CHAPTER 20
Goldfarb removed the plastic lid, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted from his Starbucks cup as he settled behind the microfilm reader at the Las Vegas library. At least the reference librarian had given him a special dispensation, once he’d shown off his badge. This late in the afternoon, grimy and exhausted, Goldfarb needed the caffeine just to keep himself going — and with their time dwindling minute by minute, he couldn’t afford to relax.
The Eagle’s Claw meant to strike on the day after tomorrow.
From the burning den, Goldfarb had rescued handwritten notes filled with random numbers, a tourist brochure with a map of all the casinos in Las Vegas (several of which had been circled), discolored work orders from a slot-machine repair shop, photocopied articles from underground publications about the excesses of the United Nations, yellow pages torn from the phone book with ads for various airlines, Amtrak trains, and Greyhound buses.
Scattered clues, but no obvious answers. The next step required digging.
Goldfarb glanced at his dot-matrix printout and inserted a microfilm cassette into the reader. Under the headings MILITIA and EAGLE’S CLAW he found a series of newspaper dates and page numbers. Most would make only passing reference to extremist groups, but he just might find the one clue that could break the case wide open. He had already read the field reports of covert agent Maguire, now deceased.
Maguire had left his wife and thirteen-year-old daughter behind in Sacramento to pose undercover as a Cook County highway worker who hung out in redneck bars. He made his fabricated political views known and eventually worked his way into the militia. His regular reports provided much background on the violent organization.
In the best tradition of clandestine groups, the Eagle’s Claw was divided into compact cells, each with its own mission, each reporting to a single superior. But the Eagle’s Claw had somehow discovered that Maguire worked for the FBI. And they had drugged him, murdered him — but not before he managed to leave his warning note about the Hoover Dam.…
Goldfarb had met Maguire’s wife once at a Bureau function. He remembered that the man’s daughter was extremely tall for her age and played basketball on the junior high team. Goldfarb felt burning anger as he thought of how the woman and her daughter would no longer see Bill Maguire, how he would never again show up for his daughter’s games.
Goldfarb thought of how his own wife Julene and their two children could just as easily suffer the same fate, if he wasn’t careful.
He turned the microfilm dial, and blurry newspaper pages raced across the screen. He zoomed past the first date on his list and had to back up to read a letter to the editor from the Western States Militia: A complaint about the United Nations making a power grab, which led into a screed against gun control, then liberals in general. Goldfarb noted the organization on a sheet of yellow legal paper, just in case he spotted a pattern.
Checking off the first item on his printout, he moved to the second.
And the third.…
He took another sip of hot coffee, feeling the bitter taste glide down his throat like a depth charge. He stared at the barely legible, negative copies of newspapers on the screen, but no amount of caffeine seemed able to force connections in his mind. He cranked to the next article; the microfilm whirred and rattled as the days flew by.
With the noise of the machine, Goldfarb didn’t hear the man come up behind him. He sensed rather than heard the presence, smelled the pungent whiff of after-shave, a strong dose of Old Spice — a brand he had worn himself as a younger man, believing that it made him rugged and sexy to women, until Julene had talked him out of that notion.
“You’re invading my right of privacy,” said a man’s gruff voice. “As an American citizen I find that offensive.”
Goldfarb started to turn in his chair, but the loud snick of a spring-loaded knife popping out of its hilt made him freeze. The blade pressed against his throat.
“Now, now, Mr. FBI,” the man said, “gotta keep quiet in the library. Can’t you read the signs?”
Goldfarb swallowed but made no abrupt moves. He looked up, saw the broad shoulders, the close-cropped dark hair, and square jaw bearing a shadow of dark whiskers. The man wore a lightweight, billowy khaki jacket.
The knife point poked the corner of his jaw under his ear, within instant reach of his jugular. The tall shelves, the microfilm reader, and the bulk of the man himself shielded them from view of the library’s other patrons.
“I hope you know automatic knives are illegal in the United States,” Goldfarb said calmly.
The burly man grunted; the sound might have been a quiet laugh. “I bought it in Mexico. And you’re going to buy it right here.”
“In the Reference Section?” The sarcasm caused the man to push the knife in closer. Goldfarb winced and decided that humor might not be the best way to resolve this situation. “Bryce Connors, I presume?” he said. “I recognize you from your picture in the employee file. It’s about the only thing in there that wasn’t faked.”
“You all know too damn much,” Connors said. A high school student carrying a backpack sauntered by, glanced at them, but saw nothing more than an intense, private conversation. She moved back toward the magazines.
“We already know who you are, Connors, and we have plenty of leads,” Goldfarb said. “If you do anything to me, we’ll hunt you down in no time.”
The militia man remained unimpressed. “All I need is to keep out of your reach until Friday. That’s only two more days, no sweat.” The point of the switchblade did not waver against Goldfarb’s neck. A warm, syrupy drop of perspiration trickled from his curly hair down his temple and in front of his ear. “After Friday, nothing’s going to be the same anyway.”
“I can’t wait,” Goldfarb said.
“Sorry, Mr. FBI,” Connors whispered, “but you won’t be there to see the show.”
“So give me a sneak preview. What’s going to happen?” Goldfarb hoped it could be so simple.
“They won’t even tell me exactly what’s going to happen — but you can bet it’ll be spectacular. The first bombs were my work. Somebody else is in charge of the festivities on the 24th.”
“So how did you find me?” Goldfarb asked, trying to draw the man out.
Connors smiled, his thick lips curling upward but not parting to reveal any teeth. “I’ve been watching you ever since you left the fire.” He gave a rude snort. “I don’t know what took you guys so long to get to my house. If I’d known you were going to wait all night and half the morning, I would’ve had time to clean out the place instead of rigging it to burn down.”
At the far end of the stacks, one of the assistant librarians rolled a heavy metal cart laden with books toward the private offices in the back.
“Now get up,” Connors said. “We’re going to walk out to my truck, where we can continue this conversation in private.” The man hissed into his ear, “Slowly — no sudden moves.”
Goldfarb had no desire to continue the conversation with Bryce Connors, in private or otherwise. Feeling the knife against his throat, he swiveled counter-clockwise, rising from the chair in the opposite direction from what the militia man expected. It was a little thing, nothing Connors could fault him for — but the instant of confusion was enough to draw the knife point slightly away from his skin. Goldfarb reacted with spring-tight reflexes, jerking his head backward as he snatched his cup of hot coffee and flung it over his shoulder into Bryce Connors’s face.