The Assassin's Trail (9 page)

Alexandria, VA

Wednesday

The upscale neighborhood was dominated by BMWs, Audis and Mercedes Benzes. On his first drive-through the day before, Billy realized his beat-up 1990 Ford F-150 would draw attention. Attention he didn’t want. After driving past the congressman’s house, he noticed several landscape companies tending to the perfectly manicured lawns within the quiet neighborhood.

After the drive-through he found a sign shop and explained to a bored clerk what he needed. He was shown to an Apple Macintosh computer with a complete array of design programs. After several false starts, Billy saved the design and told the clerk the file name. One hour later, he left the shop with two magnetic signs for his pickup. Placing one sign on the driver’s side door and the other on passenger’s door, he stood back to admire his handiwork. The truck now represented AAA Mowing and Landscaping Services LLC, just another yard service vehicle tending to the lawns of the neighborhood. He could hide in plain sight.

After the sign shop, he drove to a flea market and bought two lawn mowers, a trimmer and gas cans to give the pickup more authenticity.

Billy’s final stop was a bike shop, where he purchased a high-end mountain bike, helmet, riding clothes and other various accessories the well-heeled bike rider might utilize. Up-close recon was now possible. He could ride the bike through the neighborhood and blend in with all the other local cyclists.

By parking the truck in the shopping mall, not far from the neighborhood entrance gate, he could ride the bike and blend in. With these two methods, he felt comfortable he could watch the congressman’s house without drawing too much attention.

It was early Wednesday morning, as he rode the bike down the congressman’s street, he witnessed the congressman stretching, preparing for a run. It was 6:30 a.m. He stopped the bike and started inspecting his tire while keeping an eye on the congressman.

His briefing information had not mentioned anything about a morning run. It might take a few mornings to confirm the pattern, but here was a possible opportunity outside the ones suggested.

***

Freshman Congressman Roy Griffin stretched before his morning run. This was his favorite part of the day, alone without any of his so-called colleagues pressuring him to vote their way or constituents wanting him to vote for a special bill that would benefit their business or cause. Unfortunately, the only thing he enjoyed about being in Congress was helping individuals within his district deal with the massive government bureaucracy.

At 42, Roy was slightly over six feet tall. He wore his blond hair longer than current fashion and was male model handsome. He was also rich. Keenly aware his looks and money were part of the reason he was elected by his image-conscious Northern California district, he was determined to make a difference in Congress. He had unseated a Republican who, at the time, was under investigation for sexual assault. While the allegations were proven false, he still lost the election. Roy was halfway through his first term and frustrated with the congressional system. He served on the Foreign Affairs Committee. Even though he was just a first-term congressman, he served as the Chairman of the Subcommittee on the Middle East and Africa. Campaigning as a staunch proponent of Israel in an area with the third largest Jewish community in the country, Roy was a natural for the chairmanship. But with the chairmanship came demands for support of other bills he did not care for. Thus, his frustration. 

His morning run was a must. The exertion helped him think clearer and work through problems. Regardless of the weather or temperature, he had to run. His normal path was a five to six mile route that meandered through his neighborhood. Sometimes he would run clockwise, sometime counter-clockwise, it didn't matter. Today he would run clockwise.

During this morning ritual, he normally saw fellow residents doing their morning workouts. He didn't know any of them, but he waved anyway. This morning, he saw the usual individuals, plus one he had not seen before. A bike rider. Possibly a new neighbor or someone just starting a new morning routine. Griffin noticed the rider, then promptly forgot about him as his thoughts moved on to other concerns.

***

Billy passed the congressman once so he could be seen. Afterwards he carefully followed him, staying out of sight as best he could, making mental notes on the congressman’s route. It would take several mornings to determine where the best place to complete his assignment would be, but he had time.

As he followed the congressman, three possible locations for the ambush were spotted. He would need a few more mornings of recon to confirm the running route, then he would determine the best location and devise his plan. In the meantime, he would explore the area with his truck.

Later that morning, while driving around the area, Billy found a road leading to the rear portion of the congressman’s property. Although heavily wooded, he discovered several access points during his afternoon hike around the property.

He didn’t trust the suggestions from the man in New York. This was his operation, and he didn’t believe anyone not on site could tell him the best option. When Billy left the neighborhood late Wednesday, he had two contingency plans. Both presented excellent opportunities for success.

Southern Alabama

Thursday

The flight from Kansas City landed in Pensacola, FL, a few minutes before 11 a.m. Eastern Time. The weather was perfect, mid-seventies with a few clouds blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico. Kruger had specified a four-wheel drive vehicle when he made the reservation, believing it might come in handy traveling the back roads of rural Alabama. He smiled when the Hertz agent handed him the keys to a Jeep Wrangler. A fun ride was always welcome.

Before leaving Kansas City, a Google Maps search showed Thomas Cooper’s place located a mile north of County Road 3 about seven miles east of Atmore. With the aid of his GPS, he found the farm without difficulty. Driving around the farm several times, he became comfortable with the terrain and access roads. Knowledge of the ways in and out gave him an advantage if the suspect decided to bolt.

The small farmhouse sat in the middle of an oasis of trees, 300 yards down a gravel driveway, which was due west of a rural farm road. Cultivated farm land surrounded the island of trees and house. Behind the house and just outside the tree line sat a midsize barn and several smaller outbuildings. Each appeared to be equipment or storage sheds to Kruger. He made a note to keep those buildings under surveillance; hopefully they didn’t contain any explosives. 

As a courtesy, Kruger always contacted the local law enforcement agencies, so once he was satisfied he knew the area around Cooper’s farmhouse, he headed for the Escambia County Sheriff’s Department eighteen miles to the east in Brewton, AL. It would kill a lot of time Kruger didn’t feel he had, but it was necessary. In his experience, a preliminary visit with the local authorities forged a team approach. Kruger liked to get them on board first, rather than after the fact.

Thirty minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of the sheriff’s department. It was a square building with a flat roof and a handicap ramp in between the building’s two entrances. Kruger took the left-hand stairs and entered the door identified as the sheriff’s department. He showed his credentials to the deputy at the front desk, asked for the sheriff and was told to wait.

While Kruger waited, he read all the wanted posters, garage sale notifications, public notices and miscellaneous town event fliers on the lobby bulletin board. After more than ten minutes, a thin man in his late 50s and several inches taller than Kruger entered the lobby. He was dressed in a light blue polo shirt with the words “Sheriff G. Lamb” and a gold star embroidered above the left breast. A holstered Smith and Wesson .38 Special was clipped to his belt. A sad and weary look reminded Kruger of a droopy bloodhound. The man offered his hand and said, “Sheriff Lamb. What can I do for you, agent?”

Kruger shook the offered hand and said, “Sheriff, can we talk in a less public location?”

The sheriff nodded and motioned for Kruger to follow him. He led him to a small room with a table and four chairs. Kruger recognized it as an interrogation room, but said nothing. Lamb motioned him to a chair, shut the door and sat down on the opposite side of the table. “Now, is this private enough for you, agent?”

Kruger recognized the wariness in the sheriff’s demeanor. He had seen it a lot over the years. An FBI agent coming to a small county sheriff’s department meant only one of two things: something bad had happened, or something bad was going to happen.

Kruger said, “Sheriff, I'm here on a tip concerning a person of interest in the Kansas City bombing this week.  He may be living near Atmore. I would like to ask your assistance in my investigation.” He sat back and waited for the sheriff to respond.

The sheriff blinked several times and nodded. “What’s the name?”

Kruger reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, took out a picture and handed it to the sheriff. “Thomas Cooper, an ex-military explosives expert. We tracked him from Kansas City on the day of the explosion back to the Atlanta airport. I have an eye witness who saw this individual following one of the victims killed in the explosion.”

The sheriff stared at the picture for several seconds, then got up and left the room. He returned a few minutes later and said, “The deputy that normally patrols Atmore is on his way in. I don’t know this man, but he might.”

“We retrieved the suspect’s fingerprints from a drinking glass he touched during the time he was observed following the victim. He may not have anything to do with the explosion, but my gut tells me he does.”

Lamb nodded, “Yup. Been doing this for thirty years. Always trust your gut.”

A young deputy stuck his head into the room and said, “Sheriff, no wants or warrants on him. No criminal record either. Got in trouble once for toilet papering, but that’s it.”

The sheriff said, “Thanks, Nick.” He then turned to Kruger. “Let’s go to my office. We can wait for the deputy there and discuss how my department can assist you. Can I offer you some coffee while we wait, agent?”

Kruger shook his head. “No, thanks, I’m fine.”

On the way to the sheriff’s office, Lamb made a detour into a small kitchen area and poured himself a mug of coffee. “Well, I think I will.”

After they were in Lamb’s office, Kruger said, “My plan is simple. I will arrange for a federal search warrant. Timing is up to you and when you can be ready. If we find anything connecting him to the explosion, your department will arrest him and get credit for cracking the case. I’ll question him and get out of your way. Good publicity for your next election. Unfortunately, after the announcement of his arrest, your small community will be overrun with FBI and media.”

The sheriff nodded. Kruger continued, “I’m with a separate part of the FBI that profiles individuals like Cooper and I don’t think he’s the only one involved. However, my opinion is in the minority within the agency. There will be an agent arriving who’s in charge of the overall investigation. He’s a man you will want to shoot five minutes after you meet him.”

Lamb’s indifferent expression did not change as he said, “He hasn't met me yet.”

Kruger was quiet for a few moments, then smiled and said, “Glad you have a sense of humor. You’ll need it with Agent Dollar.”

“I’m not joking.”

Kruger looked Lamb in the eye and saw no hint of humor. No, I don’t suppose you are, he thought.

Kruger spent the next half hour briefing the sheriff on the layout of Cooper's farm house and land. He was interrupted only a few times with questions, so it went quickly. A knock on the sheriff's door produced a quick “Yeah,” from the sheriff.

A short deputy, no more than five-feet-seven, entered the office. His strong upper body, slim waist and skinny legs created the illusion of a Y. The deputy’s head was shaved, with a dark brown and gray mustache and goatee. His eyes were green with dark black circles on the outside of the iris. He appeared to be in his 20s, but Kruger couldn't be sure. Sheriff Lamb said, “Agent Kruger, this is Deputy Dale Hickman.”

Kruger stood and extended his hand, which the deputy shook briefly and then returned to a parade rest posture. He said, “You called me in, Sheriff, what's up?”

Lamb took the picture of Thomas Cooper and handed it to Hickman and said, “Can you identify this man?”

“Yes, sir. Name’s Tommy Cooper. He's a volunteer fireman for Atmore. Why?”

“Do you know him?”

“Not real well.” The deputy paused as he stared at the picture. “Worked a couple of fires and auto accidents with him, but I don’t know him personally.”

The sheriff said, “What do you know?”

“Not much. Talked about being in Iraq, said it sucked. Lives on the farm his grandparents gave him when they passed on. Don't know anything about his folks, don’t think they’re alive. What's going on, Sheriff, he done somethin' wrong?”

Lamb nodded to Kruger and said, “Agent, do you want to tell him?”

Kruger summarized what he had told the sheriff, excluding the explanation of what would happen when the media found out.

The deputy looked back at the sheriff and said, “He seemed like a good guy. Kind of hard to believe it.”

Kruger said, “Deputy, it's hard to judge people sometimes. Like I said, my evidence is circumstantial, but I believe he’s involved.”

Sheriff Lamb stood up and said, “Dale, get the guys together, put your vests and helmets on, we’re going to take a ride.” He turned to Kruger, “I need that search warrant. Let's get this over with.”

Kruger was impressed with the readiness of the small county department. While they didn't have an overabundance of sophisticated equipment, they had a dedicated and well-trained SWAT team. It was late afternoon when the caravan came to a stop in front of Cooper’s driveway. Kruger had accompanied the sheriff in his squad car with five cruisers and the county’s armored van following. After calling Seltzer, Kruger had a federal warrant issued for the search of Thomas Cooper’s farm. The sheriff had it signed by a local judge, and they left for Cooper’s property.

As Kruger watched the armored van and two patrol cars slowly drive down the gravel driveway, the silence of the afternoon was shattered by automatic gun fire from the farm house. Not small arms, but heavy, large caliber automatic rifle fire. The armored van stopped 50 yards from the farm house, steam spewing from under the hood. Kruger heard Sheriff Lamb curse, pick up the radio and yell, “Goddammit, return fire.”

In the chaos that followed, the relatively small caliber AR-15s carried by the deputies had little effect on the farm house. The deputies had taken refuge behind their squad cars and were returning fire as best they could. Kruger heard Hickman call out over the van’s loud speaker system, “Tommy, put your weapon down and come out with your hands above your head.”

Even using Sheriff Lamb’s binoculars, Kruger was unable to see inside the small farmhouse, so he directed his attention to the barn and outbuildings. He saw something inside the larger barn that brought back a long forgotten memory of a long forgotten investigation in Iraq.  Realizing he had to get to the barn to confirm his suspicion, he tightened the tactical vest he had borrowed from the sheriff, zipped up his FBI windbreaker, and pulled his FBI cap down over his eyes. He laid the binoculars on the front seat of the sheriff's car and checked his Glock 19 to make sure it was primed. Taking it in his right hand, he looked for the best path to the barn. Then he bent over and started running. Lamb yelled for him to stop, but Kruger ignored the request as he used the squad cars and trees to avoid the attention of the occupant of the farm house. Several times, Kruger dove to the ground when bullets pinged close to his position. Finally, after zig-zagging his way to the barn, he arrived without getting shot.

Once inside, he holstered the Glock and went straight to a stack of boxes partially covered by a blue tarp. He yanked the tarp off and stared at fifteen shipping cartons. He looked around the barn and found a claw hammer to pry off the top of one of the crates. The contents of the carton made him shiver. Wrapped in their original factory protection were cushioned bricks of C4 explosives. He backed away from the cartons, retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and hit a speed dial.

Seltzer answered on the second ring, “What've you got?”

“Alan, get the military or somebody down here. I've got C4 coming out my ass. This is our guy. Hope he doesn't off himself before we can talk to him.”

The explosion obscured Seltzer’s response. The barn shook, dust fell from old rafters and the building creaked from the concussion. Realizing what had happened, Kruger brought the phone back to his ear and heard Seltzer yelling in the phone, “Sean! Sean, answer me, are you okay?”

Kruger said, “Yeah, I'm okay, we’re too late. The house just exploded. I'll call you back when I know more.”

All of the gunfire ceased with the destruction of the farm house and the silence was deafening. Sheriff Lamb's patrol car screeched to a halt several feet from the barn, and he ran into the barn. He stopped, stared at Kruger and yelled, “What the hell did you do that for?”

Kruger pointed to the crates and said, “Get several deputies and DO NOT let anyone enter this barn until the military gets here.”

Lamb walked over to the open crate, stared at the contents and said, “Ah, shit.” He immediately went back to his squad car and started barking orders.

Kruger walked out of the barn, stared at the smoldering remains of the farm house and mumbled, “Damn it, I needed to talk to him.” As he watched, deputies started getting organized putting crime scene tape around the remains of the farm house. A few small fires were burning within the debris, but nothing seemed to be getting out of control.

Realizing more explosives could be stored in the other buildings, Kruger hurried over to check their contents. He carefully searched the first one and found only lawn mowers and garden tools. The second building was being used as a garage. Parked inside was a Chevy Malibu, the same car  he had seen in the picture taken at the Atlanta airport long term parking. He checked the license plate and confirmed it was the car from the picture. And on the front passenger seat was a cell phone.

Using his windbreaker to cover his hand, Kruger opened the car door, grabbed the cell phone, slipped it into his pocket and closed the door.