Meetings, Wichita, Kansas
Swagger was released on the third day and got to the morning meeting on the fourth day.
It was the first get-together for Chandler, Neill, Nick, Swagger, and Mr. Gold in over a week, and, as usual, Nick had Chandler—hobbling on a walker but game—go through the APB responses and other communiqués from the police net, particularly those provoked by the circularized police artist portrait of the fugitive, under Swagger’s direction.
There were summaries from the interrogations—to no effect. And, as per usual, no possibilities from monitoring bus stations, the airport, the train station, even taxi, Uber, and Lyft drivers. Of the six or seven stolen cars reported, only one had been recovered, and it was almost certainly not Juba’s, as forensics found no trace of him in it.
“Sooner or later, one of the commandos will disclose where they staged the operation, and we can bust and vacuum that site,” said Nick. “But everyone on the other team is operating at a very high professional level and will probably not make the kind of stupid mistake that brings down most criminal initiatives. These people are first-class. Everything is done through cutouts far from the order giver and his inner circle, always using laundered money, accounts that lead nowhere. No wire intelligence, and nobody monitored radio transmissions, so clearly they used sophisticated masking. Neill, anything in cyber? Any little thing?”
“Sorry, no intercepts. Even put NSA on it, and they went through all their satellite stuff. I have a tech full-time in D.C. going after their fall guy. If and when a phony Brian Waters email or Dark Web site or blog hits, we’ll know.”
“We’re fucked,” said Bob. “He’ll do that just before he shoots. Whatever he wants the world to know about Brian Waters will hit then, you can bet on it.”
“Anything else?” asked Nick.
“Did you find the other rifle? Meaning the rifle he used here in Wichita?” Bob asked.
“How did you know he didn’t use the Accuracy International?”
“No point in risking the weapon dedicated to his big shot for some sideshow.”
“Well, you’re right—yes, a different rifle. He dumped it behind the chancel,” Nick said. “I looked at it pretty carefully before we sent it off to Firearms Division. It appeared to be straight-out-of-the-box standard, which is to say, without information.”
“What about all the science magic you do? DNA, hairs, atoms, that sort of thing?”
“Nothing yet. Again, it’s doubtful any microtraces will be found to lead anywhere. Maybe once we get Juba, we might be able to DNA trace, but as of now, since we don’t have any DNA on him, DNA is pointless. In all other respects it was just standard Remington 700, Police Model, with a standard Leupold in standard mounting hardware. No gunsmithing required, no trip to custom rifle specialists; ergo, no information. Firearms Division is running the number, and they haven’t come up with anything yet, but if it follows the pattern, it’ll be a straw man’s purchase in some faraway state that proves to be a dead end. Meanwhile, the rifle just sits on a rack in the Hoover Building.”
“It’s a .308, I assume?”
“No. It was something called 6.5 Creedmoor.”
Bob nodded, considering.
“Does that tell you anything?” Nick asked.
“The fact that he’s onto 6.5 Creedmoor is an indication of how up-to-date he is. It’s the big new thing, on all the magazine covers. Supposedly more accurate than .308. The boy don’t miss no tricks.”
“So it looks like no progress,” said Nick. “But it confirms what we know: money is behind it, big money. Again, that tells us the target is major, and we ought to get going or something bad will happen.”
“Should you go to the White House?” asked Neill. “It seems that his target—”
“No,” said Nick. “When you go there, it gets all sticky politically, and other agendas beyond law enforcement come into play. That is why I would prefer if you keep speculation on the ultimate target to yourself. If you make an assumption, we’re in a world of confirmation bias, and clarity is the first casualty. I want us to work in the complete context-free abstract until it’s not possible. Don’t you agree, Mr. Gold?”
“I do entirely,” said Gold. “In Israel too, politics beclouds our efforts all too often.”
“So, what’s next conceptually? Tell me how to use Counterterrorism’s manpower to flood a zone and flush something out. Tell me some way to aggressively proact, not just wait to pick up the pieces and hope we identify a piece of DNA or Juba’s credit card.”
Silence.
Gold then said, “Sergeant Swagger, his shot will be at over a mile, you think. But at a certain point, he is required to divert, and he goes on this mission, the distance being three hundred yards in a crowd. He requires a new rifle, new ammunition, a whole new program. This involves a whole new set of problems to solve. He solves them—and barely escapes. But does that mean, assuming he is back on safe territory, he’ll have to reacclimate himself to the longer shot?”
“He will if he can, if he has time. It’s not necessary, but he’d want to do it. Do you see anything in that?”
“Ah, there’s something in there, but it has yet to clarify.”
“Mr. Gold,” said Nick. “Please clarify! Clarify! We need clarification!”
“I shall so instruct my subconscious. But it seems not to work regular hours.”
“One interesting thing,” Nick said. “Wichita Metro tells me that the AK Juba left behind, it didn’t have a magazine. That is, he removed the magazine and took it with him. Maybe to use it as a blunt-impact weapon. He could fit it under his jacket, in his belt, and it would fit flush. Of course, that would preclude commercial flight, yet another indicator he had private means out of town. But—why? Any thoughts?”
Swagger said, “He don’t do nothing on a whim. He’s a careful bird. He’s got a use for it, and I hope I ain’t around when he comes to it.”