Holly handed him a black-and-white photo that showed a man holding up an open briefcase. The inside of the briefcase was cleaned out to make room for a metal cylinder and a bunch of gadgetry, computer boards, wires. “Worst-case scenario,” Holly said, “they really have got their hands on a Russian KGB suitcase. A one-kiloton, 105 tactical nuke round, configured in a suitcase. Put it in midtown Manhattan, it’ll kill a hundred thousand people, easy.”
Jane stepped forward. “Two days ago we acted on a tip from one of our squirrels in Lahore, Pakistan. We took down an Al Qaeda financial officer in Detroit. He talked. He gave us the name of a courier for something nuclear. And a location. Shuster in North Dakota. We ran ‘Shuster slash North Dakota’ in every computer we could think of.”
Holly held up a mug shot of a young blond guy with chiseled features. His hair was on the long side. The date was 1992.
“This is the target. Ace Shuster is a second-generation smuggler-”
Broker held up his hand. “I talked to the sheriff. He’s got you figured out, up to a point. He already told me about this guy.”
Holly scowled. Broker ignored him, got up, went to the desk, opened a drawer, took out the local phone directory, thumbed to the S’s and read: “Gene and Ellen Shuster; Asa Shuster, Dale Shuster. I come up with three, four counting Ellen.”
“Okay, smart-ass,” Holly said. “What about this?” He handed Broker another photograph that showed a muddy road, parked cars, and a crowd of two dozen peoples, mostly men, standing around, low rolling scrub in the background. Two faces in the gathering were circled. Jane tapped one of them. “Ring any bells?”
Broker exhaled. Everybody in America now recognized that lean shovel chin. “Tim McVeigh.”
Holly’s finger moved to the other circled face at the opposite end of the picture. To help Broker out, he held the mug shot from Shuster’s dossier next to the photograph. It was him, a little older but the same guy.
“Ace Shuster and McVeigh standing on a road, with a bunch of people in between,” Broker said. “So?”
“So, what they’re looking at is the Branch Davidian Compound. They were in the gallery of Koresh supporters.”
“Are you saying this Shuster knew McVeigh?” Broker asked.
“We know their paths crossed at least once.” Jane shrugged. “It sure got our attention.”
Broker squinted at Jane and Holly. “Al Qaeda in Detroit to militia nuts to petty crooks in North Dakota? I didn’t think Islamic fundamentalists had truck with nonbelievers.”
“Yeah, well, we ain’t gonna sit around and find out on CNN again,” Holly said with absolute conviction.
“Not after the way those desk pricks in CIA and FBI fumbled warning signs on 9/11,” Jane said.
“You know what you guys look like? Like you haven’t slept for days,” Broker said. “The local cops are onto you. Probably this Shuster guy is onto you…”
Holly put his hands on his narrow hips. “Look, Broker; we don’t have the luxury of playing cop. If a cop’s bad guy slips by, that’s cool, they’ll catch him later on something else. Cops can afford to wait and let the system grind along. Protect and serve. Life, liberty, and so on and so forth. The guys who wrote the Constitution thought in terms of threats being a British fleet taking weeks to cross the pond. A nuclear event is an entirely different order of magnitude.”
Broker studied him. How exhausted and wired he was. “What if the local sheriff hauls you in for questioning?”
“What’s the charge?” Jane said. “We’re just citizens. None of us are carrying any military ID or equipment.”
Broker pointed at the bag next to the wall.
“Nope,” Jane said. “Everything in there is available in the economy.”
“And what are you taking to stay awake?” Broker said.
Jane and Holly exchanged fast looks. Holly shrugged. “A little speed now and then. We been on one hell of a road trip…”
“Flush it. These local cops might be Andy of Mayberry, but I get the feeling they are seriously underemployed, highly trained, and itching for something to happen. Plus, they are very wired into their history. The sheriff gave me a lecture on Gordon Kahl.”
“Kahl was a wacko,” Holly said.
“Yeah, and the feds botched the job, pissed all over the locals, and got two of their own killed,” Broker said.
Holly glowered. “We ain’t the goddamn federal marshals.”
“Right,” Broker said. “The marshals are trained to uphold the law. You guys are trained to blow people away. Get rid of the dope. The locals just might shake you down for the hell of it. If they find drugs, you’re no good to Nina sitting in the county jail.”
“Point taken,” Holly said. “But if the sheriff makes a phone call, no one, nowhere, will admit to our existence.”
“No one,” Jane underscored.
Broker understood her emphasis. They were expendable. Nina was expendable. He wondered, too, if, push come to shove, Kit would have been expendable.
“Whose idea was this?” Broker asked.
“Nina. We just got in the van and drove and made it up on the way. We stopped in St. Paul to pick up the car,” Holly said.
“The Volvo from central casting,” Broker said.
“Nina again. We found the car and staked it out, then practically mugged this walking liberal cliche near Macalester College in St. Paul. A serious feminist type, you know-got a housekeeper, nanny, personal trainer…But she took a pile of money for the car.” Jane dropped her eyes, looked up, almost catty. “Outfitting Nina at Victoria’s Secret, however, was my idea.”
“Oh Christ,” Broker said.
Jane shrugged. “This great pair of cargo harem pants and this really foxy rib tank. She’s way past being cute, but, hey, she can still look pretty damn raunchy if you put a few shots of booze into her.”
“Thanks for sharing that,” Broker said.
“You’re welcome.”
“So. That’s what’s happening,” Holly said. “We didn’t coordinate any of this with the FBI or Homeland Security. We don’t have time for them to hold a committee meeting and put it tenth on the agenda behind their budget requests. As the old Rum Dum himself is fond of saying, ‘We are leaning way forward.’ ” There was a definite edge of sarcasm in Holly’s voice.
“Shit,” Broker said.
Holly and Jane stared at him. Holly cocked his left wrist in a reflex gesture, checking his watch; but he wasn’t wearing a watch, and to Broker the mannerism had a chilling operational feel that brought back a lot of bad memories. Basically, he felt like a prong they wanted to plug into their socket, use one time, and throw away.
“Shit,” he repeated. Then, “Okay. What exactly do you want me to do?”
Chapter Thirteen
Nothing happened the way she expected. She woke after ten straight hours of unmolested sleep to the soft buss of sunlight on her cheek. A bare trace of buttery warmth managed to squeeze between the clouds, leaked through the window and teased across her face. She opened her eyes and saw the brief flicker on a faded poster curled on the wall. Roger Maris, the old Yankee hitter. Then it went back to shadow.
She smelled fresh coffee.
She’d got out of bed and tiptoed to the door, very carefully eased open the knob, and looked into the living room. He was sitting at his desk, his back to her. Already dressed. Then he turned slightly and she saw he was holding a pistol in his hand.
Oh boy.
But he quickly put the pistol in the drawer and shut it. He’d got up, went to the kitchenette, and returned holding two cups of coffee.
“I don’t know how you take it, so I got one of each: black or with half-and-half. You need an Alka-Seltzer?”
“The black’s mine, and I’ll pass on the seltzer,” Nina said.
“No hangover?”
“Just a little tired.”
“You slept in. It’s almost noon. Here, this’ll help.” He handed her the coffee and she took a sip. Her facial expression showed her approval.