Distant Thunder

48

Lance looked around him. “Do I detect a whiff of disbelief?”

“Maybe just a whiff,” Stone said. “Why did Vanessa have half a pound of plastique in her go bag?”

Lance shrugged. “Beats me,” he said.

“Beats you?” Stone asked. “You’re the guy who’s supposed to know everything!”

“Well, almost everything. A committee sits and rules on requests for things like mortars, 50-caliber machine guns, and high explosives. I’d have to go through the records and find out who made the request, what the serial number is, and when it was issued.”

Stone reached into the bag and produced the bomb. “Here you go. We did our best to disarm it, but who knows?”

Lance looked at the device as if it were a poisonous reptile about to strike. “Open it, please.”

“Your turn,” Stone said. “So far, we’ve been having all the fun.”

Lance got a well-manicured fingernail under one edge and flipped it open. “Ah,” he said with a sigh. “Disabled. Good job.” He made a phone call and gave somebody a number. “They’re checking.”

Stone looked at Dino and Viv, who both seemed intensely interested in Lance’s conversation.

Lance hung up. “Vanessa didn’t requisition it. Jack Collins did.”

“For what purpose?” Stone asked.

“I’m afraid that information is above your pay grade,” Lance replied regretfully.

Stone waved a hand. “We’re all cleared to the same level you are,” he said.

“Not quite,” Lance replied. “There is a teeny level above you that is reserved for things like high explosives and who receives them in the mail — that sort of thing.”

“You mail that stuff?”

“Well, we wouldn’t mail it to a residence or even a neighborhood.”

“What’s left?” Dino asked.

“Oh, things like drug factories and machine shops that manufacture illegal weapons.”

“So what was Jack’s target when he requisitioned half a pound of plastique?”

Lance gave them another shrug. “Conceivably...”

“Actually,” Stone said.

“For that information I would have to see the minutes of the meeting in question.”

“And you don’t have those on you?”

Lance patted his pockets, like a man who had forgotten his wallet when the check arrived. He held up a notebook. “Actually, I do.”

“We anxiously await,” Stone said.

Lance flipped through his notebook and picked out a scribble with a forefinger. “He requisitioned the explosive for use in the termination, with extreme prejudice, of one Valery Majorov.”

Dino spoke up. “So how’d he miss?”

“One is not always successful in these matters.”

“By ‘one,’ you mean Jack? Or just CIA officers in general?” Viv asked.

“In this case, Jack,” Lance said. “Though it pains me to tell you. Jack had always been successful in the past.”

“So,” Viv said, “what you’re telling us is, nobody’s perfect.”

“Well, not Jack, anyway. On this occasion.”

“What about the other stuff in the bag?”

“Everybody who leaves the Farm, having performed satisfactorily, is given a sort of tool kit, the contents of which are tailored to the milieu in which the officer will serve.”

“What’s in this tool kit that wasn’t in Jack’s?”

“It’s hard to say. Jack may have used some of his tools, then discarded them. Absent fingerprints and DNA, of course.”

“Of course,” Stone said. “Now, what do we do with half a pound of military-grade plastique?”

“Well,” Lance said, “it’s a bit rich for a fireworks display, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

“Perhaps if you just hold on to the substance for a while, a suitable opportunity will present itself.”

“I don’t really trust myself with this sort of thing,” Stone said. “Do you know who I trust with it?”

“Who would that be?”

“You,” Stone said, pushing the disabled bomb across the table.

Lance looked at it for a moment, checked the wiring again, then slipped it into a jacket pocket. “There,” he said. “All secure.”

“And if it turns out not to be,” Stone said, “I expect we’ll hear about it.”