While he awaited the results, Jack studied a series of road maps stored in the PDA’s memory. He was interrupted when his own cell phone vibrated.
“Bauer.”
“It’s me,” said Morris. “You’re looking at the maps?”
“Yes,” Jack replied. “There are six of them—”
“That’s right, Jack-o,” Morris interrupted. “Two match the routes taken by the truck that hit Carlisle, and the vehicle you just took down—”
“So the other four maps might indicate the routes taken by other trucks that we have yet to locate,” Jack said, thumbing through the PDA’s index.
“Might is the problem,” said Morris. “It’s such a trouble-some little word.”
“Might is what leads are made of,” Jack replied.
“Good point.”
Jack squinted at the tiny screen. “Looks like one map outlines a route to Atlantic City. And another’s going to a location outside of Rutland, Vermont.”
“There are two trucks heading for Boston, too.” Morris paused. “Director Henderson has ordered me to alert the proper state and local authorities. Thanks to you, we have a chance of stopping these trucks. A good chance.”
But Jack remembered what Brice Holman had said before he’d expired. He’d seen twelve trucks, twelve, loaded with armed men, leaving Kurmastan that morning.
Which still leaves six more out there — somewhere, Jack thought, if I want to trust Holman’s intel, and I have few doubts on that score…
Morris seemed to read his mind. “Don’t worry, Jack.
You’ll stop them.”
Jack shook off his anxiety and redirected Morris. “What about the contents of Farshid Amadani’s cell phone?”
“Nine numbers are stored there,” Morris replied. “Eight of them are for cell phones with bogus accounts.”
“And the ninth?”
“An unlisted number for the West Side apartment of one Erno Tobias, a citizen of Switzerland. Mr. Tobias is an executive officer for Rogan Pharmaceuticals.”
Jack flashed back to the stockpile of steroids and amphetamines at Kurmastan. They’d all come from Rogan Pharmaceuticals.
“I’ve just pulled up the passport photo for Mr. Tobias from the State Department database, and I’m forwarding it to you,” Morris continued. “You might recognize him.”
The PDA beeped in Jack’s hand, and he retrieved the digital image. Surprise struck him at the sight of the pale white face.
“It’s the Albino,” Jack said. “The man who killed Fredo Mangella in Little Italy.”
“I have an address,” Morris announced. “Nice digs, too.
It appears Mr. Tobias occupies an apartment on Central Park West.”
The address flashed on the PDA screen.
“Got it,” said Jack. “I’m going there now.”
On this wood-lined stretch of Route 4, just a few miles from Pine Hill Park, rush hour occurred three times a day, coinciding with the shift changes at the massive General Aviation Electronics manufacturing plant.
At seven a.m., three p.m., and again at eleven p.m., a steady stream of cars, pickups, and minivans flowed off Columbian Avenue, onto a short driveway that led into the access-restricted parking lot.
Because of the classified nature of the devices manufactured here, which included vital components for the U.S. military’s fleet of high-performance jet aircraft, there was only one way in or out of the plant. That road was straddled by a gated security booth and manned by two armed guards.
While there was always a delay at rush hour, tonight’s was worse than usual because of a security alert issued by the Federal government less than thirty minutes earlier.
Most days, gaining admittance to the employee parking lot was a simple process. The electronic pass glued to the workers’ windshields allowed them to be waved through.
But tonight the two guards inside the glass booth had been instructed to stop each vehicle and check the IDs of all occupants. The security officers were also advised to be on the lookout for suspicious vehicles, especially large trucks.
It was Officer Darla Famini and her partner, Archie Lamb, who were taking the heat for the delay, mostly from workers rolling in at the last minute for the night shift.
“Come on, Darla, what’s the problem?” complained a corpulent man behind the wheel of a late-model GM pickup.
“You ought to know me. I’m your damned cousin.”
“Sorry, Billy,” Darla said, handing him back his employee ID. “Tonight we have to check everybody. We have a situation.”
“Situation? ” Billy rolled his eyes. “We haven’t had a situation since Ronald Reagan was President.”
Darla frowned. “We’ve got one tonight.”
Billy adjusted his ball cap. “Lucky me. I’m at the end of the line.”
“You have plenty of time to clock in,” Officer Famini replied, waving him through.
As the gate went up, Billy glanced into his rearview mirror. “Here comes someone else you can harass,” he said. Then he pulled away in a cloud of exhaust smoke.
Darla watched two headlights bounce up the driveway.
Her partner appeared at her shoulder.
“That’s a truck,” said Archie Lamb.
The night sky was clear and cloudless above Rutland, the stars and planets sharply bright. Darla could make out the vehicle, too.
“Aren’t we supposed to be on the lookout for big trucks?”
Archie asked.
“Put the flashers on,” Darla said.
Archie hit the button, and red warning lights lit up around the booth.
“He’s still coming,” said Darla.
Archie pointed. “Looks like he’s speeding up.”
“Contact the night supervisor!”
While Archie dialed the number, Darla punched another button on her console. Long, metal spikes popped out of the pavement. If the truck tried to pass through the gates now, its tires would be shredded.
She expected the driver to see the spikes and slow his vehicle, but he didn’t. The truck kept right on coming, its headlights filling the booth. At the last possible instant, the vehicle swerved away from the tire-shredding spikes sticking out of the roadway and crashed right through the security booth.
The flimsy structure exploded into shards of glass and shattered lights; Darla and Archie were killed instantly; and the Dreizehn Trucking vehicle continued on, through the parking lot. Because of the shift change, the lot was jammed with cars and employees. The truck barreled through them, running down those who reacted too slowly.
The big rig rolled right up to the massive steel doors to the plant — and smashed right through them. Then a white flash lit up the night. With a single deafening blast, the General Aviation Electronics plant was leveled. Eight hundred men and women, fully two-thirds of the plant’s workforce, were murdered.
The blast was so powerful, it blew the leaves off trees and turned over cars on Route 4. Miles away, windows in homes and businesses near Rutland’s famed historic district were shattered.
Flames quickly spread to a nearby battery factory, where a half-dozen chemical tanks ruptured, spewing millions of metric tons of poisonous fumes into the air.
As the cloud of toxic death spread, birds fell from the trees, their feathered carcasses dropping onto lawns and streets. Hundreds of people, tucked into their cozy homes for the night, succumbed immediately. Minivans and SUVs ran up into yards and through fences as their drivers instantly perished.