Loving knew any explanation would be futile. What he needed to do was make a break for it before it was too late. If he could just get free, he could run fast, all the way down the hill. Sure, they had guns, but it was dark. There was a chance he might make it. Better than his chances if he didn’t.

Before he could try anything, someone pressed a cloth over Loving’s nose and mouth. He knew he would soon be unconscious.

“Now put him in the back of the truck,” Shaw growled.

“You mean with the—the—”

“Yeah. What does it matter?” Even as consciousness faded, Loving felt himself being dragged over the pavement. “He’s gonna die anyway.”

Ben sat upright, gasping for air.

What was that about? He was lying in bed, dripping with sweat, heaving like he was in the throes of a major heart attack.

He glanced at the clock on the cable box. Not quite four in the morning. This would be another mostly sleepless night.

This time, the dream had been different. There was no falling, drowning, or burning. This time, instead of being the victim, he was the victimizer.

He was somewhere in medieval England, deep within the Tower of London. An execution was in progress. Hordes of commoners surrounded the scaffold, hurling insults and rotten vegetables. Armed guards slowly marched the prisoner out of his cell and up the steps to the top. The condemned man took his position, then the executioner shoved him down onto his knees, forcing his head over the chopping block. Just before he swung the axe, the executioner pulled the white hood off the condemned man’s head.

Not Ben. Dennis.

Ben was the executioner.

Didn’t take Sigmund Freud to figure that one out.

Trials always wreaked havoc on a lawyer’s normal sleeping patterns, but this one had been worse than most. Part of it was the uncertainty, the feeling that every day brought a new surprise. Part of it was the gnawing suspense, especially now as they waited for the jury to reach a verdict. But part of it was also undoubtedly that Ben couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing. It had consumed him the moment he first walked into the courtroom, and nothing had occurred since to change his mind.

Christina had told him this was an impossible case. He just hoped and prayed that this time she wasn’t right.

There was little chance he would fall back to sleep, and it might not be a good thing if he did, given that he had to be wide awake and getting ready at six. This part of the trial—waiting for the jury—was in many respects the worst. You still had to appear, even though the jury might not emerge from deliberations. There was nothing you could do to change what had gone before, nothing you could do to affect their decision. A lawyer could only toss about, worrying that he should have done something different, could have done it better, while biding time and waiting for the axe to fall. The insecure man’s nightmare.

He was all too aware that this time the axe could fall—on Dennis’s neck.

Since he wasn’t going back to sleep, he decided to get up. He stretched, cricked his back, and carefully eased off the bed. For once, he was not going to wake Christina. She had been working just as hard as he. She needed rest.

He passed silently out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. Ben had moved into this boardinghouse not long after he got out of law school and moved to Tulsa. Many years later, he inherited the place from the landlady, Mrs. Marmelstein. After they married, Christina had moved in with him, and now they lived here together when they weren’t in Washington. It was a little cramped, since Ben still had tenants downstairs, but she didn’t complain. They both agreed it would be foolish to buy or rent something else, especially when they were still maintaining an apartment in D.C. Ben had many happy memories of this place, where so much had happened. Moments of sweet glory. Moments of great loneliness.

He had spent six months here trying to raise his nephew on his own. He still missed Joey. Hadn’t seen him for years. Julia kept saying she was going to come for a visit, but it never seemed to happen.

Since coffee was off-limits, Ben fixed himself a piping hot cup of Earl Grey tea. It had plenty of caffeine, but what he really liked was the sensation of hot water cascading down his throat, restoring his strength. Helping him imagine he could function for another day despite extreme sleep deprivation.