I showed the text to Kylie.
“At least the FBI’s got their act together,” she said. “We’re not getting anywhere with this lunk. How are we supposed to figure out if he killed Aubrey if he can’t figure it out himself?”
Janek was out cold on the sofa, snoring like a bear. “I doubt if he’s a flight risk,” I said.
“I doubt if there’s a risk of him getting out of the apartment.”
The sun was up when we left the building, and the air was thick with the heady aroma of something sweet and irresistible. We followed our noses to a tiny bakery on the corner of Java Street.
The sign on the window said RZESZOWSKA, which I decided meant the best place in New York to get cheese babka, poppy seed rolls, blackberry Danish, and if you want coffee, find a Starbucks.
We did, and we drove back to Manhattan restoring our souls in the grand tradition of cops everywhere: wolfing down sugary pastries and deconstructing the events of the past twelve hours.
The Jacob K. Javits Federal Building at 26 Federal Plaza on Foley Square is forty-one stories of steel, glass, and red tape. It houses a multitude of government agencies, including Homeland, GSA, Social Security, Immigration, and, on the twenty-third floor, the New York field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Howard Malley was waiting for us in his office.
“Do you accept bribes?” Kylie asked, dropping what was left of the Polish goodies onto his desk.
“It’s the first thing they teach us at Quantico,” Malley said, digging into the bag and pulling out a piece of apple cake. “I found your bomb maker. He’s a master. One of the best in the business.”
“Name?” Kylie said, pen and pad in hand.
“Real name is Flynn Samuels, but Interpol gave him a code name: Sammy Six Digits.”
“Six Digits? He doesn’t sound that masterful.”
“That’s that wacky French sense of humor. The guy has all ten fingers, but he always uses a symbolic six-digit date to trigger his bombs. So, like, if he wanted to blow up Independence Hall, he might go with July 4, 1776, and use 741776.”
“What numbers did he use to set off this one?”
“Impossible to tell,” Malley said, putting away half a square of cake in a single bite, “but last night’s blast has his signature all over it. His specialty is shaped charges designed to take out a single target. And remember the red, white, and blue wires? You thought that meant he was American. You were close. He’s Australian, and guess what colors their flag is.”
“Do you have a mug shot? We’ll put out a citywide BOLO.”
“Don’t bother. He’s in a prison in Thailand. Fifteen years ago he built the bomb that killed their minister of justice. It was neat, clean, and did the job without any collateral damage. But the people behind the assassination were stupid and got caught. They were facing the death penalty, so they made a deal. They gave up their bomb maker in exchange for a lighter sentence. The cops arrested Samuels at the Bangkok airport just as he was about to get on a plane for Australia. The next morning, the bozos that hired him were executed by machine gun. Samuels wasn’t so lucky. They decided to let him rot in a Thai prison.”
“Then he must have a disciple,” Kylie said. “Someone he taught the tricks of his trade.”
“I doubt it. Samuels commanded top dollar to create one-of-a-kind bombs. Blowing people up was his livelihood. He didn’t have disciples. He was too smart to share his secret sauce recipe.”
“Do you have any idea when he gets out of prison?” I asked.
Malley reached into the bag and plucked out a gooey Danish. “Good question, Zach. Let me check my calendar. Oh, wait: it’s Thailand. Never.”