“We got them, dead to rights, front-to-back on the Sperling Chemical explosion. And we got the guy in last night’s Jersey blast chatting with them. ”
“Won’t nabbing him spook your play for the whole society?”
“We let it out that the bomber died on the truck. His cohorts will think he was vaporized, and, along with him, any connection to them.”
Hiccock nodded to the logic of this but something else rippled his brow. “Sperling is in the same kind of high-tech support business that Mason Chemical is in, so I can see the connection. But that yo-yo tried to blow up American Cyanamid. From what I know of them, they seem too low-tech … but maybe.” Bill took a sip of his coffee. “So are you saying the Sabot are the ones doing the subliminal work?”
“To be honest, I don’t know if we have connected it that far. But the web is their principal means of organization. It would seem logical.”
“So who’s the brains of this outfit?”
“We’ve been on the ass of Bernard Keyes, a postal employee from the Midwest.”
“Postal employee … disgruntled, I’m sure.”
“Enough jokes about that. This guy is real and he is the center of the ring.”
“But, Joey, one thing: what we found is a level of code-writing so sophisticated that it had your FBI geniuses and my cyber asshole stumped for days. You’re telling me a mailman wrote it?”
“He talks to his Sabots on the web. Maybe he also recruited that particular talent there. Hey, we busted a busboy in Brooklyn a few years back that got into the accounts and files of people on the Forbes “100 Richest Americans” list. A fucking busboy! He was a high school dropout and foreign national, as I remember. Computers are truly the great equalizer.”
“Yeah, now any idiot can be a crook.”
“Or terrorist.”
“Or, apparently, an FBI agent. So what, if anything, will you need from me?” Hiccock said cautiously.
“When we take these guys down, we’ll need to use everything you’ve learned as evidence.”
“You know what this means, don’t you?”
“What?”
“I owe your boss an apology.”
“Tate? Why?”
“He was right all along. It was a known group. This isn’t going to be pleasant for me, you know.”
“Listen, let’s just be glad it’s over, okay?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Hiccock tried to take a sip from an empty cup.
Cynthia Mallory long ago resigned herself to the uncertainty hanging over each day of being a cop’s wife. All of that mercifully ended when Dennis retired. Since then, the one thing that never occurred to Cynthia was that she would survive him. She was the afflicted one. She was supposed to be the one who had the uncertain future. The irony was not lost on her that the very bargain Dennis made to save her life ended his.
The fact that Dennis Liam Mallory was a hero was not news to her. Now that the rest of the world knew it as well changed nothing about her grief. She declined the media’s requests for interviews.
Cynthia did, however, accept a call from the President of the United States. He was very nice and informed her that he was fast-tracking approval of the Presidential Medal of Freedom for uncommon valor and sacrifice in service to America for her husband. He told her that the nation owed her husband a debt that could never be repaid. In the same breath, he also vowed that she, her children, and grandchildren would never want or need anything ever again. It was a small price to pay, he said, for the continuance of the ten million lives her husband saved with one selfless act of courage.
Her daughter made a simple concise statement to the press. “The Mallory family wishes to thank all those who have expressed support and prayers for us during our time of grief. We plan a private family memorial.” Here’s where she choked up a little. “And we request that in lieu of flowers, contributions be made to the National Institute for Neurologic Disorders and Stroke in my father’s name.” Looking up to the heavens she took a deep breath then spoke, “Daddy, you always were — and always will be — a hero to us all.” She steeled herself and, quelling the quivering of her bottom lip, dry swallowed then added, thank you and God bless America.”
Miles Taggert, shaken by the death of Dennis, did more than send a check to the NINDS. He endowed The Dennis Mallory Neurologic Disorders and Stroke Pavilion at NYU Hospital, fueling it with enough of his fortune to ensure that it would perpetually be the epicenter of the latest technology, techniques, and treatments for the disease that almost claimed Mrs. Mallory. A second grant, more quietly created, was the Dennis and Cynthia Mallory Endowment, which provided economic support for the families of police, firefighters, and other first responders to afford treatment at the facility.
Agent Brooke Burrell’s initiative in “interrogating” the prisoner by perforating his leg on the asphalt that night amounted to little more than a cautious footnote on “public discharge of a weapon” on her bureau commendation of service. At age twenty-eight, she was elevated in rank to Assistant Special Agent in Charge — New York office. She visited with the widow Mallory and found closure for herself and a genuine affection for Cynthia.
After extensive “legal” interrogation, Tom Regan could only tell the feds what they already knew: he was nuts and he chatted with other nuts online. His computer’s hard drive confirmed that he was well ensconced in the Sabot chain of communications.
The noose was tightening on Sabot.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“When can I get a drink?” Janice said, smiling at the attendant.
“Soon as we are airborne, Ma’am.”
Janice had taken the seat up front in the little Air Force jet that she and the Admiral and Kronos, who were already asleep in the rear, were suddenly ordered to take back to Washington, D.C., without warning. She was amazed how fast the plane went from the passenger terminal into the air, as if it just jumped into the heavens the second the door was closed. This proved what she always thought about commercial air flight — they just made you wait because they could.
Her Campari and soda smoothed over the cracks in her parched throat. She considered opening the folder holding the psych analysis of two more perpetrators, but thought better of it. Instead, she flipped off the overhead light, hit the seat button, and pushed back as the jet climbed through the clouds almost vertically.
As the scene outside her window flickered from the last remaining layer of cloud to what at first looked like cotton as far as the eye could see, she thought of her mom. What would she say if she saw her now? Here she was, a whole jet at her disposal, doing important lifesaving work, answering the call of her country when her country needed her most. Eunice Tyler would probably find something wrong. Some small detail Janice had overlooked. Anything from the shoes she chose to go with her outfit to the shade of her mascara to just the sheer extravagance of the whole situation. “But Mom, I need to get there to do my job for the nation. You want me to fly standby because it’s cheaper?” She had noticed in the past that every negative-thought voice in her head sounded like her mother.
The fact that Janice and her mother didn’t get along was no secret. The reason, however, was a little harder to discern, even though her college and professional associates were convinced it was due to a rift arising from her parents’ divorce. They made that prognosis during the self-analysis and group critiquing that was the first and most basic training psych majors underwent on their way to their doctorates. But what she never shared, because she herself was only recently made aware of it, was the true reason.