“Ready to go secure, Craig.” His supervisor back in Oakland sounded no-nonsense, and not interested in conversation. The Motorola STU-3, a version of the military’s secure phone, could transmit classified information as scrambled electronic signals. The Bureau used it only for particularly sensitive cases. “Do you have a STU-3 key?”
Jackson rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a black plastic key with serrated ridges, metal edges, and a magnetic strip. Craig inserted the card into the base of the phone. “Okay, June, I’m ready.”
“Going secure.” The line went dead.
Craig turned the key and waited until a tiny message appeared on the LED display. SECRET: FBI OAKLAND CA FIELD OFFICE. Craig heard a scratchy noise over the receiver. “Craig? Are you there?”
“Ready on this end, June.” He waited, listening to the barely perceptible pause in the words as the signals were encrypted and decrypted.
“Something bigger has come up, Craig,” June said without preamble. “I’m pulling you from the Eagle’s Claw case.”
Craig nearly fell off his chair. “Bigger? What can be bigger than a bunch of terrorists wanting to blow up the Hoover Dam?” The two-second STU delay seemed interminable to him.
“There’s been a murder at the Nevada Nuclear Test Site, fifty miles outside of Las Vegas. An ambassador, the senior member of a Russian disarmament team, has been killed, staged to look like an accident. If we don’t handle this quietly, we’ll have an international incident on our hands. The president has scheduled a summit meeting with the Russian president for this coming Saturday, to celebrate the successful completion of this open-doors inspection. Worse, he’s scheduled a short stopover in Las Vegas to personally greet the disarmament team before flying on to the summit. We cannot have an unsolved murder mucking this up.”
Craig leaned back in the creaking chair, his mind whirling. “Are you sure it’s a murder?” He listened to a faint hiss of static.
“The ME’s office says it’s pretty plain. The Russian was dead half an hour before the so-called accident occurred.”
Goldfarb shoved a cup of sour-smelling coffee into Craig’s free hand. “Pretend it’s Jack Daniels,” he whispered, “and imagine how pissed she’d be.”
“So you’ve got the murder of a Russian national on Federal property. I appreciate the political ramifications.” Craig sipped the coffee, trying to maintain his calm. It tasted bitter. “But you don’t appreciate how serious things are here. We were lucky to find that bomb before it went off, and there’s strong evidence the Eagle’s Claw intends to do more acts of terrorism before Friday. Friday, June. The Hoover Dam was just a warmup act.”
June’s voice remained firm. “I don’t intend to slack off on the Eagle’s Claw for a minute — we’ll keep the entire team cooking at high heat. I’m just pulling you from it, Craig. Your abilities are better utilized elsewhere. Some more agents are coming in, and the Secret Service advance team is there if you need help.”
He had a difficult time keeping his temper in check. He set down the coffee, afraid he might accidentally clench his fist and smash the Styrofoam cup. “What about Bill Maguire? The Eagle’s Claw killed him, June — I know it. There’s too much at stake to take me off this case for a simple murder.”
“Nothing simple about Ambassador Nevsky’s murder,” she said, unwavering. “And that was a low blow about Maguire. I felt his death as much as any of you field agents did. But I set the priorities here — do I have to call you back to Oakland so I can explain this face to face? According to airline schedules I can get you here and back there by eleven o’clock tonight. The result will be the same, but you’ll waste a lot of hours on the plane.”
Craig opened his mouth to retort, but saw Jackson, Goldfarb, and three other agents watching him. Heaving a deep breath, he tried to block the thrum of machinery in the background by putting a hand over his free ear.
“June,” said Craig, “I still think it’s a mistake —”
“You’re the best agent I’ve got, Craig. “ She sounded calm now, persuasive. “That previous case you solved at Lawrence Livermore proved it. You have experience working in government facilities, and I know I can count on you.” She fell quiet for a moment.
“This is coming straight from the top, the Attorney General herself. We’ve only known for a few hours that the ambassador’s death was not an accident. The U.S. has not yet released that information because there’s so much riding on completing the disarmament process. We’ve got to hold this coalition together and not give the Russians any reason to back out. We cannot afford to have this fail. By Friday, the disarmament team will have completed their mission, the President will have personally expressed his congratulations, and you, Craig, will have solved the case.”
“How am I going to conduct this investigation without letting on that we know there’s been a murder?”
“Because of the political nature of this death, the FBI must be called in. You’re here, a proven expert in cases involving scientific facilities.”
Craig rolled his gray eyes. “Are they going to buy that?”
“Besides, Paige Mitchell is also involved in this case. The two of you worked well together in Livermore. Do it again.”
“Paige is out here? What is she doing in Nevada?”
“Protocol liaison for the disarmament inspectors. It’s a temporary assignment for DOE.”
Craig fell silent — that put a whole new spin on things. But still he chewed on his lower lip, unconvinced. “This militia problem could turn out to be the tip of a much bigger iceberg.”
“Goldfarb and Jackson can handle it for the next three days, Craig. They’ll have help.”
“Three days is all we’ve got until the Claw’s deadline. October 24.”
“Get over to Las Vegas tonight. Find a room somewhere. Miss Mitchell will be your NTS security escort, and she will brief you on the details. Until then, unless you can talk over a secure phone, the true nature of your investigation remains classified. Understand? Or do I have to fly out there and explain it to you face to face?”
Craig tried to keep his voice steady. He answered crisply. “No, ma’am. That won’t be necessary.”
CHAPTER 9
Trying to maintain his patience and keeping an open “American hospitality” mood, Mike Waterloo drove with his station wagon crammed full of Russians. Six members of the disarmament team rode with him as he fought through the evening traffic clogging the Las Vegas Strip.
After their days in the DAF, he had come to know all the inspectors by name, though now they treated him like a mere chauffeur, talking among themselves in guttural Russian, excluding him from the conversation. He clenched his jaws so that a ripple of muscles stood out on his gaunt cheeks, making no comment as the Russians guffawed, sharing a joke — possibly at his expense. He would never know. Their humor struck him as forced, with a slightly hysterical edge, still shocked at the messy death of their comrade.
General Ursov had remained behind in protest, going to his room at the Rio where he was no doubt contacting superiors back in Russia… or possibly just documenting the information he had collected from NTS. Waterloo wouldn’t be surprised to discover that Ursov worked as a spy for the KGB, or whatever the state intelligence organization called itself these days.
Despite Ursov’s protests, the others had overwhelmingly voted to see Copperfield’s show. They would hear nothing about changing those plans — dead comrade or no dead comrade.