CHAPTER 19

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Oakland, California

Alice Linda and Joe McRory shared a booth in the Dunkin’ Donuts shop adjacent to the police station. There couldn’t be a safer place in town and they could see Tyendinaga’s Dodge RAM truck remained in the station parking lot with its window surfaces now plastered with “Evidence” stickers.

“If I see a third Native American I’ll shoot first and maybe ask questions later,” Linda opined as she leaned across the table speaking in hushed tones.

McRory nodded his head in the direction of the coffee bar nearby. The old sayings about cops and donuts might be a stereotype, but it was a stereotype for a reason. The place was crawling with cops. “Let’s exercise a modicum of discretion. Shall we?”

Linda rolled her eyes but nodded her agreement nonetheless.

“Let’s review what we think we know. First, we’re not certain who hired the hitters. There’s an argument to be made it was the subject, another argues in favor of the company. Second, why would the company want to end our involvement in the assessment? If we hadn’t found the juicy stuff yet, we probably would soon enough. And the company lives for finding the dirt. Third, and with all due respect to your mentor, the good Sister, I don’t know anyone else who works for the company—except you, of course. Maybe she’s right. Maybe not. But how could it be good business to eliminate your workers? And why would they do that?”

“Maybe you forgot about the kidnapping and beating you took courtesy of the nephew.”

One of the cops drinking his coffee turned in their direction, “Hey you two, could you cut the racket? Some of us want to hear what happened in Nevada.”

Both Linda and McRory slid out of the booth and walked closer to the television mounted behind the counter and the cop. The counter worker grabbed the remote and pressed the volume control raising the level from too quiet to hear to too loud to ignore.

The local NBC affiliate was broadcasting the evening news. “Lester, I’m standing here in what appears to be the middle of nowhere, except right now it’s the center of the world for Homeland Security and the Justice Department as they track the discovery of ground level radiation in the Mojave Desert. We’re about 40 miles east of Interstate-15 north of Las Vegas in an otherwise barren landscape dotted with old gold and silver mines. Sources tell us that ground radiation—most likely from the detonation of a dirty bomb—was washed by recent downpours into the watershed of Lake Mead and Hoover Dam.”

“Miguel, do we know who detonated the bomb and when the detonation took place? Have federal authorities confirmed it was even a bomb?”

“Lester, our sources confirm a low powered radiological weapon—code for a dirty bomb—was detonated not far from where I’m standing. While they can’t determine the exact date of the detonation, they’ve established a range of dates when the explosion was most likely.”

“Miguel, was this a test bomb? Do they expect this was a test run for the real thing?”

“Lester, while no one will come right out and make that statement, it’s clear that’s what has them concerned.”

“Miguel, please keep us posted. That’s Miguel Alvarez reporting from the Mojave Desert. After the break, we’ll go to Andrea Mitchell in Washington, DC. More on this story when we return.”

The counter worker looked at the cops and shrugged his shoulders as if to ask, “Is that enough?” They nodded and he lowered the volume.

Linda and McRory returned to their booth. Their problems involved much smaller issues of life and death—theirs. This bomb story was much bigger.

McRory leaned across the table and whispered, “Todd Adams visited Las Vegas in time to plant that bomb.”

“Really?”

“His buddy, Al Hami, lives and works there.”

“I think—“

“They’re both physicists with an axe to grind.”

“—we have more pressing problems here.”

They both returned to stirring their coffee with their spoons.

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Mclean, Virginia

To say the mood in the room was at a fevered pitch would be an understatement. No one “did lunch” that day at either of the nearby Tyson’s Corner shopping malls or Clyde’s—another favorite. Instead, empty pizza boxes and delivery bags could be found everywhere. The impromptu meeting taking place at the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia, had been in session for an hour.

“So you’re telling me that none of the sensors north and south of Las Vegas on I-15 picked up any radiological signatures? None?”

There was no prompt response to the Director’s query. If someone answered “yes” or “no” the follow-up questions were guaranteed to leave at least one more newly mined rectum in the meeting than the number of participants. Silence was the best tactic here.

“Okay,” his drawl laced with skepticism bordering on contempt. “I want a list of anyone with the requisite profile who flew in or out of McCarran two weeks on either side of the window given to us by the folks in Energy.”

People started to move out of the meeting and back to their desks.

“And I want that list in the next two hours. Go! Divide and conquer!”

The facial expressions said more than was spoken. This was going to be a very long night.

“And I want those sensor readings checked, double checked, and triple checked, if necessary. Who’s going to see that gets done?”

One person tentatively raised his hand causing the Director to mutter just loud enough for everyone to hear, “Damn right you are. Goddamn it!”