London Bridges: A Novel (4 page)

But the Weasel had been there— I'd seen him. And I had photographs to prove it.

Geoffrey Shafer drove a dark blue Oldsmobile Cutlass full-bore through the desert. He wasn't on board the jet that had flown out of Wells, Nevada. That would have been too easy. Weasels always have several escape routes planned.

As he drove, Shafer was thinking that the oddly brilliant plan in the desert had worked well, and there had certainly been backup contingencies just in case something didn't work right. He had also learned that Dr. Cross, now with the FBI, had shown up in Nevada.

Is that part of the big picture, too? Somehow, he expected that it was. But why Cross? What does the Wolf have in mind for him?

The Weasel eventually made a stop in Fallon, Nevada, where he was scheduled to make his next contact. He didn't know exactly who he was contacting, or why, or where this whole operation was leading. He just knew his piece—and his explicit orders were to call in from Fallon and get the next set of instructions.

So he followed his orders, registered at the Best Inn Fallon, and went straight to his room. He used a cell phone, which he'd been told to destroy after he made the call. There were no pleasantries exchanged, no unnecessary words. Just the business at hand.

“This is the Wolf,” he heard as contact was made, and Shafer wondered if that was so. According to rumor, the real Wolf had impersonators, maybe even body doubles. All of them with their piece, right?

Next he heard disturbing news. “You were seen, Colonel Shafer. You were spotted and photographed near Sunrise Valley. Did you know that?”

At first, Shafer tried to deny it, but he was cut off.

“We're looking at copies of the pictures right now. That's how the Bronco was followed to Wells. Which is why we told you to exchange vehicles outside town and drive to Fallon. Just in case something went wrong.”

Shafer didn't know what to say. How could he have been spotted out in the middle of nowhere? Why was Cross there?

The Wolf finally laughed. "Oh, don't worry your pretty head, Colonel. You were supposed to be spotted. The photographer works for us.

“Now proceed to your next contact point in the morning. And have some fun tonight in Fallon. Paint the town, Colonel. I want you to go and kill somebody out in the desert. You choose a victim. Do your stuff. That's an order.”

The level of frustration and tension I was feeling was increasing by the hour, and so was the general confusion about the case. I'd never seen so much chaos, so fast, in my entire life.

Almost a full day after the bombing, there was nothing but a hole in the ground in the Nevada desert, and a couple of questionable leads. We had talked to the three hundred or so residents of Sunrise Valley, but none of the survivors had a clue, either. Nothing unusual had happened in the days before the bombing; no stranger had visited. We hadn't found the army vehicles or discovered where they had come from. What had happened in Sunrise Valley still didn't make sense. Neither did Colonel Geoffrey Shafer's being there. But it sure shook us up.

No one had even taken credit for the bombing yet.

After two days, there wasn't too much more I could do out in the desert, so I caught a ride home to Washington. I found Nana, the kids, even Rosie the cat out on the front porch, waiting for me.

Home, sweet home again. Why didn't I just learn a lesson and stay there?

“This is real nice,” I said, beaming as I bounded up the steps. “A welcoming committee. I guess everybody missed me, right? How long you been out here waiting for your pops?”

Nana and the kids shook their heads pretty much in unison, and I smelled conspiracy.

Nana said, “Of course we're glad to see you, Alex,” and finally cracked a smile. They all did. Conspiracy, for sure.

“Gotcha!” said Jannie, who was ten. She had on a crocheted sun hat with her braids hanging out. “Of course we're your welcoming committee. Of course we missed you, Daddy. Who wouldn't?”

“Got you bad!” Damon taunted from his perch on the rail. He was twelve and looked the part. Sean John T-shirt, straight-leg jeans, Hiptowns.

I pointed a finger at him. “I'll get you, you break my porch rail.” Then I smiled. “Gotcha!” I said to Damon.

After that, I had to answer all sorts of questions about little Alex and show around my digital camera with dozens of pictures of our beloved little man.

Everybody was pretty much laughing now, which was better, and it was definitely good to be home again, even if I was still waiting for more news about the bombing in Nevada and about Shafer's involvement.

Nana had held dinner for me, and after a delicious meal of roast chicken with garlic and lemon, squash, mushrooms, and onions, the family congregated in the kitchen over cleanup and bowls of ice cream. Jannie showed off a pen-and-ink of her heroes Venus and Serena Williams, which was sensational; eventually, we watched the Washington Wizards on TV. Finally, everybody started to wander off to bed, but there were hugs and kisses first. Nice, very nice. Much, much better than yesterday and, I was willing to bet, not as good as tomorrow.

About eleven, I finally climbed the steep stairs to my office in the attic. I reviewed my case file on Sunrise Valley for twenty minutes or so in preparation for the next day, then I called Jamilla in San Francisco. I'd talked to her a couple of times over the past two days, but I'd mostly been too busy. I figured she might be home from work by now.

All I got was a voice message, though.

I don't like to leave messages myself, especially since I'd already left a couple from Nevada, but I finally said, “Hi, it's Alex. I'm still trying to sell you on the idea of forgiving me for what happened at the airport in San Francisco. If you want to come East sometime soon, I'm buying the plane ticket. Talk to you soon. I miss you, Jam. Bye.”

I hung up the phone, then let out the sigh I'd been holding in. I was blowing it again, wasn't I? Hell, yes, I was. Why would I do such a thing?

I went downstairs and ate a double-size piece of corn bread that Nana had made for the next day. It didn't help, just made me feel even worse, guilty about my eating habits. I sat on a kitchen chair with Rosie the cat in my lap, stroking her.

“You like me, right? Don't you, Rosie? I'm kind of a nice guy?”

The phone calls weren't over for the night. Just past midnight I received a call from one of the agents I'd worked with out in Nevada. Fred Wade had something he thought I might find interesting. “We just got this from Fallon,” he told me. “Receptionist in a Best Inn there was raped and murdered two nights ago. Her body was left in the brush near the motel parking lot. Like we were supposed to find it. We got a description of a guest who could be your Colonel Shafer. Needless to say, he's long gone from Fallon.”

Your Colonel Shafer. That said it all, didn't it? He's long gone from Fallon. Of course he was.

I didn't sleep much that night. I think I had awful nightmares about the Weasel. And about the holocaust in Sunrise Valley, Nevada.

Early the next morning I had to sign permission slips so the kids could go on a field trip to the National Aquarium in Baltimore. I signed the slips at four-thirty before they were up and while the house was still dark, then I had to sneak off to work. I didn't get to say good-bye, and I don't like that, but I left love notes for Jannie and Damon. Such a nice pops, right?

I drove to work with Alicia Keys and Calvin Richardson on the CD, good company for the trip and whatever lay ahead.

These days, Major Threats was being run out of FBI headquarters in D.C. Since 9/11, the Bureau had shifted dramatically—from what some people felt was a reactive, investigative organization to a much more proactive and effective one. A recent addition, a $6 million software package at the Hoover Building, included a 40-million-page terrorism database dating back to the '93 bombing of the World Trade Center.

We had a blizzard of information; now it was time to see if any of it was worth a damn.

About a dozen of us met on the subject of Sunrise Valley that morning in the Strategic Information and Operations Center command on the fifth floor. The obliteration of the small town had been listed as a “major threat,” even though we had no way to tell whether it was. So far, we didn't have a single clue as to what Sunrise Valley was really about.

There still hadn't been any contact with the bombers, not a word from them.

Surreal. And probably scarier than if we had heard from them.

This particular conference room was one of the jazzier and more comfortable ones: lots of blue leather armchairs, a dark wooden table, wine-colored rug. Two flags—an American and a DOJ—lots of crisp white shirts and striped ties around the table.

I had on jeans and a navy windbreaker that read,FBI TERRORISM TASK FORCE. And I felt that I was the only one dressed correctly for the day. This case sure wasn't going to be business as usual.

The room was loaded with heavy hitters, though. The highest-ranking person was Burt Manning, one of the five executive assistant directors at the Bureau. Also present were senior agents from the National Joint Terrorism Task Force, as well as the top analyst from the new Office of Intelligence, which combined experts from the Bureau and the CIA.

My partner for the morning was Monnie Donnelley, a superior analyst and a good friend from my time at Quantico.

“I see you got your personal invitation,” I said as I sat down beside Monnie. “Welcome to the party.”

“Oh, I wouldn't miss this. It's like sci-fi, or something. It's so weird, Alex.”

“Yeah, it's all of that.”

On the screen at the front of the room was the special agent in charge from the Las Vegas field office. The SAC was reporting in about the mobile crime lab that had been set up inside the town limits of what had been Sunrise Valley. She didn't have much new, though, and the meeting quickly moved on to threat assessment.

This was where everything got a lot more interesting.

First, there was a discussion of domestic terrorist groups such as the National Alliance and the Aryan Nations. But nobody really believed those simpletons could be responsible for something as well planned as this. Next up was the latest on al Qaeda and Hezbollah, the radical jihad movement. These groups received a solid couple of hours of heated discussion. They were definitely suspects. Then formal assignments were given out by Manning.

I didn't get an assignment, which made me wonder if I would be hearing from Director Burns soon. I didn't particularly want to hear from him on this one. I didn't want to travel out of Washington again, especially back to Nevada.

And then it got really wild.

Every pager in the conference room went off simultaneously!

Within seconds, everybody had checked his pager, myself included. For the past several months all terror threats got flashed to senior agents, whether it was a suspicious package on a New York subway or an anthrax threat in L.A.

The message on my pager read:

TWO SURFACE-TO-AIR MISSILES MISSING AT KIRTLAND AIR FORCE BASE IN ALBUQUERQUE.

CONNECTION TO SUNRISE VALLEY SITUATION BEING INVESTIGATED.

WILL KEEP INFORMED.

No rest for the righteous, read a placard on the wall near the canteen and soda machines. At 5:50 that night, we were called back to the conference room on the fifth floor. The same august group as before. Some of us were guessing that the Bureau had finally been contacted by whoever was responsible for the bombing of Sunrise Valley. Others thought this might have to do with the missile thefts from Kirtland.

A few minutes later, half a dozen agents from the CIA arrived. All in suits with briefcases. Uh-oh. Then came half a dozen hitters from Homeland Security. Things were definitely getting more serious now.

“This is getting hinky,” Monnie Donnelley whispered to me. “It's one thing to talk the talk about interagency cooperation. But the CIA is really here.”

I smiled over at Monnie. “You're sure in a good mood.”

She shrugged. “As General Patton used to say about the battlefield, 'God help me, I do love it so!'”

Director Burns entered the room precisely at six. He walked in with Thomas Weir, the head of the CIA, and Stephen Bowen from Homeland Security. The three heavies looked extremely uneasy. Maybe just being there together did it—which succeeded in making all of us nervous, too.

Monnie and I exchanged another look. A few agents continued to talk, even as the directors took their places in front. It was the veterans' way of showing that they'd been here before. Had they? Had anyone? I didn't think so.

“Can I have your attention,” Director Burns said, and the room immediately went quiet. All eyes were glued to the front.

Burns let the quiet settle in, and then he continued.

“I want to bring you up to speed. The first contact that we received on this situation was two days before the bombing in Sunrise Valley, Nevada. The initial message concluded with the words 'it is our hope that no one will be injured during the violence.' The nature of 'the violence' wasn't revealed or even hinted at. We were also instructed not to mention the initial contact to anyone. We were warned that if we did, there would be serious consequences, though these consequences were never spelled out for us.”

Burns paused and looked around the room. He made eye contact with me, nodded, then moved on. I wondered how much he knew that the rest of us didn't. And who else was involved? The White House? I would think so.

“We have been contacted every day since then. One message went to Mr. Bowen, one to Director Weir, and one to me. Until today, nothing of consequence had been revealed. But this morning each of us received a film of the bombing in Nevada. The film had been edited. I'll share it with you now.”