Liberty (47 page)
Authors: Stephen Coonts
Hoss Baker left the office and walked the hallway rattling doorknobs, then descended the stairs to the main concourse. Two custodians were polishing the floor there. He strolled through the convention hall, where he found three small crews constructing exhibits for the next convention, one crew taking one down. A man was working on a refrigeration unit in a snack-bar kitchen. One electrician was replacing a faulty circuit breaker in a power distribution room. Hoss knew the electrician, who had served four years in the air force, so he paused to visit for a few minutes.
Mabel Jones was the security officer on the exhibitor's door. Hoss had hired her two years ago. She had ridden the bus north from Georgia as a young woman, looking for a better life. She had two sons, one in the army and one in prison for dealing drugs. Her man, whom she never married, had died of diabetes some years back.
“Who's in here tonight, Mabel?”
“Got the list,” she said. “Pretty quiet, all things considered.”
Baker scanned the clipboard. “Who's this Haddad guy? I didn't see him.”
“Back around the loading dock. Let him in an hour ago. Joe stood by for me.” Joe was the outside guard.
“I'll go back that way. Everything okay?”
“Sure. What're you doin' here tonight? Thought this was your day off.”
“Watched all that crap on television, couldn't stay home. Had to do something.”
He heard the forklift before he saw it, a beeping as it backed up. The ones used inside the building were electric and made little noise except when backing. The sound was coming from a concession supply storage room. Hoss Baker walked that way.
The storage room door was open and the forklift was putting something in there. What the hell? That place was supposed to be locked. And who was driving the forklift?
He approached the forklift as the driver turned his head to back out. He stood watching with his arms crossed. The driver stopped the thing, got off, walked toward Hoss. A man from the Middle East, in his forties, perhaps.
“What the hell you doin'?” Hoss Baker asked, not aggressively.
“Hope you don't mind,” the man said, gesturing toward the storage room. “The door was open and I needed someplace to put my supplies until I can set up my booth.”
Hoss walked toward the open door, the man following. “You aren't supposed to be driving that thing,” he said, gesturing toward the forklift. “Liability. And that room is supposed to be locked up. Thing's full of soda pop and candy bars. People stealâ”
The words died in his throat when he saw the warhead resting on its pallet. Small, round, festooned with wires leading from the detonator contactsâafter watching the FBI videotape from Atlanta this afternoon on television, Hoss Baker instantly recognized it for what it was.
He started to turn, drawing his pistol, when a bullet from a silenced .22 hit him in the head. He fell to the concrete floor, twitching, breathing raggedly.
Hamid Salami Mabruk stepped over to Hoss Baker and shot him again in the head. That shot killed him. He jabbed the pistol into his waistband and grabbed Hoss by the feet. He dragged him over behind a pallet stacked with
cartons of soft drinks. Hoss was a big man; Mabruk was breathing heavily when he got him there.
cartons of soft drinks. Hoss was a big man; Mabruk was breathing heavily when he got him there.
A bad break. So much for a daylight explosion. He would have to get the batteries rigged and the timer wired up, then give himself perhaps an hour to get out of town.
Oh, bad break!
Mabruk jumped onto the forklift and drove it over to the exterior door. There was a stack of empty pallets thereâhe placed one on the forks. He would put all the batteries into the storeroom in a single trip, which would save some time.
He had cut the padlock on the storeroom door. Fortunately he had another in his pickup. Even if security personnel came looking for the dead man, they probably wouldn't try to open the lock until they had searched the entire building. They would be dead before they finished that chore.
The bags of birdshot in the containerâthere was nothing he could do about that. He would padlock the container door, too. The weapon would explode before anyone got around to cutting off the padlock,
Inshallah!
Inshallah!
The technician working the Corrigan unit in the back of the van had rings dangling from his ears and tattoos peeking out the neck of his shirt. Jake Grafton tried not to stare. He hadn't gotten used to the new ways youth had found to declare their independence from convention.
Tommy Carmellini chattered as the van rolled through the streets of downtown Washington and Jake and the technician watched the needles on the meters. After they had circled the Capitol, they drove up Constitution Avenue. “She doesn't work for the SVRâI'm positive about that. Really a great person. You know, I've looked all my life for a woman to share life with, and when I finally meet her, she's got another commitment. Isn't that the way life works?”
“How are you dealing with that?” Jake asked over his
shoulder, without taking his eyes off the gauges. The technician was concentrating, too, ignoring Carmellini's recitation of his romantic woes.
shoulder, without taking his eyes off the gauges. The technician was concentrating, too, ignoring Carmellini's recitation of his romantic woes.
“It's a bummer. At least she isn't married to some other Joe. Or Ivan. But it's frustrating as hell, you know? I never really thought love would bite me. Sure, I've jumped into the sack with my share of broads, but that's all they were, broads. Oh yeah, a few nice girls, too, but when the nice ones figured out I was a thief they didn't want any part of my act. Sure as hell weren't going to take me home to introduce me to Mom and Pop. Anna doesn't care. It's me she loves ⦠.”
He fell silent, thinking about her, about how she hugged him before he left the Graftons' apartment. Maybe she would change her mind about leaving. He weighed that possibility.
“Do you want to drive over to the Pentagon, check around there?” the driver asked.
“No. Go over to Pennsylvania Avenue, work your way north and east, then west. We'll go all the way around the White House.”
The driver acknowledged.
“The D.A. in Baltimore decided not to prosecute,” Jake said to Carmellini, to fill the silence.
Carmellini grunted. He didn't want to discuss that subject, which was ancient history. He had more important matters on his mind.
“Uh-oh,” the technician said. “We got something hot around here.”
Jake was fixated on the gauges.
“Getting hotter ⦠. Real hot. Jesus Christ!”
Jake got off the stool and took two steps forward so that he could look out the window. The van was rolling along in front of the Convention Center.
“Fading now,” the technician said. His name was LeRoy. “We're going away from it.”
“Around the building,” Jake said to the driver. “Circle the Convention Center.” The driver took the next left.
Jake went back to the gauges. After two trips around the building, LeRoy wiped the perspiration from his face with his shirttail. “It's in there, swear to God.”
Jake hunkered down beside the driver as he circled the building one more time. He saw the containers by the loading dock, the gate in the fence that was ajar.
“Stop here,” he said. He went back through the van and got out. He examined the padlock on the gate. Someone had cut it with bolt cutters. The lock lay on the ground. He opened the gate enough to get through, walked over, and inspected the containers. Well, it could be, he decided.
He climbed up on the dock. All three containers were padlocked. He went back to the van and spoke to the driver. “I'll open the gate. You back in. Have LeRoy wand the containers for radiation.”
This operation took three or four minutes. “This one on the end has had something radioactive in it, but it's not hot. Whatever is setting this thing off is inside the building.”
“Tommy, you and the driver help LeRoy rig up the sensor cables. I'll walk around to the vendors' doorâits open, I thinkâand get someone to unlock these doors. We'll run the sensor cables right through these doors.”
“Okay.”
As he walked around the building, Jake Grafton used his cell phone to call Zelda, who was at the office. She answered on the third ring. “Grafton here. I'm downtown at the Convention Center, at the loading dock. We got a real hot reading on the Corrigan unit. Get onto the police traffic camera system. See if you can find some footage of a vehicle that might have been here in the last little while. It may still be around.”
“Want me to call the police or FBI?” Zelda asked.
“Not yet. I'm on my cell. See what you can come up with while we check things out here. Then call me.”
The guard eyed him coldly when he got inside. “May I help you?”
“Name's Grafton.” Jake displayed his CIA ID. “We're
checking this area for radioactivity and got a hit on the meter. I want in through your loading dock.”
checking this area for radioactivity and got a hit on the meter. I want in through your loading dock.”
“I'll have to call my supervisor,” she said. “He's here tonight. I saw him just a little while ago.”
“Do that.”
She used her handheld radio. “Hoss, this is Mabel. Where are you?”
No answer. She tried again.
“We have a man setting up an exhibit back there,” she said to Jake. “My supervisor went to check on him a while ago.” Mabel Jones looked at her watch. “It's been over a half hour,” she added pensively.
Now she was worried. “Radioactivity, you say?”
“That's right. Let's go see if we can find your supervisor. What's his name?”
“Hoss Baker. I'll go look. You stay right here.”
She walked away. Jake let her get ten feet in front of him, then he followed. She didn't seem to notice. She walked quickly.
When they reached the area of the loading dock, she stopped, looked around. If she was surprised Jake was behind her, she didn't show it. “I don't see him,” she said. “Or Haddad, the exhibitor. Hoss came to check on him.”
“Did you know that someone cut the lock off the gate outside, in the loading area?”
“No,” she said, frowning. “Joe is our outside security man, and he hasn't said anything about it.”
“Maybe it just happened. Was anyone out there?”
“Haddad, the exhibitor, parked out there, but I locked the gate behind him.”
“He's gone now. Why don't you look for your boss? Tell me if you find him. Open this door for me before you go.” He gestured at the overhead door nearest the place where he had left the van.
Mabel Jones was plainly worried. The man beside her had a commanding presence, as if he expected her to do as he asked. Yet she was still undecided, unsure of what to do as he punched numbers into his cell phone.
“Me again, Zelda. Call the FBI and the police bomb squad. The Convention Center. Tell them not to waste time. Get Gil Pascal at home and have him go to the office to help you.”
That call made up Mabel's mind. She strode to the overhead door control panel and pushed the button to raise it. Then she went looking for Hoss Baker.
Once they got the cable sensors inside, the search didn't take long. In five minutes Jake was looking at the padlock on the door to the concession storeroom.
Tommy Carmellini bent down, retrieved something from the floor, and held it out for Jake's inspection. “Twenty-two casing.”
Jake examined the small brass shell. He sniffed it. He could still smell powder residue.
“I want a bolt cutter,” Jake said. “There should be one in the van. Hurry.”
Mabel Jones came back with two policemen as Jake was cutting the lock off the storeroom door. Carmellini showed the policemen the shell as Mabel announced, “I can't find Mr. Baker, the security officer.”
Jake opened the door, used a flashlight to examine the storeroom. When he saw the warhead he said to LeRoy, “There it is, by God.”
He found the light switch beside the door and flipped it on. Batteries on a pallet, a timer, the warhead covered with wires ⦠He was inspecting it when he heard Mabel exclaim, “Oh, my God, they killed Hoss!”
One of the policemen stood beside Jake, looking at the warhead. “It's just like the one they found in Atlanta, isn't it?”
“Yep,” Jake said, looking at the timer. Seventeen minutes left. Even as he watched, the seconds were ticking away. “Get on your radio. We need the bomb squad right fucking now.”
The cop made the transmission, talked to the dispatcher. While he was talking Jake turned to look at the
body. The second policeman was searching for a pulse. “Is he dead?”
body. The second policeman was searching for a pulse. “Is he dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Nothing we can do for him. Leave the body. You and your partner take Mabel and go to the exhibitors' door. The FBI and bomb squad are on their way. If you can get them on the radio, have them come into the loading dock area. If they come to the exhibitors' entrance, bring them here the instant they arrive. Go!”
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