A Picture of Guilt (33 page)

“The RF,” I said softly. “On my tape.”

“That was our break.” He motioned to Clarence. “Tell her.”

“It wasn’t just a simple transmitter and receiver. It was a sophisticated packet radio setup. We found gauges that indicate they were monitoring the internal environment of the box and reporting all that data back. Temperature, humidity, pressure, battery strength. Other stuff, too. “

“That was all transmitted back to the Great Lakes Oil building?”

“Yeah. But who knows where it went from there? That’s the beauty of it, see. The scientists monitoring the box—or the guys with their finger on the button—could be anywhere. Chicago, the Middle East, Asia. All you need is a computer and a modem.”

“But we shot out at the cribs over a year ago. Are you telling me the suitcase has been underwater since then?”

“Looks that way,” Clarence said.

“So it was planted before September eleventh.”

LeJeune nodded.

“How did they get it there?”

“Probably brought it in through a port. In a steel container. Then barged it up the Mississippi.”

I felt my eyes grow round. What if Santoro had offloaded it? What kind of irony would that be?

“Where is Dale Reedy?”

“We’re looking for her,” he said. “She won’t get far. We have a team on their way over to Great Lakes.”

I rocked forward and hugged my knees. “I don’t get it. How could no one have found the antenna on the crib before now?”

“There weren’t many people out there, even in summer. And remember, you can’t find something you’re not looking for. They used thin, flexible conduit. Against a surface, it’s almost invisible.” His hands sketched out the path in the air. “They ran it from the pit of the candy striper, up the wall, and out the set of windows above the suspension bridge. The antenna itself was less than six inches long.”

“But you went out there to look around.”

Clarence answered. “We used the van for a couple of hours, then took a field strength meter out on a boat, but we weren’t out there long enough. Looks like the transponder woke itself up every six or eight hours to transmit or receive a signal. No way we would have caught it.”

“But we did,” I said, “because we were shooting out there over ten hours.”

Clarence aimed a finger at me. “Exactly.”

“How did they power it?” I asked, thinking back to my conversation with Hank. “What kind of battery lasts almost two years?”

“A fuel cell battery,” Clarence replied. “They use ’em on the space shuttle. They’re just starting to show up commercially. They convert small amounts of fuel into electrical energy. Make a power source that lasts for years. Somebody built one into the suitcase.”

“How much you want to bet Samir studied electrical and computer engineering at DePaul or IIT?” LeJeune said.

“In between his scuba diving lessons,” I said.

“It was his job.” LeJeune shrugged.

“But how were they able to sink it on the crib without anyone seeing?”

“Before September eleventh, security on the cribs was a joke. Kids used to swim out there, smoke weed, dive off the side at night. And in winter, there were weeks when no one was out there at all.” He smiled thinly. “Hey. You bring everything out on a boat late at night, break into or dive down in the candy striper, hook up the cable and the antenna, then sink the box. No big deal.”

I rocked back on my haunches. “They accounted for every contingency,” I said bitterly.

“Except one. They never expected your videotape would end up near their antenna.”

I shook my head slowly. “It was luck. Blind, stupid luck.”

LeJeune smiled. “My daddy always says luck is ‘Labor Under Correct Knowledge.’”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-THREE

I didn’t want to stay in the van. I wanted to go home to Rachel and Dad. I was just about to ask Clarence to drop me off at my car when LeJeune’s cell buzzed.

He picked up. “Yeah. Got it. Okay.” He turned to us. “The bomb squad finished disabling the device. They replaced it with pipe, and they’re taking it to the lab.”

“Thank God.” I slumped against the side of the van.

LeJeune pocketed his cell. Clarence started to fiddle with a plastic box about the size of a paperback book.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A display unit.”

“What does it display?”

“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.” He glanced at me. “Just a joke,” he said with an edgy laugh. “It’s part of the Doppler direction finder. It helps detect the direction that a radio signal is coming from.”

“Is that metal stop sign on top of the van part of it?”

“Drummer said you were smart.” He nodded. “The Doppler is mostly used by amateur radio buffs—you wouldn’t believe the games they play with it—but it does come in handy in situations like this.”

“But I thought you said it didn’t work the last time.”

“That’s because we weren’t listening long enough, and we didn’t know the frequency. But now…”

“You have the frequency?”

“It was on the transmitter. They were using an out-of-the-way ham radio band. In the 220 megahertz band.” He looked at me over his laptop. “Which was smart.”

“Why?”

“Less chance of being picked up by people like me.” He went back to his toy.

“So what are you doing now? I thought it was all over.”

He looked up. “It is.”

“Then why are you setting up more equipment?”

“Uh—uh…” His voice trailed off, and he threw a glance to LeJeune.

LeJeune’s jaw tightened.

It occurred to me that since his last call, LeJeune was preoccupied and distant. I was willing to chalk it up to his reluctance, maybe his inability to express emotion, but now I wasn’t sure. The danger was over. Why wasn’t he more relieved? Where was the cocky FBI shtick? I reviewed what he said after the call. They took out the bomb, he’d said, and replaced it with pipe.

“They replaced the explosive with pipe,” I said slowly. “Why did they do that, Nick?”

Clarence moved to the front of the van and turned over the engine. We pulled away from the harbor.

“Why did they replace it with pipe?”

After a long pause, LeJeune answered. “So we could drop it back in the crib.”

Why were they doing that? They should have removed the bomb and disconnected the radio. Stripped everything down. Shipped it to the NSA or CIA or whoever did the kind of analysis they needed. I felt a bite of anxiety.

“Why?”

Clarence made a wide turn and headed west.

LeJeune seemed to be choosing his words with care. “We have a line on Reedy. But we still want to flush out Samir.”

“Samir? He’s probably on his way back to Saudi Arabia or Yemen.”

“Not necessarily. He might not know we’ve disabled the device. But even if he does, he might stick around.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ego. It was his thing. He wants to see it through.”

“So why not let Dale Reedy lead you to him after you pick her up?”

“There’s no guarantee she’ll cop to anything when we find her. Remember, the asshole from the World Trade Center—the one who’s on trial now—still isn’t talking.” He went quiet.

I didn’t like the feel of it.

“Ellie,” he said slowly, “we need you to help us out.”

I sat very still. Snow thudded against the windshield, splattering into tiny craters on the glass.

“Samir thinks you know what’s going on. We want him to keep thinking that.”

“You want him to think the bomb is still there?”

“We want to keep the signals going. So we can flush him out. And you’re the best way to make that happen.” He leaned forward, his voice perversely soft and sweet and full of Cajun lilt. “We want you to go back out there. Pretend you’re doing another video for the water district. A sequel.”

My jaw went slack. “That’s crazy. No one goes out there this time of year. He’ll know it’s a setup.”

“Not if the water district announces they’ve decided to finish the video they started last year. And that they’ve rehired you to produce it.”

“Who’s going to believe them?”

“We only need to convince one person.”

I sat in stunned silence. He must have taken it as acquiescence, because he leaned in closer.

“But, even if he doesn’t believe it, he can’t afford to let it happen. He can’t risk any more attention focused on the crib.”

“You want to use me as bait.”

He didn’t answer.

I scuttled away from him. “You want to use me as bait,” I repeated.

He acted as if he hadn’t heard me. “We’re pretty sure we didn’t miss any cycles, and unless he’s got a spotter out there, which is almost impossible, given that the crib is a few miles offshore, he’s not gonna know we intercepted the bomb.

“On the other hand, since we exchanged one material for another, the data values that are transmitted back to them may change.”

My body itched with anger.

“With lead pipe in there instead of a demolition charge, the internal environment—the pressure, the temperature—will be different. That’s going to confuse them. They’ll be anxious. They’ll want to know what’s going on. Obviously, they can’t go out and check it themselves. So the fact that you are going out there will make them crazy.”

“Great. Why don’t I just paint a bull’s-eye on my back?”

“Ellie.” He faced me. “You won’t be in danger. We’ll be waiting for them. Agents. SWAT teams. Coast Guard. Chicago marine police. We’ll be with you every step of the way. If Samir or his people get within fifty yards of you, we’ll pick them off. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I glared at him. “Is there some reason I should believe you?”

He pushed up the brim of his hat. “Is this the same woman with the finely tuned sense of justice? The one who wanted to clear her reputation?”

“That finely tuned sense of justice is tempered by an equally fine-tuned sense of survival.”

An edge crept into his voice. “In that case, you might want to think about your daughter. Or your father. You sure as hell won’t be much use to them dead.”

“You bastard,” I hissed.

He grabbed my shoulders. “Listen to me. Who was on the bridge next to the antenna? Who had interference on their tape? Who saw Reedy’s antenna? Hanjour’s been trying to get those tapes for weeks. Now he’s obviously coming after you. Damn it, Ellie. It’s only a matter of time. He’s panicking, and panic makes people dangerous.”

He let that sink in.

My fingers prodded my forehead. He was right; I had no choice.

He leaned back. “Here’s the deal. We want you to go back out there. Friday morning, day after Thanksgiving. Just before dawn. To scout the location or do whatever it is you do.” He went on. “The thing is, we want you to make sure Dale Reedy knows what you’re doing. E-mail her. Leave her a voice mail. Tell her it’s okay the project got canned. That you got something else. And be sure to tell her what it is.” He looked over. “You know how to do that.”

“I thought she was gone.”

“We’re confident the message will get to the right ears.”

I swallowed. “Then what?”

He explained that the
James J. Versulis
would be waiting for me at the pier. I was to board and proceed out to the crib.

“What if he tries something before that?”

“We’ll have a sniper team in the parking lot. And a SWAT team on the docks. We’ll have men on the tug, too, and a team on the crib.”

“And if they try before Friday?”

“We’re posting men at your house. Starting tonight. Twenty-four seven.”

“No. I have family coming on Thursday. And guests. What if they—”

“You’ll be all right. So will your family. I guarantee it.” A muscle in his jaw pulsed. “Believe me,
chér
, there’s only one person you should be scared of.”

“Who’s that?”

“Me.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I always finish what I start.”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FOUR

Sleet dribbled sideways, then up. Layers of clouds raced across the sky. Clarence inched through the snow and sleet, trying to maintain traction. I stared out the window, catching glimpses of our surroundings.

I shifted uncomfortably. It might be hours before I got back to Dad’s. But maybe that was good. I could just see us on Thursday. The table groaning with food. Dad about to carve the bird. The guests coming up to the house, skirting a gray Plymouth with two sullen men inside.

“Don’t worry, folks,” I’d warble cheerfully. “I’m the target of an FBI sting. An Arab terrorist is after me, he could strike at any time. But the FBI says not to worry, they’ll protect me. You, too. Happy Thanksgiving.”

We’d been driving ten minutes before I realized we were headed in the opposite direction from the marina where my car was parked. When Clarence turned onto the Eisenhower Expressway, I twisted around.

“Where are we going?”

“To my place,” LeJeune said after a beat.

“Excuse me?”

“I live in Oak Park—it’s close. The roads are a mess, and all of us need some shut-eye. Clarence will run you back to your car in the morning.”

“I want to go home.” Back to Rachel and Dad. To the people I love.

“Ellie, it’s after one in the morning. You can’t drive in this mess. We’ll get you home by seven.”

“No. Turn the van around.”

“
Chér
, it doesn’t make—”

“
BRRAAAP
!” A loud noise blared out from the van’s speakers. It sounded like a cross between a foghorn and a wounded goose.

I looked at LeJeune. “What was that?”

LeJeune scowled. “Clarence, what the fuck was that?”

A series of high-pitched tones beeped, like a microwave oven just ending a cycle. Clarence slowed and pulled over. He threw the van into park and crawled back to his laptop.

The same green bull’s-eye was on the screen, but there were more lines, and it looked like new numbers and words had appeared. Clarence studied the monitor, then pressed his lips together. His expression was grim.