Khalila picked up the phone, calling the number on the report for Carver Construction.
Ninety minutes later, after a short drive north on Interstate 95 and up the western side of the Baltimore Beltway to Timonium, Harrison and Khalila pulled into the parking lot for Carver Construction. Calling from the NCTC, Khalila had connected with the office manager, who was aware of the C-4 and detonator issue, but didn’t know all of the details. However, the company’s owner, Jack Carver, was expected back in the office in about an hour, so Harrison and Khalila had decided to meet with him at Carver Construction.
The office manager, Beth Walters, escorted Harrison and Khalila into a nearby office, closing the door behind her as she left. Carver, seated at his desk, rose to greet his visitors, and after a quick examination of Harrison’s and Khalila’s identification cards, returned to his desk while the two CIA officers settled into chairs facing him.
After reviewing the ATF report with Carver, Harrison asked, “Do you have any idea what might have happened to the missing C-4 and detonators?”
“I don’t know what their intended use is, but I know where you can start. Our supply manager admitted that he had sold the material, pocketing a hefty sum. He even tried to bribe me and my office manager to keep quiet about the issue, offering to split the payment he received with us. I fired him on the spot.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Yesterday.”
“His name?”
“Craig Daniels.”
“Did he mention who he sold the explosives to?”
Carver shook his head. “He wouldn’t provide the name. He said ratting the guy out would likely be detrimental to his health. Plus, his customer was probably using an alias anyway.”
“So, Daniels interfaced with a single person. Did he provide a description of the man?”
“Nothing. He clammed up when it became clear I wasn’t going to go along with his plan to sweep the issue under the rug.”
“Do you have any idea where we might find him?”
“We have his home address and other basic information on file. That’s it.”
Khalila, who had been taking notes, said, “We’d like all of the personal details you have on him: full name, address, phone numbers, etcetera.”
“Not a problem. I’ll have Beth print out everything we have.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carver,” she said, then turned to Harrison. “I’ll have NCTC put out a bulletin for Daniels and identify potential locations he might be at.”
53
FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA
Traveling south on Interstate 95, Craig Daniels glanced at the backed-up traffic in the standard lanes a short distance to his right. He was traveling in the center Express Lanes stretching from the Capital Beltway south to Fredericksburg, Virginia, pleased with his decision to pay the $39.80 toll for the Expressway rather than take the normal lanes, which were bogged down with Easter weekend holiday traffic. After all, he could afford the toll; his bank account balance now exceeded two million dollars.
His car was packed with suitcases and several boxes containing everything of value from a life he intended to leave behind. However, this hadn’t been his plan until yesterday, when he had been called into his boss’s office at Carver Construction to discuss why he had placed an order of replacement C-4 and detonators, when nothing had been issued to the Catoctin Mountain project, as he had claimed on the reorder form. When Jack Carver had refused to turn a blind eye to the matter, even when offered half of the proceeds, it had become apparent that a change in plans was required.
When his thoughts turned to his predicament, he was overcome with anger — not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours — pounding both hands on his steering wheel for a few seconds.
That nosy old bat, Beth Walters.
No one should have noticed the missing C-4 and detonators. Beth should have had Jack Carver simply sign the order form, like he’d done hundreds of times before, then filed it away. No one would have noticed the missing items once Daniels deleted the new entry in the database. During the routine inventory checks in the past, the inspectors had never riffled through the paper orders and issues — the database was what mattered. Instead, Beth had piqued Jack’s curiosity and the meeting with his boss hadn’t gone well. He’d been given his walking papers yesterday, and it was apparent that a report would be filed with the ATF by the close of business.
Instead of discreetly tapping into the two million dollars on occasion, with no one wiser about the missing explosives or the payment he had received, he now had to disappear and start a new life. He wasn’t sure exactly how to accomplish the feat — it hadn’t been his plan until yesterday — but he figured he ought to vacate the premises in case authorities came looking for him, buying time to figure things out. He had contacted a retired friend in Miami, who said he might be able to help. So, off to Florida it was, and the quicker he arrived, the better.
However, Daniels hadn’t thought everything through, particularly when it came to databases. There were no toll booths on the Express Lanes. Instead, electronic sensors detected passing cars at the entrances and exits, and when Daniels reached the end of the Expressway and merged into the normal lanes, one of the cameras snapped a photo of his car’s license plate, so the bill could be mailed to the driver or transferred to the associated E-Z Pass toll account.
The Express Lane database also happened to be one of several thousand monitored by the FBI and other law enforcement agencies.
Thirty minutes after merging onto the normal Interstate 95 traffic lanes, Daniels was just north of Richmond when he noticed flashing red and blue lights in his rearview mirror, rapidly approaching. He checked the speedometer, verifying he wasn’t speeding. He tensed as the state trooper approached, hoping the vehicle would speed by. Instead, it slowed and swerved into the lane behind him. He waited a moment, praying that the trooper would soon be on his or her way again. But the vehicle closed the gap, following only a few car lengths behind.
Daniels finally pulled onto the right shoulder and stopped, then opened the glove compartment, retrieving the folder with his car insurance and registration. After he pulled his wallet out for his driver’s license, he checked on the state trooper via the rearview mirror. He was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring ahead. As Daniels wondered what the trooper was waiting for, another sedan with flashing red and blue lights approached, stopping in front of Daniels’s car. The two troopers stepped from their vehicles at the same time and approached Daniels.
It was at that moment, as each man unfastened his pistol holster retention strap and withdrew his firearm, that Daniels realized he was in a world of trouble.
54
USS MICHIGAN
In the submarine’s quiet Control Room, Captain Murray Wilson stood on the Conn between the two lowered periscopes, his eyes surveying the various sonar and combat control displays as Michigan headed toward the Strait of Hormuz. Following the Russian attack on the Theodore Roosevelt strike group, Michigan had received two new orders. The first had directed Michigan to protect the strike group’s northern side as they sprinted away from danger. However, that order had been short-lived, since the former ballistic missile submarine couldn’t match the speed of the evading aircraft carrier and its remaining surface ship escorts. Even with Michigan at ahead flank, the surface ships had steadily pulled away.