Fallout

CHAPTER 20

Goldfarb removed the plastic lid, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted from his Starbucks cup as he settled behind the microfilm reader at the Las Vegas library. At least the reference librarian had given him a special dispensation, once he’d shown off his badge. This late in the afternoon, grimy and exhausted, Goldfarb needed the caffeine just to keep himself going — and with their time dwindling minute by minute, he couldn’t afford to relax.

The Eagle’s Claw meant to strike on the day after tomorrow.

From the burning den, Goldfarb had rescued handwritten notes filled with random numbers, a tourist brochure with a map of all the casinos in Las Vegas (several of which had been circled), discolored work orders from a slot-machine repair shop, photocopied articles from underground publications about the excesses of the United Nations, yellow pages torn from the phone book with ads for various airlines, Amtrak trains, and Greyhound buses.

Scattered clues, but no obvious answers. The next step required digging.

Goldfarb glanced at his dot-matrix printout and inserted a microfilm cassette into the reader. Under the headings MILITIA and EAGLE’S CLAW he found a series of newspaper dates and page numbers. Most would make only passing reference to extremist groups, but he just might find the one clue that could break the case wide open. He had already read the field reports of covert agent Maguire, now deceased.

Maguire had left his wife and thirteen-year-old daughter behind in Sacramento to pose undercover as a Cook County highway worker who hung out in redneck bars. He made his fabricated political views known and eventually worked his way into the militia. His regular reports provided much background on the violent organization.

In the best tradition of clandestine groups, the Eagle’s Claw was divided into compact cells, each with its own mission, each reporting to a single superior. But the Eagle’s Claw had somehow discovered that Maguire worked for the FBI. And they had drugged him, murdered him — but not before he managed to leave his warning note about the Hoover Dam.…

Goldfarb had met Maguire’s wife once at a Bureau function. He remembered that the man’s daughter was extremely tall for her age and played basketball on the junior high team. Goldfarb felt burning anger as he thought of how the woman and her daughter would no longer see Bill Maguire, how he would never again show up for his daughter’s games.

Goldfarb thought of how his own wife Julene and their two children could just as easily suffer the same fate, if he wasn’t careful.

He turned the microfilm dial, and blurry newspaper pages raced across the screen. He zoomed past the first date on his list and had to back up to read a letter to the editor from the Western States Militia: A complaint about the United Nations making a power grab, which led into a screed against gun control, then liberals in general. Goldfarb noted the organization on a sheet of yellow legal paper, just in case he spotted a pattern.

Checking off the first item on his printout, he moved to the second.

And the third.…

He took another sip of hot coffee, feeling the bitter taste glide down his throat like a depth charge. He stared at the barely legible, negative copies of newspapers on the screen, but no amount of caffeine seemed able to force connections in his mind. He cranked to the next article; the microfilm whirred and rattled as the days flew by.

With the noise of the machine, Goldfarb didn’t hear the man come up behind him. He sensed rather than heard the presence, smelled the pungent whiff of after-shave, a strong dose of Old Spice — a brand he had worn himself as a younger man, believing that it made him rugged and sexy to women, until Julene had talked him out of that notion.

“You’re invading my right of privacy,” said a man’s gruff voice. “As an American citizen I find that offensive.”

Goldfarb started to turn in his chair, but the loud snick of a spring-loaded knife popping out of its hilt made him freeze. The blade pressed against his throat.

“Now, now, Mr. FBI,” the man said, “gotta keep quiet in the library. Can’t you read the signs?”

Goldfarb swallowed but made no abrupt moves. He looked up, saw the broad shoulders, the close-cropped dark hair, and square jaw bearing a shadow of dark whiskers. The man wore a lightweight, billowy khaki jacket.

The knife point poked the corner of his jaw under his ear, within instant reach of his jugular. The tall shelves, the microfilm reader, and the bulk of the man himself shielded them from view of the library’s other patrons.

“I hope you know automatic knives are illegal in the United States,” Goldfarb said calmly.

The burly man grunted; the sound might have been a quiet laugh. “I bought it in Mexico. And you’re going to buy it right here.”

“In the Reference Section?” The sarcasm caused the man to push the knife in closer. Goldfarb winced and decided that humor might not be the best way to resolve this situation. “Bryce Connors, I presume?” he said. “I recognize you from your picture in the employee file. It’s about the only thing in there that wasn’t faked.”

“You all know too damn much,” Connors said. A high school student carrying a backpack sauntered by, glanced at them, but saw nothing more than an intense, private conversation. She moved back toward the magazines.

“We already know who you are, Connors, and we have plenty of leads,” Goldfarb said. “If you do anything to me, we’ll hunt you down in no time.”

The militia man remained unimpressed. “All I need is to keep out of your reach until Friday. That’s only two more days, no sweat.” The point of the switchblade did not waver against Goldfarb’s neck. A warm, syrupy drop of perspiration trickled from his curly hair down his temple and in front of his ear. “After Friday, nothing’s going to be the same anyway.”

“I can’t wait,” Goldfarb said.

“Sorry, Mr. FBI,” Connors whispered, “but you won’t be there to see the show.”

“So give me a sneak preview. What’s going to happen?” Goldfarb hoped it could be so simple.

“They won’t even tell me exactly what’s going to happen — but you can bet it’ll be spectacular. The first bombs were my work. Somebody else is in charge of the festivities on the 24th.”

“So how did you find me?” Goldfarb asked, trying to draw the man out.

Connors smiled, his thick lips curling upward but not parting to reveal any teeth. “I’ve been watching you ever since you left the fire.” He gave a rude snort. “I don’t know what took you guys so long to get to my house. If I’d known you were going to wait all night and half the morning, I would’ve had time to clean out the place instead of rigging it to burn down.”

At the far end of the stacks, one of the assistant librarians rolled a heavy metal cart laden with books toward the private offices in the back.

“Now get up,” Connors said. “We’re going to walk out to my truck, where we can continue this conversation in private.” The man hissed into his ear, “Slowly — no sudden moves.”

Goldfarb had no desire to continue the conversation with Bryce Connors, in private or otherwise. Feeling the knife against his throat, he swiveled counter-clockwise, rising from the chair in the opposite direction from what the militia man expected. It was a little thing, nothing Connors could fault him for — but the instant of confusion was enough to draw the knife point slightly away from his skin. Goldfarb reacted with spring-tight reflexes, jerking his head backward as he snatched his cup of hot coffee and flung it over his shoulder into Bryce Connors’s face.

The man yowled and raised his hands as Goldfarb dove out of the way. Connors immediately regained enough of his thoughts and reflexes to slash downward with the knife. The razor-sharp blade ripped open the sleeve of Goldfarb’s jacket but did not cut the skin.

Connors lunged again blindly, and Goldfarb smashed into the microfilm reader, upsetting the table and knocking the machine over with a loud crash. The militia man bellowed, clawing at his scalded eyes. Goldfarb ripped his handgun from the shoulder holster, thrusting it close to Bryce Connors. “Freeze!”

Several of the readers and students in the library cried out; a few ran for the exit but most stared, captivated by the tableau. At the checkout counter, the librarians stepped back, wide-eyed.

Connors gripped his face and moaned loudly as Goldfarb pressed closer, holding the handgun steady. “My eyes!”

Goldfarb had just enough time for a flicker of suspicion — the coffee hadn’t been that hot — but he was unprepared for the lashing cowboy boot that swept at his leg with the force of a wrecking ball. The stone-hard heel caught him directly on the shin and Goldfarb shouted his pain as he fell over like a toppled matchstick.

Connors, his eyes unharmed after all, bolted.

Goldfarb howled and then limped after the man as Connors dashed between two long bookshelves in the stacks. Every step sent a cannonball of pain up his leg.

He stepped around one of the shelves, ducking as he scanned down the long corridor of books. He saw Connors for just an instant as the militia man whirled, gripping a genuine cowboy-style Colt revolver he had pulled from the pocket of his khaki jacket. The man fired twice, and the gunshots sounded like explosions in the library. A loud ricochet struck the metal shelves within a foot of Goldfarb’s head, and the other bullet struck the books. He toppled backward out of the way.

The people in the library screamed and finally began to run for the exits.

“Should’ve known he’d come prepared with more than just a little knife,” Goldfarb muttered, then he raised his voice to a shout. “Everyone, listen! I am a Federal Agent. Please evacuate the library. Call for help. 9-1-1. Get backup here right now.” Goldfarb hoped that at least one of the librarians would maintain enough wits to call in the emergency.

He slid around the corner, but Connors had vanished, diving down a side aisle. Where did the burly man think he could go? Goldfarb limped down the stacks as quietly as he could, his handgun drawn. His gaze flicked from side to side, waiting for motion.

He heard people running toward the exits, then a librarian shouted. “The police and the FBI are on their way with full backup. They’ll be here in less than two minutes.” No backup could arrive so quickly, but Goldfarb suspected the woman had used that as a ploy, a weapon to make Connors panic. He hoped it might work.

Goldfarb could not respond, because that would give away his position. He crept along, then slid to the next section of shelves, one aisle at a time. He heard no sound, no one moving along the line of books. The fluorescent lights overhead cast murky shadows.

His heart pounding, his breath ragged, he glanced from side to side. His Beretta extended, he turned to the right, praying that Connors hadn’t doubled back, wasn’t slipping around behind him —

Then suddenly to his left a section of books tumbled off an upper shelf as Bryce Connors shoved them. Heavy encyclopedias thumped down, raining on Goldfarb’s shoulders — but it was a surprise and a distraction more than an actual injury.

Ignoring the bruises, Goldfarb dashed over to where the militia man had been. Connors whirled, firing once more behind him, but he took no time to aim. Smoldering confetti showered from bullet-damaged books.

Connors dashed into the library’s back offices, and Goldfarb charged after him.

As he passed through the door, his head low and his attention focused, Bryce Connors popped out from the side, rolling a heavy cart full of books, smashing it into Goldfarb like a locomotive. The metal cart tipped over, and Goldfarb sprawled to the floor as more books tumbled around him.

Connors dashed deeper into the offices where three young library assistants worked at repairing books, every one of them wearing earphones plugged into Walkman cassette players. Two wrapped plastic protective coverings over new arrivals while the third keyed in entries in the computer. All three leaped to their feet, confused and astonished, yanking earphones away from their head.

Connors pointed his revolver and fired point blank at the glowing computer screen. The cathode-ray tube exploded like a bomb, a spectacular distraction, and the three assistants dove to the floor for cover, screaming. Sparks and smoke sprayed from the ruined computer.

Goldfarb scrambled to his feet, crawling over the piles of loose books and the metal cart. He slipped and stumbled, trying to regain his balance. “Hold it!” he yelled.

Connors ignored him. He reached the back emergency exit door and crashed through it, setting off fire alarms. Loud bells rang, adding to the chaos. The militia man dove outside into the slice of sunlight.

Goldfarb scrambled across the back room, still in hot pursuit. The three assistant librarians were terrified, picking themselves up. Goldfarb took a second to glance at them. “Are you all right? Did he shoot you? Are you injured?” He saw three stunned faces look at him blankly. All shook their heads.

Goldfarb ran to the still-closing door, crashing his way out. His battered shin stung and burned. He didn’t think the bone was broken, but he could think of various tortures that would have felt more pleasant at the moment.

To his dismay, the rear of the library butted up against a busy parking lot filled with cars and trucks, pedestrians, shoppers. He focused quickly on the pickups, since Bryce Connors had mentioned his truck — but then he saw a dark blue Galaxy 500 roar off down the street, and he knew that the man’s words must have been a decoy.

He felt the energy drain out of him like water, replaced with suffocating dismay. The man responsible for creating the Hoover Dam bomb — a bona fide connection to the Eagle’s Claw — had slipped right through his fingers! Connors would probably ditch the car within the hour.

“Jackson’s never going to let me forget this,” Goldfarb groaned, then used his good leg to kick his heel in frustration against the library wall.

Within moments, far too late of course, he heard sirens approaching in the distance.