Razing Beijing: A Thriller Page 4

  He looked back in time to see an investigator’s gloved fingers insert a hollow plastic straw into the entrance wound of Ahmadi’s temple. An assistant held Ahmadi’s head upright while the investigator used a protractor to establish the bullet’s trajectory. It took them less than a minute to repeat the exercise for the dead woman.

  “I guess the neighbors heard the gunshots?” McBurney asked Kosmalski.

  “Apparently not the gunshots. Screaming and shouting, disturbance.”

  “You’re probably right, chief,” the investigator confirmed a minute later for Special Agent Kosmalski. “The spray patterns over the wall and carpet are consistent with a left-handed perpetrator.”

  “Or a right-hander using his left in order to throw you off,” suggested McBurney. “And with a silenced weapon.”

  “Actually, between torture and busting up the place, this perp could learn a thing or two about reducing the number of clues,” Kosmalski observed. “This isn’t the typical work of your seasoned professional.”

  “We found hair follicles and skin under the woman’s fingernails.” The investigator pointed down at the floor. “And a pair of men’s size nine or so, fairly light depression.”

  Kosmalski was listening with his eyes on McBurney. “A little south-paw bastard?”

  “Looks like it. I’ll need another few minutes to verify his eye color.”

  “Ha-ha.” Kosmalski said to McBurney, “Maybe you should step out for some air.”

  The investigator followed Kosmalski’s gaze. “Better yet, we’re about done here.” He caught McBurney’s eye and jabbed a thumb at the grisly straw sticking out of the woman’s temple. “Care for a sip?”

  McBurney’s stomach did a somersault. Agent Kosmalski accompanied him into the kitchen.

  “Every squad has its wise-ass,” Kosmalski apologized for his colleague’s behavior.

  McBurney took a deep breath but still felt a bit queasy. “Has anyone contacted the Iranian consulate?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So, the Secret Service bit. The woman looks familiar.”

  “I figured she might. Her name’s Katherine Prouty.”

  “The president’s Katherine Prouty?” McBurney remembered seeing the young woman at a national security council brouhaha a couple of years ago. Prouty had drawn the unfortunate duty of being tapped by the president to ride herd on a bloated Homeland Security budget. He recalled some of his colleagues fuming over having to justify their programs to a snot-nosed academic. There were the usual rumors about her having a romp in the Oval Office which McBurney ignored. His own impression was that Prouty was merely in over her head. “What the hell was she doing with a character like Ahmadi?”

  Kosmalski didn’t reply.

  “You’re kidding. The president’s favorite staffer was screwing a terrorist?”

  “Yeah, imagine that. And she wasn’t even CIA. Listen, your need-to-know does not include Ms. Prouty’s sexual proclivities. It’s strictly off the record.”

  McBurney studied his host. “There’s more.”

  “Actually...you’re probably correct that somebody back home caught wind Ahmadi was schmoozing a little too closely with Uncle Sam. I’m thinking Ms. Prouty just got in the way.”

  “She got in the way, all right. And I would think taking on the president is something more typical of a seasoned professional, wouldn’t you? So let’s cut the bullshit, Kosmalski.”

  Kosmalski shrugged. “Our profiler seems to think the perp simply used the woman to extract what he wanted from Ahmadi—”

  “If that were truly the case, I assure you that the murderer did not know Mohammad Ahmadi.’

  “They must’ve known each other well enough for Ahmadi to buzz him into the building.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t Prouty who admitted him?” McBurney looked into Kosmalski’s face—must have been a Marine, probably a sergeant, he thought, having spent enough time in the Navy to know a Marine when he saw one. “Just show me what I need to see and I’ll get out of your hair.”

  Agent Kosmalski, whose head was shaved, regarded him a moment before turning toward someone in the dining room. “Track down Agent Mueller, would you?”

  Back in the living room a tall and very young-looking FBI agent presented McBurney with a single sheet of paper sheathed inside protective plastic marked as evidence. There were dozens of series of numbers that nearly filled the page.

  McBurney looked up, confused.

  Agent Jeffrey Mueller said, “A few of us agents started an astronomy club a little while ago. Are you familiar with satellite epoch data?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Mr. Kosmalski and I ran this page by a friend of mine in the lab, and he immediately confirmed what it was.” Mueller went on to remind McBurney what he pretty much already knew about satellite ‘epoch’ data, that by applying the time and position of satellite insertion into orbit, along with the defining Keplerian values, one could approximate the satellite’s orbital location in the future, providing the orbit wasn’t subsequently altered or ‘retasked.’

  “I get the picture,” said McBurney. “I don’t get what interest the Agency has in amateur astronomy.”

  Mueller looked to his boss. Kosmalski said to McBurney, “Some of those dates seem to be launch dates—future launch dates. I understand they might be considered important.”

  McBurney saw some dates were indeed in the future, toward the end of July. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck...

  Kosmalski asked, “This is your ‘purview,’ is it not?”

  McBurney knew that the dates revealed on the page were highly classified by the Pentagon. Nonetheless, he would have thought them worthless in the hands of an ordinary terrorist. “Have you been advised as to the significance of these dates?”

  “Not specifically.” Kosmalski turned toward his junior colleague. “That’ll be all, Mueller.”

  “Hold on,” interrupted McBurney. “What else did you find here? I mean, are we to presume the murderer was after this?”

  “That’s inconclusive,” said Kosmalski. “Whatever the motive at work here, you have to say it was important enough for the perp to run roughshod over not just our sensitivities but also Iran’s. Look how their guy’s left here, you know, strapped to some naked infidel whore.”

  “I don’t think that excludes Tehran from the list of probable suspects.”

  “Go on, Mueller, tell him what else you found.”

  “Well, let’s see. There’s a stack of US currency banded to two passports amounting to several thousand dollars worth of hundred dollar bills...” Mueller said that the passports, one Turkish and the other Italian, were both issued in March of the previous year. Each bore the photograph of a clean-shaven version of the man presently being picked over in the other room. There was a thick stack of handwritten notes in Farsi and several dozen of the typical reports documenting some of Ahmadi’s contacts with key Americans. They had also found a rolled-up map of the northeastern United States and a copy of the Koran.

  As a former employee of a diplomatic mission, McBurney thought the list sounded incomplete. “How about encrypted communications protocols, stuff he might’ve been provided by the Iranian consulate?”

  “Nothing like that,” Kosmalski confirmed.

  “I see.” McBurney looked at Kosmalski. “Mind stepping into the hall a minute?”

  Kosmalski seemed a little wary. “Sure.”

  Once they were out of earshot, McBurney asked, “What’s going on here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  McBurney held up the page of satellite data. “You said you’re supposed to provide me with the context of this discovery. With what you’ve provided me so far, I’ll have no choice but to report that this slip of paper was probably planted.”

  “Planted?”

  “It doesn’t fit anything here. It is completely out of context.”

  “And who would you try to claim planted it?”

  “You me
an other than the FBI? How should I know? You said the murders involved the Holocaust Memorial attack. Has the FBI identified a murder suspect?”

  Kosmalski looked away.

  “I don’t think I can help you.” McBurney handed the evidence back to Kosmalski. He turned and headed for the elevator.

  Kosmalski said, “Katherine Prouty was sent here to negotiate with Ahmadi.”

  McBurney stopped and turned. “Negotiate for what?”

  Kosmalski looked around to confirm they were still alone. He waved McBurney back. “Two weeks ago, Mohammad Ahmadi approached the State Department claiming he knew the names and whereabouts of two terrorists who escaped from the scene of the Holocaust attack. State immediately ushered the guy over to the president’s national security advisor.”

  “Thomas Herman.”

  “Oh, that’s right—I seem to recall you two being buddies. Any way, we were tapped to pull together the Iranian’s bona fides. In the meantime Herman’s people began this dance with Ahmadi, whose demands in return for the terrorist names included political asylum as well as total amnesty for all of his past misdeeds. Of course, this would have to be granted by President Denis.”

  “Then, Prouty was here negotiating on behalf of...? Whom exactly?”

  “Forget it—not your worry.”

  McBurney mulled over the scenario. “That still doesn’t explain your call to the Agency this morning.”

  “The bureau determined that Ahmadi was simultaneously trying to cut a deal by dangling the names before...a powerful senator.”

  “Double-dealing? I wonder which of the two efforts was the legitimate one. Perhaps neither. Of course, the senator couldn’t grant him a pardon.”

  “Ahmadi wanted the senator to provide him with classified missile defense information.”

  McBurney pointed at the sheet of paper in Kosmalski’s hand. “You’re telling me that information was swapped in some smarmy deal with—”

  “Not so. I know for a fact that no such exchange was ever consummated.”

  “Then where did it come from?”

  “Well, we have to investigate that.”

  “What missile defense program was Ahmadi fishing for? There’s more than one.”

  “SBIRS.”

  For the second time now, McBurney sensed that Kosmalski had been instructed to feign ignorance—the classified launch dates found in Ahmadi’s possession were in fact for the space-based infra-red satellites, otherwise known as ‘SIBBERS.’ So who had slipped the dates to Ahmadi, and why? “Which senator are we talking about?”

  Kosmalski shifted uncomfortably.

  “Come on. Only a handful of senators might reasonably have the information he was fishing for.”

  “Senator Milner.”

  “Milner, huh?” Ahmadi certainly hadn’t wasted time going after some disgruntled bureaucrat; Milner chaired Senate Appropriations and sat on numerous oversight committees. The Maryland senator was something of a Washington institution in his own right. “You’re certain that Milner didn’t comply?”

  “I already told you. The satellite information did not originate from the senator. We know because Ahmadi proceeded to threaten him for it.”

  “He threatened a senator?” McBurney found the prospect stunningly brash even for Ahmadi. “In what way?”

  “Toward the end of their discussion it seems that the subject might’ve attempted to blackmail the senator.”

  “It seems? If it was blackmail, wouldn’t the senator know?”

  Kosmalski worked his jaw. “We don’t know what Ahmadi thought he had on the senator, Milner isn’t saying, and most importantly, it isn’t your issue.”

  McBurney suspected that given the circumstances, the FBI had probably been ordered to place Ahmadi under some sort of surveillance. He also knew something of the pressures brought to bear on any man contemplating a change of allegiance—assuming Ahmadi’s overture to the president’s security advisor was legitimate—particularly the fear of being hunted down as a traitor. Simply to stay alive such men were inclined to adhere to their established routine of contacts, and so he wondered how much if any intelligence product Ahmadi had led the FBI to. He asked Kosmalski, “What’s the FBI think Iran might’ve wanted with classified missile defense information?”

  “We’re still looking into that. We are talking about an agent of a nuclear rogue. And that’s why you’re here.”

  “Okay.” McBurney rubbed his face. “This solicitation of the senator amounts to attempted espionage by a foreign agent. The Agency is supposed to be kept abreast of such things, yet we weren’t until now. Why?”

  “Because the president forbid it.”

  “So, the president knew Ahmadi was trying to double-deal him?”

  “That’s a more recent development, but I believe the president knew. Certain members of the national security council were adamant from the start that they have absolute control of handling Ahmadi.”

  “Herman didn’t want any Neanderthals ham fisting their little negotiation.”

  “Frankly, I think they didn’t want to share the limelight for apprehending the Holocaust terrorists.”

  McBurney didn’t find that particularly surprising. Tom Herman was not the kind of guy to place the protection of his staff above the prospect of political gain. He shook his head. The Mohammad Ahmadi that he remembered was no diplomat, and missile defense simply seemed out of his league...

  McBurney gestured toward the satellite data. “Mind showing me where you found this?”

  MCBURNEY STOOD with Special Agent Kosmalski inside the dead Iranian’s large and glistening master bath, where the open door of a closet revealed what appeared to be a standard hot-water heater. Behind them, a forensics technician used a pair of tweezers to extract small fragments of fiber and hair from the floor around the base of the toilet and deposit them into a plastic bag.

  The FBI agent drew McBurney’s attention to the galvanized sheet metal duct that the investigators must have placed in the marble Jacuzzi. Kosmalski asked him, “Why would an electric hot water heater need a natural gas exhaust duct?”

  Turning from the tub, McBurney saw where investigators also had removed an access plate from the heater, thereby exposing the wires of an electric heating element and glass insulation. He looked up at the hole in the closet ceiling above the heater where the apparently phony exhaust duct had been installed.

  Kosmalski beamed. “It was actually Agent Mueller who discovered Ahmadi’s illicit cache while probing the ceiling cavity with a mirror. He deserves a good deal of the credit.”

  McBurney nodded. Something tugged at his thoughts. “Did you check inside the hot water heater?”

  McBurney and Kosmalski watched as Agent Mueller knelt with a bent coat hangar to carefully probe the soft insulation around the electrical heating element. After several minutes he pulled back a layer of insulation and revealed a smooth, clear cellophane membrane containing an eggshell-white substance.

  Mueller looked up, his face ashen. “This could be plastique explosive.”

  Kosmalski responded immediately. “Everyone, listen up! We’ve got a possible hazardous material condition. I need two people working each floor to gather the residents and convene in the parking lot. Ericks, get your sniffing gear and help Mueller. Everybody else get out of the building. No, moving the bodies is the last goddamn thing I want!”

  McBurney gripped Kosmalski by the arm. “I’d think twice before pulling the electrical breaker.”

  “I think we know how to handle bombs.”

  AFTER CONFIRMING the presence of plastique explosive, it had taken over two hours for the bomb squad to arrive and safely remove the device. The torrent of rain had become a morning mist and most of the building’s residents stood around the parking lot in coats thrown over their bathrobes; the FBI had abandoned their effort to keep members of the press at bay. Special Agent Kosmalski gave word they were allowed to re-enter the building.

  Back inside the lobby, Kosmalski
explained to McBurney that the explosive device had been fitted with a remotely controlled trigger. The squad had determined that the trigger could be armed to set a booby trap, which would detonate if electrical power to the heater was cut off.

  McBurney asked Kosmalski, “Was it armed?”

  “No. I was concerned that the perp lured us into the bathroom with that scenario in mind, although that much plastique would’ve probably taken out the whole corner of the building. We suspect Ahmadi controlled the remote.”

  McBurney frowned in thought while Kosmalski gave permission for the ambulance crew to bag and remove the corpses. Besides the grisly murders, of everything he had learned this morning, that someone like Ahmadi might believe threatening a powerful senator had any chance of gaining traction struck him as the most bizarre. Once they were alone again he simply had to ask Kosmalski, “What’s the senator’s version of this discussion he had with Ahmadi?”

  “That’s not relevant.”

  “Their discussion reflects directly on the satellite evidence.”

  Kosmalski considered the question. “What is it you want to know?”

  “Ahmadi was burned, and he had at least been attempting to commit espionage. Milner seems a good place to start looking for answers.”

  Kosmalski regarded him with a tight jaw. “What makes you so sure the subject was burned?”

  “You’re kidding me, right? Did Senator Milner think the man appeared to be rational? Did Ahmadi explain exactly what it was he wanted, or provide any related information?”

  McBurney sensed a flicker of hesitation pass over Kosmalski’s face. “The senator refuses to discuss anything specific about their exchange.”

  McBurney looked at Kosmalski and became further confused. He was unsure whether the FBI agent was holding something back or merely embarrassed for having nearly botched the morning’s operation. On the other hand, that a U.S. senator would try to conceal the basis for an alleged blackmail attempt was credible enough. “Either you or the Secret Service had Ahmadi under surveillance when he met with the senator, correct?”