One Dog Night (34 page)

“How do you know that?”

“One of the people on Loney’s phone records is a guy named Jason Young. He’s a customs official in Galveston. It all fits; they must be blackmailing Young to get him to do something for them. And that something is to pave the way for this shipment to get on a boat and out of the country.”

“I’m on it.”

“You want to know who you’re looking for?” I ask.

“Who’s that?”

“Unless I’m wrong, it’s Alex Bauer.”

“He’s dead,” Mulcahy points out.

“He might not be as dead as we think.”

I check the files again, and then call Sam to update him.

“We’re only about a half hour from Galveston,” he says. “But we’re going to die before we get there. Marcus is driving about four hundred miles an hour.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re ahead of Bauer,” I say. “And you both might be ahead of the FBI. Head for the port; I was there a bunch of years ago; I think there’s one main road in.”

“What are we looking for?”

“A large truck with Bauer in it.”

“And if we see it?”

“Stop it.”

“How the hell are we going to do that?” he asks.

“Marcus will figure it out.”

I call Laurie and brief her on what’s going on. She’s heading in that direction as well, but is pretty far behind. Whatever is going to happen will take place well before she gets there.

“It’ll be okay. They’ll have agents all over that place.”

“I know, but Bauer has been outsmarting everybody all along. Once he gets the material off the truck, there’s no telling where it could go.”

“Andy, what makes you think Bauer’s alive?”

“Steven Lockman made two secret trips to Philadelphia on the way back from Texas. According to his wife, he had been worried about money, with a baby on the way, and felt he was underpaid. My guess is he felt that if he reported to Milgram what he found, all he would have gotten would have been a pat on the back.”

“But if he sold the information to a competitor like Bauer, he would get a lot more,” she says.

“He thought it would make him rich, but it made him dead.”

“But how does that mean Bauer is alive?” she asks. “Maybe his partners in this killed him.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. Bauer has been lying to us all along, and in the process trying to find out what we know. Faking his death would make sense; after whatever this is goes down, no one would be looking for him.”

It’s incredibly frustrating sitting in New Jersey and wondering what is happening all those miles from here. For me the only thing worse than being far away when friends are in danger would be to be in danger myself.

As soon as I put the phone down it rings. I pick it up, assuming that it’s Mulcahy, or Sam, or someone that’s a part of the exploding events in Texas.

It isn’t. It’s Rita Gordon, the court clerk. “Andy, you need to be in court at ten
A.M.
tomorrow morning.”

“Why?” I ask, though I know the answer.

“There’s a verdict.”

Mulcahy’s first call was to the Houston bureau, the office closest to Galveston.

It was quickly put through to the bureau director, Ryan Van Pelt, who fortunately was in his office. The call was taken by Gary Summers, who served as Van Pelt’s executive assistant.

Mulcahy explained the urgent nature of the call to Summers, who quickly grasped the situation and put the call straight through to his boss.

It look less than sixty additional seconds for Mulcahy to make the situation clear to Van Pelt, who promised to get every agent under his command into the field, and in this case the field meant the Galveston port.

There are emergency procedures in place at every bureau office, and the moment Van Pelt got off the phone he set them into action. Everything worked smoothly and according to plan, and within ten minutes every agent within range was on the way to Galveston.

Van Pelt then notified his contact at the Department of Defense that assistance might be needed, and that he would keep them apprised of developments. After that, he left the office to go down and personally supervise the operation in Galveston.

He issued instructions with Summers to patch all calls regarding this crisis to him in the field, which Summers promised to do.

Once Van Pelt was out the door, Summers took out his cell phone and dialed a number. When the connection was made, he simply said, “They know.”

“I understand,” said Alex Bauer.

The road narrowed into two lanes in each direction, causing traffic to slow down.

Marcus continued driving for another half mile, during which he got a look at what was up ahead. There were a series of exits, and different ways Bauer could go, all of which led to various areas of the port. They would have to be incredibly lucky to find him.

Instead, he made a U-turn and drove back to the place where the road narrowed.

“Where the hell are you going?” asked Sam.

Marcus didn’t answer, which did not come as much of a surprise to Sam, since he had said maybe ten words in two days. When he reached the area where the road narrowed, he made another U-turn and pulled over, waiting along the side of the road in the direction heading to the port.

“You know Bauer?” Marcus asked.

“I don’t know him; I mean, I’ve never met the guy. But I’ve seen his picture; I’d recognize him.”

Marcus nodded and pulled back on to the road, in the right-hand lane. He then slowed to a stop and shut the car off. Before Sam could waste his time by asking what was happening, Marcus got out of the car, went to the front, and lifted the hood. He then propped the hood so that it would stay open, and got back in the car. To anyone coming along, it would look like the car broke down with mechanical trouble.

Marcus touched the rearview mirror, and said, “Watch.”

This time Sam caught on. Their “stalled” car in the right-hand lane would cause the traffic to significantly slow down. Sam could adjust his mirror to see the drivers of oncoming trucks, rather than turning around and possibly tipping Bauer off.

They waited for almost fifteen minutes, and a few times Sam thought he saw Bauer, only to change his mind. “I can’t be positive which one is him, you know? I’m afraid we could be letting him go by.”

“Watch,” Marcus said.

Finally Sam saw a man that he was positive was Bauer driving a large truck. “That’s him,” Sam said. “I’m sure of it.”

Marcus nodded, waited for the truck to clear them and drive forward, then got out and closed the hood. He then proceeded to drive quickly, making up the ground between themselves and Bauer’s truck.

They followed from a safe distance, watching as Bauer turned left, a surprise since it seemed away from the port area. And then, up ahead, they saw why.

“Andy, he’s going to an airfield!” Sam yelled. “He’s not going to the port!”

“Where are you?” I ask. I’m already sick from the realization that I’ve sent the FBI to the wrong place.

“We’re about ten miles north of Galveston. There’s what looks like a private airfield up ahead, and we’re following Bauer toward it. I’m sure that’s where he’s going.”

“Do you know the name of the airfield?”

“No, we haven’t seen one yet.”

“Can you tell me more about the location?”

“We got off the road at Deerfield. We just passed a Denny’s … I’m sorry, I just don’t know where we are.” The panic in his voice is evident.

My guess is that somehow Bauer found out the FBI was waiting for him. Otherwise he would not have driven all the way to Galveston; he would have had a plane waiting much closer to the mine. His initial plan was to leave by boat, but the FBI’s actions caused him to switch.

“Okay, here’s what we need to do,” I say. “I’m going to call the FBI and tell them what you’ve told me. You keep watching Bauer. Be careful, Sam, but I have to tell you, whatever Bauer is hauling cannot be allowed to get on a plane.”

“Got it.”

“Sam, let Marcus take the lead on this.”

I get off and call Mulcahy. “He’s not going to the Galveston port,” I say.

“Don’t shit me, Carpenter. “I’ve got twenty agents there now, with two choppers on the way.”

“The choppers you can use,” I say, and tell him what Sam told me.

He’s not satisfied. “An airfield near a Denny’s? I’ve been looking at maps; you know how many airfields there are in south Texas? You’ve got interns working for those big oil companies that make enough to fly their own planes. There are almost as many airfields as there are Denny’s.”

“So get fighter jets up in the air; shoot the planes down once you identify them.”

“Carpenter, with what he’ll have on board, we can’t afford to shoot it down.”

The automatic private gate to the airfield opened as the truck pulled up.

Sam and Marcus could see that it was prearranged; they were waiting for Bauer to arrive. The gate then closed behind the truck, leaving them outside.

Up ahead on the tarmac were two medium-sized jets. Sam knew absolutely nothing about aircraft, but to him they looked like they could carry maybe seventy-five passengers each. If they were hollowed out, they could handle a lot of cargo.

The backs of the planes seemed to be open, an indication that they were specially designed to haul large items. Next to the jets were large machines that looked like cranes. There was no doubt in Sam’s mind that they were there to transfer the cargo on to the plane.

Bauer pulled up next to the planes, and two men ran up to help him. There was no way to tell whether they were also the pilots, but no one else seemed to be around. Bauer opened the back of the truck and climbed on, while the other two men quickly started moving the machines into position.

“Marcus, we can’t let them transfer that stuff on to the plane. I’m going to see if I can open the gate.”

Sam got out of the car and started running toward the gate, but as he did he sensed motion behind him. He turned to see that Marcus was driving the car toward the gate at high speed.

Marcus hit the gate at seventy miles an hour, and it was no contest. The gate was obliterated, and Marcus continued driving out to the airplanes. The two men looked up, shocked at the noise of the gate getting smashed, and the car barreling down on them.

Marcus pulled the car to a screeching halt, crashing into the machines in the process. He was out of the car and on the men in an instant. If there were twelve of them it would not have been a fair fight; two of them was a total mismatch.

It took Marcus a total of two punches to end it, leaving the men unconscious on the asphalt. He then climbed up into the relative darkness of the truck to go after Bauer.

But in the process of disposing of the two men, Marcus did not realize that Bauer had exited the truck from the front, and had come up behind him.

He heard the click of the gun being cocked, and whirled. It was too late to do anything before the shot was fired, but just in time to watch Bauer blown sideways by the blast, into the wheel of the plane.

And there was Sam, about twenty feet away, unable to take his eyes off of Bauer. “I shot him,” he said, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “I really shot him.”

“Yuh,” said Marcus.

I learn what happened from a variety of sources.

First is Sam, but all I can really get him to say is, “I shot him, Andy. He’s dead. I shot him, and he’s dead.” After a few rounds of that I’m so desperate for information that I ask him to put Marcus on the phone. That doesn’t work out so well.

Then Laurie calls. She had arrived on the scene well after it happened, but had gotten the lay of the land rather well. She describes what happened, and how the FBI and Homeland Security agents are now all over the airfield. There are also decontamination experts on hand, but no one seems terribly worried about that, as the canisters seem secure.

By the time she calls, Sam and Marcus are being questioned and debriefed by agents. Good luck with that.

I also get some information from the cable news networks, though they don’t really add much to the picture. They know that there was a shootout at the airfield, and that Homeland Security was called in.

No mention is made of any dangerous cargo, and more ominously, no mention is made of any possible connection to the Galloway case.

I have spent the three hours since I found out that Sam and Marcus were okay and Bauer was dead thinking about how I can make this impact Noah’s situation. My only possible way to do that is through Mulcahy, to have him again go to De Luca, this time armed with the weight of the night’s events.

I try him a bunch of times, but he doesn’t answer the call, probably because he knows it’s me. He finally calls me back at one-thirty in the morning, though he doesn’t wake me. He could call at any hour tonight and not wake me.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” I say. “I want to know what happened.”

“You already know what happened,” he says.

“What was the cargo?”

“That’s pretty much the only thing I’ll tell you, because you were right. But I need your word you won’t repeat it.”

“You’ve got it,” I say. “Uranium?”

“Uranium. But not the normal kind. Not the kind seen anywhere before.”

“What kind is it?”

“More than ninety-nine percent of uranium taken out of the ground is called uranium 238. It has within it a tiny amount, less than half of one percent, of uranium 235, and that’s the part that’s needed to make a nuclear weapon, at least a basic kind. If you have enough 235, the enrichment process is easy.”

“And this uranium contained a high level of 235?”

“The current estimate is twenty-two percent. It’s never been seen before, and I hope it’s never seen again. Whoever got their hands on this would in effect be getting their hands on the bomb.”

“Who was trying to get it?”

“That’s on a need-to-know, and you are not close to having that need. But I do want to thank you. You were right about an awful lot, and you saved a lot of lives today.”

“Great,” I say, “now all you need to save is one. Noah Galloway’s.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to talk to De Luca.”

“I’ve seen that movie,” he says.

“Then see it again. Or have someone above you see it. But get De Luca to order a directed verdict of acquittal before the jury convicts him tomorrow morning.”