Guilty Minds (27 page)

T
his is the book you wanted, right?” Merlin said. “
The 48 Laws of Power
?” He pulled an orange hardcover from a plastic Barnes & Noble bag out of one of the duffel bags and set it on the dining table. Next to it he placed a small True Value hardware bag. “Razor blade and glue,” he announced.

The book was a remainder, but it was a hardcover, which was the important thing. It had to be a hardcover book. “That’s the one.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“Never read it,” I said, absently. “It just seems plausible, and it’s thick enough.” I opened the book to the title page and scrawled, in loopy handwriting,

Contract on the way—meanwhile enjoy this.

XOXO
Ellen.

It looked like a woman’s handwriting, or close enough. Then I opened the razor blades’ packaging and slid out one blade from the dispenser.

Dorothy looked at what I was doing and laughed. “Heller, you son of a bitch,” she said.

—

We got to the big post office on Mass Avenue, next to Union Station, shortly before seven. Just in time to send off the package via overnight express mail.

In the car on the way back to the hotel, I sniffed the air and said, “You started smoking again.”

“Couple days ago,” Merlin said. “I feel lousy about it. Don’t give me shit.”

“Stressed?”

“I don’t know. Nick, I gotta be on an FBI or DHS list somewhere, buying all this junk.”

“You’re nobody if you’re not on a Do Not Fly list.”

“Yeah. Uh, are you going to fill me in on what exactly you’re planning?”

It was a reasonable question, but there was no quick explanation. I didn’t finish outlining for him the operation I had in mind until we were back at the hotel suite.

“You don’t even know for sure what to expect—what this guy Vogel’s house is like, what kind of security precautions he takes. I mean, we’re flying blind here.”

“Not really. I know people like Vogel. So do you. I know what someone like Vogel would do. Which reminds me.”

I took out my phone and texted Vogel, using that Disappearing Ink app:

Wrapping up business. Flying back to Boston tomorrow morning. How is Mandy?

The answer came thirty seconds later:

Alive.

I wrote back:

Want proof of life.

The reply took almost five minutes. It was a picture of Mandy, seated. Her eyes open, obviously alive. Looking exhausted and terrified. There was a cut on her cheek. Her hands were at her side, probably bound. I couldn’t tell where she was. Some kind of garage, maybe.

Then the picture disappeared.

M
erlin drove home, and Dorothy and I talked for a while. We ordered some room service—a club sandwich for me, a Cobb salad for her. She picked at her salad; she didn’t seem hungry. She had a glass of white wine, and I had a beer.

“Why are you so sure Vogel’s going to keep Mandy alive?” she said.

“She’s only leverage if she’s alive.”

“But for how long? Do we have till tomorrow?”

“He’s planning on at least that long. Until I return to Boston, he said.”

“Where do you think they’re keeping her?”

“I don’t know. It looked like she was sitting in a garage of some kind. There were garden tools hanging on the wall behind her.”

“What you’re planning for tomorrow—it’s risky.”

“No question.”

“Are you sure it’s . . . a good idea?”

“Vogel’s the sort of guy who responds only to overwhelming force.”

She looked into her wineglass for a few seconds, then set it down. “Can we speak frankly?”

I smiled. “Do you ever do anything else?”

“As long as I’ve known you, you’ve never been what I’d call cautious. You always seem to be willing to go to the very edge.”

“Only when I have to. I don’t play games, and I don’t take chances when I don’t need to.”

She sipped from her wineglass, and I took a bite of my sandwich. “From where I sit, it doesn’t look that way. You always seem to be pushing. Almost asking for trouble. I’m asking you to think twice, this time. Take some precautions.”

“I always do.”

She sighed. “You’re not—afraid?”

“Of course I am. George Patton—I know, he was a jerk, but the guy was brilliant—said, ‘I’ve never seen a brave man. All men are frightened—the smarter they are, the more frightened.’”

“These guys are ruthless, Nick. Just be careful tomorrow. You don’t know what you’re facing.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t.”

We both went to bed early. We had a long day ahead of us.

I was exhausted yet unable to fall asleep. I tossed and turned and thought about the next day’s plans, rehearsing them, looking for holes. Then I tried to clear my mind. I breathed in and out. I stared at the clock on the bedside table.

My restless mind didn’t give up the struggle until maybe two in the morning.

I
got up early—I’d barely slept, actually—but Dorothy was already up, drinking room service coffee and staring at her computer screen.

“Where’s the package?” I asked her. I knew she’d be tracking it.

She nodded. “Looks like it’s in some sort of central sorting facility in DC. Any more messages from Vogel?”

“Not yet.” My head was pounding, and my eyelids felt like they were made of sandpaper. I’d been too keyed up to sleep. I looked at the remains of our dinner, still on the dining table, with disgust. My stomach was tight.

“When’s Merlin coming back?” she said.

“I’m meeting him at his place, in Dunkirk. He’s got a garage where we can work.”

I checked my e-mail and found a message from Merlin, listing which of the items from what he called the “Nick Heller scavenger hunt” he’d found, and which he hadn’t. He’d struck out on two of the most important things, the tranquilizer rifle and the electric blasting caps.

He’d e-mailed me before five o’clock, so I knew he was up. I called him.

“Morning,” I said. “You feeling energized today?”

“Not yet. Mostly hungover. Too much Scotch last night.”

“I need you battle-ready.”

“I’ll be okay after I’ve had some more coffee. I went through half a pack of cigarettes last night.”

“You nervous about today?”

“I’m . . . out of practice. I do technical surveillance now, you know? It’s tame stuff. Compared.”

“You’re not trying to worm out of this, are you?”

“I’ll be there. For you. For a brother.”

“I appreciate it. It’ll be fine. Can’t find a tranquilizer gun?”

“Incredibly hard to find, Nick. They sure don’t sell them at Cabela’s. I mean, they’re sold to licensed veterinarians and wildlife rangers and zookeepers and whatever. Give me a couple of days and I can get one, but not this morning.”

“Couple of Tasers, then. Police-grade if you can get it.”

“No problem. I have a contact for blasting caps, now. A buddy just called me back. He can get us two.”

“Two’s enough.”

—

I drove out to Maryland, leaving Dorothy behind in the hotel suite, stationed at her laptop. On the way I stopped at a Wells Fargo branch and withdrew a lot of cash.

Merlin lived in a small bungalow in a development in Dunkirk, Maryland, not far from the Patuxent River. He’d turned his garage into a workspace and parked his Honda in the driveway. The garage was immaculate, with a couple of workbenches and tools hanging neatly on pegboard mounted on the walls.

He’d already done some of the hard work. He’d popped open a
couple of cheap cell phones and had fished out the wiring. Each phone was now connected by electrical wire to a blasting cap.

“Nice work,” I said. On the workbench next to the blasting caps were two cylinders wrapped in brown paper on which was printed:
HIGH EXPLOSIVE
.
DANGEROUS. 8 OZ. DYNAMITE.
CORPS OF ENGINEERS, U
S ARMY.
A couple of red gasoline jugs sat on the floor nearby.

“Where’d you get the dynamite?”

“I drove out to the Aberdeen Proving Ground. Pat Keegan still teaches there.”

“Keegan. Of course. I should have thought of him. What about the stingray?”

“Hold on. It’s in my car.”

He returned with a piece of equipment—surprisingly old-fashioned-looking given how extremely sophisticated it was—the size of a small suitcase. It was white, with switches and LED lights and indicator dials on the front.

“Merlin,” I said, “you got it! How?”

“Calvert County sheriff’s office. They didn’t need it today, so it’s going ‘missing’ for a few hours.”

“You’re amazing.”

“Nah. A guy there owes me a lot of favors, that’s all.”

The stingray was a powerful surveillance tool used by government agencies and law enforcement. But its existence is generally kept secret. Basically, it’s a cell phone–tracking device that acts like a cell tower. It puts out a signal stronger than nearby cell towers, forcing mobile phones or devices to connect to it first, instead of to a real tower. So it allows you to capture cell numbers in the vicinity, and numbers dialed, and other data. The US Marshal’s service uses stingrays in planes, flying over areas where they suspect a fugitive is hiding; they can nab their fugitive based
on his cell phone number. It essentially lets law enforcement track your location without a warrant. It’s real Big Brother stuff.

We fell silent for a moment, and then Merlin said, “Do we even know where his house is yet?”

My cell phone rang. “Maybe,” I said.

It was Dorothy. “The package is in Thurmont.”

“At the post office?”

“Right.”

“That’s early. Let me know when it moves again.”

I ended the call and said, “Not yet. We will.”

Working quietly, we assembled the components of two bombs, each in a cheap nylon duffel bag that Merlin had lying around.

Shortly after eleven-thirty, my cell phone rang again.

“It’s moving,” Dorothy said.

“Out of the post office?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” I said to Merlin. “It’s time to get going.”

“Can I smoke in your car?”

“Afraid not.”

“Vape?”

“Rather not.”

“Then hold on. I’m gonna need a cigarette first.”

T
he night before, Tom Vogel had gotten a call from Ellen Wiley.

Her stalker problem was worse. Now her stalker had tried to break into her Georgetown house. She wanted to hire the Centurions to start immediately. Not in a week. Tomorrow.

He e-mailed her a contract, which she promised to sign and express mail back to him, along with a check. He’d given her a PO box. He was expecting the package.

He was not expecting what was inside.

Not a signed contract and a check, but a gift. A book Ellen thought he’d enjoy.

A hardcover whose spine was about an inch and a half thick. A book that might raise eyebrows but not provoke suspicion.

Because glued into its spine, and therefore hidden, was a small round flat disc no bigger than a silver dollar. A battery-operated GPS tracking device. Whose movements Dorothy could follow on her iPad.

I’d considered staking out the post office instead, waiting for someone to unlock his PO box, and then follow him. Simpler, maybe. But
these people were hyper-vigilant. Tailing people like this would be like putting a leash on a snake. It’s just going to slip you.

No, this way was more sophisticated. I figured that Vogel wouldn’t go to the post office himself. He’d send an underling. And the underling wouldn’t open the package. He’d bring it right to Vogel.

But then Vogel, expecting a signed contract and a check, would pull out the book. A gift from Ellen Wiley. He’d consider it strange: idiosyncratic, but not alarming.

And if my intelligence was right, Vogel didn’t keep a regular office. He lived in a compound. The express mail package would be brought right to his home. The tracker would tell us precisely where it was.

And then I was going to pay him a visit.

—

Dorothy called back about ten minutes later. “The package is leaving the town of Thurmont and heading to Gorham, the next town over.” I hadn’t even heard of these Maryland towns.

“Okay,” I said. “Merlin and I have to go make a pickup. Keep updating me.”

“On it.”

She called back a few minutes later, when Merlin and I were driving in the Chrysler. “It’s stopped moving.”

“Where?”

“I have the location on Google Earth. It’s pretty much what you expected—a large house surrounded by woods, fenced in.”

“How many buildings?”

“Two. One small one that looks like a garage. Then the main compound.”

“What about the entry?”

“As far as I can tell, just a gate.”

“No booth?”

“Nothing that elaborate.”

“Okay. Long driveway?”

“More than a driveway. A long road that winds through the woods and then broadens out to a clearing, where the house is.”

“You have the street address. Can you get any info on the house from the county, or the town? Maybe even blueprints?”

“Give me five minutes. I’ll call you back.”

—

Merlin drummed his fingers on the dashboard as I drove. He was wracked with nervous energy. I could tell he wanted another smoke.

I said to him, “You know where we’re going?”

“Yup. You got the cash, right?”

“Got it.”

“You have the address now?”

“We do.”

“So it worked, the tracker.”

“Apparently.”

“What if he discovers it?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen. He’ll see it’s a book, open it, see the inscription, probably be a little baffled and a little annoyed.”

“And suspicious?”

“Not likely.”

“If he does? If he rips open the binding and finds where you glued the tracker?”

I shrugged, said nothing.

“Then he’ll be waiting for you. For us.”

“Let’s just hope that doesn’t happen.”

A long silence followed. Then my phone rang: Dorothy.

“No blueprints online with the city or the county,” she said. “But I found something interesting. A couple of building permits issued by the building inspector in Gorham. One was to build an outbuilding, a shed of some kind. The other was for the construction of a safe room.”

“In Vogel’s compound?”

“Right. On the ground floor. The walls are made of steel panels and ballistic-proof composite. It’s got its own generator.”

“Okay. Anything on the security system?”

“Nothing.”

“Can you send me a screenshot of the house?”

“Sure thing.”

I hung up. “All right,” I said to Merlin. “Change of plans.”