Whack Job (7 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Things Go to Hell”

Tuesday evening.

Otto took Steve for a walk on the hotel grounds, cleaning up after the big dog with a plastic bag. They returned to Otto’s ground-floor room, which opened onto the patio and pool area. Otto and Steve lay on the bed. Otto turned on the television using the remote and found a news channel.

Scenes of chaos: Fire trucks and police vehicles surrounding a smoking loft. Anxious residents huddling behind police barriers wrapped in blankets. Otto turned up the sound.

“The fire appears to have started on the top floor, home of Volt Media founder and COB Lewis Stark. It is unknown whether Stark was in the loft when the fire broke out. Fire fighters have not been able to get in there. Stark recently revealed he suffered from a heart defect and voluntarily gave up his position as CEO.”

As Otto watched a wall collapsed sending up a nuclear cloud. Pumper trucks plumed arcs of water onto the blazing building. Otto changed the channel. A giant transsexual dressed as Marilyn Monroe vogued across the
America’s Got Talent
stage as Piers Morgan’s buzzer sounded.

Click.

BMX boys doing double flips in a stadium.

Click.

A man pulling a prehistoric fish out of a river.

Otto turned the television off but remained staring at it, back against the headboard. Steve slowly rolled over on his back like a doomed freighter and stuck his paws in the air.

Otto had a bad feeling about what he had just seen, an atavistic sixth sense from the time man crawled on four legs. The fire didn’t feel like a terrorist operation. There were no threats, no demands, no videos boasting of their great success.

Otto had been fascinated with spontaneous human combustion since reading a Jack Kirby comic when he was twelve years old. It was one of those recurring urban legends with just enough documentation to keep it alive.

Otto differed from other true believers in one respect.

He had seen it.

***

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Billups”

Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning.

The Canadians had delivered him to a U.S. “aid mission” in Zejtun from where he was airlifted to an aircraft carrier and from there to Ramstein where he was debriefed. A team of psychiatrists observed him, much as psychiatrists were now observing Stella’s client Lester Durant, the Below the Beltline Sniper. All field ops were subject to psychological evaluation.

Otto insisted they’d been betrayed. The Agency conducted a thorough investigation and could find no evidence of a leak. When Otto asked if anyone else had survived they wouldn’t respond.

In the end it was adios and thanks for your service. Don’t let the screen door hit you on the way out.

Convinced he was about to get whacked, Otto disappeared. He melted away. He traveled the nation. He never approached the land he owned in Colorado. He spent the next six months underground frequently changing identities. He watched. He waited. He used library computers and cyber cafes. Despite not owning a computer he was thoroughly conversant with the technology, at least up until six months ago. He learned by clicking and doing. He learned to spot a certain type who also frequented these venues: hackers. He could spot a hacker a mile away. They were all men. They were all pierced and tatted and wore anti-conformist badges, wired on Red Bull and coffee.

The silence re: Operation Firebrand was unnerving. He searched for other members of the team but they seemed to have disappeared as well. As if someone were stalking them.

Whoever set them up must have deemed him no threat. He was damaged goods, not worth the hit. Discredited. A loon. He had no valuable intel.

He’d relived the mission a thousand times in his head.

Was Ghaddafi really the target, or was it the laptop? Was Hornbuckle in on it? He must have been. But Hornbuckle too had disappeared.

Lying in the Best Western, Otto used an old Jedi mind trick to turn his own off: he counted thylacines. Finally he fell asleep.

In the morning, Otto fed Steve a can of horse meat, put on khakis, a plain gray t-shirt and a gray sports coat, locked his pistol in the room safe, had breakfast in the cafe, put Steve in the service harness and walked the two blocks to FBI HQ at 8000 E. 36th St, across the street from Humberto Uribe Park. The foyer contained an information desk front and center, behind that a series of stanchions forming an aisle leading to a metal detector, and beyond that the elevators. An armed agent in a blue blazer sat in a folding chair next to the metal detector. The lobby was active at nine a.m. with agents coming and going.

The information officer was a no-nonsense middle-aged woman in a blue blazer with nametag Special Agent Maureen Fassbacht. Her eyes followed him across the foyer until he stood in front of her.

“Good morning. Otto White to see Special Agent Lon Barnett.”

“One moment please.” The woman picked up a telephone and spoke. She replaced the receiver and reached beneath the desk for a laminated card that said ‘VISITOR’ attached to a lanyard.

“Please put this on and step back through the metal detector.”

The other agent had Otto and Steve step through the detector, then asked Otto to empty his pockets. Otto complied. Wallet, wintergreen Certs and a steel folding knife with a four-inch blade. The man wanded Otto and the dog. He gestured for Otto to pick up his belongings but held on to the knife.

“You can claim this on the way out. Wait here. Someone will come down and get you.”

Otto sat on a marble bench against the wall. Eight elevators, four facing four, opened and closed. A man in a white long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a dark blue tie held in place with a tiny American flag clasp exited the elevator. His eyes fixed on Otto and he beelined over. He was stocky, middle aged, with a shaved muscular head.

Otto stood.

“Agent White?” he said offering his hand. “Lon Barnett. Who’s this?”

“This is Steve.”

“What kind of service dog is he?”

“Steve is a tracker. He goes where I go.”

Barnett held the elevator door for them. A young woman with a briefcase cooed over Steve and petted him. They got out on the eighth floor.

“I’ll be your liaison for both the FBI and Homeland Security,” Barnett said leading them down a hushed hallway with offices on both sides. They entered a large foyer with “SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE NORMAN BILLUPS” etched in the glass. Beneath the blue and gold FBI symbol mounted on the oak wall sat an attractive young secretary. “Go right in. The director is expecting you.”

The director had a big corner office overlooking the park and the Platte River. Billups was a big man with a full head of curly white hair and mustache who rose from behind his gunmetal desk and came around to greet them. He wore a banker’s striped dark blue three-piece and had a grip like a lumberjack. He stooped to pet Steve.

“Mr. White, thank you for joining us. Please have a seat.”

Otto and Barnett sat in upholstered oak chairs facing the desk. Steve sat at Otto’s feet.

“We’ve set up a command center for you. You’ll be working with Lon here and Gus Alvarez. Gus is a tech guy. Computers, special equipment, ask Gus. I understand you need to be brought up to speed. How much do you know?”

“Senator Darling died from spontaneous human combustion. He’s the sixth case this year, and there is speculation that this is terrorism.”

“That’s true. Thus far we have been able to identify thirty-three possible cases of spontaneous human combustion since 1998. There may be others we don’t know about. We know of a couple in Russia, a couple in the Middle East and one in Hong Kong. Do you have any preliminary thoughts?”

Otto spread his hands. “Only that it takes an enormous amount of energy to consume a human body down to ash. A modern crematorium must generate 1,700 degrees for three hours. These ‘spontaneous’ combustions occur in a matter of minutes. I’ll need a physics guy to run simulations.”

“That’s Gus,” Barnett said.

“Gus was instrumental in the development of the Army’s long-range microwave weapon,” Billups said.

“Dossiers on all the victims.”

“In your computer,” Billups said. “We have video on two of the combustions. They’re disturbing. Anything you need you let us know. You’re being comped, by the way. Where are you staying?”

“Best Western up the street.”

“Save all your receipts.” Billups opened his top desk drawer and took out a small gray phone, which he passed to Otto. It looked like a compact. “This is called an Ocelot. Beryllium powered. You can send and receive from anywhere on earth without being traced or eavesdropped. We call them Ocelots because they use some kind of oscillating signal. This is your phone. Mine, Lon’s and Gus’ numbers have been preprogrammed. It cannot be tracked. So don’t lose it. This will all go smoother if you’re a federal agent, so if you don’t mind, please stand.”

Otto stood. Billups produced a Bible from his drawer and came around the desk. He set the Bible on the desk as he faced Otto. “Please place your hand on the Bible.”

Otto did so, raising the other.

Billups held up a laminated eight by ten card. “Please recite the Oath of Office.”

“I, Otto White, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.”

Billups held out his hand again. “Congratulations Agent White.”

Barnett rose, shook Otto’s hand and slapped him on the back. “Welcome to the shop.”

Billups reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a black leather badge holder bearing the bright gold shield-shaped badge with an eagle on top. Agent #32,677. Otto slipped it into his inside jacket pocket.

“Agent Barnett will take you through credentials, get you squared up. Did you bring a weapon?”

“I have one locked in the safe in my hotel room.”

“I really don’t think you’ll have a need for it.”

“That’s fine.”

“Again, Mr. White, on behalf of the agency and the country, thank you. Lon, will you show him the ropes?”

***

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Beads of Sweat”

Wednesday morning.

Barnett took Otto to a low-ceilinged well-lit room with a half dozen agents at desks. An old-fashioned bulletin board on the wall was crammed with notices including the
Ten Most Wanted
. There was also a list for the
Ten Most Wanted Hackers
. Otto did a double take before he realized it wasn’t his photo on the page. A trim little man with a hair-line mustache took Otto’s photograph against a white background and presented him with a laminated FBI ID card.

Barnett used a magnetic key to unlock the stairwell door. They went down two floors to communications and logistics. In an open office area Barnett led Otto and Steve toward three agents leaning against desks shooting the breeze. The agents turned to face them as they approached.

“Bob, Mel, Gus, this is Otto White, the agent in charge of the Darling investigation.”

They shook hands. The men petted the dog. Gus Alvarez was a slight, balding man with rimless glasses, red suspenders and pale skin. He fell in behind Otto and Barnett as the latter led them out of the room, down the hall, to an office Barnett unlocked with a key card.

Barnett handed the key card to Otto. “This is your office. Gus is your tech support. Anything you need.”

The windowless office contained a desk with two computers, a printer, a shredder, and a two-year-old
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit calendar on the wall. Fluorescent lights in a long hooded fixture cast cool light. The floor was a colorless rug with a couple telltale cigarette burns. A six pack of bottled water in a plastic yoke rested on the desk.

“I’ve loaded everything pertaining to the investigation into your computer,” Alvarez said. “Under documents, the titles are self-explanatory.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Jesus God.”

“Steve’s a little flatulent.”

Alvarez pulled out his wallet and handed Otto his card. “Anything you need call me. You want a laptop?”

“Sure. Steve needs water.”

“I’ll take care of it. I suggest you start by watching the videos. The first is Alan Froines, a senior partner of Atkins, Alley, and Ross with offices on Bedford Street and in Albuquerque. As you know, Atkins, Alley and Ross include Glass Systems among their clients. Glass Systems is a major defense contractor. This video was taken from a surveillance camera in the firm’s underground parking lot in Albuquerque.

“The second is Cap and Trade lobbyist Jody Albrecht (Green Future, LLC,) taken at Harrah’s Casino in Reno, NV. The quality of the tapes is radically different. The Albuquerque tape was taken with old technology. The Harrah’s tape was taken with the new Pelco, which use three exposures with different light values, refined for depth and shadow, and gives a very clear record of what occurred. I have to warn you that the videos are upsetting.

“You will find all the victims under VICTIMS. Each has a link to his file.”

Otto sat at the desk. Steve curled up at his feet. “No women?”

“None of whom we know. It’s just another odd wrinkle. We’re baffled. That’s why they’re paying you the big bucks.”

Riiight,” Otto said tapping the control key. The monitor sprang to life with the home page of the FBI. Two rows of icons marched vertically on the left in military ranks. Short cuts to VICAP, NCIC, and the Terrorist Watch List. The two videos had their own icons: Froines and Albrecht.

“You need me I’ll be right down the hall,” Alvarez said. “I’ll get your dog some water.”

“Thanks, Gus.”

Alvarez left shutting the door behind him. Otto was alone in the belly of the FBI, the only sound a faint hum from the hard-drive, a fluorescent buzz and Steve’s ragged breath. Otto brought up the list of victims. Sixteen of these were confirmed instances of spontaneous human combustion. Seventeen were speculative. Most of the speculatives had occurred overseas. Sen. Darling was the latest addition. Otto began printing out each individual’s history. He would study them in his hotel room.

There were two raps on the door. Otto scooted back on his smooth-gliding chair and opened it. Alvarez came in with a plastic hotel ice bucket filled with water that he set on the floor next to the wall and an Apple laptop, which he handed to Otto.

“I loaded this one too so don’t lose it.”

Steve got up and began to drink. Otto thanked Alvarez. Alvarez left.

Otto turned off the overhead lights. The only illumination came from the computer terminal, a cool blue reflecting the FBI home page. Otto brought up the first video, Allen Froines in Albuquerque.

The screen was black and white, a still life of a parking garage with pale gray pillars and expensive cars. The quality was surprisingly good. A heavyset man wearing a hat and a dark suit and carrying a briefcase entered the picture, back to viewers, from below the camera. A blinged-out Chrysler cruised slowly past and disappeared beneath the camera. Froines stared after it with distaste.

Froines was halfway across the floor to his car when he stopped, dropped the briefcase and took off his hat. Smoke wafted from his ears. He staggered, turning to face the camera, eyes blank, mouth. open, hands groping. Flame burst from his mouth and in a sudden blaze that turned the screen white he went nova. The blaze flared silently for over a minute. It faded revealing the blackened cinder of a man banging into a pillar and collapsing. He continued to burn long after he fell.

The video made Otto queasy. He’d seen too many burn victims, smelled the blackened flesh. The sight brought back those sensations. Once you’ve smelled burning flesh it stays with you. The most disturbing aspect was sometimes the smell of cooked human flesh made him hungry, even as his belly was in full rebellion. Just before Froines burst into flames Otto thought he saw a gleam near his head, like a droplet of flung sweat.

He sat quietly while his equilibrium returned. He sipped bottled water. He cued the second video.

The second video was worse. There were others present. The quality was astonishing, as shot by Laszlo Kovacs. Cap and Trade lobbyist Jody Albrecht (Green Energy, LLC,) a slight, balding man with a diamond ear stud, regarded his cards at a blackjack table. The video was taken from over and behind the dealer. One player sat on Albrecht’s left, two on his right. The men on Albrecht’s right appeared to be Chinese, wearing identical black suits.

Albrecht shoved a stack of chips into the pot then flung his cards across the table striking the dealer. Albrecht looked surprised. He lurched out of his chair, curling in pain. When a security guard stepped up to ask if he was all right he shoved the bigger man away with enough strength to send the guard stumbling into the table. Albrecht spun around like a dog chasing its tail and burst into flame like a Roman candle. He became an indistinct white blaze. Players scrambled for the exits. Three casino personnel were on the scene within seconds emptying fire extinguishers on the writhing figure, to no avail.

Charred remains poked up through the white foam like the contents of a shark’s stomach.

This one had witnesses. There were numerous articles in the Reno press about the incident. The police claimed that Albrecht’s clothes caught fire. Grief and trauma counselors believed it was a mass hallucination. Some believed David Copperfield was behind the stunt.

ALBRECHT’S DEATH RULED A SUICIDE

People simply refused to believe what they’d seen, what the evidence supported. A U of N physics professor explained that Albrecht had made his clothes from a highly flammable synthetic fiber imbued with accelerants. Several of the witnesses claimed to have smelled a chemical aroma around him.

Otto sweated despite the chill temperature. He calmed himself ruffling Steve’s fur. He watched both videos again. He watched the Albrecht video five more times, trying to isolate the incident where a minute gleam appeared in mid-air. Had he really seen it? After much back and forth the best he could do was a bright mote that lasted for a split second.

Like Froines’ flung sweat.

***