The 34th Degree

7

Deker’s black Audi squealed out of the medical building onto Avenue of the Stars and turned west onto Santa Monica Boulevard. He passed the Century City shopping center and went through the McDonald’s drive-through for coffee; he didn’t feel like bantering with the baristas at Starbucks. Then he took a right onto Veteran.

The Federal Building loomed ahead.

The nineteen-story white monolith overlooked the Los Angeles National Cemetery, America’s largest veterans’ cemetery after Arlington, and was ground zero for protests in L.A. It also housed the region’s FBI headquarters.

As chief mason with M Building Systems, the L.A. contractor hired for the building’s $400 million renovation, Deker was supposed to ensure that “no extraordinary environmental circumstances” would result from the modernization. Meaning: As long as the building was still standing when all the work was done, Uncle Sam was happy.

He passed the stone pillars of the nearly half-mile-long fence surrounding the complex. He had installed a few of them himself. The pillars protected the FBI headquarters from truck bombs and other terrorist threats, and the white walls of the building were designed to be blast-resistant. But new federal guidelines following the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, required a complete renovation, including two hundred thousand fully grouted and extensively reinforced concrete units for backup and partition walls.

He entered the rear lot and parked at the construction site next to the 405 freeway. Crews were already at work removing asbestos and continuing seismic upgrades. These renovations were exempt from local requirements for a full environmental review, which had riled the residents of nearby Westwood, along with the already unbearable traffic congestion.

He walked behind his car and opened the trunk to remove his bag. Inside were his Masonic apron and trowel. Anytime a federal public works project involved cornerstones, there was usually a lowkey ceremony of some kind. It had been that way since the founding of the republic.

He slipped his bag over his shoulder and shut his trunk door to see several armed FBI agents swarming him. The lead agent, a twenty-something punk kid like himself, gave him the death stare.

“Sam Deker,” he said. “You’re wanted for questioning in connection with an imminent terrorist threat. Come with us.”