Yuri's eyes widened. "I wonder, could they be preparing to use the neurotoxin I read about in Kiev? The C/B weapons my brother was storing included both nerve gas shells and what was called an experimental neurotoxin. It would temporarily induce fear and erratic behavior in people exposed to it. The report said it was in powdered form stored in canisters."
"Damn," Burke murmured, drawing it out into two syllables. "If you're right, they must have rigged up something to spread it all over the place by just driving down the street."
"It has no permanent effect," Yuri added. "But it can last two or three days."
Burke cocked his head as Roddy's voice came through the headphones. "One of the guys just drove the truck back into the shop. Looks like they're all getting in the van. Are you anywhere near the car?"
"Negative," Burke replied. "Yuri and I are at a street corner about a block from you. There's no way we can follow them now. We'll meet you back at the car."
It was about ten minutes later when the three of them piled into the Honda. Before heading back to Falls Church, Burke drove up to Dulles and retrieved his Buick from the parking lot. The other two would follow in the Honda. After Burke paid at the ticket booth and pulled out onto the access road, the attendant lifted the phone in his booth. He had just detected a change in the sound of a steady hum that came from the small radio leaning against the glass. It was a sound worth half a C-note.
When a voice answered, he said, "This is Dulles. The Buick just left."
They sat in the Brackins' recreation room at a white wrought iron table with chairs that appeared to have come from an old ice cream parlor.
"Now that we know where the weapons are," said Rodman, toying with a half-empty soft drink bottle, "why don't we give the police an anonymous tip and let them move in? That gets around the FBI."
Burke sat back with arms folded, a thoughtful frown on his face. "First, we think that's where the weapons are. We don't know for sure. And second, the cops wouldn't go storming in there on the strength of an anonymous phone call anyway. Whoever runs the place probably has good contacts with the police. They would call him first and say we got this weird call, okay if we come take a look?"
Roddy nodded. "And by the time they got there, Romashchuk and his goodies would be long gone."
"Right."
"Why don't we go in late tonight," Yuri Shumakov suggested, "and look for the weapons? If we find them, we remove them."
"Good thought," Burke agreed. "But getting into that place could be as bad as trying to break into Fort Knox. Besides the usual burglar alarms, they probably have highly sophisticated motion detectors, infrared sensors, every high tech gadget in the book. Without the codes to bypass them, we'd be out of luck."
Yuri shook his head in dismay. "I cannot believe this is happening in America. Surely there is someone we can tell, something we can do."
Burke got up and walked over to the pool table, picked up the cue ball and sent it spinning into the triangle of balls racked at the other end. There was a sharp crack, followed by a chain reaction of clacking noises as balls bounced back and forth. It was an effort to do something, anything, to take some action however trivial, rather than just sit around helplessly. Yuri was right. There must be someone. They had to do something.
He turned around, leaned back against the pool table and looked from Roddy to Yuri. Their lives had already been threatened once. Now there was a faceless hit man after him. Clearly their knowledge of Major Romashchuk's operation had left them all marked men. So what could they do about it?
"It appears to me we have two options," he said quietly. "Number one, we can mount a stakeout of Advanced Security Systems, follow the Major the next time he shows up and try to trap him. The odds wouldn't be too favorable if he was with more than one of his guerrillas."
"What about number two?" Roddy asked.
"I could resurface in Washington, go to the Metropolitan Police and report my suspicions that a terrorist group was preparing weapons at the Advanced Security Systems compound."
"Would they believe you?"
"With my reputation, I think they would have to seriously consider it. But what if the weapons weren't there? What if Romashchuk has them stored wherever he's holed up? The police would probably turn to the FBI, then McNaughton or Pickens would quickly destroy my credibility. And if I go public, I'm an open target for this assassin called Max."
"There's no need for you to endanger yourself like that," Roddy said. "Let's get on with the stakeout. We don't know when he might be back."
"We would need a place of concealment," Yuri ventured.
Burke nodded as he walked over to the bar, where a telephone sat atop a directory. "I noticed a sign in front of the building next door to the small appliance shop. It advertised an office for rent. I didn't catch the phone number, but it showed a firm named Vintage Realty."
He thumbed through the directory and found the number.
"Vintage Realty. How can I be of service?" a bright female voice answered.
"I noticed one of your office for rent signs," Burke said, giving the location.
"Yes, that's Latrisha Grammer's listing. Please hold."
A few moments later, a lower, slower voice spoke. "This is Ms. Grammer. You're interested in the Brabson Building? That's a great little office. Great location, too. Not many minutes away from downtown."
In a fast car, Burke thought. "Is it on the front of the building?"
"Yes, on the second floor. Has windows looking out onto the street. There are two rooms, total of about three hundred and fifty square feet. If that isn't big enough, we have some nice larger offices—"
"Sounds just right for me. What about parking?"
"There's parking in the rear. I'd be happy to show it to you if you'd like. What was your name?"
"Mr. Douglas. Steve Douglas. No need to show it. It's in the right place and I don't have time to waste. I got fed up with the people I've been renting from and moved out this morning. They wouldn't do any maintenance."
"We take excellent care of our properties," Ms. Grammer said.
He smiled, recalling the faded exterior of the converted two-story house. "With the holiday coming up, I need to move in this afternoon. I'll be out of town after that."
"Well, we would need to check out your application first," she said, a reluctant note indicating she didn't relish the idea of missing a chance to close a deal on this marginal location.
"What if I gave you four months rent in advance?"
The change in her voice was miraculous. "What time did you want to meet me?"
"I can be at your office in half an hour. Have the papers ready."
Just as they left the Brackin home, taking both cars, a panel truck rolled into Falls Church, a directional antenna tuned to the steady tone emanating from a tiny transmitter fixed to the underside of Burke's Buick.
68
The early wave of flextimers was already filling the outbound lanes of Arlington Boulevard. The main rush from the Pentagon and offices across the Potomac would soon flood the artery, but the rust-colored panel truck was heading in the opposite direction, toward the backside of Arlington National Cemetery. The traffic was moderate. The driver, a crusty-looking former Navy radioman with a bristly, graying beard was listening through a pair of headphones.
"He's not too far. Wait a minute." He adjusted the directional antenna. "Turned right, probably on Washington Boulevard. Sure as shittin' he's headed for the District."