Six Seconds (16 page)

38

Langley, Virginia

Some ten miles south of downtown Washington, D.C., in a secured Central Intelligence Agency conference room overlooking the Potomac Valley, experts from nearly twenty intelligence branches met to discuss papal and national security.

Special Agent Blake Walker was among the contin gent from the Secret Service.
Top of the agenda was a briefing by a high-ranking CIA officer who pointed to the man whose face stared at the group from the room’s large monitor.
“This is Issa al-Issa. Last week he was captured in Kuwait.”
Murmured reaction went round the table.
“As a result, what we’ve learned gives us reason to believe a major strike is planned during the pope’s visit to the U.S., and that the operation is well advanced.”
The agency had fragments of information indicating several key, but as yet unidentified, operatives linked to Issa’s network were in the United States. Those opera tives were said to be scientists or engineers in the fields

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of chemical, biological and atomic weaponry. These cells may be operating with other support cells who may provide access to money or resources.

“So what are we talking here?” asked a Homeland Security official. “Assassination by way of a nuke or dirty bomb?”

“Those are worst-case scenarios. The venues would provide an MCI and global exposure. The strike would be a grand slam in terms of symbolic meaning of a papal assassination on U.S. soil.”

A top military advisor to the Joint Chiefs of Staff pressed to know how the agency could ensure the veracity of the information.

“We’ve been down this road before,” the military advisor said. “Our understanding is that Issa was captured by mercenaries hired by a private international company contracted by the agency. The contractor was paid for its information in spite of a bad ending to Issa’s question ing under severe duress.”

The CIA officer studied his pen for a moment then said, “Unfortunately during his interview Issa passed away owing to a preexisting heart condition.”

“Look,” the military advisor said, “if Issa was tor tured in any way, it taints his information. He’d have told you any bull he thought you’d want to hear.”

A supervisor with the National Security Agency interjected.
“All that aside, the threat of a strike is consistent with some of the chatter we’ve intercepted that suggests something is underway.”
“Such as?”

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“A number of ships steaming to U.S. ports reportedly with hostile cargo.”
“That kind of intelligence is a matter of routine,” the military advisor said. “And from what we understand, most of those reports have already been investigated and cleared.” The military advisor put his next question to those around the table: “Has anyone been able to link the information
we think we have
from Issa and the chatter?”
“What about this case of four Americans killed in Canada?” the man with the National Security Agency asked. “An investigative reporter from Washington, D.C., who’d reported on national security. Anything to this case that we should be concerned with?”
Blake Walker shook his head and took the question.
“We’re working with the Canadian Security Intelli gence Service in Ottawa and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Alberta. At this point there’s no link. It appears to be an accidental wilderness case. They drowned in the mountains when their canoe capsized. It seems the RCMP has dispatched a member to Wash ington to follow up on Tarver’s background. I believe we’re covered.”
Walker’s colleague nodded for him to continue with other reports. Working with Egyptian and Italian secu rity agents the Secret Service had uncovered a plot by the KTK, a fanatical group out of Cairo, to kidnap the pope in the U.S. “The group had planned to televise their members holding a sword over the pontiff’s head while demanding the release of KTK members held in Israeli jails,” Walker said.
And working with German intelligence, the Secret

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Service and CIA had identified a small group of elite ex-mercenaries, veterans of brutal wars in Rwanda and Congo, who had been hired by an ideological group of disillusioned young aid workers. “They had conspired to kidnap the pope during his U.S. tour to draw world attention and aid to Africa. All conspirators had been arrested in Europe,” Walker said.

“It seems to me—” the military advisor looked at his watch “—that at this stage all we have are potential pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. And we’re not certain a puzzle exists. And looking at the files, we’ve got a growing number of threats that we’re still processing for analysis. We haven’t connected any dots here.”

No one challenged the advisor so he continued.

“We know the public grows threat weary, that we can’t always cry wolf.”
A few heads nodded.
“We’re seeing more church organizations who are concerned with security, urging the Vatican to shorten the visit. This is unprecedented.”
“Any word on the Vatican’s response?”
“We expect to hear soon.”
“Look, this presents all kinds of problems.” The State Department official launched into a discourse on Wash ington-Vatican relations and geopolitics.
The tension was growing. Blake was familiar with it; the time before a major event that robs agents of sleep, tightens stomachs and causes ulcers.
As the officers debated security, Walker glanced at his files and his calendar.
Time was ticking down on the pope’s arrival.
First, Boston, where the president would receive him, then New York, Miami, Houston, Los Angeles before moving into Walker’s zone, the northwest, then concluding the tour in Chicago.
Walker had already joined advance teams, inspected sites three times, worked with field offices and briefed local and state police and emergency personnel. Soon his group would fly to Seattle and pick up the visit there, joining the main teams who’d be with the pope the entire trip.
Walker’s group was responsible for the pope’s secu rity on his visit to Seattle, Washington, then a smaller event in Lone Tree County, Montana.
He flipped by Father Stone’s newsletter prematurely announcing the visit.
It renewed Walker’s thoughts about the Montana leg. Now, with the visit upon them, amid the intensifying rush of threats, Walker prayed Father Stone’s premature boasting to the World Wide Web would not be a factor.
Any further thought about it was pushed aside by the soft lowing of his vibrating phone. Walker had received an encrypted message from his supervisor.

VATICAN SAYS NO CUTS TO AGENDA. FULL-BORE VISIT AHEAD.

Walker absorbed the update then swallowed hard.

39

Takoma, D.C.

Would he find answers here?
The Tarvers had a modest Victorian home. It was where they’d lived, where they’d dreamed

and where Ray, a reporter who’d lost the respect of his colleagues, had continued his pursuit of his con spiracy theories.

The house sat back from the street, inviting visitors to a veranda edged with an ornate spindled railing and sheltered by overhanging gables. It was walking dis tance from the Takoma Metro station, the last stop on the red line in D.C. before Silver Spring, Maryland. When Graham arrived, Jackson Tarver was on his knees digging among the roses that lined the front walk.

“You’re right on time.” Tarver stood.
“It’s a beautiful house.”
“Anita took care of most things.” Tarver’s gaunt face

was bereft of light when he greeted him. “Any word on if the searchers located Ray?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry.”
Tarver turned to the house, gazing at it as if his son, his daughter-in-law and grandchildren were inside waiting. His Adam’s apple rose and fell.
“Let’s get started. I’ll show you around, like you wanted, whatever you need.”
They began with the back.
It was typical with a barbecue and a patio set with an umbrella table arranged on a deck that stepped down into the well-kept fenced yard. There were dells of rhododendrons and ferns shaded by sugar maples, and a tall beech tree with a tire swing for the kids. Tarver gave the tire a gentle push.
“They loved it here,” Jackson Tarver said.
As the old rope squeaked, Graham imagined the children playing in the yard, Anita gardening, Ray and his father at the grill sharing beers, talking sports or politics.
Living their lives like most families.
“Excuse me, are you related to Ray and Anita Tarver?” Both men turned to a woman in her early thirties standing at the side of the house.
“I’m Ray’s father, Jackson Tarver.”
“I’m Melody Sloane. I live down the street. My twins played with Emily and Tommy.”
“Come in, Melody.”
“I don’t mean to barge in on you. I saw you out front.”
“It’s all right.”
“My condolences, Mr. Tarver.” She cupped a hand over her mouth, then embraced him. “I read about it in the
Post.
” Her voice weakened. “It’s so awful. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”

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“Some of the neighborhood moms were wondering about a service. The two detectives who were here the other day didn’t know if arrangements had been made.”

“No, nothing’s been decided yet. Anita and the children were cremated. We’ll have a memorial service when we have Ray, when they’re all together.”

“Of course, please, let me know if there’s anything you need.” She turned to leave.
“Ms. Sloane, if I may?” Graham gave her his card. “Corporal Daniel Graham with Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”
She looked at the card and its stylized bison head seal.
“I’m handling matters in Canada. Could you tell me a bit more about these two detectives?”
“Goodness. Well, it was at the time when the story had been in the
Post.
I’d come to the house to leave a card in the mailbox. The two men got here just before me. I think they’d tried the door, no one was here and they were looking around the side.”
“Did they show you any ID?” Graham asked. “Were they D.C. police? FBI? Secret Service?”
“No, no identification.”
“Did they tell you what they wanted?”
“They wanted to know who was looking after the house. I said that I didn’t know.”
Graham turned to Tarver. “Were you ever contacted by detectives?”
“We got a lot of calls from people. Some from police and you, but I haven’t been thinking too clearly.”
“Have you shown police through the house?”
“No.”
“So we really can’t confirm who they were.” “What’s the concern?” Tarver asked.
“Just curious.”
“Could’ve been reporters, or Ray’s friends, sources, you know,” Tarver said.
“Could’ve been.”
Could have be someone else who’s investigating, too,
Graham thought. He made a note, then asked Melody to call him if she remembered anything more.
After she left, Tarver took Graham to the garage. He took stock of the family car, a Toyota Corolla, the work bench, tools, extension ladder hooked on one wall above the mower, the kids’ bikes and toys. In one corner, cardboard boxes were stacked and labelled,
Clothes For Charity
printed in clear letters with a fine-point marker. Done by Anita, Graham thought as Tarver led him through the breezeway and into the house.
“I haven’t touched a thing,” Tarver said. “Look through anything you like, search what you need. I’m going to brew some coffee.”
The living room had hardwood floors and an L-shaped sofa with fat cushions, facing a large TV next to a wood-burning redbrick fireplace. It was framed by bookshelves with DVDs like
Titanic, Sophie’s Choice, The Searchers, The Paper,
CDs by Springsteen, the Beatles and Van Morrison, hardcover books by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Steinbeck and Faulkner, a small gallery of framed photos, mostly of Tommy and Emily, and a family trip. Orlando, judging by the Mickey Mouse hats.
The room flowed into the dining room with a ranchstyle table and six chairs, and a glass-fronted hutch. A chandelier hung in the center of the room.

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The dining room led to the hall and the bed room area.
The first bedroom had soft-colored wallpaper with tiny unicorns and rainbows and a small bed with a frilly bedspread. Above it, a multicolored crayon drawing of a castle that said
Princess Emily’s House,
was taped to one wall. Stuffed toys crowded the top of the dresser and shelves. Graham traced his fingers over the flowers printed on the pillowcase, detecting a child’s sweet scent.
She took her last breaths in his arms.
A small, clean bathroom connected the room to the next bedroom.
In that room, a model of a space shuttle was hanging by a thread from the ceiling. A large map of the solar system covered one wall, while the others were papered with the U.S. flag, posters of the Wizards and Batman. All faced a loft bed with a desk and a collection of picture books. Hanging on his closet door was a T-shirt emblazoned with
Tommy the Conqueror.
Princess Emily and Tommy the Conqueror next to their mother in the Medical Examiner’s Office.
Next, Graham came to the Tarvers’ master bedroom at the end of the hall.
It had a large window that overlooked the backyard, a walk-in closet and an en suite bathroom. Nicely deco rated. Graham noticed a pleasant soapy hint of perfume and cologne. The bedroom walls were cream, a framed Rembrandt print hung over the queen-size bed, which had a quilted spread and throw pillows. A hard copy of a romance—
Knights With Lonely Maidens—
was on one nightstand, on the other, an alarm clock and a textbook:
Revealed: One Hundred Terrorist Plots.

Sadness rolled over Graham as he flipped through it. The world had ended for this family. Graham was standing in a crypt, trying to make sense of what had happened.

Maybe their deaths were accidental?
Then what the hell am I doing here?

40

Takoma, D.C.

“Be careful.”

Graham looked at the steaming mug of coffee Jackson Tarver held out for him.
“It’s hot.”
They stood in Ray and Anita’s bedroom letting a moment of respectful silence pass.
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. I hope I’ll rec ognize it when I see it.”
“You know, I’m up most nights convincing myself that Ray’s alive, hurt and waiting down along the river. That he’ll come back and we’ll help him through this.”
“You said that he’d quit the wire service, but from the people I’ve talked to I get the sense that that’s not quite what happened.”
“Ray would never talk about it. But I always feared that he’d been forced to leave. Or was fired and it put him in a desperate situation. We only wanted to help him out, so I gave him money from time to time, like when he said he needed to take Anita and the kids on a vacation to the mountains.”
“Do you think Ray was in danger because of his work?”
“Corporal, is there something you’re not telling me?”
“I just need to be satisfied that it was an accident. We still haven’t found his laptop. Did he ever talk about the last story he was working on?”
“The only thing he told me was that it was big and that he was certain he’d get a book deal out of it.”
“Anything to do with terrorists? He seemed to be re searching the subject.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Do you think he may have exaggerated his story?”
The suggestion landed on a nerve.
“Not every lead he chased resulted in a story. That’s the nature of the news business.”
“Did he have enemies?”
“I wouldn’t know. Are you trying to tell me that someone killed my son and his family because of a goddamn story?”
You have to protect key facts of the case,
Graham warned himself.
“No. That’s not what I’m saying. The fact is, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to rule out anything criminal, so we can be sure. Ray’s missing laptop concerns me. It could’ve been a robbery gone wrong, or someone took it after Ray and everyone left their campsite. That sort of thing.”
Tarver stared at Graham.
“All I can tell you is that my son was a good reporter. He questioned everything. He dug deep. I know he was

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a loner, even ostracized. Anita told me. But Ray wasn’t like most reporters in Washington who swallow what ever they’re told.”

“I understand.”
“Now, Ray’s office is in the basement. This way.” The basement smelled of laundry detergent and was

divided into a series of small, low-ceilinged rooms finished with paneling that had survived the ’70s. The area contained a small bedroom, a two-piece bathroom with an outdated linoleum floor, a combination laundry and furnace room, then an office.

Graham estimated the office was eight feet square. It was crammed with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, two three-drawer file cabinets and a large desk with a computer and monitor.

“Nothing in this room’s been touched since the day they left for Canada. The file cabinet’s unlocked. Do what you need to do on his computer. Take all the time you need. I’ll be upstairs.”

Newspapers rose in a tower in one corner against the bookshelves. At one end, laminated press tags hung in clusters from chains. A number of framed news awards for breaking news and investigative reporting were piled on one shelf.

Tacked to one frame was a paper target, a silhouette of a man’s upper torso in a scoring ring punctured with holes. A handful of empty shell casings stood next to it.

Yellowing front pages of big city newspapers for San Francisco, Dallas, Miami, Boston, Minneapolis, Philadelphia and Denver, with Ray Tarver’s bylines hung on one wall. Snapshots of Ray with other report

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ers in Europe, the Middle East, Kuwait, Iraq, Japan, Africa. Here’s Ray with President Bush. Here he is with President Clinton.

Is that Springsteen with Ray?
The guy got around.
Graham set his mug on the desk, sat down and

switched on the computer. As it fired up, he looked at his watch. The time was 10:20 a.m. He began reading every file he could access off the desktop, then searched the hard drive.

Much of it was in the same vein as the file Kate Morrow had given him—articles, reports, notes that made no sense to Graham. Then he looked at the history of Tarver’s online travels and the sites he’d visited, starting with the most recent.

As expected, airlines, car rentals, hotels, tourism sites, U.S. and Canadian travel requirements, passports, borders, online banking, credit-card use. Graham was surprised the passwords had been saved.

Credit-card and banking records offered nothing unusual. All travel and household related. Wait. What was this charge for
Investigative Search Services?
Graham noted that one before returning to Tarver’s online history.

Further along he’d seen that Ray had visited sites for finding people, located work histories, unions, associa tions, driving records, voting records, property records for various states. A lot of work on California.

He was searching public records for counties in Southern California.
Then the history ended. That was it.
Next Graham flipped through every hard-copy file

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of news reports, studies, notes, photocopies from text books. Nothing jumped out at him, nothing that con nected anything to anything.

It was nearly 5:00 p.m. when he finished.

He rubbed his eyes and neck and got up to leave when he glanced at the bunches of press tags.
Something among them, almost hidden, was beck oning from a chain.
A USB flash drive.
People used them to back up computer files. This one had a tiny handwritten label.
LAPTOP.
Graham held his breath as he held the drive in his hand.
Do you believe this?
He inserted it into the computer port and as it loaded he wondered—no, hoped—that whatever files Ray had put on his missing laptop, he’d backed them up here before the trip.
And, here we go.
Files appeared.
Graham’s hopes wilted. They duplicated what he’d already seen. Before quitting, he ran a search for the term
Blue Rose Creek,
as he’d done before, expecting it to be futile. As the program searched he rubbed his eyes.
He’d buried his tired face in his hands and had begun considering returning to Alberta, when the computer chimed with the message.
One file located.
This was new.
He opened it. Tarver had made notes, a few weeks before the trip.
The FOIA records indicate one American driver among those in the convoy attacked in Iraq with links to the new weapon operation. Details on the driver were censored to respect privacy laws. A Pentagon source put the driver’s location in Cali fornia, near Riverside County. Further investiga tion with trucking associations and transportation sources confirm the driver’s address.
10428 Suncanyon Rise, Blue Rose Creek, California.
Homeowners: Jake & Maggie Conlin.

Bingo.
Graham steepled his fingers to think for a moment. Then he went online to check out flights to Los

Angeles.