Wallace McFaul, sitting in the main room of the lodge, checked his watch. Three o’clock. The media pool had filed or broadcast their stories. The press conference had been a resounding success. It was incredible how big the story was, how widespread—at the top of every news feed he could find with his phone—The New York Times, the networks, CNN, Fox, Facebook, Apple News, The Guardian. Sitting in the lodge, McFaul had been checking and rechecking the news sites as the stories got posted. In the clips, he had spoken well and looked good, his voice calm and reassuring, his demeanor professional. (He had to get rid of that tire around his middle, though.) The lineup of law enforcement behind him looked impressive. The press had been, if not exactly grateful, at least obliged by having been let into the resort. They had rewarded him by avoiding snarky or critical coverage, at least on the major outlets. Of course, the case had better advance fast. The coverage could turn in an instant. The press were like pit bulls, tail wagging and then a sudden lunge at the jugular.
But things were going well. Absolutely. They’d cleared the mine and had the killers on the run. It was now a matter of tracking them down. Cash was temporarily out of the way, heading up to the mine with Romanski and that sheriff to collect more evidence, and he felt relieved that she was out of the loop. She was kind of a pain in the ass, not goodlooking, a little heavy around the hips, and with a foul mouth—not the best look for an agent in charge. This was her first case as AIC, and she’d not done well, as far as he was concerned. He was disappointed in her. Even though she had one of the highest clearance rates in the bureau, she was lacking on the public relations side of things. A case like this, for example: the public needed to be informed and the press wanted to be fed. Or they’d turn against you. By keeping the press out for, what, almost five days? Cash had made a serious mistake and risked the press narrative going sour. By letting the press inside, he had nipped the negative stories in the bud, the press was happy, and their stories now had the right tone. The honeymoon wouldn’t last—McFaul knew that: he’d better produce some results. But now that he was in charge, everything was going to be different, and he felt confident they’d wrap this up in forty-eight hours—or less.
He put away his phone and looked around. The guests had all been evacuated that morning and the press were now wandering around, starting to look hungry after having filed their stories. They’d want more. The deadline for them to leave was at four—they had one more hour. And then he’d clear them out.
He was getting ready to call Maximilian when he saw the security director striding across the big room, his face dark. McFaul didn’t like that look, and he rose from his chair.
“What’s the latest?” McFaul asked. “Is something wrong?”
“I just heard from Doyle. A bunch of dynamite was stolen from the film crew this morning.”
McFaul felt a buzzy feeling of dread in his gut. “Dynamite? How much?”
“A hundred pounds. Apparently, they were going to use them for a movie scene with an explosion.”
“Real dynamite?”
“Yes, real.”
“You think the killers have it?” McFaul began.
“Who else? Of course they have it.”
“What are they going to do with it?” he asked, but even before he was finished speaking, he realized how stupid the question sounded.
“What do you think?” said Maximilian, exasperated. “They’re going to bloody blow something up.”
McFaul felt a twist of horror in his gut. His face was now everywhere, in all the media, the man in charge. He was responsible. This would be on him. What to do? He tried to think, tried to game out how the killers might use the explosives. They’d try to blow up the lodge—that would be their first target. The lodge. But then, who else was vulnerable? For security reasons, the search crews had already been reduced, and they’d switched over to searching mostly with drones. The guests, thank God, had been evacuated. But the damn press was still there.
He realized he was starting to hyperventilate and made a massive effort to get himself under control and project composure and competence. Cash had wanted to call in the National Guard. Was it time to do that? But he’d told her that wouldn’t be a good look, especially right after promising everyone the case was well under control. It would mean going through the governor, and that would take twenty-four hours. The governor had just authorized them to shut down the resort, and going back to him would be an admission of lack of progress. The press would pick up on it—you couldn’t mobilize the National Guard quietly—and Jesus, that would look bad.
Maximilian was standing there, waiting for some kind of response from him.
McFaul said, “We need to make sure the lodge is protected against attack. That’s the first priority. I want you to deploy Erebus security around the lodge to prevent any close approach by these crazies. We’ll also redeploy half of the DPD SWAT team to the lodge.”
“Agreed.”
“And we need to pull all the rest of the search teams out of the backcountry, for their own safety.”
Maximilian nodded. “Agreed. My men are at your disposal.”
“What about the lab complex?” McFaul asked. “What kind of protection do you need up there?”
“We’re good up there. I’m not worried about it. The lab complex is like Fort Knox. No dynamite’s going to get through those steel doors.”
“Cash and Romanski are up in the Jackman Mine,” said McFaul. “With the sheriff and Reno.”
At this, Maximilian looked startled. “What for? I wasn’t informed.”
“Routine. Collecting evidence.”
“They need to get back down here ASAP.”
McFaul shook his head. “Can’t communicate with them while they’re in the tunnels. I tried.” He paused. “What about Barrow? Does he know about this?”
Maximilian nodded.
“What’s his take?”
“Not happy,” Maximilian said in a clipped voice.
McFaul looked around at the press bastards who were roaming about, hungry looks on their faces. “We’d better keep this from the press. And get them out of here.”
“Let me remind you, Mr. McFaul, that I advised against bringing them in here at all. If there’s an explosion while they’re still here, with all these cameras—well, you and I, mate, are going to look bloody stupid.”
McFaul felt another twinge of horror. He should have stayed back in Lakewood and left the case with Cash.