Betrayal (13 page)

“Do you remember what I used to do before joining CRT?” Odi asked.

Potchak’s face registered the odd combination of panic and relief. He was wary about being let off the hook. As an avid fisherman, he knew that this was often the last thing that happened before the man who caught you cut off your head. “Yeah, of course. You were with the bomb squad. You shocked us when you requested a transfer to CRT because you were EOD’s golden child.”

Odi did not comment immediately. Instead he walked to the closet and withdrew a tripod and a video camera. He began setting them up as he spoke. “I’ve been fascinated by explosives ever since I got my first firecracker as a kid. Long story short—we don’t have much time—before I was done at Johns Hopkins, that fascination led to PhDs in Chemistry and Biomolecular Engineering. But you know that.
 

“What you don’t know is that I did a lot of research, a lot of tinkering in the lab during graduate school. I even came up with a couple of groundbreaking inventions.” Odi spoke calmly, his tone dispassionate, very matter-of-fact. “The first invention you may have heard about. The trade name is ArmoWrap. It’s a defensive tool, kind of like a fire extinguisher for bombs. The second invention is at the opposite end of the spectrum. It is a devious weapon. I call it Creamer, although since I am the only person on the planet who knows about it, the name has the irrelevance of a tree falling in an empty wood. Anyhow, sparing you the technospeak, Creamer is a bio-reactive explosive.” Odi paused to study Potchak’s face. His expression did not change. The words Bio-reactive explosive had not tipped him off. That was just as well, Odi thought. He wanted to capture Potchak’s initial comprehension on tape.
 

Now that he was done revealing personal information, Odi stood up and turned on the video camera. He pointed it directly at Potchak’s strung-up head while making sure that his own chair was nowhere in the frame. Then he did a test with the microphone to make sure that the oscillating sound filter he had attached over the mike sufficiently altered his voice. Satisfied with the arrangement, Odi hit the record button and continued where he left off. “Aside from a slightly oily sheen, my creamer looks like ordinary coffee creamer. Thus the name. Mix it in equal parts with Half-n-Half, add a little artificial flavoring, and it tastes that way too.”

Odi licked his lips as he watched Potchak’s face contort into a mask of terror. Then he continued in the same, soft pedagogical monotone. “Creamer is a stable, inert liquid until it is placed in an environment with a low pH—like your stomach for instance. Once swallowed, the hydrochloric acid in your stomach catalyzes radical hemophilic adhesion. In other words, the liquid explosive draws together as though magnetized to form an ever-denser solid. It is kind of like milk curdling, but in the extreme.” Odi stood up, careful to keep out of the video, and began to pace as he continued the lesson with the aid of his hands. “Once the Creamer compacts sufficiently, it begins to sweat a polymer. That polymer further interacts with the hydrochloric acid, encasing the explosive in a tough shell. Picture a loaf of baking bread, only with a crust as tough as iron. And that’s only the half of it. To continue the analogy, the yeast in the batter continues to rise long after the solid crust forms, increasing the pressure within that shell. As the pressure of that confined space rises, so does the heat—that’s the first law of thermodynamics, you may recall. The pressure keeps building and the temperature keeps rising until it reaches one-hundred-ten degrees centigrade. That’s the tipping point where the internal pressure becomes too great for the shell to withstand. Wanna guess what happens then?”

Potchak mouthed, “It explodes,” but no sound came out.

“That’s right. The explosive self-detonates.”

Odi smiled at Potchak. “The whole reaction takes about thirty minutes in pigs. As for humans, well, you’ll be the first to know.”

Whatever psychological ploy Potchak had been planning as he stood there on tiptoe through the night, a revelation like this had not factored into the equation. He began to shake.

“We’ll know that you have about ten minutes left when your breathing becomes rapid and shallow and your lips and fingernails begin turning blue. That’s on account of the polymer the explosive sweats—it’s extremely destructive to hemoglobin.”

Potchak was writhing like a worm on a hook, Odi noted with satisfaction. When Odi finished speaking, Potchak made a visible effort to bring his body under control.

Odi waited.

When the condemned man finally opened his mouth again, his voice was surprisingly stable. “Is there an antidote?”

Odi cocked his head to the side and winked. “Who asked you to do it?”

Chapter 20

The Mall, Washington, D.C.

W
ILEY
STUDIED
HIS
own reflection in the black rain-streaked granite as he walked the length of the Vietnam Memorial. He was not satisfied with the countenance staring back. It did not look tough enough for the meeting he was headed for. Nor did it exude his usual fire. He held out his right arm as he approached the memorial’s western end and ran his fingers along the cold chiseled surface, attempting to leach courage from the hallowed stone.

“You called,” Stuart said, appearing beneath Wiley’s umbrella as if conjured from the wind.

Wiley stopped walking and turned toward his campaign manager, angling his body to force Stuart to face into the gusting drizzle. “I know it was you. Cassi’s accident. I don’t know how you did it—and I probably never will—but I know it was you.”

Stuart removed his misted silver spectacles once Wiley had finished. He stared back at him eyeball-to-eyeball with those cold reptilian eyes. “If you know so much, then you’re also aware that her misfortune is your blessing. The albatross has been blown off your neck. With Cassi out of the picture, Carver doesn’t have a single objection to inviting you to join his ticket. I know. I asked. I have also been getting great traction off Fitzpatrick’s Prophet quote. The media are eating it up. Everything is coming together for the Antiterrorist Czar. And I’m glad you know whom to thank.”

Wiley felt conflicting emotions churn. He was thrilled with the career news but was not yet done lashing out. “What if I was to tell you that I’m sticking with her?”

Stuart scoffed. “I’d say that you might as well keep walking—right past the Lincoln Memorial and into the Potomac. After blackmailing her boss, breaking protocol, and costing two children their lives, your girlfriend is political cyanide.”

During the half-second it took Wiley to compose his barbed retort, his cell phone began to ring. He knew by the tone that it was Carl Jenkins, his Deputy Director for Operations and second in command. He hated to see Stuart saved by the bell, but he had to take the call. “Good evening, Carl.”

“I’m calling with bad news, Wiley. Former CRT Commander Potchak is dead.”
 

Wiley felt his stomach shrink to the size of a walnut. “Potchak is dead?” He repeated the words back to Carl while activating the cellphone’s speaker for Stuart’s benefit. “He just retired to work for ASIS last Friday. That can hardly be a coincidence. What do you know?”

“ASIS called us when Potchak failed to show up for his first day of work this morning, thinking that maybe old habits were hard to break and he’d driven to Quantico instead. He didn’t, of course. He was not at home or reachable on his mobile phone, so Agent Dobrinovitch drove out to his hunting cabin. It’s way out in rural Virginia on Lake Maroo.”

“I know it.”

“Yes, well, Potchak was there, in his cabin. Or at least that’s what we think.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The remains we found were severely scattered. The victim, who we’re assuming was Potchak for now, was either hit center-of-mass by the equivalent of an antitank weapon or he was forced to swallow something akin to a hand grenade.”

Wiley stared blankly at the leaden clouds streaking across the sky, trying to grasp the implications. Finally he asked, “Was there anything like a Mafia signature in the room? A dead fish, a horse’s head, a black spot, a white rose … ?”

“If there was, it wasn’t prominently displayed. At the time of the explosion, however, Potchak had a noose about his neck. Maybe that’s the same thing. I’ll run the MO past Edwards in Organized Crime.”

“I take it we don’t have any leads on the killer yet?”

“Actually we do. We know from splatter voids on the wall and footprints that a six-foot-one male with an athletic build and size eleven shoes was present with Potchak in the room. He arrived and left on a cross-country motorcycle. Our preliminary analysis indicates that he was not injured in the blast, although he must have been drenched in Potchak juice. We’ll know for certain once we get the blood-work back.”

“No other clues to the killer’s identity?”
 

“None. All the windows and doors were left open, and it was a windy, rainy weekend, so we’ve got a highly contaminated scene. The place was wiped clean of prints. Osborn says the guy was a pro so forensics is not expecting much.”

“Thank you for giving it to me straight.”

“There’s one other thing,” Jenkins said. “The killer was using a tripod for something. We’re guessing it was either to support the weapon or to capture the explosion on video. Winslow in Behavioral Sciences says that in the latter case there’s even money that the killer will send us a copy as a gauntlet of sorts—either in the mail or over the web.”

Wiley considered that. “As long as we don’t see it on the news first.”

“There’s no way any public network could show this.”

Wiley cringed. “Keep me posted on every significant development, as soon as you have it, day or night. The word on the street needs to be clear: the FBI takes care of its own.”

“Of course.”

Wiley closed the clamshell phone with a trembling hand and studied Stuart. They were obviously thinking the same thing. One way or another, this was related to Wiley’s campaign. Not only was someone aware of their conspiracy, but he was out to stop it, to stop them. Potchak’s death might be just the beginning.

Chapter 21

Alexandria, Virginia

C
ASSI
OPENED
HER
eyes to an unfamiliar face: mid-forties female, thin to borderline-gaunt, scraggly black hair, boring brown eyes, white smock. She was looking at either a mortician’s assistant or an unfortunate nurse. “What happened?”

The nurse bent over and used icy fingers to pry her left eye further open. “Follow my flashlight,” she said, moving the light back and forth, up and down.

“What happened, Gretchen?” Cassi repeated, once her eyes had recovered enough to read the nurse’s nametag.”

“You were in an explosion. You suffered multiple abrasions and a serious blow to the back of your head, but—”

The hallway scene came back in a flash the moment Gretchen said explosion. “What about the children?” Cassi interrupted, trying to sit up.

Gretchen pushed her firmly back and then shook her index finger in silent warning. She was not to move. “I can’t discuss other patients.”

Cassi was about to make the request in an official capacity when she was struck by another thought and her whole body went cold. “What about my baby?”

Gretchen gave a compassionate frown and shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear. You miscarried.”

As Cassi’s head reeled, Gretchen placed one cold hand on her arm while reaching for the IV with the other. Using her thumb to crank up the sedative drip, she said, “You need to get your rest.”

~ ~ ~

Cassi drifted back into consciousness as a nurse rolled a noisy patient past her room. Her throat felt like sandpaper and she could swear that someone had used her head to break bricks while she was asleep. She opened her eyes to see that Gretchen was there, poised like a sentry. In reaction to Cassi’s movement, Gretchen shoved a straw into her mouth. Cassi drew in a sip of warm water and her throat immediately felt a little better. She spent the next thirty seconds clearing her head and draining the cup.

“Is it true? Is my baby really gone?”