The Rule of Nine

TWENTY-FOUR

The phone rang in his study and Bart Snyder picked it up. “Hello.”

“Mr. Snyder?”

“Speaking.”

“Volney Dimmick here. Got your message. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner. I’ve been meaning to dictate a report and get it off to you, but I’ve been so damn busy…”

“Don’t worry about the report. Tell me what you found out.” Snyder was no rube. The fact that Joe Wallace, the young FBI agent, had refused to share information wasn’t going to slow him down.

Dimmick was a private investigator in a Washington, D.C., agency known as the Brownstone Group. Brownstone had a reputation for cherry-picking many of their employees from key government agencies, including the FBI, CIA, and Defense Department. They were well connected. Besides investigations they did consulting and had a number of high-profile clients, including some major corporations. Snyder knew that if you couldn’t get information one way, you could always get it another.

“We’re still working on it but we have some information,” said Dimmick. “First off, the police are now operating on the theory of foul play, that your son’s death was not an accidental overdose.”

“I knew it,” said Snyder. “What did they find?”

“This is confidential,” said Dimmick.

“I understand.”

“If word leaks, the police will know where it came from and it’s going to be very difficult to get further details.”

“Yeah, I know. What did they find out?”

“The point of injection was on the back of the hand,” said Dimmick, “which is very unusual, especially for somebody who is inexperienced in shooting up. The veins can be harder to find. So you have to ask yourself why he would pick that location instead of the inside of the forearm.”

“That’s it?” said Snyder.

“No,” said Dimmick. “It was the fact that the injection was in the back of the left hand that caught their attention.”

“Jimmie was left-handed,” said Snyder.

“Correct,” said Dimmick. “He’d need his left hand to operate the syringe. If he was going to shoot up, he’d do it in the back of the right hand.”

“That’s why the police asked me whether Jimmie was right-or left-handed,” said Snyder.

“Evidently. And there’s more. Forensics found loose hair and fibers on the body. The fibers didn’t match anything your son was wearing that day, and the way they laid on the surface of his clothing indicated that they were transferred after he was on the bed. Long and short of it is somebody else was in the room when your son died, and no doubt was handling the syringe.”

“Good work,” said Snyder. “Did you get any information on the Mexican?”

“Nothing solid. No mug shots, no rap sheet, but according to our sources at DEA, drug enforcement, he does exist. Up until about a year ago he was one of the Tijuana cartels’ major badass soldiers. Word is he would kill anybody for a fee and was highly efficient at what he did. Of course, if he was involved in your son’s murder, he stepped in it.”

“How could he know Jimmie was left-handed?” said Snyder.

“Good point.”

“You said up until a year ago he worked for the cartel. Who’s he working for now?”

“According to the information he’s always been freelance, but the cartel was his principal client. According to DEA he’s branched out. He was involved last year, you probably read about it, in that attack outside the North Island Naval Air Station near San Diego.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Snyder.

“What is it?”

“Never mind.” Suddenly the pieces started to snap together, the Internet research he’d done on Madriani. His name had popped up in connection with the same event. And according to Madriani, Liquida was after him. “Go on,” said Snyder.

“It’s not exactly clear what Liquida’s involvement was in the San Diego thing, but word is he’s now hiring out to multinational terror groups. I don’t know if you remember, back in the seventies, Carlos the Jackal. It’s like that except without the ideology. Apparently, according to our sources, the only thing Liquida believes in is money.”

“Do they have any idea where he is?”

“No. A man like that doesn’t leave forwarding addresses. I may be stepping out of line,” said Dimmick, “but I’m not sure exactly why you’re doing a parallel investigation with the police. Although I understand that families sometimes just want to stay on top of things. You’re paying us, so it’s none of my business. But if you want some advice…”

“What’s that?”

“If this guy is involved, this Liquida, you do not, repeat, do not want to be looking for him yourself. Leave it to the police.”

“Do you know if they’re looking for him in connection with Jimmie’s death?” said Snyder.

“We ran the name by them, but our sources didn’t know,” said Dimmick.

“There you go,” said Snyder. “What about the other name, Thorn?”

“You were right about that one. The FBI does have an open file on him. We should be able to get some photos, wanted posters, in a day or so. We went to the Internet, but the online Justice Department photos don’t go back that far. I have to say the FBI was not terribly helpful,” said Dimmick. “But we did find information elsewhere. One of the intelligence agencies has a good-size file on this guy Thorn. And the fact that it’s open would indicate to us that they still see him as active.”

“Can we get a copy of the file?”

“No chance,” said Dimmick. “They won’t even let us look at it. But they did give us a few tidbits. They confirmed everything you told me. In fact, they wanted to know where I got the information.”

“Did you tell them?”

“Of course not. Thorn, under the name Dean Belden, was subpoenaed to appear before a federal grand jury in Seattle about ten years ago. But he never showed. He was reported killed in a plane accident shortly afterward, but the accident, according to the authorities, was staged. Thorn was apparently involved in a terrorist plot in D.C., though the details were sketchy and the agency we talked to would not provide clarification. A few months later, U.S. authorities tracked Thorn to Africa, Somalia, where he was in hiding. After that, nothing.”

“Any associates, contacts, people he knew?” said Snyder.

“No.”

“So all they would tell us was what we already knew,” said Snyder.

“A few other items,” said Dimmick. “Thorn, aka Belden and a score of other aliases, is believed to be Australian. He specializes in weapons technology and transport, mostly aviation. He’s done a lot of business with the boneyards over the years.”

“What’s that?” said Snyder.

“Places out in the desert,” said Dimmick. “It’s where old planes, commercial jets, go to die. According to the intelligence file, Thorn would buy one under a fresh alias each time. Then he and the plane would disappear overseas somewhere. Scary thing is nobody knows what he did with them, whether he sold them, and if so, to whom.”

“After 9/11 you would think somebody would be watching this,” said Snyder.

“You would think,” said Dimmick. “Still, what do you do if there’s a buyer, a company with cash, and a seller who has a used plane sitting on the ground? Sooner or later he has two choices, sell it or scrap it. From what I understand, the boneyards are over-flowing with grounded planes right now, airline travel being in the pits. According to the information in the intelligence reports, Thorn was partial to four of the boneyards, three of them considered major aviation parking lots and one other smaller one. They think he may have done repeat business at these over the years. One of them is in California, at Victorville; two others are in Arizona, near Tucson; and the fourth is in New Mexico.”

Dimmick gave Snyder the details regarding names and specific addresses for these facilities and Snyder took notes.

“Apart from that, intelligence says he’s former military, but they wouldn’t tell us which country. First hired out as a mercenary to small Third World countries about twenty years ago. Somewhere along the way he turned to the dark side and started taking pay from subnational terror groups.”

“It sounds as if he and Liquida are on the same career arc,” said Snyder.

“Kinda does, doesn’t it? You want me to write it up, put it in a report?” asked Dimmick.

“No, it’s not necessary. But I would like you to do one other thing. Is there any way we can find out whether Thorn might have shown up out at any of the boneyards recently, say within the last year or so?” It was a long shot, but the fact that Thorn was bumping around in Washington and showed up in pictures with Jimmie meant that he was back in the world and up to something. There was a chance that somebody at one of the boneyards might recognize him, and if so, it could provide a lead as to what he was up to, or better yet, where he was.

“It will take shoe leather and money,” said Dimmick. “It could get expensive. We’d have to take the photographs you gave us and the pictures from the FBI’s wanted posters, when we get them, and send somebody to each of these places to ask questions. See if anyone recognizes him.”

“Don’t worry about the expense,” said Snyder. “Do it.”

“You got it,” said Dimmick.

“Thanks. Call me when you have more,” said Snyder. Then he hung up.

Snyder swiveled around in his chair to face the computer. He opened his e-mail, hit Compose, and started to type in the name Joselyn Cole. Before he got to the l in her first name, the computer produced her e-mail address. He typed “Liquida and Thorn” in the subject box, and began to unload all the information the investigator had just given him. He laid heavy emphasis on Thorn and his presumed activities at the boneyards, underlining the name of each place and their locations.

Snyder left out the fact that he had hired an investigator and told her instead that the information had been obtained from un-disclosed but highly reliable sources. This made it sound more important, the inference being that he had more than one. He told her that these sources had credible information that Liquida was involved in the attack on the naval base near San Diego a year earlier. Then Snyder mentioned that he had seen Internet news items in which Madriani’s name appeared in connection with this same event, and asked whether she knew anything about this. He wondered if this would surprise her, or if she already knew. Snyder wanted to believe that he could trust her. He desperately needed an ally, and Cole had history on Thorn.

She was also a mover and shaker with friends in high places and access to the press. For the last several days file footage of Cole coming down the steps of the Capitol and reports of her testimony before Congress had been on the airwaves. She had ignited a firestorm of debate. Snyder was impressed. He studied how she’d done it.

Joselyn had emphasized the danger of precision weapons by telling the panel that these were the dream weapons of future assassins. As far as the cold logic of the weapon was concerned, the only difference between a carload of terrorists and a room filled with elected officials was the finger on the trigger and the selection of targets. The suggestion that in time this might change was all it took. Cole pushed their button and suddenly the weapon was a threat to them.

It was an obvious point, but it wasn’t lost on Snyder. All politics is local, and nothing is more local to most politicians than saving their own asses. If Cole could do it in the halls of Congress, why couldn’t he do the same thing outside, on the streets of Washington? Hold a news conference and go public.

He had already sent letters to the Metropolitan Police in Washington about Liquida and Thorn. He’d received nothing in reply. Follow-up phone calls netted the usual response. They couldn’t discuss the investigation, talk about persons of interest, or identify suspects.

The fact that Dimmick, with his inside sources of information, was unable to confirm whether the police were actively looking for Thorn or Liquida convinced Snyder that he was getting nowhere.

Dimmick had given him plenty of information, especially on Thorn. Snyder had the photographs from the FBI showing Thorn with his son. He could blow them up into posters. That would play well on television. The fact that he could now identify Thorn by name and provide details about his background, the fact that he was a merchant of death, that he bought airplanes and was linked to terrorists and wanted by the FBI. Snyder started to smile at the thought. It could be a hot story if it was handled the right way, the way Joselyn Cole had done it in front of the committee.

He could toss out Liquida’s name, the fact that he was a former hit man for the drug cartel and was now believed to be associated with terrorists, and that his fingerprint was found at the scene of Jimmie’s murder. He wondered about Madriani and what he might say. It was Madriani who’d told him about Liquida and his thumbprint on Madriani’s business card. Snyder could skate around it at the press conference. Just tell them there was a fingerprint. No need to tell them where it was found. Let the police deal with it.

His son was murdered because, as Madriani or his partner had said, Jimmie was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was a victim. Now, from what Snyder could see, the police were looking for his killer in all the wrong places. Either that or they weren’t looking at all. Crime was like everything else. Cases went cold because cops got lazy. He wasn’t going to allow that to happen to Jimmie’s case. To Snyder, the investigation of his son’s murder was like a living, breathing soul. It was all he had left. It galled him that there was no death penalty in the District of Columbia, a place where violent crime was the local sport. If the killer was arrested before Snyder could get his hands on him, Snyder would move on to the trial and live for that. And if the killer was convicted, he would live for the trial’s penalty phase. And if you cornered him and asked him what he would do once the killer was marched off to prison and locked away, Bart Snyder couldn’t tell you, because he didn’t know. To him the concept of closure was a lie.

But for now he would be satisfied to have the media asking questions, demanding to know why the cops weren’t developing the information he had given them on Thorn and Liquida. He would blow the lid off the investigation, smoke out the people in charge, and force them to answer his questions. He was tired of standing on the outside looking in, calling and getting no answers. It was his son who was dead. He had a right to know what was happening. And he wasn’t going to sit around and wait to find out.