Fallout

CHAPTER 8

In the bright afternoon, Craig Kreident stood at the observation towers atop the Hoover Dam, peering down the vast expanse of concrete like the world’s most terrifying ski slope. Traffic rolled steadily behind him; tourists walked from the Visitor’s Center to the observation towers to the gift shop.

The area had returned to normal, despite the bustling wrap-up conducted by teams of FBI experts in one of the dam’s administrative meeting rooms, which had been converted into a temporary operations center.

Craig leaned against the railing, still exhausted from his adrenaline hangover. He tapped his fingers on the rail, shuffling from one spot to another, though the spectacular view did not change. He watched investigators moving about far below, combing the buildings for other evidence of sabotage.

It felt good to relax, but a sour feeling lingered in his stomach. In his mind Craig could still see the wild eyes of the bomber as he stepped backward, “I can go to Heaven.” It was never good to have someone killed during a bust. It demonstrated the volatility of his work, the uncertainty that accompanied every law-enforcement situation. Given a simple twist of fate, he himself could be dead instead.

What could he have done differently, what precautions should he have taken? He’d seen that guilt ruin competent investigators, blunt their edges as they worried too much about consequences to make rapid decisions in the line of fire. He had to work on developing internal calluses.

The law classes he’d taken at Stanford had dealt with such issues in esoteric ways — there, the world was black and white, right or wrong, making purely academic sense. Those self-confident professors didn’t have to deal with the gritty world Craig saw; he had realized the difference even when he had worked for a private investigator while putting himself through school.

The last time Craig had let down his guard, during a bust for white-collar crime, the president of a small computer-chip manufacturing firm had committed suicide. Had he been at fault then as well? The tragedy had resulted in a temporary administrative leave, but ultimately Craig had been cleared. And what about this morning?

You’re already in dreamland, man…

As he stood gathering his thoughts, Mr. Garcia came up to him, removing his yellow hardhat. He ran his fingers through short gray hair. “Agent Kreident, I want to report that one of my workers is missing.” Craig immediately snapped to attention. “He was here this morning when I called the meeting, but I can’t find him now. With all the mess today, I didn’t notice until now. His name is Bryce Connors.”

“You got a glimpse of the guy who took a swan dive into the water,” Craig said. “Could that have been Connors?”

The supervisor shook his head. “No, that guy was tall and skinny. Connors is short, broad shouldered, square jawed, and with very dark hair, the kind that gave him a five o’clock shadow by lunch time.”

Craig remained skeptical. “You don’t think he just got spooked and ran when he heard about the bomb?”

“Spooked?” Garcia laughed weakly. “No — Bryce Connors is the type to spit at an oncoming truck. Not real bright, mind you, but cowardly is not a word I think of when describing him.”

Craig let the words spin through his mind. His foot tapped faster. Even though all the shift employees were accounted for at the time, one of the legitimate workers could have granted the terrorist access, helped him perform the sabotage. “I want Connors’s address,” he said, “and his employee record.” Flustered, the shift supervisor hurried off.

“Hey, Craig!” Another voice drifted from the far end of the sidewalk. Craig turned and spotted Goldfarb. The curly-haired agent held a cup of coffee from the gift shop snackbar, sloshing a few drops as he waved. “Phone call for you down in the temp CC! It’s June Atwood. Says it’s urgent.”

Craig took a last glance at the water rushing past the rocks below, not anxious to talk to his supervisor back in Oakland. A warm breeze ruffled his hair. Goldfarb strode to the unmarked access door leading to the temporary command center. Craig followed, walking stiffly after such a long day.

The inside of the dam smelled of lubricants, oil, and grease for the massive generators. They trotted down three flights of stairs to a room crammed with agents, some at laptop computers, others going over pictures of the bomb the EOD team had dismantled under the turbines. A low throb of equipment and conversation hummed in the background.

“Which line?” Craig asked as he headed for the phone. Feeling a pang of hunger, he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since this morning.

“Over there. We’ve set up a STU-3.” Goldfarb pointed with his coffee cup across the room to where Jackson sat next to a portable set.

Jackson held up the receiver, muffling the phone with his hand. “She’s getting antsy. And we all know what that means.”

Craig dodged a metal table holding computer printouts of MOs and intelligence data on regional terrorists groups. “Why is she calling on a secure phone? Is she worried about the Eagle’s Claw tapping into our line?”

Jackson handed the phone to Craig. “Beats me, boss. I only do what I’m told around here.”

Craig glanced around for a seat and pulled up an old gray swivel chair that looked as if it had been left there by the original dam construction crew in the 1940s. He grabbed the receiver. “Hello, June.”

“Ready to go secure, Craig.” His supervisor back in Oakland sounded no-nonsense, and not interested in conversation. The Motorola STU-3, a version of the military’s secure phone, could transmit classified information as scrambled electronic signals. The Bureau used it only for particularly sensitive cases. “Do you have a STU-3 key?”

Jackson rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a black plastic key with serrated ridges, metal edges, and a magnetic strip. Craig inserted the card into the base of the phone. “Okay, June, I’m ready.”

“Going secure.” The line went dead.

Craig turned the key and waited until a tiny message appeared on the LED display. SECRET: FBI OAKLAND CA FIELD OFFICE. Craig heard a scratchy noise over the receiver. “Craig? Are you there?”

“Ready on this end, June.” He waited, listening to the barely perceptible pause in the words as the signals were encrypted and decrypted.

“Something bigger has come up, Craig,” June said without preamble. “I’m pulling you from the Eagle’s Claw case.”

Craig nearly fell off his chair. “Bigger? What can be bigger than a bunch of terrorists wanting to blow up the Hoover Dam?” The two-second STU delay seemed interminable to him.

“There’s been a murder at the Nevada Nuclear Test Site, fifty miles outside of Las Vegas. An ambassador, the senior member of a Russian disarmament team, has been killed, staged to look like an accident. If we don’t handle this quietly, we’ll have an international incident on our hands. The president has scheduled a summit meeting with the Russian president for this coming Saturday, to celebrate the successful completion of this open-doors inspection. Worse, he’s scheduled a short stopover in Las Vegas to personally greet the disarmament team before flying on to the summit. We cannot have an unsolved murder mucking this up.”

Craig leaned back in the creaking chair, his mind whirling. “Are you sure it’s a murder?” He listened to a faint hiss of static.

“The ME’s office says it’s pretty plain. The Russian was dead half an hour before the so-called accident occurred.”

Goldfarb shoved a cup of sour-smelling coffee into Craig’s free hand. “Pretend it’s Jack Daniels,” he whispered, “and imagine how pissed she’d be.”

“So you’ve got the murder of a Russian national on Federal property. I appreciate the political ramifications.” Craig sipped the coffee, trying to maintain his calm. It tasted bitter. “But you don’t appreciate how serious things are here. We were lucky to find that bomb before it went off, and there’s strong evidence the Eagle’s Claw intends to do more acts of terrorism before Friday. Friday, June. The Hoover Dam was just a warmup act.”

June’s voice remained firm. “I don’t intend to slack off on the Eagle’s Claw for a minute — we’ll keep the entire team cooking at high heat. I’m just pulling you from it, Craig. Your abilities are better utilized elsewhere. Some more agents are coming in, and the Secret Service advance team is there if you need help.”

He had a difficult time keeping his temper in check. He set down the coffee, afraid he might accidentally clench his fist and smash the Styrofoam cup. “What about Bill Maguire? The Eagle’s Claw killed him, June — I know it. There’s too much at stake to take me off this case for a simple murder.”

“Nothing simple about Ambassador Nevsky’s murder,” she said, unwavering. “And that was a low blow about Maguire. I felt his death as much as any of you field agents did. But I set the priorities here — do I have to call you back to Oakland so I can explain this face to face? According to airline schedules I can get you here and back there by eleven o’clock tonight. The result will be the same, but you’ll waste a lot of hours on the plane.”

Craig opened his mouth to retort, but saw Jackson, Goldfarb, and three other agents watching him. Heaving a deep breath, he tried to block the thrum of machinery in the background by putting a hand over his free ear.

“June,” said Craig, “I still think it’s a mistake —”

“You’re the best agent I’ve got, Craig. “ She sounded calm now, persuasive. “That previous case you solved at Lawrence Livermore proved it. You have experience working in government facilities, and I know I can count on you.” She fell quiet for a moment.

“This is coming straight from the top, the Attorney General herself. We’ve only known for a few hours that the ambassador’s death was not an accident. The U.S. has not yet released that information because there’s so much riding on completing the disarmament process. We’ve got to hold this coalition together and not give the Russians any reason to back out. We cannot afford to have this fail. By Friday, the disarmament team will have completed their mission, the President will have personally expressed his congratulations, and you, Craig, will have solved the case.”

“How am I going to conduct this investigation without letting on that we know there’s been a murder?”

“Because of the political nature of this death, the FBI must be called in. You’re here, a proven expert in cases involving scientific facilities.”

Craig rolled his gray eyes. “Are they going to buy that?”

“Besides, Paige Mitchell is also involved in this case. The two of you worked well together in Livermore. Do it again.”

“Paige is out here? What is she doing in Nevada?”

“Protocol liaison for the disarmament inspectors. It’s a temporary assignment for DOE.”

Craig fell silent — that put a whole new spin on things. But still he chewed on his lower lip, unconvinced. “This militia problem could turn out to be the tip of a much bigger iceberg.”

“Goldfarb and Jackson can handle it for the next three days, Craig. They’ll have help.”

“Three days is all we’ve got until the Claw’s deadline. October 24.”

“Get over to Las Vegas tonight. Find a room somewhere. Miss Mitchell will be your NTS security escort, and she will brief you on the details. Until then, unless you can talk over a secure phone, the true nature of your investigation remains classified. Understand? Or do I have to fly out there and explain it to you face to face?”

Craig tried to keep his voice steady. He answered crisply. “No, ma’am. That won’t be necessary.”