Craig Kreident #2 Fallout (23 page)

Five seconds.

Zero seconds.
 
Time 9:56.
 

Craig tensed, looked across the span of the railroad bridge.
 
The second hand continued around his watch dial.
 
He waited, then looked up at Jackson and Goldfarb.
 

“Maybe the militia group didn’t set their watches right,” Goldfarb said.
 

They waited another thirty seconds.
 
The engineer stood beside his train, wearing a bored look on his florid face.
 
He stared down the length of silver cars, looking ready to explode even if the bomb didn’t.
 
“Surprise, surprise, surprise,” the engineer grumbled.
 
“Another false alarm.”

Jackson said it first.
 
“Might have been a hoax after all, Craig.”

“Guess we got lucky today,” Goldfarb said.
 
“But why didn’t this train get any message from Amtrak?”

Both of the other agents looked to Craig for his admission of failure.
 
Craig knew his expression could not be read behind his sunglasses.
 
But all he could think of was the note he had found in his hotel room.
 
Someone had put it there specifically, maliciously.
 
For him.
 
He could not believe it was a mere accident or a prank.
 

In order to find out his hotel room,
his
room, the whistle-blower had to know that he, Craig Kreident, had been personally connected with the Hoover Dam investigation.
 
That took more than the bluster of an anonymous phone call to a newspaper or a radio station.
 

He himself had been a specific target.
 
Had somebody meant to discredit him personally?
 
Yet another in their series of crying wolf?

The engineer looked at his watch.
 
“How much longer will this take?
 
Do you really think there’s anything to this?
 
We’re on a timetable, you know.”

Craig looked up, took a deep breath — and suddenly froze.
 
“The
Mesa Zephyr
had a habit of missing its schedule, right?”
 
He whirled to look at Jackson and Goldfarb.
 
“If the Eagle’s Claw wanted to blow up this bridge with the train on it, and this train never manages to be on time, they wouldn’t bother to set a timed explosive would they?”

Jackson scratched his cheek.
 
“Not if they were trying to catch it that closely.”

“The only way they could make sure they got the train and all the people on board,” Craig said, his words picking up speed as he paced next to the locomotive, “would be to station a man in view, probably hidden in the canyon wall!
 
He could be watching, ready to push the button.
 
And if that’s the case —
the man must still be there
!”

Craig, Jackson, and Goldfarb all sprinted down the tracks toward the railroad bridge.

CHAPTER 27

Thursday, October 23

10:03 A.M.

Nevada Test Site

As Paige drove the van back from Sedan crater, her cellular phone rang shrilly at her side.
 
She excused herself from polite conversation with the Russians and used her thumb to punch the RECEIVE button.

She recognized the crisp, reedy voice of Dr. Adams, the Nye County ME who had discovered Nevsky had been murdered and who had promised his final report on the autopsy no later than today.
 
“Ms. Mitchell, could you come down to the ME’s office as soon as possible?
 
I have disturbing news, and I think we should discuss this in person.”

She immediately became wary, knowing the Russians would be eavesdropping.
 
“Certainly, sir.
 
I’ll get there as soon as possible,” she said, not asking for additional details.

“You might want to bring your FBI friend, too.”

She felt suddenly cold.
 
Had he found something else about Nevsky?
 
Something must be terribly wrong.
 
“I’ll try to get in touch with him.
 
Can I ask what this is regarding?”

“It concerns some . . . unexpected results he asked me to check,” Adams said evasively.
 
“Have a pleasant drive.”

Paige returned the phone to her side as she felt eyes boring into her as conversation faded.
 
She looked over to see Ursov staring at her expectantly.
 
“A message from your coroner, Ms. Mitchell?
 
Can we finally have the analysis of Ambassador Nevsky’s death?
 
Or has someone else suffered an unpleasant accident?”

Paige turned to face the Russian general, unwilling to let him bully her.
 
“I promised you that report as soon as it’s available, General.”

“My government is getting extremely impatient,” Ursov said.
 
“Our scheduled inspection activities end tomorrow, and I must submit a final briefing upon our return to Moscow.
 
It will look very bad for the summit meeting if we must end our mission with such difficulties.”

Nikolai Bisovka spoke tightly, leaning back and holding an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
 
“This reminds me of times before fall of former Soviet Union,” She found his supercilious tone highly annoying.
 
“Or, as some say, back in the good old days.”

Paige pulled the government pickup into the Nye County offices.
 
The main civic building was a two-story stucco structure set off from the street, as if the city wanted to hide its administrative functions from Main Street traffic.

Uncle Mike dislodged his gangly legs from the front of the pickup, swinging down.
 
Since Craig had been whisked off on some sort of emergency call, Paige had decided to take the DAF Manager along instead, since this concerned him as well.
 
Mike ran a hand through his thinning hair.
 
“I bet you miss your MG sportscar back in Livermore,” he said.

She smiled warmly at him.
 
“Oh, red convertible or a big ugly government pickup — gee, I hardly notice the difference.”

The county administration building was a cool relief from the noon sun.
 
A building directory stood near an indoor planter of prickly pear cactus that extended along the wall.
 
Somewhere in back a fountain splashed.
 
Running her finger down the list, Paige saw what she needed.
 
Room 127, third door down.

As they walked along the hall, Uncle Mike spoke quietly, as if afraid his voice would echo throughout the building.
 
“Did the ME give you any hint of what he learned about Nevsky when he called this morning?”

Paige rapped on the door of Room 127.
 
“He only said he wanted Craig to be present.
 
I didn’t ask any questions, since our friend General Ursov was listening in.”

The heavy door swung open, pushed by a policeman dressed in a short-sleeve black uniform.
 
Another policeman stood inside with two men in white lab coats and another man in a suit.

“Ah, Miss Mitchell?”
 
A short, angular man wearing a white lab coat looked up from a table, putting down a clipboard.
 
“Please come in.”
 
His reedy voice seemed very loud in the room.
 
Dr. Adams made quick introductions of his staff.

“Mr. Waterloo is the Device Assembly Facility manager,” Paige said.
 
“Is this about releasing the report on Ambassador Nevsky’s death?”

Adams looked taken back.
 
“The Russian?
 
I’m sorry, Miss Mitchell — we’re waiting for the State Department to clear our final report.
 
I’m glad Mr. Waterloo came along, though, since he’s the NTS representative.
 
We’ve completed a preliminary chemistry analysis on Mr. Carl Jorgenson, and that’s why these officers are here.
 
Thanks to a suggestion from Agent Kreident, we checked for a certain drug known to cause cardiac arrest.
 
Usually fatal in a large enough dose.”

Paige and Uncle Mike both looked at each other.

Adams raised his eyebrows.
 
“You see, Jorgenson’s death was not accidental — far from it.
 
He may have caused the death himself by ingesting this drug, or it could have been murder.
 
It’s not my place to make that determination.”

Uncle Mike’s expression sickened, his skin tone turned grayish.
 
“Why would Agent Kreident ask you to check for that specific drug?
 
Why did he suspect Jorgenson might have . . . not died from natural causes?”

The coroner looked at the police detective, then at his lab assistant.
 
“Because an FBI undercover agent connected to this case was murdered in the same fashion.
 
According to my counterpart in the Cook County Medical Examiner’s office, the chemicals are identical.”

Alarmed, Uncle Mike looked at Paige.
 
“Cook County?
 
An agent connected to this case?
 
What are you talking about?
 
I thought Mr. Kreident was just investigating an accident in the DAF.”

“That death wasn’t an accident either, Mr. Waterloo,” the coroner said.
 

Uncle Mike reeled, and when Paige looked at him, she felt her cheeks burning.
 
“I had to keep it from you for the past few days, Uncle Mike.
 
We know that Ambassador Nevsky was dead for half an hour before the crate crushed his body,” she said.
 
“He was murdered, and Jorgenson must have been involved somehow.
 
Now we know Jorgenson’s been murdered, too.”

Uncle Mike looked from one person to another in the sterile room, speechless in his surprise.
 
He looked down at the floor, shaking his head.
 
“Carl —
murdered
?
 
It doesn’t make sense.
 
There was no reason for this to happen.”

Paige slipped an arm around the older man’s waist, knowing how much he had been through.
 
“There’s no reason for any of it.”

Uncle Mike opened his mouth as if to say something, but all he could do was to shake his head.

CHAPTER 28

Thursday, October 23

11:01 A.M.

Colorado River Bridge

Near Laughlin, Nevada

Running along the railroad tracks on the baked hardpan, Craig approached the edge of the Colorado River gorge.
 
He could smell the creosote-covered railroad ties, the metallic tang of the hot sun glinting off the steel rails.
 

Goldfarb and Jackson followed close, approaching with all senses alert.
 
Goldfarb kept his gaze down, studying the railroad tracks as if looking for a landmine or some sort of tripwire.
 
After triggering the incendiaries that had set Connors’s house on fire, he seemed overly conscious of booby-traps.

Craig stood at the top, staring along the rim of the gorge and seeing numerous cracks and shadows where a person could hide.
 
The canyon walls dropped off like a knife edge, but the erosion had left a steep but terraced slope to the winding, sluggish river below.

Jackson put a hand on his shoulder, startling him.
 
“Keep down, Craig.
 
You make too good a target up here.”

Realizing that he stood silhouetted and exposed for any hidden sniper, he crouched quickly.
 
Momentarily angry at himself, he tried to calm down.
 
He had too many things on his mind but couldn’t afford to slip up on the basics.
 
Staying low, he continued to scan the patchwork of shadows along the multicolored rocks.
 
“Goldfarb, you have those field glasses?”

“Remember they’re only five power,” the other agent said.
 
He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small pair of pocket binoculars.

In a careful search pattern, Craig worked his gaze back and forth down the cliff, starting just under the railroad bridge and moving out, scanning for any movement, any sign of tampering, or a human figure.
 

In the desert behind them, the motionless Amtrak train hissed and creaked as it baked in the midmorning heat.
 
The passengers would be angry, or panicked, or confused.
 
But he focused his entire attention on the cliff itself, on the bridge, on the framework of girders, on the attachment points and support pilings.
 
He then scanned across the chasm.

He saw nothing.
 
He felt a terrible fear that he might be wrong again.
 
If the mysterious whistle-blower had meant only to discredit Craig, he seemed to be doing a good job.

The other two agents squatted beside him, shading their eyes and squinting.
 
Craig pressed the small binoculars against his sunglasses, then finally removed his dark lenses to stare through the field glasses directly, trying to focus in the glare.

After five minutes of silence, Goldfarb finally cleared his throat and stood into a half crouch.
 
“Uh, what do you think?
 
Maybe they were just trying to distract us so we couldn’t spend time on the real investigation.”

But Craig kept scanning, moving his field of view farther from the bridge — knowing that if a member of the Eagle’s Claw had intended to sit here and trigger the explosive, he would have taken shelter some distance from the bridge, not right under it.