After Highway 93 had been reopened to traffic, the flood of cars came through. Drivers honked or glared because of the inconvenience; rubber-neckers tried to determine the cause of the shutdown. When the news helicopters and vans arrived, Craig remained down at the base of the dam, where there would be less chance he’d be pegged for an interview.
Now, alone, he stared into the deep cold water of the tailrace, feeling his legs shaking in the backwash of adrenaline and suspense from his brush with death. He tapped his foot, burning off nervous energy. Garcia had told him the water was fifty feet deep with heavy currents, and cold, fifty degrees.
The walkie talkie squawked at his waist, breaking his concentration. Jackson’s voice came over the speaker. “Agent Kreident, come in please. Over.”
Craig listened as Jackson spoke in his quiet, professional voice. “The search helicopters have spotted the body. It’s washed up against some rocks in a jog in the canyon a mile downriver. We can get you there in a few minutes if you want to be present for the recovery.”
Shading his eyes, Craig took one last look around the dam, the power-generating apparatus, the administration building at the base of the structure. “Yeah, I don’t want to miss the excitement.”
At the water’s edge Craig worked his way down the rocky ledges to the river. Sand and rocks the size of marbles dribbled down the incline; the sky burned a bright blue.
Two rescue workers went about the grim task of fishing the battered corpse out of the cold current. Craig’s black wing-tip shoes had not been made for rugged climbing, but he managed. The day had grown so warm that he even stopped to loosen his tie.
The bomber’s body was bruised and broken, livid red welts on pale white skin, as if a gang of thugs had beaten him to death. His dam coverall was ripped and stained, his face hideously bashed in. Craig doubted the man carried any sort of identification — and if so, he didn’t trust it to be legitimate.
Agent Jackson appeared grim, as usual, watching the proceedings from a low outcropping. His suit and his shoes were already covered with mud, but he didn’t mind getting himself dirty. Sweat glistened on his dark skin.
Goldfarb stared at the smashed body as the rescue workers hauled it dripping out of the river; he walked quietly away, his skin pale and pasty. Craig wondered if the dark-haired agent wanted to be sick privately, but instead he saw Goldfarb pull out his cellular phone. The other agent took a few deep breaths, then punched in a number from memory.
Craig looked down at the dead bomber, remembering how this man had been shooting at him not long ago. He had stared the terrorist in the eyes, his gun drawn, holding the suspect backed up against the drop-off. He had known the man was a fanatic. He should have considered the possibility of self-sacrifice… but it was too late now. The body lay crumpled and broken. He hoped the militia group wouldn’t turn the man into a martyr.
“We’ll get dental records,” Jackson said, then knelt to hold up the man’s mangled hands, inspecting the fingertips. “And prints… most of them anyway.”
Craig nodded. “If this guy has any criminal record at all, we’ll ID him.”
Goldfarb came up, his mood dramatically changed. “I found something else that ties together,” he said excitedly. “I called my wife back home. She’s got one of those ‘This Day In History’ books. Guess what significance October 24 holds?”
Craig gave the other agent his full attention. “So, what happened then?”
“Well,” Goldfarb said, “in 1604 James I was proclaimed king of Great Britain, Ireland, and France… in 1964 the country Zambia was created out of Northern Rhodesia and Barotseland… in 1931 the George Washington Bridge opened in New York City and Al Capone was sentenced to prison for tax evasion.” He raised his eyebrows as Craig waited patiently. “And also, ready for the drum roll? It’s the date the United Nations was founded.”
Jackson nodded. “The Eagle’s Claw hates the United Nations and anything that smacks of a world government, of interfering in national problems.”
Craig tapped his fingers together, still pondering. “But if they were blowing up the bomb today, why are they touting their victory on October 24th? That’s not until Friday.”
Craig stopped as a cold shiver went down his spine. “Unless they plan to escalate their reign of terror, climaxing on the anniversary. And if this” — he thought of the gigantic dam, the power lines and the generators, imagining how much destruction would have been caused had they not caught the bomb in time — “if this is just the first step, what are they planning for the main event?”
CHAPTER 6
With a drawn-out sigh, Paige hung up the phone in Uncle Mike’s DAF administrative office. She stood in front of his gray government-issue desk. “That’ll make the bureaucratic packrats back at DOE Headquarters scurry during their afternoon coffee breaks.”
“I take it DOE didn’t handle the call too well.” Mike swiveled forlornly in his chair.
“At least I got through to the Assistant Secretary’s office. The case officer said they’d handle the fallout and disperse the news to the On-Site Inspection Agency, the Defense Nuclear Agency, and the State Department, who will pass it on to the Russian embassy to confirm Ursov’s own report.” She pulled in a long, slow breath. “They’re mostly concerned with how this is going to look on Friday. You know the president had planed a short stopover in Las Vegas on his way to the summit in L.A. — now, they’re wondering if the president should even show.”
In the front room, Mike’s hard-as-nails “moat dragon” Sally Montry rattled the keys on her word processor like machine-gun fire, filling out all the official forms for everyday business as required by regulations and established NTS procedures.
On the wall behind his desk hung a diploma from Cornell, an NTS Excellence in Service award, a photo of the OSIA inspection team in which he had participated two years earlier in Russia; no family photos. He and Aunt Genny had had no children, but Paige was his god-daughter.
Paige cleared her throat and turned from the memories. “We’re supposed to continue the inspection process as if nothing had happened, get the Russians on today’s scheduled tour of the explosive bunkers and Frenchman Flat — just as Ursov requested. They’re not going to let this stop the president from showing up at the airport to thank the disarmament team, and they certainly won’t cancel the summit plans.”
Uncle Mike shook his head in disbelief. “I was supposed to take the Russians to see David Copperfield at Caesar’s Palace tonight.”
“My guess is they’ll want to go. Might keep them in a cooperative mood for the last few days.” She took a deep breath. “We’ve got to hold on by our fingernails until Friday’s over.”
Uncle Mike nodded soberly. “We’d open ourselves to accusations of noncompliance if we didn’t show them everything on the schedule.” He snapped his glance up, as if he had just realized something. “Uh, PK Dirks was supposed to lead the tour today — should we change that, in light of his misconduct last night?”
Paige shook her head, tossing her blond hair. She fixed the barrette, clipping her hair back. “No, any change might look like we’re admitting to some wrongdoing. Send Dirks along with me, same as on the printed schedule. We can’t do anything here until we get a preliminary report from the Medical Examiner and the safety team looking at the accident site.”
Uncle Mike stood up, all business. “I’ve already placed the forklift driver, Carl Jorgenson, on administrative leave. In an accident such as this, we’re required to keep him out of the workplace pending a full OSHA investigation. He feels terrible about the whole mess — but Nevsky shouldn’t have been wandering around in a restricted area. He’s as much at fault.”