Craig Kreident #2 Fallout (17 page)

“Excuse me,” said Victor Golitsyn, the geologist, who had expertise in using sensitive seismic instruments to detect surreptitious underground nuclear tests.
 
“Drilling these holes a thousand feet deep . . . do you experience any particular difficulties —?”

Kostas kicked the toe of his workboot against the steel lid covering the shaft.
 
“We’re cutting eight- to ten-foot diameter holes.
 
The whole job takes weeks to months, depending on the size of the hole.
 
We keep those lids on them to make sure nobody else falls down inside.”
 
The engineer grimaced.

“Nobody
else
?” Craig said.

“Only happened once, far as I know.
 
Two guys lifting the steel plate, stepped forward when they should have stepped sideways.
 
Zip
, there one kid went, straight down to hell.
 
We lowered cameras, grappling hooks, cables, but never did manage to recover the body.”
 

Kostas placed his hands on his hips and rocked backward in his boots.
 
“Had to drill a new damn hole for the test, cause they sealed that one right up.
 
It was reported as an ‘industrial accident,’ and the news media never made a big deal out of it.
 
Never even caught on, far as I know.”

Craig frowned, not sure whether to believe the old engineer’s tall tale.
 
Yet another death called an “industrial accident.”

“I am not impressed with your safety records.”
 
Ursov’s voice dripped scorn as he looked at the hole cover.
 
“But at least it is a better death than having a crate dropped on your head.”

CHAPTER 19

Wednesday, October 22

4:18 P.M.

Device Assembly Facility

Nevada Test Site

When the van finally returned to the DAF in the late afternoon, Paige had to stop on the access road and wait for a heavy convoy to go first.
 
Craig tapped his fingers on the armrest, adjusting his sunglasses, anxious to get back inside so he could start the nitty-gritty part of the murder investigation.

The guard’s M-16 looked big to Craig, but the Armored Personnel Carrier looked even bigger as it leveled its huge weapon at the van, much to the consternation of the Russian VIPs.
 
Other guards held their weapons at port arms, protecting the convoy toiling from the air strip out to the DAF.
 
Craig realized that these vehicles must be carrying the nuclear weapons Waterloo had retrieved from Omega Mountain.

A pilot truck with a flashing blue light led the line, followed by the APC and a communications Bronco.
 
Two flatbed trucks crawled along, each bearing five white barrels lashed as far from each other as was geometrically possible.
 
After the flatbeds came another APC, more guards, and finally a DOE staff car.
 
Two Air Force helicopters sliced through the sky overhead.

Paige raised her voice above the Russians’ excited chatter.
 
“These warheads were flown from a classified storage location to a nearby airstrip, and now they’re being taken to the Device Assembly Facility.
 
After DAF personnel place these devices into inventory, you will be able to inspect the parts as the warheads are disassembled, per treaty.
 
We need to finish it by Friday, when you must make your final report to both our governments.”

Craig pushed his sunglasses back into place to watch.
 
Unable to sit still, he tapped a quiet, random drumbeat with his fingertips on the seat.
 
Everything was heating up, and the Friday deadline seemed to be hurtling toward him, though he had nothing so far to show for it.

The cell phone at his side gave out a shrill bleep, and Craig grabbed it as the Russians divided their attention between eavesdropping on his conversation and watching the high-security convoy.

“Craig, this is Jackson — and boy do I have a report for you.”
 
He listened as Jackson described the ordeal at the booby-trapped home of Bryce Connors.
 
The papers Goldfarb had rescued from the blaze offered scant clues, but confirmed that the Eagle’s Claw intended something spectacular for Friday, October 24.

“Second item,” Jackson said.
 
“The autopsy of Bill Maguire came through, confirming that he was indeed murdered, given some chemical substance I can’t pronounce — it caused his coronary arrest.”

Craig felt cold as he listened.
 
He had stopped fidgeting entirely, turning into a statue as the sick feeling fought with his anger at the Eagle’s Claw.

“Third item — and this one’s the jackpot, Craig.
 
Just got a message from the FBI crime lab.
 
We’ve got an ID on our dead militia bomber out at the dam.
 
Got his prints on file.
 
Turns out he’s a local.
 
Warren P. Shelby.”

“Good work!” Craig exclaimed.
 
“Any other information about him?
 
What was he booked for?”

“Never arrested,” said Jackson.
 
“His record’s clean.”

“Then how do we have his prints on file?”

“Drum roll,” Jackson said.
 
“He had a
security clearance
.
 
The guy was a contractor for the government — until recently, he was working out at the
Nevada Test Site.”

“Here?” Craig said, trying to keep his voice down.
 
“Well, thousands of people work out at the Test Site.”

“Since when did you start believing in coincidences?” Jackson asked.
 
“Anyway, Goldfarb’s gone to the library to do some digging.
 
I’m here at the Las Vegas FBI office, looking over some blueprints.
 
I’ve . . . got a hunch.”

“Since when did you start having hunches?” Craig asked with a smile.

“Learned it from you.
 
Look, I’ll call if we get any additional information.
 
Give us some time here.”

Feeling drained and exhausted, Craig flipped the antenna down and pushed the cell phone back in the pocket of his suit jacket.
 

Meanwhile in the back of the van, General Ursov straightened the sleeves of his brown uniform shirt, staring as the last of the warhead-hauling convoy rumbled past.
 
The stars on his shoulders reflected the light.

The second APC swung its turret and ground its gears as it rolled to take the rear guard of the convoy.
 
A guard snapped up his M-16 and jogged to the Bronco waiting on the side of the road as the DOE staff car pulled to a stop, its blue light flashing.

A gaunt, short-sleeved man stepped out of the car.
 
Paige rolled down the driver’s side window and waved.
 
“Uncle Mike!”

Hot, dry air spilled into the van, and Craig smelled diesel exhaust and dust.
 
Waterloo frowned as he came over to the white van, glancing across at Craig in the passenger seat.
 
“Agent Kreident, I thought you’d be back inside by now, poring over all the paperwork Ambassador Nevsky left behind.”

Craig brushed off his suit jacket.
 
“It seems we’ve been in sort of a traffic jam, sir.”

Waterloo slapped the side of the van.
 
“Come on up with me, we’ll get you right inside.
 
Sally can escort you while Paige finishes up here.
 
Myself, I’ve got to log in all the inventory paperwork for moving these devices.”

Craig readily agreed and joined Waterloo back at the DOE staff car.
 
Climbing inside, he watched the DAF Manager carefully.
 
“I guess I can understand why you need such tight security, given recent events.”
 

Waterloo’s brow furrowed.
 
“How’s that?
 
Because of Nevsky’s death?”

“No, the Eagle’s Claw.
 
Does that mean anything to you?”

“Isn’t that a ski area in New Mexico?”
 
Waterloo shook his head.
 
“No, I’m thinking of Eagle Nest.”

Craig took off his sunglasses and wiped sweat from his forehead.
 
Waterloo hadn’t turned on the staff car’s air conditioning.
 
“I just learned that the saboteur killed at Hoover Dam yesterday was a former NTS employee.
 
Warren Shelby, a contract worker here.
 
Did you know him, sir?”

Waterloo pursed his lips as he considered.
 
“Agent Kreident, a lot of people work here, especially contractors, who get hired on a job-by-job basis.
 
You saw those people stripping cables out of the test tunnels up on the mesa.
 
If you’re suggesting the militia had anything to do with the accident that killed Ambassador Nevsky. . . .”

Craig sidestepped the question, curious, since he had made no such suggestion.
 
“Doesn’t it worry you that a member of a terrorist group was working right under your nose, with a security clearance?
 
Given their agenda, isn’t it possible the militia might want to stop the Russian disarmament team from doing their work?”

Waterloo adjusted his bolo tie.
 
“I won’t kid you that we have a lot of rednecks working here, good old boys, like me, who can’t read a liberal agenda without laughing out loud.
 
But so what?
 
By its very nature NTS is a pretty patriotic place to work.
 
We’re all about freedom and democracy — freedom to be what you want, even if it means joining a protest group.
 
No one is granted a clearance if he’s considered to be a threat.”

“Well, you missed one,” Craig said.

Waterloo drove into the fenced compound as more guards swarmed around the flatbed trucks.
 
“Just look at our security — nobody can sneak in here and slip away with a bomb in his car trunk, no matter what radical organization he belongs to.”

“But isn’t it possible,” Craig persisted, “if they got into the right place at the right time?”

“You don’t understand, Agent Kreident,” Waterloo said.
 
“We’ve got technological and administrative fail-safes on every weapon.
 
Regulations require three signatures to transport any component of a nuclear device, and work crews are rotated at random.
 
Every part is documented, inspected, and certified.
 
Three signatures
, Mr. Kreident, by important people in the process.”

Craig put his sunglasses back on and glanced up at the DAF, drumming his fingers on the seat.
 
The security helicopter thundered overhead.

“Occupational hazard,” he said as they waited for the guards to motion them inside.
 
“It’s part of my job to be suspicious of everything.”

CHAPTER 20

Wednesday, October 22

4:23 P.M.

Public Library

Las Vegas, Nevada

Goldfarb removed the plastic lid, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted from his Starbucks cup as he settled behind the microfilm reader at the Las Vegas library.
 
At least the reference librarian had given him a special dispensation, once he’d shown off his badge.
 
This late in the afternoon, grimy and exhausted, Goldfarb needed the caffeine just to keep himself going — and with their time dwindling minute by minute, he couldn’t afford to relax.

The Eagle’s Claw meant to strike on the day after tomorrow.

From the burning den, Goldfarb had rescued handwritten notes filled with random numbers, a tourist brochure with a map of all the casinos in Las Vegas (several of which had been circled), discolored work orders from a slot-machine repair shop, photocopied articles from underground publications about the excesses of the United Nations, yellow pages torn from the phone book with ads for various airlines, Amtrak trains, and Greyhound buses.
 

Scattered clues, but no obvious answers.
 
The next step required digging.

Goldfarb glanced at his dot-matrix printout and inserted a microfilm cassette into the reader.
 
Under the headings MILITIA and EAGLE’S CLAW he found a series of newspaper dates and page numbers.
 
Most would make only passing reference to extremist groups, but he just might find the one clue that could break the case wide open.
 
He had already read the field reports of covert agent Maguire, now deceased.

Maguire had left his wife and thirteen-year-old daughter behind in Sacramento to pose undercover as a Cook County highway worker who hung out in redneck bars.
 
He made his fabricated political views known and eventually worked his way into the militia.
 
His regular reports provided much background on the violent organization.
   

In the best tradition of clandestine groups, the Eagle’s Claw was divided into compact cells, each with its own mission, each reporting to a single superior.
 
But the Eagle’s Claw had somehow discovered that Maguire worked for the FBI.
 
And they had drugged him, murdered him — but not before he managed to leave his warning note about the Hoover Dam. . . .

Goldfarb had met Maguire’s wife once at a Bureau function.
 
He remembered that the man’s daughter was extremely tall for her age and played basketball on the junior high team.
 
Goldfarb felt burning anger as he thought of how the woman and her daughter would no longer see Bill Maguire, how he would never again show up for his daughter’s games.