The Prince of Risk

23

“So what are we looking at?” asked Janet McVeigh, ADIC of the New York office, before sipping her mug of coffee.

It was three in the afternoon. Alex sat across the table in the eighth-floor conference room. Bill Barnes sat next to her. He’d changed out of his jeans and polo shirt into a freshly pressed navy suit, white shirt, and blood-red tie. Naturally, there was an American flag pin in his lapel. She noticed that Barnes’s hair was combed as neatly as if he’d just stepped out of the barber’s chair. She caught the faint reflection of herself in the window. She’d been too busy prepping for the meeting to think about getting cleaned up. Her hair was a mess, and she had rings under her eyes that would do a raccoon proud. She sat straighter and tucked her blouse into her pants. Only then did she notice that she had an American flag in her lapel, too. Take that, Hollywood Harry.

“Here’s the final tally of the arms found at Windermere.” Alex slid a paper across the table, then gave another copy to Barnes. “I sent e-copies to both your mailboxes. As you can see, we have a major haul: machine guns, hand grenades, ammu-”

“And an antitank weapon,” said Barnes. “We’ve got serial numbers from the machine guns and pistols, as well as batch numbers and shipment information from some of the crates. We’re doing a back-check now.”

“How soon can we expect to hear anything?” McVeigh was a compact, pretty blond woman in her early fifties. Even after twenty years with the Bureau, she liked to keep her nails longer than practical, buffed and polished in the French style, and was never seen without her makeup just so. Her attractive looks and feminine demeanor hid an interior every bit as steely as Alex’s.

“The manufacturers are based in Europe,” said Barnes. “We’ll start calling at eight a.m. their time.” He looked sidelong at Alex. “Pardon me-I didn’t mean to cut in.”

Alex went on. “Besides the weapons, there were cots for six persons and a fully stocked kitchen. However, I don’t think we’re looking at seven bad guys. Based on the numbering found on the communications gear, we can assume there are twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four? So there may be more safe houses?” asked McVeigh.

“Yes, I think-”

Again Barnes interrupted. “And more weapons. Only eight machine guns were found at the scene. That contrasts with the number of vests and, as Alex said, the numbering on the communications gear.”

“Have you alerted Port Authority?” asked McVeigh. “It’s probable that most of this stuff came through JFK or one of the container terminals at Newark, Baltimore, or Philly. We don’t want that guy bringing in any more.”

“Done,” said Barnes.

McVeigh made a note on her pad. “What do you know about the shooter?”

“Shepherd? Not enough,” said Alex. “His wallet held a Texas driver’s license that we’re still checking out, a few debit cards he could have purchased at any supermarket, and fifty dollars.”

“Phone?”

“He was smart. He destroyed his SIM card before we entered the house. We did find a passport. Portuguese. Name of Henrique Manuel Lopes Gregorio. Picture matches. I’m guessing it’s a fake or a stolen blank.”

“I didn’t know you were an expert on phony travel documents,” said Barnes.

Alex ignored the jibe. “I put in a call to the Portuguese embassy in D.C. They’re checking out the number. The ambassador promised to have an answer for us by morning.”

McVeigh consulted the inventory of evidence found at the scene. “I like what I’m hearing. We’re moving on a lot of fronts. All the same, this is looking pretty scary.”

“I want to know more about the shooter,” said Alex. “I’d like your go-ahead to visit the morgue and take a look at the body.”

“The morgue?” said Barnes. “What for?”

“Our man was a pro. He shot accurately and he maintained his composure. I’m guessing he’s a soldier. If that’s the case, he’ll most probably have tattoos. We might see something that will give us a clue who he served with. We have his fingerprints. It would make identification that much easier if we knew where to send them.”

Barnes swiveled his chair to face her. “Look, Alex, we appreciate your help, but it’s been a long day. You’re suffering from emotional trauma. I can handle this from here on out. You’re just not-”

“I’m fine, Bill.”

“As evidenced by your earlier outburst at Dr. Lemon.”

“I said I’m fine. I’m sitting right next to you. If you want to know how I feel, ask me.”

Barnes returned his attention to McVeigh. “Be that as it may, this is no longer Alex’s bailiwick.”

“‘Bailiwick’?” said Alex. “Who are you? Sherlock fuckin’ Holmes?”

“Alex,” cautioned McVeigh.

“Screw that, Jan. I’m not going to sit here and let Hollywood Harry patronize me. I’m staying on this case and that’s that.”

“The hell you are,” Barnes retorted. “This is a domestic CT matter now. One of my teams will head this up. Get that through your thick skull.”

“Cool it, Bill,” said McVeigh.

“She’s always sticking her nose into everyone’s business. Miss Friggin’ Know-It-All. I’m sick of it.” Barnes smoothed his tie and settled back in his chair. “Jan, you and I agreed that Alex isn’t heading up this investigation. I mean, calling the Portuguese embassy on your own is a little above an SSA’s pay grade. I’ll assign a team from CT-3.”

“And I’ll be on it,” said Alex.

“Let’s all of us calm down,” said McVeigh. “We can get back to who’s running what later on.”

“Jan-”

“Can it, Bill.” McVeigh studied her notepad, then drew a breath and directed her attention to Alex. “That’s a smart idea to check if our shooter has tattoos, but Bill will handle it.” She smiled in a patronizing way, and Alex knew she was about to get the coup de grâce. “Bill is right,” McVeigh went on. “This is nothing for CT-26. Given the nature of the threat, I’ve made the decision to set up a task force, and I’m asking Bill to head it up.”

“But this is my deal-”

“Not anymore it’s not. I want you to take a few days and get some rest. You’ve been through a lot. You need to process this, and you can’t do it working twenty-four hours a day.”

“We don’t have a few days,” said Alex.

“Is there something you’re not telling us?”

Alex grabbed the sheaf of paper listing everything that had been found at Windermere. “Check the inventory. Page three-the list of all the food. I broke it down into meals. Three meals a day. Seven operatives, each eating a minimum of twenty-five hundred calories. There’s enough food for three days.”

“Guesswork,” said Barnes.

“Damn right it’s guesswork,” said Alex, putting a fist to the table. “That’s what they pay us to do. You want to call it a guess. I call it a plausible theory. The stuff in that fridge was fresh and perishable. The way I see it, the people who were going to occupy those beds are due in today or tomorrow. I don’t see them hanging around to visit the Statue of Liberty. Not with all that gear hidden in the house. They’re professionals. That clock starts ticking once they hit U.S. soil.”

“If they’re still coming,” said Barnes.

“Why wouldn’t they be? Think of the planning required to smuggle those weapons into the country. This isn’t some mom-and-pop job. This is top-drawer. They’ve got an entire network set up. Our killing one of their team and uncovering a cache of weapons isn’t going to stop them. If anything, it’s going to light a fire under their butts. Wake up. This is happening now.”

“What exactly do you think ‘this’ is?” asked McVeigh.

“They’re taking a building, a plane, a school-hell, I don’t know. Give me your worst-case scenario and multiply it times ten. What do twenty-four trained terrorists armed to the teeth with everything from AK-47s to antitank weapons go after?”

“Worse than storming a building or a hostage situation?” asked Barnes. “Stop being such an alarmist.”

Alex looked at McVeigh. “What if they’re taking Manhattan?”

“You mean a Mumbai scenario?”

Alex nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean. Mumbai.”