Gunn returned to his seat in front of the enormous window. Savas motioned toward Cohen. “This is my colleague at the FBI, Rebecca Cohen.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Cohen. I am sorry about our security personnel. They are often overzealous in keeping the peace in my building.”
Cohen glanced quickly around the room and over his desk. She focused momentarily on an object at his side, then looked into Gunn's eyes. “No need to apologize,” she said. “We have been in a great hurry today, and our lack of standard protocol has created some problems.”
“Yes,” said Gunn, “Agent Savas here was explaining to me. Something about explosives?”
“This S-47 is easily traceable material in many ways, because it is so rare. It can only be found with US military personnel or on the black market in the international arms arena.”
Savas stared intently at Gunn, but the businessman showed no reaction. Savas continued. “Agents with the CIA recently ran a sting operation in the Middle East and identified the source of much of the black market S-47. This source had been sold repeatedly to a single buyer, of unknown origin and identity, but the goods were always shipped in the same way, by boat — ships owned and operated by the Operon Company.”
“Operon?” Gunn said, searching his memory. “That's one of ours. I see. You have connected the supply of this explosive to one of my companies, and you now wish to trace it further to attempt to identify the buyers, and thus, presumably, the terrorists themselves.” He glanced momentarily at each agent before continuing. “Of course, the FBI will have full cooperation from Gunn International on this. Unfortunately, I know little of the day-to-day operations of the many subsidiaries and contractors we have. But I will personally see to it that those who do, will work with the FBI and the CIA and whoever requires information from us to help apprehend these terrorists.”
Savas stared at the man. This was not what he had expected. He had been so emotional this morning, he believed he would confront the man, and the truth or an obvious lie would come out, be forced out. He had come here, navigated the obstacle course on passion and adrenaline and street smarts, and hit Gunn with the facts, only to find a calm and cooperative citizen. Was Husaam wrong? Am I wrong?
He looked into the eyes before him — cold, icy-gray, and unrevealing. Eyes of a predator, he thought. No, his intuition, his gut, whatever it was that had saved his life on many occasions on the street told him otherwise. There was something profoundly unsettling about William Gunn, and Savas felt that he was sitting only feet away from someone calculating and murderous.
Cohen spoke up. “We were concerned that this connection to your company, Mr. Gunn, might go further than the use of a shipping company.” The CEO turned slowly toward Cohen, and Savas felt his stomach tighten as the cold eyes fell on her.
“I'm sorry, Agent Cohen, could you be more explicit?”
“Yes. There have been enormous financial transfers in these arms purchases. These levels of monetary exchange and the financial machinations that made them possible, and difficult to trace, could only have been accomplished by individuals with enormous capital and financial dexterity. We are concerned that perhaps someone within your company, at a much higher level than that of a shipping organization, might be involved.”
My God, this is bold, Rebecca! She faulted him for being reckless today?
The CEO eyed her very closely. “That is a very serious concern you have raised, Agent Cohen. Rest assured that we will seek to root out any such person, should they exist, and work closely with you to do so.” He looked at his watch, then back at the two FBI agents.
“I'm sorry to be rushing you, but I have a very important meeting with the visiting ambassador from China. As you know, China is becoming an increasingly important business partner for much of the world, and Gunn International is no exception. I cannot keep the ambassador waiting. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“One other thing,” Cohen continued. “This terrorist organization has a fascination with the Nordic myths. Do you know of any such people or organizations within your company who might be involved in such neo-paganism?”
Savas stared at her in confusion. Rebecca, where are you going with this?
“Agent Cohen, I would expect every sort of person from the wonderfully diverse city of New York to work under the umbrella of my organization. Such interests do not concern me in general as long as each employee does his or her job.”
“We understand that, Mr. Gunn,” she continued, “only in this case, such individuals would be highly suspect. You come from a Northern European background, Scandinavian, I believe?
The CEO focused on her impassively. “Yes. My father was an immigrant from Stockholm.”
“Do you know what the name of this organization, Mjolnir, means?”
Gunn shook his head. “No. I mainly studied the Greek myths in school.”
“It is the name of the hammer used by the Norse god of thunder, Thor.”
“Yes, I'm sorry. I do remember reading that somewhere.”
“If you were to see or hear this name in any context, in the English translation, or as Mjolnir, or depicted in any symbolic form, please let us know.”
Savas nearly wanted to jump over and shield Cohen, so hostile and intent were the eyes that looked her over. “Yes, Agent Cohen, you can rest assured that I will.”
As they walked out of the skyscraper and into the bright midmorning sunlight, Savas felt the adrenaline rush out of him and the world speed up again. It seemed that he had passed out of a dream state. It was always like this after confrontation. He sat in the car next to Cohen and exhaled, not starting the engine.
“I can't believe we did that, and I can't believe we did it for nothing!”
She turned toward him, her sunglasses back on, and her shaking hands withdrawing from her face. “What do you mean, ‘for nothing’?”
“We go there, risk our careers, potentially blowing the entire case if he is the one behind this, and for nothing! He turns out to be happy as a clam to work with us! So cooperative! He played us like fools. And, I swear, all the time I felt like I was sitting across from a serial killer laughing at us.”
Cohen stared forward, her face still ashen from the encounter. “We didn't fail, John. His cooperation saved our careers, for one thing. For another, he is the one behind all this. Trust your feelings.”
Savas shook his head in confusion. “Well, that is something! How on earth do you conclude that? My feelings agree, but we came away with nothing.”
“Did you look at his desk?”
He looked at her incredulously. “Sure. Hard to miss. Big giant thing, expensive wood. Cost more than my car.”
She shook her head, still gazing forward. “No, not the desk itself, but what was on it.”
Savas didn't know what she was getting at. “Papers, a computer…a few executive playthings?”
“Like the little toy on his left in front of you?”
He shook his head. “No, I didn't see what it was.”
Cohen paused. “Well, I did. Small little metal thing, hanging from two metal rods that almost meet. The small little metal thing, John — it was a hammer.” She turned toward him. “It was Thor's hammer.”
“Oh, my God.”
William Gunn returned to his desk after locking his door behind the departing FBI agents. He sat down and typed in several keystrokes. The black screen lit up, revealing the familiar face of Patrick Rout.
“Mr. Gunn? What the hell was that all about?”