Shadow Dragon (17 page)

CHAPTER 37

Maryland

A cold drizzle fell on Baltimore. Splashing through the puddles in the rutted roadway, a black Lincoln rolled slowly past row after row of warehouses along the waterfront. The Lincoln’s brilliantly polished surface and mirrored windows reflected the lead-gray color of the sky and the bay, which caused the car to appear more silver than black.

The car slowed and then turned and pulled up to the concrete wall of the loading dock in front of warehouse number thirty-seven. Two closed-circuit cameras mounted innocuously on each corner of the warehouse pivoted toward the car.

A security guard wearing a vinyl rain slicker stepped out from a door to the left of the car. Unlike most contract security employees, old men, or washed-up police officers with big guts hanging over their belts, this one was young and built like a linebacker. He was tall, at least six foot two, with broad shoulders and a thick neck. The small amount of hair that could be seen beneath his hat was cropped short on the nape of his neck and above his ears. He didn’t slouch or waddle or tug on his belt to hike up his pants as he walked toward the car but remained perfectly upright, moving with a self-assured precision learned only in the military.

The driver’s side window slid down. Warm air smelling of cinnamon spilled out. Inside, Nathan nodded at the guard, who bent down to look inside the car.

“Welcome, general,” the guard said with a tip of his hat to the passenger in the backseat. Satisfied, he returned inside the warehouse. Moments later, a steel ramp tilted up in front of the car, and the loading dock door slid open. The Lincoln pulled up the ramp and disappeared inside.

On the outside, the warehouse had looked as old and weather-beaten as all the others along the wharf, but inside was another matter. Inside, the cinder-block walls, structural steel, and underside of the roof were all perfectly white. Row upon row of high-intensity, mercury-vapor lights ran the length of the building, reflecting off the highly buffed, clear-coated seal on the concrete floor. The overhead door, which had appeared to be old and rickety from the outside, actually consisted of three large sections of one-inch-thick plate steel with weathered and paint-chipped wood bolted to the outside to give it the desired effect.

Inside, three steel barricades operated by hydraulics in the floor had been raised, one on each side of the car and one in front, allowing just enough room for it to pull into the warehouse. Nathan put the car in park and killed the engine as the overhead door slid shut behind them.

A six-foot-long aluminum tube with evenly spaced holes along its length descended from the ceiling. It looked like one of the attachments at an automatic car wash that might spray down the car with soap or wax. From somewhere overhead came the high-pitched whine of a large fan and motor building up speed. Then the arm began slowly making its way around the front, sides, and rear of the car. There was a loud sucking sound as the arm passed the windows on each side of the car.

The general recognized the device as a sniffer—a high-powered vacuuming system that took air samples from around the car and passed it through an analyzation chamber where the air was checked for minute traces of explosive chemicals other than those found in gasoline.

In the year and a half since he had accepted his new position, General Colquitt had prided himself on the new security measures he had instituted at his company. In fact, some people had claimed they were so extreme as to seem paranoid, but this was so far beyond anything they had implemented—or anything even currently available on the open market—that it made their system seem archaic. And that was something the general did not like.

After the sniffer retracted, the barricade on the left side of the car lowered to the floor with a
boom
that echoed throughout the cavernous interior of the building.

“Stay with the car, Nathan,” General Colquitt said as he got out. “Make sure no one gets near it.”

“Yes, sir, general,” Nathan replied.

The general paused, taking the time to adjust his tie and straighten the wrinkles from his jacket before stepping across the lowered barricade. Once across, the hydraulics lifted it back into its upright position.

Across the warehouse in the right-hand corner of the building, two brand new, black Kenworth semis with long, silver trailers sat parked side-by-side. They looked like something that might be seen on the NASCAR circuit were it not for their obvious lack of company logos plastered over every square inch or, for that matter, any identifiable markings whatsoever.

In front of him, two chain-link fences topped with razor wire ran the length of the building. The guard escorted the general to a golf cart sitting in the wide aisle between the fences. Rows of cameras hanging from the ceiling in domed enclosures tracked the golf cart as it made its way down the aisle toward the far end of the warehouse.

Behind the fences were row upon row of steel racks, stacked to the ceiling with various containers. There were large wooden crates and pallets of cardboard boxes tightly shrink-wrapped with heavy-gauge plastic and woven, hundred-pound sacks of rice and flour and sugar.

Colquitt knew that nothing stored on this level was out of the ordinary. This level was for the tents and blankets, building materials, tools, water and food rations, and nonsensitive medical supplies, such as Band-Aids, bandages, cotton balls, tongue depressors, Q-tips, splints, crutches, and wheelchairs—everything that an incredibly well-funded humanitarian relief group would have.

The
really
interesting stuff was stored several stories below in a cavernous vault filled with containers of every imaginable size and shape, ranging from as small as a shoebox to as big as a railcar. There were industrial-size refrigerators, freezers, hundreds upon hundreds of unmarked black fifty-gallon drums, and even farther below in a specially sealed vault, row upon row of gleaming, vacuum-sealed, titanium canisters. All of this, much of which were items developed by his own company, were kept where they were safe from prying eyes or—though highly unlikely—an ill-intentioned intruder who might somehow manage to make it inside the warehouse.

At the end of the long aisle was a single door. Colquitt’s escort inserted his hand into the boxy palm reader beside it. The general smirked. At his facility, they had already moved beyond the old-fashioned readers. Then he noticed the mirror above the reader, no doubt concealing a thermal-imaging camera behind, and the smirk slipped from his face. There was a
beep
, and the door in front of them slid open, revealing an elevator cab. Inside, the guard pressed the bottom one of three unmarked buttons.

There were no lights to indicate the direction of movement or what floor they were on, but the general knew they were going down. After several seconds, the doors slid open again. It was as if they had been magically transported onto the executive level of a Wall Street brokerage firm. The walls of the corridor, unbroken on each side by doors, were covered floor to ceiling with panels of dark mahogany. Gold sconces housing halogen lamps spaced evenly along the walls lit the expanse in soft blue-white light. At the far end, a pair of mahogany doors with gold hardware awaited. Colquitt had never been here before—in fact, very few people even knew of its existence—but he was suitably impressed.

Neither spoke as they strode toward the doors, their heels clicking sharply on the polished marble floor.

At the end of the hall, the escort opened the door on the right, waited for the general to step inside, and then shut the door behind him.

General Colquitt found himself in a large conference room. A long polished mahogany table ran the length of the room, with burgundy leather chairs at each end but none in between. Across the room, opposite the general, another set of double doors led into the room.

The general sat down in the nearest chair and tugged his jacket taut to remove any wrinkles. After five minutes, the general began to feel agitated, but he refused to let it show. He knew he was being monitored. He remained seated, his posture perfect.

After fifteen minutes, he was furious, but outwardly, his appearance remained unchanged.

Then after twenty minutes, the door at the far end of the room swung inward, and Thomas Wade stepped into the room.

Thomas Wade was a tall and lanky man with a dark complexion, dark brown hair streaked with strands of gray, and a thin, crooked nose. It was the middle of winter in Baltimore, but he had a deep bronze tan. His face was ruddy with acne scars still clearly visible in spite of the store-bought tan. His hair was slicked back, and he wore an expensive, custom-tailored suit that hung on him like a pair of baggy warm-ups. He might have been trying to look like a high-toned NBA coach, but to Colquitt, he came off looking more like a low-budget porn star.

A cigarette with a long ash dangling precariously at the tip hung from Wade’s thin lips. Smoking was not allowed in any public buildings these days, but Thomas Wade and his organization were not subject to such petty rules. They were above the law—or so Wade thought. The only laws his organization obeyed were the ones they made for themselves.

General Colquitt despised Thomas Wade, but like any good soldier, he kept his opinions to himself. Everything about Wade annoyed him, not the least of which was the fact that he demanded that everyone call him “Thomas,” as if that made him more respectable. He was loud, brash, arrogant, cocky, and rude. But worst of all, he was a civilian. He had no military training and no discipline whatsoever. He was full of himself and full of shit, which meant he fit right in with the movers and shakers in DC. And it was through his connections with those people—some of the most powerful and influential political figures in the country—that he had managed to wheedle his way to the top of his organization. And now the general was forced to deal with him.

Wade carried a black plastic ashtray with him, which he sat on the table and knocked his ash into. It was the only thing he had brought with him to the meeting.

That was another thing about Wade’s organization that irritated the general. Nothing was ever written down, taped, or otherwise documented. It was just one of the ways they were able to maintain complete deniability. There was never any incriminating evidence to worry about, and the few witnesses who might exist were always easily persuaded or simply eliminated.

“Anderson, this is some fucked-up shit you’ve got us into,” Wade said as he sat down.

The general bristled. Even though he had retired from the military, everyone still referred to him as “General Colquitt.” Everyone except for Wade.

“I would remind you that the situation existed before I took over,” the general said, doing his best to hide his indignation. “That is why I was brought in—to ensure that mistakes were eliminated.”

Wade leaned back and pursed his lips as if he were considering whether or not to accept the general’s statement. “And you think the only way to clean this one up now is by sending in one of my teams again.”

“Yes.”
Believe me, you sack of shit,
thought Colquitt,
if Nathan could handle this by himself, he would already be on his way, and I wouldn’t be here listening to your ignorant ass.

Wade blew out a cloud of smoke and squinted at the general. “How certain are you about what’s going on? This is a damn risky operation you’re proposing. I’ve already hung my ass out for you on this. Do you have any idea the strings I had to pull to get the forensic evidence suppressed?” he asked, pointing at the general with his cigarette. “I practically had to get on my hands and knees and blow the director myself, and that’s not something I care to repeat anytime soon. I’m in the business of granting favors, not asking them.
I
collect the IOUs, not the other way around. I don’t like owing people. And now you’re asking me to lay my dick out on the chopping block again. I’m not sure I want to risk exposing my organization, if you know what I mean,” he said with a wry grin.

You think you’re so clever, don’t you? You fucking moron.
The general struggled to maintain his composure as he spoke.
“The risk is nothing compared to the disaster this situation could become if nothing is done in time.”

“What are we talking about here? What do you need?”

“Four to six of your best men and equipment. Transportation to and from. I’ll provide one of my scientists, Myles Bennett, along with the necessary specialized equipment. He can brief them in route.”

“How much time are we talking about here?”

“Not counting transportation, twenty-four to forty-eight hours max. Anything beyond that and we risk further exposure.”

Wade leaned back and took another drag of his cigarette. Colquitt sat perfectly still, his hands flat on the conference table, looking straight ahead at Wade. He knew the
son of a bitch
was reveling in his little power trip, but the general was determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.

Wade blew out another cloud of smoke. “It’ll take seventy-two hours to put it together. Make sure your man’s ready.”

“He’ll be ready,” said the general.

“All right,” Wade said as he stood to leave. “But if this operation goes to shit, it’s
your
ass, not mine,” he said, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray.