The Gatekeeper (14 page)

Jake reached the bottom of the staircase and swept his light across the hallway. Shadows leaped away from him. Maltz’s light crossed his, illuminating the far wall. They were in a long, narrow corridor. Another hallway branched off to the left. Their flashlights only penetrated a few feet into the gloom.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Maltz was gesturing down the hall. Jake was a little unclear on the hand signals but it looked like he wanted to split up. Not Jake’s favorite course
of action, if ever there was a perfect set for a horror movie, this was it. But the ship was enormous, it could take hours to search it. He nodded acquiescence and Maltz slipped toward the stern. Jake steeled himself and walked forward.

Another hallway branched off to his left, the middle corridor bisecting the ship. He debated for a minute. The hallway he’d been following was empty, no places to hide. It was mainly used to get quickly from the bow of the ship to the stern. Here, on the other hand, every few feet a door was set in the wall. Heavy steel, rust chewing through the gray paint.
Crew quarters,
thought Jake. He cocked his head to the side, listening. If someone had grabbed Madison, they’d probably holed up somewhere below deck. And the only way to find them was to check each room.

Jake faced the first door on the left. Three deep breaths before he decided he wasn’t getting any more ready, might as well get it over with. He threw the door open and braced his shoulder against it. Quick sweep of the room, left to right, then behind the door. Nothing but a broken chair and metal bunk bed frames welded to the wall.

“One down,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him. He followed the same drill with the door opposite: quick sweep, all clear, nothing but junk the navy hadn’t bothered selling for scrap.

Jake was halfway down the hall when he heard a shout. The ship’s acoustics distorted it, he couldn’t tell if it was male or female. He darted back to the main corridor and strained his ears…another yell, garbled, and he suddenly remembered the radio. He spun the volume dial and heard Syd barking out instructions.

“Syd? Where are you?”

She was speaking rapid-fire, other team members chiming in. Jake was about to throw the radio against the wall in frustration when footsteps pounded toward him.
He spun. Maltz was running, talking into his radio. As he passed Jake heard him say, “Op tango objective princess located? Say again.”

“What’s going on?” Jake asked, falling in step beside him.

Maltz shook his head and quickened the pace, their flashlights shining frenetic beams of light down the dark corridor. Jake hustled to keep up.

They were almost at the bow when shots rang out.

Madison huddled in the dark, tears streaming down her face. The despair was crushing. She’d come so close to escaping, only to fail. Plus her left leg was in agony, it was hard not to scream from the pain.

After grabbing her, Lurch slung her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. Madison battered at him with her fists, but he laid one hand on her broken foot and she almost passed out.

“Be good,” he snarled, “or I’ll make it worse.”

At that moment they both saw people on the next ship. Her heart leaped, thinking she might be rescued after all. Lurch swore and dragged her downstairs. They were crouched in a tiny room, smaller and darker than the one she’d been held in before.

She tried to choke back her sobs, but the weight of her failure combined with the pain from her ankle made it nearly impossible.

“Shh!” Lurch said, breathing heavily in her ear. His hand gripped her arm tightly.

Dust disturbed by their entry still whirled in the air, tickling Madison’s throat. She coughed.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “What, you want to die?”

“You’re going to kill me anyway,” she choked. “Don’t pretend you won’t.”

“If I was going to kill you you’d already be dead,” Lurch said. “I could have tossed you overboard, shot you in the head.” She caught a glint of light off something, realized he was showing her a gun. “I’m trying to save you, dipshit.”

“The other guy…”

“Ralph was always an asshole,” he muttered. “Hated that guy.”

“Where is he now?” Madison asked after a minute.

“Dead.” The word was hard, flat. Lurch seemed a little surprised by it himself.

“How?”

“Doesn’t matter. But the rest of them are coming. You want to live, you’ll stay quiet.”

Madison tried to sort out what was happening. “So you’re trying to save me?” she asked, puzzled. “Why?”

“I didn’t sign up to kill no kids,” Lurch said. “Now shut the fuck up, or you might change my mind.”

She hunkered down, nearly overwhelmed by this new knowledge.
Signed up for what?
she wanted to ask.

A sound in the corridor outside. Madison pressed herself farther back into the shadows. She heard Lurch suck in a gulp of air, then his gun clicked.
This was insane,
she thought. After everything that had happened, she was going to die in a shoot-out.

The door slid open an inch. A slice of light penetrated the shadows. Madison’s heart still pounded so hard people onshore could probably hear it. A second passed, then the door eased shut again. She released her breath, relaxing, and felt Lurch do the same. He leaned in to say something.

The door was suddenly flung wide. Madison flinched as light blinded her. Lurch dragged her to her feet. Something pressed against her temple and her heart sank. He’d
been lying about saving her, she should have known better.

The light lowered an inch, enough for her to make out two figures.

A female voice ordered, “Drop it!”

Lurch’s voice was full of surprise when he asked, “Who the fuck are you?”

Jake tore down the hall after Maltz, who quickly outpaced him. He seemed to have an exact read on where the shot originated. They passed another corridor, then Maltz darted down the next one on the left. Jake followed, adrenaline providing a burst of speed. Suddenly Maltz stopped dead. Figures blocked the entrance to a room. Jake’s flashlight caught on blond hair, then a camouflaged back. Inside, someone was crying. He took another step forward, arching his head to see inside…

“We’re here for Madison,” the woman said. Madison stiffened at the sound of her name and felt Lurch shift behind her, the cold press of the muzzle easing up.

“Who sent you?”

“Her father. Just let her go.” The woman sounded sure of herself. Commanding. Madison blinked at the mention of her father. She tried to place the voice, but it was completely unfamiliar.

“You the Feds?”

“No. Friends of the family.”

The term was so incongruous, Madison laughed. It was the wrong reaction. Lurch moved suddenly, dragging her with him. Then an explosion, impossibly loud in the confined space. She swiveled in time to see Lurch cave backward as if punched. His arms swung out in front of him, as if grasping for the second shot. He hit the wall
before slumping to the floor. Madison touched her hand to her face and it came away sticky.

Blood,
she thought, fainting.

“Is it her?” Jake asked, realizing immediately how inane the question was. Of course it was Madison, who else could it be? “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” Syd said. She crouched beside the girl, using her sleeve to wipe off her face.

Jake peered past them toward the crumpled form in the corner. One of the commandos was checking for a pulse. “Dead,” he said with finality.

Madison was crying, probably from the shock. Jake shoved past the two men blocking the door and knelt beside her. “Madison. It’s going to be okay now,” he said, trying to sound soothing. The words bounced off the metal walls, echoing back at him. “You’ll be okay.”

Madison collapsed against Syd, shoulders heaving. Her ankle was at a strange angle, probably broken; other than that, she appeared dirty and shaken but otherwise unscathed. Jake released a breath and slumped down, head in his hands. They’d found her, and she was alive. Chalk one up in the win column for The Longhorn Group. He reached for his cell phone to call Randall with the good news.

There was a commotion at the door. Jake glanced up to find that the other team members had vanished. Voices down the hall, the sound of arguing. Quickly regaining his feet Jake stepped back into the corridor.

“Who are you people?”

It was a middle-aged man dressed in a uniform that sagged around his knees. He held an enormous SureFire tac light in one hand, the other was raised as if warding them off.

“Stand down!” Jake ordered, noting the commandos’
raised guns. “For Christ’s sake, stand down. It’s just the MARAD guard.”

It took ten minutes to sort out the situation, and another twenty for the medevac chopper to arrive. The MARAD guard had muttered about jurisdiction and losing his job. Syd took him aside, and whatever she offered calmed him down. Probably money, Jake thought.

Syd climbed in the chopper with Madison, headed to the nearest E.R. for her ankle to be examined. The paramedics administered a sedative. Tears still streamed down her face but she had finally stopped wailing. Her expression was unnerving, though. Jake wondered if she’d really be okay, there was no telling what those guys had done to her over the past week.

Audrey wept when he called, tears that sounded oddly bereft despite the good news. He couldn’t reach Randall, left three messages on his cell and at work before giving up. The rest of the Delta team slipped away in the initial confusion, per Syd’s orders. She didn’t want them involved. Jake protested that they were going to have a hell of a time explaining the situation as it was, allowing their employees to leave the scene would only make matters worse.

“I got it covered,” she’d said, nodding toward the MARAD guard.

More police boats were arriving. Jake slumped against the rail, watching as a swarm of uniforms slowly climbed the rope ladder. A dead body below deck, and here he was carrying three weapons of questionable legality.
Jesus,
he thought, shaking his head. He’d assumed that most of their cases would occur on foreign soil. Abroad, a few well-placed bribes let you avoid this sort of situation. He’d used that to his advantage while working for Christou.

But here he was left holding the bag, forced to explain to Benicia P.D. what the hell had happened. He’d be lucky not to get thrown in jail. Syd had left him with the number of a local defense attorney just in case. At the moment, that was small comfort. At least they’d gotten Madison back alive.

Jake’s cell rang and he checked the number, smiling before clicking it open. “Hi, honey,” he said. “How was your day?”

K
elly clicked the phone shut, exasperated. She was still trying to process everything Jake had said, something about a kidnapped girl, a mothball fleet and a dead kidnapper. Then the offhanded remark that she might have to post bail if things didn’t go well. Not exactly a stellar beginning for The Longhorn Group, she couldn’t help thinking. She knew Jake well enough to assume he was glossing over details that might upset her. It was one of the things that gave her pause, this ability to play things fast and loose when it suited him. He epitomized moral relativism; in his opinion any action was justified as long as it produced the desired end result. Above and beyond the other circumstances surrounding his dismissal, it was this quality that ultimately kept him from fitting in at the Bureau.

Almost a year ago Jake had tagged along on one of her cases. There was a pair of serial killers terrorizing the Berkshires. They escaped across the Canadian border with Jake at their heels. He was out of contact for a full day, and Kelly nearly went out of her head with worry. Soon after his return, one killer was found duct-taped to
the hood of a car. The other turned up dead weeks later in the woods outside Montreal. The surviving killer confessed to the murder. He was currently serving life without parole, and the case was closed. It was that case that provided the first black mark on her career, but Kelly had long ago made peace with that.

However one question still niggled at her: Where was Jake when that murder took place? Could he possibly have witnessed it without interfering? She suspected that if he thought it served justice, that’s exactly what he would have done. At the time Kelly decided she didn’t want to know the extent of his involvement. After all, she’d just agreed to marry him.

Now, the initial glow of the engagement long faded, Kelly decided it was time for him to explain exactly what happened. She was sitting at the gate waiting for her plane to board. Rodriguez had uncovered a string of businesses filed under the same tangled web of parent companies, mostly located in Texas. They’d narrowed the list down to a few that looked promising, and Kelly booked a flight to San Antonio. As far as her boss knew, she was tying up a few loose ends, and would catch a connecting flight to D.C. the following day.

“Hey, partner.”

Kelly glanced up, startled from her reverie. Rodriguez stood there, clutching the handle of his carry-on as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. If possible, he looked even worse than he had in the hospital that morning. The bruises had darkened into a mottled mask of green and purple, and stitches strained against his still-swollen features.

“Jesus, Rodriguez! What are you doing here?” Kelly jolted to her feet, trying to help him sit. He waved her off with annoyance and plunked down beside her. A young
woman glanced up from her iPod and took in his appearance. She gathered up her things and shifted down a row.

“Guess I’m not making any friends on this flight, huh?” he asked ruefully.

Kelly caught the strain of pain in his voice. “You’re supposed to stay in the hospital for another few days.”

“Not according to our government-issue health plan. Docs gave me the okay. I look like hell, but there’s nothing they can do for bruised ribs, and they can’t reset my nose until the swelling goes down.” He turned sideways. “I’m thinking of going with the ‘Jude Law.’ What do you think?”

“I think you should be resting.” She eyed his ticket. “That better not be for San Antonio.”

“Hey, I thought we’d reached a new level in our professional relationship,” he sounded wounded. “Besides, this is my lead.”

“You’re insane.” Kelly gestured to him. “I can’t let you slow me down.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He straightened a leg carefully and grimaced. “I’ll be fine. Got enough Advil to get me through. Hell, I could probably run a marathon if I had to.”

“ASAC McLarty doesn’t know you’re doing this,” Kelly guessed. His eyes confirmed it. “I’ll call him, say you’re not following orders.”

“And you are?” he said pointedly. “I spoke with Phoenix P.D. They seem to think the Morris case is wrapped up with a bow. So I’m guessing you haven’t filled McLarty in on the details of your Texas layover.”

Kelly clenched her jaw. Rodriguez was right, she’d led her boss to believe the case was as good as closed, but persuaded him to hold off on the press conference. At the moment, she was as off the grid as Rodriguez was. A year
ago she would never have considered such a move. But since she was already viewing her FBI career in the rearview mirror, it hadn’t even given her pause. Which made her more like Jake than she cared to admit.

Rodriguez caught her expression, mistook it for guilt, and extended a hand. “Listen. You don’t rat me out, I won’t tell on you. Deal?”

Kelly eyed the extended hand, eyes narrowed.
Rat
was an odd choice of words. She wondered if he knew about the rumors. After a minute, she shook.

“All right, then.” Rodriguez peered around. “Do I have time to grab a slice before boarding?”

Randall worked carefully, holding the blowtorch at arm’s length. Beads of sweat ran down his face, both from the weight of the protective suit and lead apron and from stress.

They’d assigned the largest and most dangerous-looking man as his helper. Randall tried to refuse, inspiring a flash of pure relief on the guy’s face before they were told it wasn’t optional. Thor was supposed to make sure Randall did what he was supposed to. Not that he would have a clue if something was wrong, Randall thought disdainfully. He obviously had as much experience with low-level radioactive waste as he did with an Emily Post manual.

Thor stood at what he must have assumed was a safe distance, approximately twenty feet away. Close enough to intercede if Randall made a break for it. His nickname was so ridiculous that even under the circumstances Randall couldn’t glance at him without wanting to chuckle. Not that there was much funny about the situation.

Low-level radioactive waste came from sources as
varied as hospital medical equipment and the density gauges used by building contractors. Few people were aware of how much radiation they came in contact with on a daily basis; it would probably terrify them to know. But even direct contact with most low level waste wouldn’t have immediate dire consequences. For that reason, until 9/11 that form of waste disposal was at best loosely regulated and monitored on a state-by-state basis.

More dangerous waste materials, like plutonium from spent fuel rods, were consolidated at a few sites in Nevada and Texas. The government generally made sure they were safely stored in specially designed water-filled basins or dry casks, and closely monitored them. Although sometimes even those safeguards failed: some high-level waste remained in boron pools right next to the reactors generating it.

After 9/11, the government finally clued in to the fact that some waste, though categorized as “low-level,” could prove lethal in a dirty bomb. Which explained Randall’s promotion: his job was to oversee the transfer of low-level radioactive waste to a few secure facilities. So he’d spent the past two years making sure that for the first time since the Manhattan Project, everything was accounted for. All but the three items he’d redirected here.

Before Randall started, the U.S. Nuclear Regulatory Commission estimated that every single day of the year, approximately one source of low-level radioactive waste was lost, abandoned or stolen in the United States. In Texas alone, between 1995 and 2001 more than one hundred and twenty-three items fell off the grid. The most hazardous were industrial radiography-related sources, a potential source of gamma radiation. In one high profile case known as the Larpen incident, three industrial radiography cameras were stolen after a bank
ruptcy judge refused to provide money for their safe disposal. The cameras were recovered after the Bureau of Radiation Control issued a statewide press release and one of the thieves, fearful for his own safety, turned himself in and told authorities where to find them.

Something far worse happened in Brazil in 1987, when scavengers looting a defunct hospital came across abandoned teletherapy equipment. Fascinated by the deep blue light the cesium chloride emitted, they stole it, then sold it to a junkyard owner who planned to fashion it into a ring for his wife. His young niece painted herself with the blue powder dust scraped off the source. Other relatives used it to mark crosses on their foreheads. In what became known as the Goiânia accident, 249 people total were contaminated. Twenty people were hospitalized, four of whom died (including the junkyard owner’s wife, niece and two workers who initially hammered open the lead casing).

In the aftermath of that incident medical facilities learned their lesson, keeping a tighter lid on used equipment. However one industry remained notoriously lax: oil production. X-ray radiography cameras were used to inspect oil and natural gas pipelines, making sure they’d withstand extreme stress. More technologically advanced cameras were constantly becoming available, and the older ones were discarded. Buried deep in the core of those cameras were gamma radiation sources, most commonly iridium-192 and cobalt-60. You could block other forms of radiation by simply holding up a cloth. But thanks to their short wavelength, gamma rays could penetrate skin. Exposure for even a brief period almost guaranteed a painful death.

Which was why Randall was being so careful. In addition to a heavy-duty protective suit and apron, he was
using a respirator and wearing heavy gloves and boots. Thor was clad in a similar outfit; Randall was surprised they’d managed to find one in his size. Randall was using a blowtorch to remove the source material from the camera’s lead container. The cameras he had diverted were Philips 160 kV constant-potential X-ray systems, designed to inspect large oil and gas pipes. Hence the need for the flatbed trucks—the housings were enormous, which guaranteed that camera operators worked at a safe distance from the X-rays.

The box holding the iridium wasn’t large, but thanks to the lead casing it was extraordinarily heavy. Once he got the case open, there would be temporary exposure to the source material until he transferred it to the other container. He kept checking the dosimeter clipped to the outside of his suit. It was still within normal ranges, although far beyond what a human should sustain on a daily basis. The dots marching up the badge ranged from 5
rads,
the lowest level of radiation exposure, to 100
rads,
or “your skin is about to bubble and fall off.” Right now the dot marking 5
rads
was completely black. It was a good thing he wasn’t planning on having any more kids.

The thought reminded him of Madison. Randall wondered if she was still alive. His bumbling attempt to secure proof of life had failed miserably. He cringed at the memory of posturing in the cracked bathroom mirror, thinking he’d shown them. The minute they brought him back into the main room, any illusion that he had control over the situation vanished.

“So? Where’s my proof of life?” he had asked, trying to remember everything Jake told him.
Be tough, they clearly need you more than you need them,
Jake advised.
Seize control of the negotiation process, don’t let them
dictate all the terms
. And by the way, your daughter is probably already dead, was the addendum, but he knew Jake hadn’t dared say it aloud.

“Someone wants to talk to you,” the bald man in charge said, handing him a phone.

“Dr. Grant?” The voice was deep, with a distinctive twang.

“I want proof that my daughter is still alive.”

There was a pause before the man spoke again, sounding bemused. “Oh, you would, would you?”

“If you want my help, I want proof.” Randall tried to sound forceful, self-assured, but his resolve was wilting.

“Let me make something clear to you, Dr. Grant. At the moment, you and every member of your family live and die at my discretion. And that includes Bree and Audrey.”

“Bullshit. They’re somewhere safe, you can’t get to them.”

“Oh, you mean your mother-in-law’s place in Massachusetts? She has a hell of a rose garden.”

Randall’s blood ran cold. He’d been a fool to listen to Jake and Syd, he should have hidden them better. Of course it would be child’s play for someone with access to the inner workings of the facility to uncover their whereabouts.

“I’m sending you a text,” the voice said.

Randall pulled the phone away from his ear and squinted at the image. It was pixelated by the cheap camera, but he could still discern the outlines of his mother-in-law’s house. And Audrey’s VW was parked in the driveway.

A tear snaked down his cheek as he pressed the phone back to his ear.

“I have men stationed nearby who can be at the house
in under five minutes. And they won’t kill them quickly. Those men with you now? They’re civilized compared to the ones I sent.” The sound of a throat clearing, then the man asked, “So I’m assuming we’ll have your full cooperation?”

“I’ll need tools,” Randall responded dully.

“Rest assured, Dr. Grant, you’ll have everything you need. Now put Dante back on.”

Dante.
The bald leader had a name now. Of course, if they weren’t bothering to conceal their identities, obviously the minute he finished the job he was a dead man.

He glanced at Thor, who absentmindedly scratched himself. Randall was to transform the materials into a radioactive dust that would spread a cloud of death when the bombs detonated. Someone else was constructing the bombs, he had no expertise in that field. But he knew radioactive matter. For the past two decades it was all he’d studied. He could recite the properties of each isotope, knew the half-life of every source. And chances were Thor didn’t know an isotope from an isobar. Randall might not be able to stop this group without putting his family in horrible danger, but he could diminish the fallout from what they had planned. Literally.

Randall bent to his task again. Despite the media hysteria in 2002 when Jose Padilla was accused of trying to build a dirty bomb, fashioning radioactive material into a dangerous weapon required expertise. Initially, the worst casualties would be the same as any bombing: people in the immediate blast vicinity would be annihilated by the explosion. Then iridium would be dispersed in a toxic cloud. Depending on wind speeds and other conditions, a huge area could be contaminated by gamma radiation. Few people would die initially, but over the
long term anyone exposed was at risk of developing cancer or other genetic mutations. The area itself would be deemed uninhabitable, and the cleanup costs could be in the billions.