“That's correct.”
“And, to make sure I understand correctly, you consistently ID each batch of explosive?”
Reynolds nodded. “There are records for every ounce we produce. Each lot is infused with a chemical called DMDNB for identification, and various ion ratios can essentially ID a given lot. We have completed an emergency review of all S-47 produced in the last year. There is not one gram unaccounted for. Everything we've made is either onsite or shipped to reputable governmental sources.”
Savas interrupted. “Then how did S-47 residue end up dusting the New York landscape last month?”
Reynolds glanced at the lawyers again. “Agent Savas, we really cannot speculate.”
“What about material produced further back?” asked Cohen.
“We are continuing to review our records,” said Reynolds. “However, I can assure you, we have exacting standards. We've never lost material, and our customers are limited to United States military and allied governments.”
“Could this be an inside job?” Savas pressed. “I mean, could we be looking at American terrorists?”
“Again, Agent Savas, I think it is imprudent to speculate at this time.”
Savas felt his temper rising. “Imprudent? You fellows do realize that we've just had two terrorist bombings on US soil, one of them right across the river from here? Your explosives were involved in both of those attacks. Your high-tech, military-only S-47 leveled one New York City building and the entire Saudi Embassy in DC.”
“Yes, Agent Savas, but, as I stated—”
“You don't see navy mines being used to sink US ships, or army surplus surface-to-air missiles shooting down aircraft in this nation.”
“If you will just—”
“If you don't know how your explosives got there, then I think it's high time you started speculating and testing some hypotheses! At the very least, you're going to need some good cover stories for when the press gets hold of this.”
Reynolds's face turned white. “If you are trying to threaten me, Agent Savas, I can assure you, we will respond strongly to such harassment.”
Savas laughed. “Please, Mr. Reynolds. If you think the fact that an American company is the supplier for the bombs that hit us last month is something the FBI, the CIA, or G.O.D. could keep secret for long, you're more naive than I could have imagined.”
“We have supplied no terrorists!” Reynolds practically shrieked. “All our material is accounted for. All sales were legitimate, to verified US government sources!”
Savas leaned forward and locked eyes with the company man. “Then why don't you go explain that to the families of the victims vaporized by your product, Mr. Reynolds.”
There was an icy silence as the man broke eye contact with Savas. The lawyer beside Reynolds leaned over and whispered into his ear. Reynolds seemed to make an effort to control himself, and his face drained of emotion. Screw this tap dance, thought Savas. He'd had enough. He apologized to Cohen, rose, and walked out of the room without another word.
Cohen's voice echoed strangely as he stormed down the hallway. “As you can see, Mr. Reynolds, my role is good cop. We'll need to set up some very open channels between your company and the FBI for the next few weeks as we work through this.”
The sounds inside the building faded as Savas stepped out into the bright sunlight. He exhaled slowly. He knew his fuse was too short. He knew he had to rein in his emotions, even as the events around him pushed every button. He knew these company men were just following orders.
And he knew he wanted to deck one of them.
Arriving back at FBI offices, Savas stepped into the Operations Room of Intel 1. He tossed his briefcase roughly onto a chair and removed his jacket. Perspiration stained his shirt. He sighed and loosened his tie.
“Bad day at the office?” came the words of Hernandez, whose fingers clacked across a keyboard nearby. J. P. Rideout, Mark King, and Frank Miller stood around the computer geek in a semicircle, staring at the screen.
“I'm at the office now, Manuel.”
“Suits stiff you?”
“Of course. But they seem to sink to new levels of corporate cowardice on a yearly basis.” Savas stared at the small gathering across from him. “So, what's the party about?”
“Well, we've got something interesting you might want to see.”
Savas walked over to the group. At that moment, Kanter stepped into the room as well.
“John, you're back. I need—”
“Hang on, Larry,” said Savas. “Manuel's reeling in some new fish.”
Interested, Kanter joined the group. Savas stared down at the screen; numerous time- and date-stamped video images of buildings flitted across his field of view.
“We've had a look at the security cams in a large radius around the site,” began Manuel.
“How did you get those?” asked Savas.
“We don't have to go to the sites for the newer ones. Patriot Act II — we're already plugged in, 24/7. We just need to access the relevant minutes from DTO…”
“Domestic Terrorism Operations,” Rideout whispered to Savas, who rolled his eyes. The acronyms never seemed to end.
“…and within hours we can get the footage from thirty local cameras downloaded.”
Miller turned toward Savas and Kanter, a serious expression on his face. “Every camera with a clear shot at 866 Second Avenue showed static from the hours of three to four a.m. the night before the bombing.”
“What?” said Kanter incredulously.
“I want to make this clear, Larry,” said Miller. “Every camera that could possibly have had a shot at recording what happened around the building that early morning had a similar malfunction for the same duration. Every one of them.”
“Some serious hacking, dudes,” noted Hernandez.
“Wait, no security firm noticed this? No one looked into it?” asked Kanter.
Rideout shook his head. “Most of the cameras don't have flesh and blood babysitting them. We get the feeds, but they are automatically routed and stored. Our analysis probably wasn't the first time they had been viewed, but when each individual firm saw the static for their equipment, they likely assumed their cameras were malfunctioning. Happens all the time. Only when you pool together all the local cameras can you see the pattern. No way that's coincidence.”
Miller finished. “We're talking about some real pros here, Larry, and some really careful ones, at that.”
“So, what do they want?” asked Matt King in frustration. “This doesn't seem to be some 9/11 replay.”
“Exactly, and it's these differences we need to focus more on,” cut in Savas. “In 2001, American targets, American symbols were attacked by mostly Saudi suicide bombers. This time, the cities may be the same, but it looks like foreign targets, and, as far as I can tell, primarily Saudi targets were hit. I don't know about you, but this seems to put a different spin on the whole thing.”
Kanter cast a harsh look toward Savas and responded quickly. “OK, we have, as usual, more questions than answers. Who are these people? How and where were they trained? What motivates them?”
Savas turned angrily to Kanter, his simmering frustrations from the day boiling over. “I'll tell you what is motivating them, Larry. Hatred. Feelings that cross beyond Islamophobic into Islamopathic. You're tap dancing around the real issue because of warnings from above, but we know about the mystery commando raids in Afghanistan.”
Kanter sat up stiffly. “How do you know?”
“Thanks for confirming it.” Savas was not done. He looked around at the eyes focused on him. “Isn't it obvious? We're sitting here acting like we have two cases — a string of assassinations of Islamic radicals, and now a major terrorist attack on Islamic targets. It's the same group, Larry! They're just upping the ante!”