Inside, the garage was dim and smelled of gasoline. Oil stains splattered the floor like old dried blood. Jackson flicked on a light, a bank of crudely wired fluorescents dangling from the wooden rafters.
Goldfarb could see a workbench strewn with tools, an auto-parts calendar tacked onto a two-by-four support beam. With a chilling realization he saw that Friday, October 24 was circled in red.
“Bingo,” Goldfarb said, cautiously withdrawing his Beretta from its shoulder holster. “Time to be prepared, just like the Boy Scout motto says. He might have left us some surprises.”
Three gray 55-gallon oil drums sat in a corner. Jackson bent over to sniff. “Fuel oil,” he said. “This guy must be gearing up for the next fuel shortage.”
Goldfarb gestured to bags of fertilizer stacked against the opposite wall. “Or maybe he’s just trying out some chemistry experiments,” he said. “He’s making ANFO. There must be enough for a hundred pounds of TNT equivalent.” He paused. “I think we should be very, very careful Jackson.”
The dark-skinned agent nodded silently, then stood against the entrance into the house. For some odd reason he pressed his ear against the door, heard nothing, then turned the knob, surprised to find it unlocked. He stepped over the threshold, glancing warily from side to side.
Goldfarb followed, his handgun drawn. “FBI,” he called out again.
They entered the kitchen. Dishes piled in the sink were caked with dried food. “Not much of a housekeeper,” Jackson said.
Goldfarb wrinkled his nose at the old food. “Not much of a cook either.”
“I guess blowing up the free world takes precedence over good housekeeping.”
They moved deeper into the house, staying close to each other but separating to cover ground as quickly as possible. The place had a deserted feel to it, but oppressive — as if glinting yellow eyes were watching them from shadowy corners.
“He’s long gone,” Goldfarb said. “Listen to how quiet it is.”
“Yes, but how much of a hurry was he in when he fled, and what did he leave behind?” Jackson answered.
Goldfarb sniffed the air. “This guy must have been nuts to live in here with this chemical stink. Smells like he used rocket fuel for an air freshener.”
“Quite the chemist, our Mr. Connors,” Jackson said. “But I don’t think he’ll be making any more bombs in here. Maybe he didn’t get time to concoct a surprise for this Friday.”
Goldfarb moved down the hallway past a single bathroom. The toilet seat was up, the bathtub stained and cracked, the shower curtains rimmed with mildew. The small single bed in the main bedroom was unmade. Goldfarb frowned, muttering to himself. “I guess the maid hasn’t come yet this morning.” He continued to snoop around.
Stepping cautiously into the living room, Jackson found an overstuffed reclining chair, its plaid fabric worn, discolored stuffing poking out like thistledown. Beside it, a metal TV tray held a three-week-old program listing, the kind that came free in the newspaper. The television itself was an old Zenith with vacuum tubes that probably took several minutes to warm up. He saw no cable box, no remote control.
Jackson continued his cursory inspection and went to the front door, where they would have entered had anyone answered the knock. He glanced down at the floor and the hinges — and froze in horror.
Small blocks of the bluish-gray plastic explosive had been mounted along the jamb, rigged to contact points connected to the door, strung to all the front windows. If he and Goldfarb had broken inside, the bombs would have detonated — enough to blow out the front of the house and all the windows. Both agents would have been killed instantly.
Suddenly the house seemed much more sinister around him. Swallowing in his dry throat, Jackson bent over to scrutinize the wires.
At the other end of the house, Goldfarb turned from the bedroom to the opposite side of the hall, some kind of den with a door half closed. He glanced inside, his hand on the doorknob. He saw stacks of books, drawings, maps, leaflets, piled up on and around an old card table. Brown boxes filled with debris, wadded newspapers sat beside the table. “Whoa, jackpot.”
On one white wall all the pictures had been removed, but hanging nails still stuck out from the sheetrock plaster board. Excited by his discovery, Goldfarb pushed the door open and just had time to hear the faint tink as a tripwire popped free. He instantly saw two short words scrawled across the wall in thick black magic marker:
DIE FBI!
Jackson yelled from the living room. “Ben, watch out! The place is booby trapped!”
Before Goldfarb could turn, the inside walls of the den erupted in flames.
CHAPTER 14
Craig dusted a comb through his chestnut hair as Paige pulled into the DAF parking lot beside other white government pickups. He straightened his tie, glanced at his watch. Time to look professional, he thought.
The prisonlike building was as long as a football field. Massive doors provided access in the front, and security personnel patrolled the surrounding area. Hot sunshine and dry heat reflected from the pavement.
Craig shrugged on his jacket and followed Paige through the security checkpoint. Once inside the building, a lanky man strode out to meet them. Dressed in a plaid shirt and wearing a narrow rawhide bolo tie, he looked like a scarecrow with thin arms sticking from his short sleeves. “Morning, Paige,” he said, giving her a quick hug. “Let’s hope it’s a better day than yesterday.”
Paige held the older man’s arm. “Craig, this is Mike Waterloo, the DAF manager.”
Craig stuck out a hand, shaking the other man’s firmly, intent on keeping the true nature of his investigation secret. “Hello, sir. I’m Special Agent Kreident, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He brushed a hand down his jacket, anxious to get moving. “I’m required to observe the entire site after such a high-profile accident, check for security breaches. I hope we can get this straightened out quickly, with a minimum of hassles.”
Waterloo heaved a sigh of relief. “Just wrap it up by Friday, Agent Kreident. That’s all the time we’ve got.”
They entered through a set of double doors. The first closed behind them before the second set opened. “Craig and I worked together on a case at Lawrence Livermore,” Paige said.
Craig nodded. “This place seems more… rigorous in its security.”
Waterloo chuckled as the second door swung open. “Well, you’ve got to be careful when you have live nukes lying around.”
“And you let a team of Russians in to look at everything?” Craig asked.
“Our reciprocal treaty requires it, and it’s even more visible because of this weekend’s summit.” Waterloo gave a dismissive wave. “Changing times. Not much to bother hiding anymore.”
They passed through claustrophobic inner hallways, beyond a series of high-bays, construction offices, and storage area boundaries painted clearly on the concrete floor in red, yellow, and blue stripes.
“Regarding Mr. Nevsky’s accident, sir,” Craig said, pretending he believed the death to be a simple mishap, “could you speculate on why the ambassador was here alone so long after normal working hours?”
The building opened up before them, the far walls a hundred feet on either side of them. Waterloo wound his way around concrete blocks set up as temporary barricades. “He wasn’t supposed to be alone, exactly. Paige shuttled the rest of the inspection team back to Las Vegas, but Ambassador Nevsky insisted on returning to the DAF to check something.”