The Assassin's Trail (19 page)

The shot went low, hitting the agent in front of Griffin. Before Ortega could fire another shot, the congressman was smothered by the rest of the agents. Ortega thought briefly of taking more shots, but dismissed it as a waste of time. His opportunity to get the congressman was lost. Accepting the situation, he stood and walked out of the apartment. As he was running down the fire escape, he realized his error. Provo, Utah, was a city almost a mile in elevation, while San Francisco was at sea level. The air was denser and the bullet dropped more than in Provo. A simple mistake, but a mistake that kept his mission from being completed.

***

When Clark opened the cathedral door; the steps were empty. The last of the loitering attendee’s now gone. Satisfied no one else would be in danger, he radioed for the Suburbans to move into position at the bottom of the steps. Once the lead vehicle was in position with the passenger doors open, it was time to get the congressman and his wife out of the cathedral. Clark was in front and Kruger behind the congressman, with the two other agents on either side.

The bullet struck Clark in the upper right shoulder with the force of a sledge hammer, pushing him back into the congressman before he even realized what had happened. The other agents reacted immediately and practically carried Griffin and his wife to the waiting safety of the Suburban.

Clark sat on the steps, stunned. There was no pain, but he had no feeling in his right arm. Time stood still as he watched the other agents move in slow motion herding the Griffins into the Suburban. His trance was interrupted as the lead Suburban squealed its tires and sped away. Finally he glanced at his shoulder, where the blood flowed freely. The question of what had hit him started to form, but he grew dizzy and lost consciousness as his body slumped back onto the steps.

As the now departing Suburban moved rapidly away, Kruger rushed back up the steps to Clark. He was unconscious and losing blood rapidly. Kruger applied pressure to the wound, saying, “Ryan, hang on, buddy, the EMTs will be here soon.”

Off in the distance, the sounds of a siren could be heard. The direction was undetectable as the sound echoed off the surrounding buildings.

While he held Clark’s head off the concrete stairs and applied pressure to the wound, Kruger was overcome with a feeling of helplessness. Fearing the worst, he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for his friend. Finally after what seemed like hours, the ambulance arrived. Two EMTs ran up the stairs and took over. Kruger stood, stepped back and stared unthinking as they worked on Clark.

Once stabilized, they gently placed Clark on a stretcher and prepared to transport him to the waiting ambulance. As they secured him to the gurney, one of the EMTs handed Kruger a card with the name of their destination hospital. The EMT smiled and said, “Don’t worry, we’ve got him. He’ll make it.”

Kruger watched as they loaded his friend into the ambulance, closed the doors and started the run for the hospital with sirens screaming. More San Francisco police arrived and took control of the scene. Kruger walked down to the bottom of the steps toward several officers. He glanced at his hands and saw they were soaked in blood. Without hesitation, he wiped them on his suit coat and asked to speak with the commander of the SWAT teams. After Kruger was briefed, the commander handed Kruger a tube of baby wipes he kept in their command truck.

Charlie Brewer arrived twenty minutes later and joined Kruger in the apartment the SWAT team had located.

“What’ve we got, Sean?”

Kruger pointed to the Remington 700. “One shot was all he got off. I have two of your agents interviewing the building manager. He’s not being cooperative at this point.”

Brewer nodded. “There’s no way anybody could have seen the set up this far into the room. We’re lucky he didn’t take any more shots.”

They were both quiet as they watched a forensics technician photograph and catalog the contents of the apartment.

“I underestimated this guy, Charlie. We had the area covered by sniper teams and he takes the shot anyway.”

Brewer placed his hand on Kruger’s shoulder “Not sure what else you could have done, Sean. The Congressman’s still alive.”

“Let’s hope Ryan makes it.” He paused and surveyed the room again. “I have to get to the hospital. I’ll call Seltzer and brief him when I get there. Keep me posted on what you find.”

Brewer nodded.

At the hospital, Kruger was directed to the surgery waiting room. An elderly woman sitting at the information desk outside the surgery area was unable to provide him with any updates on Clark's condition. He paced for a while, sat for a while, drank several cups of coffee secured from a snack and beverage area next to the waiting room and then paced some more. Three hours later, a doctor emerged dressed in surgical scrubs. He spoke to the lady at the information desk, who pointed at Kruger. The surgeon introduced himself and said, “Your friend’s out of surgery. He's stable, but lost a lot of blood. Were you the one who applied the pressure after he was shot?”

Kruger nodded.

The surgeon smiled, patted Kruger on the shoulder and said, “You saved his life. If he had lost any more blood, he would have died at the scene. The bullet ripped an artery, that's what took us so long to repair. There isn't a lot of muscular damage, just the artery. He’ll be fine after some physical therapy.”

“How long before I can talk to him?”

The surgeon smiled and said, “We're going to keep him sedated for now, so probably tomorrow morning.”

Kruger nodded, thanked the doctor and walked to an isolated area of the waiting room. Pulling his cell phone out of his suit coat pocket, he dialed Seltzer's private number, who answered on the second ring.

“How's Clark?”

“Stable. I can talk to him in the morning.”

“Okay, tell me what happened. Brewer briefed me, but indicated he wasn’t there during the shooting.”

Without hesitation, Kruger said, “My fault, I didn't take enough precautions.”

“That's not the assessment of Brewer or the San Francisco Chief of Police. They both said Ortega had the hide set up deep inside an apartment. There was no way the teams on the roof could have spotted him. They both commented on how difficult the location was to secure. Considering all those stairs, you probably saved the congressman's life. A second shot was impossible.”

“Yeah... Tell that to Clark. He's the one in the hospital. I wasn’t able to convince the congressman about the danger. I hope he realizes his stubbornness resulted in a good man being injured.”

“He's a politician, Sean. He’ll spin it to his advantage.”

Kruger smiled and said, “I'm sure he'll make himself look like a hero.”

Seltzer was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “We all know the dangers of the job. Clark knew. It didn't stop him from helping us out, did it? He volunteered to do this because it was important. You need to recognize that and stop kicking yourself.” He paused briefly. “You're still the lead on this investigation, Kruger. Stop acting like the victim. Get back out there and catch this guy.”

The words stung. Seltzer was right; he was feeling sorry for himself. “I'll call you after I talk to Clark in the morning.”

San Francisco International Airport

Wednesday afternoon

After running down the apartment building fire escape stairs, Ortega paused at the exit door, took a breath, and walked casually to his Jeep. During the drive to the airport, he repeatedly checked the rearview mirror for police cars. He saw nothing suspicious. Forty-five minutes after leaving the apartment building, he was parking the Jeep in a long term lot at the airport.

Once inside the terminal, he checked the departure board, found a Delta flight to Tulsa, purchased his ticket and casually walked through security. No one stopped him and he arrived at the gate without incident.

Sitting in the last row of first class next to a window, Ortega wondered, as he watched mountains pass underneath the plane, how the FBI knew he was in San Mateo. What had he done to tip them off? He was traveling under the name Duane Horton, and the American Express card had not been used until purchasing the ticket for this flight. Paying cash at cheap hotels had allowed him to register under different names, so that wasn’t the reason. It had to be something else. Billy. It was the only explanation.

But that didn't make sense either. Billy was still following communication protocol. Had the FBI discovered how they communicate? Cooper’s computer and cell phone were destroyed in the blast and subsequent fire. Had the FBI caught Billy and offered him a deal? That seemed likely. Nothing else made sense; Billy had to be the leak. There were no other possibilities.

He glanced at his watch; the plane was forty minutes from landing in Minneapolis. If no one was waiting for him at the connecting flight gate, he'd be in Tulsa by 10 p.m. A surprise meeting with Acosta in the morning would probably tell him who the leak was. It would be time to clean up and start eliminating loose ends.

***

JR rarely paced, but he was pacing now. It was the first time Charlie had witnessed his new mentor agitated. After receiving the news of Ryan Clark being shot, JR started pacing. When he wasn't pacing, he was muttering to himself. Now he was pacing and muttering. Charlie didn't know if he should interrupt or just start doing what he knew to do.

His first task was starting a facial recognition routine at the airports surrounding San Mateo. Thirty minutes later, he had a hit from the TSI computer at San Francisco International. The file he opened showed Norman Ortega handing his ID to a TSI agent. He quickly accessed the airport’s computers, but failed to get another hit. At this point, there was no way to know which flight Ortega took until they knew the name he was flying under.

Charlie had an idea. He called the San Francisco Crime Lab, identified himself and asked to speak to the head of the department. They had met six months ago at a conference in Washington, D.C. She had sat next to him at a dinner function the last night of the conference. After a week of meetings and work groups, they had laughed and enjoyed each other’s company until the hotel staff kicked them out of the banquet room. He just hoped she remembered him. Finally after several minutes on hold he heard, “Hello, this is Michelle Young, may I help you?”

“Michelle, this is Charlie Craft, we met...”

“Charlie, how in the world are you? I heard you were promoted to head up the Montgomery Forensics team.”

Charlie was surprised. Not only did she remember him, but she’d been keeping up with his career. He’d have to ask her about it later, right now he needed information.

“Yes, I was. But currently I'm working with a special task force. We’re investigating a possible serial killer who may be involved in an incident out there in San Mateo.”

“Are you referring to the attempted assassination of Congressman Griffin?”

“Yes, have you received the weapon at your lab yet?”

“About two hours ago. What do you need to know?”

“Have you identified the person who registered the rifle?”

“It was purchased at Discount Sporting Goods and Gun Shop in Provo, Utah, last Saturday. The name given was Duane Horton, with an address in Springville, Utah. We were just informed several minutes ago that the address is a vacant field on the southern end of town.”

Charlie was silent. He had a name. “Michelle, can you hold the phone for a few minutes while I check something?”

Using one of JR’s new computer routines, he entered the name Michelle gave him and the airport. Fifteen seconds later, he had Duane Horton’s exact seat assignment on Delta flight 1246, destination Minneapolis. He got back on the phone and said, “Michelle, you're beautiful! Duane Horton is on a flight out of San Francisco International to Minneapolis-St. Paul.”

“Wow... How did you find it so fast?”

Realizing his mistake, Charlie quickly said, “A team member’s been working on a search routine for airline manifests. Seems to be working, doesn't it?”

“Sure does. I'd like to learn more about the program.” She hesitated for a moment and said, “Uhh... I know this sounds forward, Charlie, but do you ever get out to California?”

This was a first for Charlie. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had showed interest in him. Usually his clumsy efforts to make a date ended in total disaster. “Well, I had plans to tour the wine country in a few weeks,” he lied. “Why?”

“Really, were you coming with someone?”

“No, sounds weird, doesn't it?” he said, getting deeper into the lie.

“Oh no, not at all. I could show you around when you're out here. That is, if you don’t have other plans.”

“That would be wonderful, my own personal tour guide for the wine country. Sounds great.”

“Kind of what I thought. When are you planning on being here?”

Charlie panicked. Quickly pulling out his cell phone, he accessed its calendar. The end of June was about a month away. Realizing he had used all of his vacation time, he shrugged. He’d figure out the details later. This opportunity wasn’t going to slip away from him.

“My flight lands in San Francisco on the 22nd.”

“I'll give you my email address, and you can send me the flight number and arrival time. I'll pick you up.”

Listening to the conversation, JR shook his head and stared at Charlie. He couldn’t believe he was making a date while the world was crashing down around them. Finally he cleared his throat and said, “Charlie, we have a lot of work to do.”

Charlie looked over his shoulder at JR and said, “Michelle, I have to go. I'll email you the details; I’m looking forward to seeing you again. And thanks for the information.”

He ended the call and turned around to face JR.

“Duane Horton is the name Ortega is traveling under. He's currently on a flight from San Francisco to Minneapolis. His flight is scheduled to arrive,” he quickly looked at the screen and then the clock in the lower right corner of the computer, “in five minutes. He’s booked on a connecting flight to Tulsa, which leaves at six-twenty-one. He arrives in Tulsa around ten.”

JR cocked his head to the left. “How do you know all of this?”

Charlie summarized his steps. JR grinned and nodded several times.

“Tulsa’s the key,” he said. “All the players are converging on Tulsa.”

Charlie smiled.

“You're making progress, Charlie. Now get this information to Kruger and Seltzer. Maybe they’ll have time to intercept Ortega in Minneapolis. Oh, and Charlie, have a good time in wine country.”

***

Ortega waited until half the passengers were off before getting his carry-on bag and joining the crowd exiting the plane. He blended into the multitude of other passengers around the gate and searched for anyone overly interested in exiting passengers. Not noticing anyone, he turned right and found a shop selling Minneapolis-St. Paul memorabilia. Entering the shop, he watched the crowd surrounding the gate for a few minutes. When he did not see anything out of the ordinary, he turned and started looking for what he needed.

Five minutes later, wearing a Minneapolis Twins baseball cap, wraparound sunglasses and a black Nike windbreaker, he exited the shop and started walking toward the connecting gate for his next flight.

***

“He never boarded his flight to Tulsa. We had three teams at Minneapolis-St. Paul International within thirty minutes of his flight arriving from San Francisco. Nothing after that. His boarding pass to Tulsa was never used. We even managed to get a US Marshal on the flight, she saw nothing.”

Ryan Clark listened silently to Kruger’s briefing. At the conclusion, he said, “They spooked him.”

Kruger nodded, “We didn’t have time to set it up properly. I’m not surprised.”

“So now what?”

“I’m leaving for Washington later today. The Bureau is putting a top priority on this. We’ll have all kinds of assets in Tulsa by the end of the day. They’ve even put a plane at my disposal.”

Clark chuckled. “Wouldn’t you know it, I get shot and you get chauffeured around in a private jet.”

Kruger shrugged. “I was planning on leaving as soon as I knew you were okay. Your doctor said, under certain conditions, we could transfer you back to Baltimore in the morning. I've arranged for a Bureau jet to meet those conditions and fly you first thing tomorrow. An ambulance will be waiting to transfer you to Walter Reed Hospital where you'll start your rehab. Plus, the agency is picking up the tab.”

Clark smiled, reached to shake Kruger’s hand and grimaced as a spasm of pain spread across his chest and back. “I've never been shot before. It kind of sucks.”

“I’ve never had a partner shot before, and it does suck.”

He was silent for a few seconds as he watched his friend’s pain subside.

“Ryan, I spoke to Seltzer this morning. The director retroactively made you a full-time agent yesterday. He wants you to officially join the agency after your recovery.”

“I'll have to think about it. Not sure I want to give up my safe and lucrative job at APD,” Clark said with a grin.

Kruger returned the grin. “It's there if you want it. Get your shoulder back to normal, then we’ll discuss it further.” He glanced at his watch and continued, “I have to go. My ride lands in an hour. I'll see you when you get to Walter Reed.”

***

The agency jet provided a quick and less stressful flight back to Washington, D.C. Seltzer picked him up at the airport and by 7 p.m. Eastern Time, they were pulling into the parking lot at FBI headquarters. As soon as they entered the building, an agent escorted them directly to the director’s office where Stumpf and a light dinner buffet were waiting.

Kruger fixed a small salad and picked at it. He remained quiet, waiting for someone else to start the conversation. Finally Director Stumpf said, “We’ve no idea where Ortega is. He’s vanished. I’m open for any ideas, gentlemen.”

“He's on his way to Tulsa,” said Kruger. “My guess is he’s driving. He probably ditched the Duane Horton ID after we spooked him in Minneapolis.”

“Tulsa seems a stretch to me. All you have are a few sketchy hints.”

Nodding, Kruger stirred the salad leaves for several seconds and put down his fork. He looked up, placed his elbows on the table, grasped his hands together and placed it against his chin. “What if they’re communicating somehow besides the emails? What if they’re using disposable cell phones? We can track them with the emails, but if cell phones are being used…”

Paul Stumpf nodded, “There is only one way to find out.” He picked up his cell phone and punched in a number.