The Assassin's Trail (22 page)

Washington, D.C.

Saturday evening

Approaching forty-eight hours with little sleep, Kruger struggled to stay awake during a hastily assembled conference call. Even after four cups of coffee, he kept nodding off. Plus, he now had a bad case of indigestion. Seltzer was using the meeting to update the director and, via secure video conferencing, the President.

Seltzer started the meeting. “We are now in possession of Billy Reid’s computers. Charlie Craft will return to Washington later today as lead on the forensic investigation of this device.

“Agent Kruger’s team has traced the three Muslim men that we had under surveillance to three separate airports. One flew out of San Francisco International, one out of Oakland International and the third out of San Jose International. Destination unknown.”

The President looked grim. “Can’t we check the airlines to see where they went? Surely you have their names.”

Seltzer looked at Kruger, who shook his head.

“Yes sir, we do have their names,” Seltzer said. “However, they’re flying under false identities. We have no idea of the airline or the flight they took. We just know they entered the airport and went through security. No TSA images were found past security.”

The President slowly shook his head. “Gentlemen, I can’t emphasize enough how critical it is to stop whatever it is they are planning.”

“We understand, Mr. President.” It was the first words Stumpf had uttered since the meeting began. “We will stop it, you have my word.”

“I sure hope so, Paul. I sure hope so.”

The meeting ended and the video screen went dark. Stumpf looked at Seltzer and then at Kruger. “Gentlemen, I do hope I wasn’t too optimistic telling that to the president?”

Everyone in the room turned their attention to Kruger, who frowned and shook his head.

“I’m not making any progress sitting here on my ass,” he said. “I need to get back to Kansas City as soon as possible.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Sean. Was I too optimistic?”

“I’m not prepared to answer that question right now, Paul.”

***

The trip home on a Bureau jet gave Kruger a chance to relax for the first time in days. His thoughts turned to his next steps. Everything they knew about the three men from San Francisco was now in the hands of the Tulsa FBI office. Kruger felt a moment of guilt about not going straight to Tulsa, but quickly dismissed it. The field office knew what to do. They could get along nicely without him. He was also positive Charlie would make progress with Reid’s computer having spent two intense weeks with JR. If Charlie couldn't stand on his own now, he never would.

He opened his eyes just as the plane touched down in Kansas City. The short nap only intensified his weariness. An hour and a half later, he was asleep in his own bed. It was 2:05 a.m. Sunday morning.

The digital clock on his nightstand changed from 11:09 to 11:10 as he stared at it. Where was he? A gentle hand touched his shoulder. Stephanie was sitting on the side of his bed, sipping coffee, and said, “Want some?”

“Depends on what 'some' you're taking about.”

She grinned. “Coffee. You have a dirty mind.”

“I've been away from my wife for a while. Dirty thoughts are a natural product of separation.”

“Brush your teeth; you have morning breath. While you're doing that, I'll get you some coffee.”

***

“So what’s the interesting news you refused to discuss with me yesterday?” Kruger said after dumping a little Sweet N Low in his coffee and stirring.

Stephanie smiled. “It wasn't something I wanted to discuss on the phone. I heard from the agency Friday. We've been accepted by the mother. As soon as she gives birth, we're parents.”

Kruger was silent for several minutes, thinking through the possibilities. “Wow. Didn't realize it would be so soon. How do you feel about it?”

“As soon as we have the baby, I'm taking maternity leave and after that, I'm giving notice. I'm done with the job, Sean. I want to be a full-time mother.”

He hugged her. “Good decision. Should we go ahead and put both condos up for sale? This isn't really a good place to raise a kid, no place to play outside.”

She placed her head against his chest and said, “I agree. I spoke to a real estate agent while you were gone. She put my condo on the market and we can see how she does before we have her look for us a house.”

“What about my place?”

“Not yet, let's see how this goes first.”

She pushed away from him and looked straight into his eyes. “I think you should take the promotion.”

He let her go, turned away and walked to the kitchen. He pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. “Not sure I want to.”

She crossed her arms against her chest. “Why?”

“Not sure I have it in me anymore, Stef. I found myself hesitate several times this past week. That's dangerous. I might hesitate at the wrong moment and then...” The implication of the unfinished sentence was left unspoken.

She walked over to him, put her arms around him and said, “You need to do what’s best for you.”

He shook his head. “No, I need to do what's best for us.”

She nodded. “Guess I was being selfish with my last statement. We both need to do what’s best for us.” They hugged for a few moments, then she pulled away. “I have to be out of town this coming Thursday and Friday.”

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“Walmart shareholders meeting is this Friday. One of the issues we discussed at the last top-to-top was the lack of our senior management taking a serious interest in their business. I spoke to Neil, he’s still recovering from his injuries and can’t go. He’s sending me.”

“Have fun.”

***

The rest of Sunday was spent talking, making love and having dinner at Houston's. But later that night, Kruger was having trouble sleeping. His mind kept returning to all the possibilities of Tulsa as the destination of the Dallas contact, Ortega and the three Muslim men. After finally drifting off to sleep just after midnight, he woke from a dream and sat up in bed.

“Oh, shit.” He stared at the draped window, street lights illuminating them dimly. “Could it be possible?”

Tulsa, OK

Tuesday

The containers arrived early Tuesday morning. Three dark-skinned young men walked into the warehouse an hour later. They were barely out of their teens. The first one, whom Acosta called Barry, was five-feet-five and stocky, with a round face, curly black hair and a beard. He was also very quiet. He would not look at Ortega or engage in conversation.

The second man was a little older than Barry; Acosta introduced him as Chuck. He was taller than Acosta by several inches and spoke with a slight accent. Ortega recognized the distinct speech patterns of an Iraqi, something Ortega would never forget. The kid did not have a beard, only wispy facial hair. His face was thin and his eyes were a dark brown.

The third man was introduced as Darren. His demeanor was odd, and he seemed distracted when he spoke. His hair was lighter than the others and he was clean-shaven. The eyes were an intense green and he never smiled. Ortega guessed he was the oldest, 22, if that.

As soon as the new recruits arrived, Acosta had them unloading the containers. As they worked, Acosta walked over to Ortega and said, “I have a job for you.”

Ortega accepted the folded sheet of paper, looked at Acosta and said, “Don’t patronize me, Acosta. This is my operation.”

Acosta stared at him, his eyes narrow and lips pressed together. Finally his face relaxed and he smiled. “I found three vans for sale. Each is in a different car lot. I need you to go to each one, pay for the vans and sign all the paperwork. After you’re finished, return here and deliver each of our new friends to the car lots. They will drive the vans back here. Simple, right?”

Ortega nodded. “How am I paying for them?”

Acosta smiled and handed him an envelope. “I have negotiated the price of each van over the phone. There are three cashier’s checks in the envelope. Each made out to the dealer for the negotiated price. All you have to do is deliver the checks and sign whatever paperwork they require.”

“They’ll want an ID.”

“The vans are being bought under your false name, Duane Horton. You still have the driver’s license, don’t you?”

Ortega nodded.

“Good. I need the vans here before nightfall.”

“Okay, when do we get our final payment?”

“Once the vans are bought and delivered back here, we will settle our account. I will no longer require your services.”

“What about Griffin?”

“You tried.” Acosta shrugged. “The attempt on his life will suit our purposes.”

“Okay, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

It took most of the afternoon to find the dealerships, pay for the vans and deliver the quiet dark skinned men to each car lot. After dropping off the last man, he started driving back to the warehouse. About a half mile from the building he pulled off into a parking lot and sat for a while. Nothing was adding up. Why had Griffin all of a sudden become unimportant? The original plan was to build up to Griffin and then shut down. He pulled his cell phone out and texted Billy’s phone. Instead of a series of numbers he wrote,
Plan abandoned, no Griffin, break off, will get money to you soon. O.
He hit the send icon and sat for a few more minutes before starting the car. He had a stop to make, then he would return to the warehouse.

***

Charlie Craft was frustrated. The time spent with JR had been surreal. He’d learned more in two weeks than he had over the past few years. JR was so much more accomplished at what needed to be done, Charlie felt lost. As he sat in front of Billy Reid’s computer, he stared at the screen. He wasn’t finding anything they didn’t already know. He was about to call JR when Billy’s cell phone chirped. Picking it up, he saw there was a text message waiting to be viewed. He opened the message and read it. He immediately called JR.

***

“Slow down, Charlie. Take a deep breath and tell me the number that sent the text message?” JR held the cell phone against his ear with his shoulder and waited to write the number down.

Charlie told him. He paused for less than two seconds. “Can we trace that number to a cell tower?”

“That’s what I’m doing. But it’s going to take time. Call Kruger and let him know what’s going on. As soon as I have something, I’ll call him.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know, just tell him I’ll call.” JR ended the call and started methodically doing what he did best, hacking into secure servers and getting the information he needed—all without leaving a trace an intrusion had occurred.

Three hours later, he punched in a number on his computer and sent a call. It was answered on the third ring.

“Kruger.”

“Sean, it’s JR.”

“Charlie briefed me. What’d you find?

“The location of the cell phone.”

Kruger was quiet for a few moments. “Tulsa.”

“Yeah, Tulsa. Just like we thought.”

“Do you have a location?”

“General area only. The tower was close to the airport.”

“Good work, JR. Call Charlie back and tell him. I’m calling Seltzer.”

***

Ortega waited in the Honda as the doors to the warehouse opened. As soon as it was wide enough, he drove into the building, parked and got out. The man he knew as Acosta was walking rapidly toward him. The three vans were parked next to the unloaded containers.

Acosta got up within a foot of Ortega and yelled, “Where the hell have you been? The vans were back hours ago.”

“I stopped and got something to eat.”

“For three hours? Are you kidding me?”

Ortega was tired of being ordered around. He started to walk away, but Acosta grabbed his arm.

“Let go of my arm, Acosta.”

“Where were you?”

Ortega glared at him. They were eye to eye, less than a foot apart. “I told you, I got something to eat. Now let go of me.”

The man released his arm and stood back a few paces. “As you wish. But you haven’t answered my question.”

“Give me my money and I’ll get out of here. I’m tired of your shit.”

Abbas reached behind him, pulled out a Glock 19 and pointed it at Ortega. Without a second thought, he pulled the trigger twice.

As he felt his body hit the warehouse floor, Ortega’s last emotion before everything went black was relief.

Tulsa, OK

Wednesday

The Bureau plane landed at Tulsa International Airport a little after 9:30 a.m. Wednesday. One of the local FBI agents met Kruger in the VIP lounge; Kruger knew him from another case several years back. Kruger offered his hand and said, “How are you, Tom ? What’s it been, five years?”

Thomas Shark was taller than Kruger’s six feet by three inches. He was high school skinny, with an angular face and closely cropped brown hair. He shook Kruger’s hand and smiled, “At least. I’ve been out of the academy six years and that was one of my first assignments.”

Kruger and Shark had worked together on an investigation of a serial killer who used school buses as his shooting platform. “Where was the body found?”

“In an abandoned warehouse about a mile south of the airport. It’s still there. The ME believes it happened less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“I’ve seen the guy. Let’s go make a positive ID.”

Shark nodded and led Kruger out of the airport to a black Chevy Suburban parked at the curb, it’s engine idling. Ten minutes later, Kruger was kneeling next to the body of Norman Ortega.

“How was he found so quickly? There doesn’t seem to be a lot of traffic around here.”

“The owner came by to check on his property. He got an anonymous call. The caller told him something was going on here. The place has been abandoned for almost a year and he doesn’t come out very often.”

Kruger stood up. “Where is the owner?”

Shark pointed to a small, elderly man about fifty feet away, talking to several police officers. Kruger walked over introduced himself.

“FBI Agent Sean Kruger. Are you the owner of this warehouse?”

The man nodded. “The name’s Burt Collins. I own most of these buildings in the complex. Bought them for pennies on the dollar, thought I’d struck it rich. I understand why they were cheap, I can’t give them away.” He shook his head. “Now I find out some asshole’s been using it without paying rent. Worst investment I’ve ever made.”

Kruger rolled his eyes slightly and cleared his throat. “Mr. Collins, there will be some FBI forensic technicians here within the hour. I need you to tell me what’s different from the last time you inspected this building?”

Collins snorted and pointed at the two large shipping containers situated one hundred feet further into the building. “Those are different. They weren’t here last time I checked on the place.”

***

Wednesday evening

“What do you think, Julie?”

Julie Bergman had accompanied Charlie to the warehouse. She was walking back and forth between three marked off areas. “I’m pretty sure we have three distinct vehicles, Sean.” She pointed to one spot. “This one was leaking transmission fluid and the distance between tires is consistent with a Ford Econoline, late ’90s or early 2000 model.” She nodded toward the two other spaces she had marked off. “Those, I’m sure, are two Chevy Express Cargo vans. Probably early 2000s as well. Don’t see any leaking fluid from them.” She looked at Kruger. “Three vans, all capable of hauling heavy weight.”

Frowning, Kruger walked slowly by each marked location. He looked up and noted their proximity to the shipping containers. “They off-loaded something from the containers into the vans, didn’t they?”

Julie nodded. “I would say that’s correct.”

Charlie Craft hurried out of one of the containers and practically ran to where Kruger and Julie stood. “Holy shit, Sean, you have to see this.”

They hurried after Charlie and walked into one of the now open containers. Numerous halogen lamps illuminated the interior. Charlie walked to a spot he had marked and knelt down.

“You see this spot?”

Kruger nodded.

“I just did a quick chemical analysis.”

“What, Charlie, what is it?”

“It’s ANFO.”

“Speak English, Charlie.”

“Sorry, ammonium nitrate fuel oil, Sean. It’s highly explosive.”

Kruger cocked his head to the side and blinked several times. “Are you saying they’ve got three fertilizer bombs?”

“No, no, that’s an imprecise description. This is the stuff they use in coal mines, quarries and construction. It’s perfectly legal, if you have the right permits.”

Thomas Stark, slightly out of breath, joined them in the container and said, “I just got off the phone with Port Authority in Houston. These containers were used by a company that produces olive oil. Guess where they’re from?”

Kruger rolled his eyes. “Dammit, Tom, quit playing games. Where, for gawd sake?”

“Tunisia.”

“Shit…” Kruger took a deep breath and walked out of the container. As soon as he was out of the warehouse, he punched a number into his cell phone.

“Seltzer.”

“Alan, we’ve got three truck bombs somewhere in Oklahoma.”

There was silence on the other end of the call. Finally, Kruger heard, “What do you think the target is?”

“I have no facts to support this, but the proximity of northwest Arkansas to Tulsa is too much of a coincidence, and Friday is the day after tomorrow.”

“What’s in northwest Arkansas on Friday?”

“The annual Walmart shareholders meeting.”

“Ah, shit.” There was silence for several moments. “Lay out your theory and I’ll run it past Stumpf.”

“Alan, I don’t have time for another damn meeting. We have exactly a day to find these vans. Local law enforcement needs to be involved now. If I’m wrong about the target, fire me. But I’m not wrong. We know there are three vans. Best guess, one will go up I-44 to Joplin and turn south toward Arkansas on I-49. Another will travel to Fort Smith and head north on I-49, and the third will go straight east on 412. It’s a guess, but it’s the way I would do it.”

“Isn’t driving the interstates taking a big risk?”

“They don’t know we know about them, Alan.”

There was a long silence, which Kruger found annoying.

“Alan, wake up. Don’t turn into a bureaucratic asshole now that you’re the deputy director. We need to act on this now.”

Seltzer cleared his throat. “You’re right. I’ll get the wheels turning on my end. What do you need?”

“I need the director to contact local, county and state law enforcement in the four-state area. Kansas, Oklahoma, Missouri and, most of all, Arkansas all have to be involved. I also need as many agents as you can get into Fayetteville and Tulsa as fast as you can. We have a manhunt to wage, and we don’t even know who we’re looking for.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, lots of prayers.”