The Gatekeeper (15 page)

And that was what made a dirty bomb so effective. Called a “weapon of disruption,” as opposed to a weapon of mass destruction, the greatest danger would be from panic. If detonated in a major city, containment and decontamination of thousands of terrified victims would present an enormous challenge. Survivors of the blast might be trampled in the aftermath.

Transportation issues presented the largest impediment to unleashing a dirty bomb. Although the term “suitcase bomb” was coined after the Padilla case, unless a bomber used a specially lined container, he would probably die of severe radiation poisoning before reaching his target. And that container would be far too heavy to carry. Plus, they weren’t the sort of thing you ordered off eBay.

Judging by the preparations across the warehouse, Dante already had that covered. The other men were converting metal drums, lining them with overlapping sheets of alloys. Probably not enough to prevent all traces of radiation from leaking out, but it would stop detectors from going off at every firehouse and police station they passed. And once the bomb exploded, those metal sheets would turn into lethal shrapnel. Randall had to hand it to them, they’d thought of everything.

Randall returned to his task. Inside the lead box he maneuvered robotic hands, watching the monitor carefully. One claw held a file, carefully scraping off chunks of iridescence. Never in his life had he felt so helpless, responsible for the lives of not just his family but so many others. Scrape, scrape. He was finally going to achieve the fame
he’d always aspired to. He’d be known as the man who helped engineer the single worst day in the nation’s collective history. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“D
idn’t figure you for the religious type,” Jake said, slipping into the pew behind Syd.

She half turned, grinning at him. “I’m hiding out.”

“Yeah, I get that.” He examined his hands. Audrey and Bree Grant had arrived at the hospital an hour earlier and were rushed straight to Madison’s room. He’d caught some of the reunion while standing guard in the hall outside. Flanking him were two Benicia cops. He got the feeling they were more interested in keeping an eye on him than protecting Madison. The local P.D. hadn’t been all that satisfied with his story, and the discovery of another body on the ship didn’t help matters. But no one had pulled out the handcuffs yet. Jake assumed the bigwigs downtown were still trying to make sense of it.

He sat back and crossed his hands behind his head. The hospital chapel was small, three rows of pews facing a crucifix. The whole place seemed like an afterthought. Outside twilight sifted through the smog, tinting the concrete in shades of tangerine and magenta.

“Still no word from Randall?” The shadows made it hard to read Syd’s face.

Jake shook his head. “Nope. Talked to his coworker, Barry. Randall left work early yesterday, said he had a bug. Probably just couldn’t handle being there.”

“Strange that he’s not picking up.” Syd leaned forward, and he saw the concern in her eyes. “I’m worried.”

“I was going to check out his apartment. That is, if you’ve got this under control.”

“I’ll come with you.” She stood.

Jake balked. “Benicia P.D. feels strongly that at least one of us should stick around. Otherwise I get the feeling charges might be filed.”

“Not going to happen.” Syd waved a hand. “One phone call and it’s taken care of.”

“One phone call, huh? You’re not working for the Agency anymore, remember?”

“They still don’t want me getting frog-marched through some podunk P.D. Trust me, if an arrest warrant goes out with my name on it, it gets handled.”

“So what if it has my name on it?”

Syd shrugged. “Dunno. Guess we’ll find out.”

“Not comforting, Syd,” Jake said. “Maybe I will stay.”

Syd laughed. “I’m kidding. It’ll be fine, trust me. We’ll check on Randall, then head straight back. They won’t even know we’re gone.”

Jake debated for a minute, then sighed. “All right. Let’s go tell your boyfriend how you saved the day.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Syd grumbled, but followed him out into the night.

Neither of them noticed a battered sedan at the rear of the parking lot. A pair of bald men sat low in the front seat, watching their departure through binoculars.

“This is bullshit,” Rodriguez said.

“It’s not bullshit.”

“So we flew all the way to Texas to park outside a warehouse?”

“We don’t go inside without a warrant. And right now, no judge in his right mind would give us one,” Kelly retorted.

Rodriguez made an exasperated sound and collapsed against the headrest, sulking. They had requisitioned a bu-car from the San Antonio field office. It had an oddly tangy aroma from the spray used to cloak stale cigarette smoke. The odor was nausea-inducing when the windows were rolled up to use the air-conditioning, but the alternative was sweltering with them open. It was even hotter here than in Phoenix, and dustier, if such a thing was possible, Kelly thought. Her shirt was soaked through, and she wished she’d taken off her jacket before getting in the car.

The argument wasn’t helping matters. They’d circled the warehouse when they’d first arrived. Like the bar, the windows were painted black from the inside, doors locked. Rodriguez had picked up a rock, but Kelly managed to stop him in time. She might be willing to bend the rules, but she drew the line at breaking and entering.

So they’d returned to the car and sat, tucked in an alley between two other warehouses that offered a clear view of the building. After an hour passed uneventfully Rodriguez got itchy and pressed his point.

“This isn’t accomplishing jack-shit,” he grumbled, rubbing his less-swollen eye with a thumb.

Kelly had to agree. She’d been expecting a place where criminal activity was apparent, maybe another bar. The list Rodriguez’s friend gave them only provided addresses, with no indication of what type of business was at each location. This was probably a huge waste of time, Kelly thought, glancing at her watch: 4:00 p.m. She’d already
basically closed the case, and it didn’t seem like there was anything to see here. Still, they should give it another hour.

“We should go to the next address on the list. It’s not far.” Rodriguez glanced at the printout in his hand. “Five miles, maybe.”

“I say we give this some time. If nothing happens by five, we’ll head there.”

“Then what? There are twenty others on the list. Do we fly around and sit outside all of them?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not anything happens here. If it does, we can put other units on those buildings. But like you said, right now we got nothing. And we’re not going to get much inter-departmental support based on that.”

Rodriguez muttered something under his breath in Spanish.

“Wow. You’re fun on a stakeout,” Kelly said.

“I don’t mind a stakeout if I’m prepared for it,” Rodriguez shot back. “If you’d said, ‘stakeout,’ I would have brought some sodas. Maybe some chips, too. And a piss bottle.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Rodriguez shrugged. “Hey, the soda’s gotta come out somewhere.”

“Bear in mind I didn’t want you along in the first place,” Kelly said.

“What, and let my partner go in without backup?” She threw him a sharp look, and he turned away, muttering, “Just because I got jumped once doesn’t mean I’m useless.”

Kelly chose not to reply. A pall descended over the car.

Faded paint on the side of the warehouse advertised
Franciscan Interiors, Makers of Fine Furniture,
but
judging by the inactivity, it was everyone’s day off. They faced the only entrance. To the far left a flight of stairs led to a door, on the right was a loading dock. They were in the outskirts of Laredo, Texas, a stone’s throw from the Mexican border. The warehouse was set in an industrialized area, hunched buildings all worn the color of sand. Most sported For Lease signs, which explained the general air of stagnation. Laredo was one of those places economic booms avoided.

“We met once before, you know,” Rodriguez said, breaking the silence.

“Oh, really?” Kelly said, only half listening as she fiddled with the radio. She’d been unable to find anything but country and Mexican rock stations, and if she heard one more song by Los Lobos she was going to tear her hair out.

“During that case on the college campus.”

Kelly straightened and looked at him, trying to remember. Once another coed had been snatched, a slew of agents and other law enforcement officers swarmed the university to assist in the search. “Did you work with Morrow?”

“A little. Great guy. And I was with Jake at the boathouse when he found you.”

Kelly flinched. Despite the warmth of the day a chill swept over her. “You must have been fresh out of the Academy,” she said, fighting to keep her voice normal. She hated to admit it, but that case still gave her nightmares.

“I’d been in about a year.” Rodriguez opened his door. “I’m going to walk to that bodega at the turnoff. You want something?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks,” Kelly said. She watched him limp away.

Kelly froze at the sound of an approaching engine. In the rearview mirror she saw Rodriguez duck into the dusty scrub lining the alley. She slid down in her seat and hoped they wouldn’t be noticed.

It was a navy truck with a white shell on the back. No name on the side, two guys in the front seat. Kelly wrote down the license plate as they parked at an angle outside the Franciscan warehouse. Both wore cowboy hats and sunglasses, jeans and tank tops. They walked to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside. More big white guys, like the ones at the bar. Of course, they could be furniture makers, but something made her doubt it.

The passenger door opened and Rodriguez slid inside, carefully easing the door shut so it wouldn’t click.

“Welcome back,” she said wryly.

“Watched pot never boils, right? Should have left sooner,” Rodriguez said. “So can we go in?”

“Not unless you saw some evidence of illegal activity that I missed.”

Rodriguez tapped a finger on the dashboard. “Then what now?”

“Now we wait,” Kelly said calmly. “At least we know the warehouse is being used for something.”

“Maybe they’ll come out with guns,” Rodriguez said hopefully. “Or drugs.”

“Or a machete and a sign saying, ‘We Killed Duke Morris,’” Kelly said. “But I’m not holding my breath.”

What they did come out with was far more interesting. Ten minutes after entering they rolled up the metal door, revealing the loading dock. They backed the truck in and popped the hatch on the shell. Kelly watched as they dragged an oversized duffel bag out. Hard to tell from a distance, but it looked like a body.

“That doesn’t look legal,” Rodriguez commented. “Call for backup?”

Kelly debated. She hadn’t contacted the Laredo cops yet, figuring it was best to keep this visit quiet until she knew if they were onto something. But the last thing they needed was a repeat of the bar debacle. “Give me your cell,” she said, holding out a hand.

He passed it to her.

Kelly dialed 911 and motioned for him to be quiet. “I’d like to report a break-in. Three-thirty-six Muldoon Avenue. That’s right. Thanks.” She handed the phone back to Rodriguez. “Five minutes,” she said.

“Not bad,” he said begrudgingly. “’Course, now we get to explain to a trigger-happy deputy why two FBI agents are responding to a robbery on their turf.”

“We happened to be in the area working a case,” Kelly said.

“And if it comes back to us?”

“It won’t come back to us. Worst-case scenario, it comes back to you.”

“Hey—”

Kelly grinned. “Relax, Rodriguez. I’m doubting Laredo P.D. has the technology to trace a cell call. Besides, if they get a good arrest out of this, they won’t be complaining.”

“You better be right.”

Ten minutes later a cop car with
Laredo Police
on the door rolled past. Two cops got out, one young and lean, the other older and stocky.
Abbott and Costello,
Kelly thought. They parked in front of the loading dock. The younger cop sauntered over, ducked his head in and called out.

“Wow. Looks like a real crack team,” Rodriguez said.

Kelly furrowed her brow. Their behavior was odd. The older cop leaned against the hood of their car, arms crossed in front of his chest. Not exactly how most units would respond to a B and E call.

One of the cowboys emerged from the building, the younger cop at his heels. He strolled over to the police car. The older cop straightened and shook his hand. They exchanged a few words, then the cop bent double. Kelly’s hand tensed, ready to go for her gun, until she realized he was laughing at something the cowboy said.

“Oh, shit,” Rodriguez said. “Now what?”

The younger cop had obviously noticed their car and was headed straight for them. The other two watched him. The cop’s hand rested by his holster.

“Jones!” Rodriguez hissed.

The cop ducked low to peer in their car window. His eyes were concealed behind tinted Ray-Bans. “Get you folks to step out of the car, please.”

Kelly kept her hands in view as she slid out, saying, “FBI. I’m going to reach for my badge.”

The cop nodded slowly, watching her. Rodriguez kept his arms up.

She handed over her credentials and he examined them. “You’re pretty far from home, Agent Jones,” he said, handing them back.

“We’re following up a lead on a case,” Kelly said.

“Funny, at roll call they didn’t say anything about Feds coming to town,” the cop said. His hand was off his belt but he still looked wary.

“I didn’t want to trouble your department until I found out whether or not it was a solid lead,” Kelly said, reading off his name tag, “Officer Rowe.”

“So I don’t suppose you know anything about a 911 call.” The way he said it wasn’t a question.

“Nope,” Rodriguez answered.

The cop’s gaze shifted to him. “I’m guessing you’re a Fed, too?”

Rodriguez moved to hand over his ID, but the cop waved it away. “That lead have anything to do with what happened to your face?”

“Not directly,” Rodriguez grumbled.

“Then it’s got something to do with this alley?”

“Actually, with that warehouse,” Kelly said, nodding toward it.

“Yeah? Well, Travis and I patrol this area all the time. Everything there looks good. Just checked it out myself.”

“Really? Because about ten minutes ago Agent Rodriguez and I saw two men loading a suspicious item in their truck.”

Rowe turned and waved over the cowboy. He approached slowly, jaw working a piece of chewing tobacco. His eyes skittered over both of them before returning to the cop.

“Hey, Jim. Got some federal agents here think you’re up to no good,” Rowe said, making it sound like a joke.

Jim laughed weakly. “That right?”

“Yup.”

“What was in the duffel bag?” Kelly asked.

Jim shrugged. “Supplies.”

“Supplies for what?”

He glanced at Rowe as if seeking approval before saying, “Carpentry. My brother and I are contractors, use this place to store our stuff.”

“Seems like a lot of space for a few hammers and nails,” Kelly noted.

Rowe and Jim exchanged a look. The cowboy shrugged.

“Then you won’t mind if we take a look around?” she continued.

Jim’s mouth opened and closed a few times, then he spit a long stream of tobacco juice in the dirt at their feet.

“Jones,” Rodriguez protested as she started walking toward the building. Kelly didn’t turn back, and after a minute he fell in step beside her. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he said in a low voice, glancing back.

Kelly could hear Rowe and Jim following them. “You have a better one?”

“There are four of them, and the cops are armed. I say we go back to the car, get the hell out of here. Check out the other address.”