Cloudburst (5 page)

There was no further discussion on the decision. It was a wise choice. Nathan Hale Harmon had been a constant player in government since the early fifties when he began his long career as a public servant with the State Department. He could have opted to continue as a paid appointee, but allowed himself to be chosen instead for office by his home state of Louisiana. The president expected him to accept and felt that he would be the proper representative at the services in Britain. The others concurred.

With the meeting over, the president rose, as did the others in the accepted show of respect, and exited through the heavy oak-covered steel door. His augmented security detail met him and escorted him and the COS to the Oval Office.

The other participants gathered their things and filtered out, Director Jones leading off to his waiting car. He seemed to be in the most hurry. Granger and Meyerson quietly exchanged critiques of their new boss. There was nothing improper about that, Bud thought. He was doing the same thing silently.

Herb Landau strained against the armrests to push himself up. The doctors had said it would be a matter of months. Spinal cancer was a hideous thing and unfortunately not as painless as some forms of the disease. He walked over to the acting NSA in steps that he forced to appear normal.

“It may not be appropriate,” the DCI began, “but Congrats, Bud.”

He took the director’s hand. The old man still had a hearty grip and shake, which Bud especially felt in his right side. “Thank you, sir, but it’s not official.” The grimace was obvious.

“It will be. Like it or not, he’s going to ask you to be his national security adviser.” The director’s expression changed. “Bad, son?” Landau was genuinely concerned.

“Three broken ribs. Landed on my briefcase.” Bud tapped his Anvil, which he had lifted to the tabletop.

The director, who stood a head shorter than the NSA, brought a closed fist to his own stomach with a
thump
.

“I broke every rib and both legs on the Lexington back in the big one. It hurt like a son of a bitch for a year, every time I breathed. They can’t tell you how to stop breathing, can they?”

Bud smiled. “No, sir. The tape doesn’t help much either. Just seems to squeeze tighter every time I take a deep one.

“Stick it out, Bud.” The DCI almost made a comment about making sure the wife took care of him, then remembered that the man’s wife had died a few years back. Heart attack, or something. “Listen, son, could you come by my office later today? Say one o’clock?”

“Urgent?”

Landau didn’t want to telegraph the genuine concern he felt. “I’m not quite sure, but I’d feel better if you would look something over for me.”

Bud mentally checked his schedule. He could push back the meeting with the German ambassador a couple of hours or so. “Sure. One’s fine. Is this quiet?”

“I’d appreciate it.” The DCI pulled out his small pocket calendar and made a note to himself. “I’ll have a bird here for you at about half past twelve.”

“Fine.”

A parting handshake, gentler than the first, and the DCI was slowly on his way. As he walked away his gait appeared somewhat shuffling. His own detachment of plainclothes Agency security was waiting in an anteroom near the elevator upstairs. They formed up and escorted their chief to his helicopter.

Bud finished stowing his papers in the case. The lid closed with a sharp slap. Lifting his eyes he saw that he was alone in the room. He hurried out, passing the guard outside without a look.

Los Angeles

There were twelve round tables arranged in one corner of the banquet room. Each had at least one phone, one had four, and duct-taped wires snaked along the floor to a temporary junction box just inside the only open door. Contrary to the fire regulations the other four doors that led out of the room were secured, chains and padlocks around their panic bars. But then the hotel was empty, much to the displeasure of its manager.

The makeshift office was temporary home to the FBI’s investigative team, which exceeded two hundred agents, though most were in the field following the scant few leads there were or just arriving in the city. Offices from as far away as New York were sending agents to augment the resources on hand, and that was fine with Art Jefferson. He knew he would need a lot of manpower to sort this one out.

Other government agencies were working with the Bureau, each having a senior representative who reported to Art. Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, the government apparatus whose name, when compared to others, most accurately conveyed the scope of its mission, had agents sifting through the debris-strewn street below the 818 and inside the damaged areas of the building. ATF’s work had paid off so far with an identification of the types of weapons used. Now they were trying to find evidence that would aid in identifying the source of the weapons, and, working with the Bureau’s explosive experts, trying to determine the maker of the explosives used in the blast.

Art read over a brief summary of findings prepared by his second, Special Agent Eddie Toronassi, affectionately known as Joker by those fortunate enough to have avoided being a victim of his near legendary practical jokes. Art called him Eddie.

“The shooters weren’t born on the fifth floor,” Art said, sipping from his convenience store cup of coffee. The Hilton’s kitchen was closed. “They came from somewhere.” He looked up. “Where?”

“You got me, boss.” The third-generation Italian-American agent had spent an hour putting the report together. He wanted answers as much as Art. “You know what: These guys were stupid. They did things all wrong.”

Art coughed up a swallow of coffee. “You might find some different opinions on that one.”

“Sure.” Eddie’s eyes, crystal blue like cheap marbles, lit up. “They killed a whole slew of people—”

“
A whole slew of people
?” Art responded, flipping to the last page of the report: the casualty list. “The president, his national security adviser, the British foreign secretary,
fifteen
Secret Service agents, six local cops, six government aides—four American and two British—and two bystanders. Twenty-two injured. Shit, Ed. I’d call that a fucking accomplishment.”

“Yeah, but they were sloppy in some ways, and smart in others. Kinda cocky, yet paranoid.” Eddie’s face expressed mild bewilderment.

“What do you mean?” Art leaned back in the swivel chair he had borrowed from the front desk.

‘Take the rifle we found—the parts, anyway. The stamp markings were bored out. I talked to one of the ATF techs, and he said that it must’ve been taken apart and sanitized. And from what he said it’s not easy. It’s not the same as filing down some serial numbers like they did on the receiver. That’s solid steel, so a file does the trick. All that’s there is a shallow gouge. The numbers that are stamped on are a whole different story. When they make the guns there’s a lot of sheet metal used. He says it’s easier to manufacture and—”

“I’m up on how they’re made, Ed.”

“Okay.” Eddie had a tendency to get excited when detail work was needed. It was his forte, and a small embarrassment at times. He continued, “So the stamp in the sheet metal is another identifier. When you file it down you end up with a hole. You’ve gotta practically cut out the stamped part and weld on a patch flush with the rest of the metal. To me that sounds like someone who wants to cover his trail.”

Art continued to listen attentively as Eddie reached across the table and took the bag which forensics had delivered earlier. “Then they’re stupid. Kinda like they don’t care if it helps us ID ‘em. I’m not talking about flaunting anything. Just carelessness … no, indifference. It just didn’t matter.” Eddie shook the contents of the clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was a blackened, melted lump of plastic whose previous form had been narrowed down to some type of credit card, though any further specifications were impossible to obtain. “And that…” He motioned to another of the Ziplock bags. A single wallet-size picture shielded by the body was the only contents, showing a young man and an even younger female child, each dark-haired with obvious Mediterranean features. “I mean, we don’t know who the people in the picture are, but it’s a clue. If I was gonna do this, I’d wanna ditch this stuff before I did any shooting.”

“Ed, these guys were suicidal. They didn’t have to hide their identity.”

“Then why clean the weapons? Huh? Why the trouble?”

Art thought for a moment. “Apparently the shooters didn’t give a damn if they were fingered, but they wanted the trail to stop with them.”

Eddie nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking.” He tossed the evidence bag containing the plastic lump on the table. The other one he held up. “You’ve seen the picture?”

“Yeah.” Art took the bag and studied the faces through the plastic. “But I’m trying not to jump to any conclusions.”

“You think it, too.”

“What? That the shooters might have been Arabs? Just because of this.” He slid the bag across the table. “Come on.”

Eddie sniffed a laugh and pulled out a handkerchief.
Damn cold!
“How’s your jaw?”

The stitches were hard to the touch. “I guess I’m going to have a macho scar.”

“You were lucky.”

Art remembered having been ready to dash across to the 818 just before it blew. “More than you think, Ed.”

Another agent brought in a box of coffees. Eddie took one and slid a chair around. “We’re gonna run dry here in not too long. What’s next?”

“Like always. Who? Who were the shooters and where were they from? How? They got inside the security zone; that is not supposed to happen. How did they do it, and what help did they get?”

“Another ‘Who?’ “ Eddie said.

“Correct. And why? Suicide is something you think about. What pushed them to do this?” The inevitable assumption of some kind of fanatical terrorist bent on death, or glory, or whatever they called it, flashed in Art’s mind.
Remember Beirut
. Those people were crazy. And the picture. He couldn’t let a snapshot of two Middle Eastern-looking kids influence him right now. It could help, though.

Art exhaled heavily through his nose. “We have to start with ‘Who?’ The other stuff is going to all come from that.”

“So we’ve got two guys, almost surely male.” Eddie pulled the flimsy lid off the cup. He never could stand drinking through those flip-up openings. “We have nothing on a physical makeup yet.”

“Who has the bodies?”

“You mean the pieces,” Eddie corrected. “The county coroner. Stan is with him. You know he told me the only way they could tell right away that there were two bodies was the arm count. They found parts of three.” He laughed. “Maybe it was one guy and he was a Medusa or something.”

“You’re sick, Toronassi.”

The conversation was interrupted by another agent. “Sir, they want you outside.”

A minute later Art and Eddie were standing at the base of what had been the original rubble pile, which was now divided into several smaller mounds of debris as the sifting progressed. They looked up at the gaping hole in the front of the 818. Floodlights, still providing illumination in the early-morning din, outlined the damage. A full four floors were literally gone, blown out both front and back of the tall structure. Art wondered what times out here were like when the 818 was really a tall building. Now it was dwarfed in the shadows of its steel-and-glass successors to the east, and barely rose above some of the buildings along the Wilshire corridor to the west.

“Best guess so far is fifteen pounds of C-4,” Eddie said, referring to a military-use explosive. “Hellish.”

Art didn’t respond. He just turned away, amazed that anything had survived as evidence.

“Sir,” an overall-clad agent said.

“Jefferson.” Art extended his hand, not recognizing the agent.

“Agent Mike Stafford” came the reply, very formal and businesslike. “San Diego forensics.”

“Right. You work with Dan La Verne.”

“That’s right.”

“He’s a good guy. Has he still got that enormous dog?”

“Irish wolfhound, sir. He calls him Sir Galahad. I met the mutt at a barbecue he threw out at his ranch near Fallbrook.”

“What do ya know. Small world. What have you got for us?”

“This.” He reached into his breast pocket.

Eddie smiled. “Bingo!”

Art took the bag, smaller than the evidence holders. It held a single key, which appeared to be untouched by the blast. “Where did it come from?”

“Embedded in a piece of buttock we found a little while ago,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Over there. The location makes me think it was one of the bad guys. We found some other parts there earlier. This was deeper.”

“In his ass. Can you beat that.” Art held it up to the light cast by the floods. “Awfully clean.”

Stafford shrugged. “It was probably in his back pocket. We were able to pull some fibers out with it. Those might help us, but that…not with body oils and the like. We couldn’t pull a print, or even a partial off of it in a million years. I thought you guys might be able to use it.”

They could. Art turned to his second. “There’s no marking on it.”

“We could tell what model from the book,” Eddie said. “Hell, there’s probably a locksmith around here who could tell us quicker than that.”

“In a while. We can move on it now. This means they drove here.”

That was almost a surety, Eddie thought. “I’d bet on it. And if they drove here …”

“Right.”

Minutes later they had twenty agents redirected to several locations within walking distance of the 818.

London

The young Irishman set the one Samsonite down on his right and knocked four times as he had been instructed.
They said four, didn’t they?
After pausing thirty seconds he knocked again, three times. There was no answer, which meant he could proceed. He inserted the key and opened the door to the modest second-floor flat. The front room was furnished comfortably, he noticed, but he did not linger to enjoy the decor. An easy kick closed the door behind him. The hall ahead led to the bedroom, or so it should if his instructions were correct.