Endangered Species (24 page)

Mallory pulled a manila folder from a drawer and opened it. “I understand that plans call for the plant to stay in operation until 2015, and in fact, DOE wants to expand its current operations.”

Stribling peered over Mallory’s arm at the papers. “Expand isn’t quite the word. The plans that I’ve been told of are for a Plutonium Recovery Modification Project that would provide a safer place to reprocess plutonium than we have right now. When the plant’s finally decommissioned, the PRMP will be able to eat the contaminated buildings as well.”

“But some critics don’t believe the plant will close, is that right?”

The security officer answered. “People can and will believe any damn thing they want to, Agent Mallory. I don’t know what you’ve got there, but all we can tell you is what we’ve been told: Rocky Flats is closing down as a trigger-manufacturing facility. And also there are plans to consolidate the nation’s nuclear weapons production facilities on one campus, possibly in South Carolina, by 2015.”

“But in the meantime, plutonium storage and possible processing will continue at the plant?”

“It has to. There’s no place else.”

And, Wager knew, political decisions, even if they could be trusted, could also be reversed. “I read somewhere there’s plutonium in the duct systems, and that’s why the plant closed down the first time.”

“Almost closed. But it’s for a variety of reasons, including the duct system. I’ve mentioned some of them already: the waste disposal problem, safety modifications.” Stribling shrugged. “But we have cleaned ten ducts in three buildings. The debris is less than a pound, and it’s being stored in a protective glove box until we can reclaim the plutonium.”

“Buildings 707 and 371 are two of those buildings?”

“Building 371 is.” The man was getting tired of defending the facility. “And I know for a fact that EG and G have made quantum leaps in improving the overall safety at the plant. I wouldn’t still be working there if they hadn’t.”

“We appreciate that, Mr. Stribling.” Mallory’s lips rose and fell in a tired smile. “We’re just trying to view the facility as someone might who wanted to attack it.”

The lieutenant cleared his throat. “That’s done at least once a month, Agent Mallory. We have constant maneuvers against our defenses by aggressors made up of other members of the DOE security forces. It’s part of our routine training now.”

“What about someone driving in with the work force during the morning rush?”

“We have contingency plans for that, Detective Wager. As well as for terrorist activities—during the Gulf War, for example, we furloughed everyone except a carefully screened skeleton crew and made corresponding increases in our patrol routines.”

Mallory nodded at Walters and started to say something else, but the rattle of the telephone cut him off. He answered with his name and listened, eyes finally settling on Wager’s. Then he said, “Right. I’ll get on it,” and rose to shake hands with the two men and steer them to the hallway door, which was behind Wager. “Thank you for your assistance—you’ve been a great help.”

The men could take a hint, but Walters paused in the doorway and nodded at the diagrams and photographs. “You’ll inform us immediately if you have evidence of any substantial threat?”

“All we have right now are these diagrams and what I told you on the telephone. I just wish we did have more specific information to give you.” Mallory shook his head. “But please don’t take this warning lightly.”

“Well”—the lieutenant smiled coldly—“we’re ready for that or anything else. We follow the Marine Corps motto: ‘Be prepared!’ Good day, gentlemen.”

When the door closed, Mallory joined Wager in staring at the photograph with its band of red marker pencil circling one of the larger buildings. Now Wager could see the similarity between the diagrams and the aerial view of the structure. He looked again at the twin perimeter fences that enclosed the six hundred or so acres of the plant and at the pale streaks of patrol roads that followed the fencing. A thousand yards of treeless, empty prairie surrounded the plant, and Wager guessed that personnel sensors crisscrossed that space. The two roads leading into the plant had to pass reinforced and gated checkpoints, and the railroad spur, too, was blocked by a guard post. “I don’t see how he could do it,” Wager said.

Mallory agreed. “Pipkin said King was talking explosives. It would take a hundred pounds or more to damage the building. There’s no way he could get that much onto the site without being discovered.”

“What about flying it in?” asked Wager. “What if he drops a bomb on the place?”

The agent bent closer to the photograph, as if it could tell him something. “They’ve got air defense. They must have air defense—ground-to-air missiles. And you’re talking heavy ordnance, Wager—smart bombs and combat aircraft big enough to carry and launch them.” He shook his head. “Stribling said the vaults are four stories underground. They’d need at least a thousand-pound bomb to penetrate that far.” He shook his head again. “I don’t see it—King must plan on sneaking the explosive into the facility, possibly with help from an inside agent, probably in small lots to be assembled when they’re ready to go.” A deep breath. “And maybe it’s already there somewhere.”

“If this is the target,” Wager reminded him.

“If,” echoed Mallory. “I’ll sleep a hell of a lot better when we have King in custody. By the way, that call was from the investigation team up at Simon’s cabin. They found the impression of a telephone number on a newspaper in the trash. It belongs to a pay telephone near Pecos and Thirty-eighth. Do you know the area?”

“Yeah. Northwest side. Not far from where we found Pauline Tillotson.”

“What day was that?”

“The twenty-first—the fire call came in around three
A.M.
on the twenty-first.”

“The newspaper was dated the twentieth. The later ones were still in the newspaper box at the highway.”

Which could mean that Simon and King talked sometime before Tillotson was killed, and that whatever was said made Simon leave the cabin, possibly for King’s safe-house, and he hadn’t been back since. And, as Wager’s mother used to say, “A scared dog will bite anything to hide its fear.”

9/25

1637

W
AGER MIGHT WORRY
about the Rocky Flats atomic weapons plant, but it wasn’t his to protect. It was the sphere of DOE and the FBI, and there wasn’t much a Denver homicide cop could contribute to the security of the nation. His job was to investigate a murder, and the latest lead he had, courtesy of Special Agent Mallory, was an FBI dossier and photograph of one Richard Simon. The photographs were surveillance shots, but Wager could make out enough of the man’s features in the grainy black and white to stir something in his memory. He flipped back through the pages of his little green notebook. The interview with the owner of the newsstand: the man who had been with King the last time the man bought a paper there—the one who had made the comment about the Rocky Mountain Arsenal. Wager read over the words and then looked at the photographs. They matched: a tall, young-looking man who, as in one of the photos, wore aviator-type sunglasses.

Wager brought Chief Doyle up to date and watched the Bulldog’s eyes widen as he heard about the Rocky Flats plant.

“Does Mallory think this is a serious threat, Wager?”

“We both do. But we don’t see any way the man can get that much explosive through the security around the plant.”

“And you think both of these people—King and Simon—are still in the area?”

Wager nodded and added the detail about the calendar and the date circled on it—tomorrow’s.

“Well, let’s have the patrol division canvass the goddamn area—knock on every door, look in every garage.”

“You really want to do that, Chief?”

Doyle, hand hovering over the telephone, asked, “Why not?”

“For one thing, we made a promise to Mallory about keeping this confidential. For another, we might start a panic.” Wager shook his head. “Most important, Chief, we might scare off King or push him into making his attempt sooner.”

Doyle rubbed a thick forefinger across his jutting chin. “The man must know we’re after him as a murder suspect.”

“But he doesn’t know we think he’s still in the area. And he doesn’t know we’ve linked him to Rocky Flats.”

The man stared at the smoking tip of his cigar. “Well, Rocky Flats is certainly outside our jurisdiction. Still, I damn well better alert some people about this. I don’t know what can be done—or if anything should be done yet—but some people upstairs better hear about what we’re facing.”

Wager again reminded Doyle that they’d promised Mallory to say nothing.

“Yeah, Wager. I hear you. But if by some mischance something does happen out there, I’m sure as hell not going to be the only one who knew about it ahead of time.” He added, “I’ll inform them the information’s confidential, but my ass is going to be covered.” The lower teeth jutted forward in that bulldog smile that had given Doyle his nickname. “And so will yours.”

He was punching the department chief’s number when Wager left.

“Gabe!” Max looked as if he had been waiting for some time. “Arnie Trujillo called. He says he might have something, but he wants to talk to you about it.”

“When?”

“He wants to know if we can meet him after work. He should get off at five.”

Wager glanced at the clock. “He say where?”

“Yeah. A little hole-in-the-wall bar over in Swansea—Manny’s Place. Leave in about ten minutes?”

He nodded and settled at his desk to spread out the latest collection of notices and messages. Near the top of the pile was a call logged at 1215—“Henry Stover,” followed by a number; Wager ignored it. Farther down, another pink message form said “Alex Saunders,” with a return number whose area code was Oregon. Wager quickly dialed it, and a receptionist answered with a string of names like those of a law office or a brokerage. When Wager asked for Saunders, she wanted to know who she could say was calling.

Saunders was expecting him. “Yes—my wife told me you tried to reach me. I’m shocked. … Pauline and I, we were good friends. We dated in college.”

“Can you tell me anything at all about her relationship with Libeus King?”

“She met him after college. We broke up … well, ‘broke up’ is a bit heavy. Pauline and I decided we wanted to date other people—it was a friendly decision. Then I met my wife-to-be and Pauline started going with someone else. But we kept in touch. She met Libeus after graduation, I remember that, but exactly when I can’t say.”

“Did she tell you she was in Denver?”

“No. I last heard she was in Arizona with King, and then I heard about this terrible thing.” He added, “I called her parents this morning. They didn’t know much except that she was murdered.”

“Yes. A homicide victim.”

“Who did it? How’d it happen?”

“I hope Libeus King can answer some of those questions.”

“You think he did it? King?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Saunders. Did she ever mention anyplace in Denver where King liked to stay?”

“In Denver? No. They had a place in the mountains near Flagstaff.” He gave Wager the mailing address. “I wrote them there.”

“What about Charles Pipkin or Richard Simon? Did she ever mention them?”

“Simon? Sure—he was teaching her and Libby how to fly. That was a couple of years ago, though.”

“Do you know where he might be?”

“I think he lives in Colorado. I think he said near Boulder.” He added helpfully, “That’s close to Denver. Libby might be staying with him!”

“Do you know of any address or telephone number in Denver that Simon might have?”

“… No.”

“Do you know of any friends he might have in Denver? Anyone he might go to visit?”

“I’m afraid not. I only met him that once, when the three of them flew up here one weekend. I don’t correspond with him. And Pauline never said anything about him when she wrote.” He added, “As a matter of fact, I didn’t like the guy all that much.”

“Why’s that?”

“He couldn’t talk about anything except ecology stuff. I mean, it’s important, sure, but this guy never had anything else on his mind!”

“Did he ever discuss any attempts at sabotage?”

“All the time. Monkey-wrenching, he called it. Or ecotage. Putting spikes in trees, sand in the gas tanks of earthmovers—that kind of thing. Absolutely no sense of humor about it at all! I remember asking Pauline how she got tied up with a nut like Simon.”

“What’d she say?”

“Well, she didn’t answer directly, I remember. Just said that Simon was a bore but Libeus said he was useful.”

“Did Simon mention any project he was working on or thinking about?”

“No. Not that I recall. But I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he’d done something. He was that way, you know? A little bit nuts on the subject. Angry and self-righteous. Said that people who didn’t do anything were as guilty as those who raped the environment.”

The man’s tone said that Simon had placed Saunders under that guilty label too. “We’re very interested in finding both of them, Mr. Saunders. If you remember anything at all that might help us, please call collect.”

Max loomed at his elbow, and Wager held up a finger for “one minute.” He looked up the number for the Flagstaff Police Department, identified himself, and asked to talk to one of their homicide detectives. Max sighed and settled on the corner of Wager’s desk, making the metal frame creak.

It usually worked better to ask favors of fellow detectives rather than uniformed cops; chances were greater that they’d need a favor in return someday, and in fact, Wager had worked with the Flagstaff plainclothes division before.

“You want to spell that name for me, Detective Wager?” The voice at the other end of the line repeated the letters as Wager spelled out Libeus. “We get some far-out names, but I never heard of that one before. OK, what’s the address again?” Wager told him, and the detective said he’d check it out himself and call as soon as possible. Wager thanked him and shoved back from his desk.

Max was already moving toward the door. “Rosener’s out of the ICU, I hear.”