Severe Clear

41

Late in the afternoon, Stone and Mike were having a drink in Stone’s study, when Special Agent Steve Rifkin appeared.

“The search is still under way,” he said. “I’ve got seventy men combing every nook and cranny of this property.” He set his briefcase on the coffee table and took out a stack of paper. “One good thing: the bell captain keeps a log of every piece of luggage that his men have delivered to any suite or room. It’s meant to resolve lost luggage issues, but it’s a stroke of luck for us.”

Stone and Mike each took a sheet from the stack. “And this is accurate?”

“It is, and here’s the good news. There’s not a single piece of luggage bigger than a large suitcase, and we’ve checked every one of those so far. There are no large boxes and no trunks, and from this point on, every piece of luggage arriving here will be opened and hand-searched, and if there are any trunks, they’ll be subject to radiation checks before they’re opened. We have a very well-equipped bomb squad on site, and they’ll stay through the entire weekend.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Stone said.

Rifkin’s cell phone rang, playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” “Special Agent Rifkin.” His face drained of expression, and he hung up. “They’ve found a bomb,” he said.

Stone and Mike stood up.

“Not you, me,” Rifkin said.

“I’m in charge of hotel security,” Mike reminded him, “and Stone is a member of the board. Let’s go.”

Rifkin shrugged and led the two outside to a cart, and they were driven away.

“Where is the bomb?” Mike asked.

“In a wine and liquor storage area behind the restaurant,” he said. After another minute’s drive the cart stopped, and Rifkin led the way past a dozen agents into the building, then into a large room with wine racks on three sides and shelving on the other. Thousands of bottles of wine and spirits were in the racks and shelves, and there was a large pile of cardboard boxes in the middle of the floor, all opened. A man in a heavy, helmeted suit was examining a small suitcase on top of a stack of boxes. He did something to it, and the lid fell open, exposing a metal panel.

“Oh, shit,” Rifkin said under his breath.

The suited man reached into the case and came out with an object, then he noticed the crowd behind him. “Get the fuck out of here, all of you!” he yelled. His voice was muffled by the helmet. “We’ve got a couple of pounds of plastique here, and I want every human being at least a hundred yards from this building!”

“Turn on your radio, Jim!” Rifkin yelled, then he started hustling everybody out of the room. He, Stone, and Mike got into the cart and headed back up the hill, where they parked behind the reception building. Rifkin picked up his radio. “Jim? Do you read?”

“Yeah, I read,” Jim replied. “I’m going to need a few minutes to go over this thing and try and figure out how to deal with it.”

“Is there a timer?”

“Yeah, but it’s not running,” he replied. “If it starts running, I’m running, too. I’ll get back to you.”

The three men sat in the cart silently for a couple of minutes. Finally, Mike spoke. “This one isn’t nuclear,” he said. “Too small.”

“I agree,” Rifkin replied.

“I hope you both know what you’re talking about,” Stone said.

Rifkin spoke up. “I did a week’s intensive course on bomb making and disposal,” he said. “I’ll bet I can tell you exactly how this one is put together.”

“Okay, shoot,” Stone said.

“It’s pretty simple: there’s a timer attached to a detonator, like a blasting cap, which is shoved into the plastique. Somebody starts the timer, and when it hits zero, the detonator goes off, exploding the plastique. If there’s a couple of pounds of the stuff, like Jim says, it will take down that entire building and damage others nearby, and it will kill nearly everybody in the building.”

“Nearly everybody?” Stone asked.

“Somebody always gets lucky.”

The radio crackled. “Steve?”

“I’m here, Jim.”

“Okay, I’ve isolated the plastique, and the device doesn’t seem to be booby-trapped. There’s a T-shaped key with a hexagonal tip, like a drill bit, and there are three positions: up, right, and left. I can’t tell which position fires it, so I’m going to try them all.”

“Jim…”

“Don’t worry, it’s just a blasting cap-the plastique is across the room. Stand by.”

A moment later there was a noise like a large firecracker.

Jim came back on the radio. “I found the firing position,” he said. “You can come back in now.”

They took the cart down the hill again, got out, and went inside. Jim had taken his helmet off, and there was a large black spot covering the chest of his suit. “It’s simple,” he said, “but very professionally made.” He held up the key, then inserted it into a slot. “Neutral position, off,” he said, then he turned the key. “Right position, timer.” He tapped a keypad, and the timer started to run. Jim turned the key all the way to the left. “Left position, immediate detonation. Suicide.”

Rifkin took the key from him and examined it. “I could make this in my home shop,” he said.

“You could make the whole device in your home shop,” Jim replied. He closed the small case, picked it up, then walked to the cube of plastique and picked it up. “I want to get this back to my shop and take it apart,” he said. Then one toe of the heavy suit caught the corner of a box, and he stumbled. The plastique flew from his hand and landed on the tile floor. “Oops,” he said. “Don’t worry, guys; it needs a detonator to blow.”

“That wasn’t funny, Jim,” Rifkin said.

An agent came over. “Boss,” he said, “we’ve finished our search. The bomb was in a wooden wine crate, and we’ve opened every other crate or box in the room.”

“What about the rest of the hotel?” Rifkin asked.

“We’re done-every conceivable hiding place.”

“Okay, stand down and tell the crew to go home but to remain on call. Nobody turns off his cell phone.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rifkin led Stone and Mike back to the cart, and they started up the hill, then stopped at Stone’s cottage.

“Steve, can I offer you a drink?” Stone asked.

“I wish I could, Stone, but I’m not having a drink until this weekend is over and both presidents are on their respective airplanes.”

Mike spoke up. “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod,” he said.

“What?” Rifkin asked.

“That’s only one bomb-there could be two more.”

“Maybe,” Rifkin said, “but not in this hotel. And if another one shows up, we’ll find it.”

“I hope you’re right,” Mike said. They got out of the cart, and Rifkin reached into his pocket. “Here’s a present for you,” he said, handing the bomb key to Mike, then he drove away.

“I hope he’s right, too,” Stone said.