There was a single car parked on the street, a dark blue Crown Victoria. It was unmarked but it was so obviously a Federal vehicle that it might have had FEDS stencilled on the doors. One of these days the government will grasp the concept that plain-clothes and undercover should include a component of stealth. Just a tad would go a long way.
I jumped down from the open side door and then bent low and ran through the rotor wash as the Black Hawk lifted away. The pilot would take the bird to a helipad near the Cape May lighthouse and wait there. We have several Black Hawks at the Warehouse, and we used this one for jobs that required less of a shock-and-awe effect on the locals. It was painted a happy blue and had the logo of a news wire service on it. No visible guns or rockets. Not to say they weren’t there, but this was not a time to show off. We already had some rubberneckers slowing their cars down to look at the big blue machine.
I let the helo vanish into the distance and silence return before I approached the building. The ATF agents were standing beside their car, both of them in off-the-rack suits and wearing identical expressions of disapproval. They both began shaking their heads as I approached.
“You can’t be here,” said the taller of the two.
I held up my identification. The DMS doesn’t have badges or standard credentials. When we needed to flash something we picked whatever would get the job done. I had valid ID for CIA, ATF, DEA, FBI and every other letter combination. The one I showed them was NSA. It was as close to a trump card as you can get, and they were the only organization that didn’t have boots on the ground during the raid on the place. Church was working with the director to use them as referees for the jurisdictional dispute.
The ATF boys glanced at the badge and at my civilian clothes — jeans and an Orioles home-game shirt — and gave me looks that said they didn’t give a cold shit.
“Need to go inside,” I said.
“Show me some paper,” said the shorter of the two.
I dug into my back pocket and produced a letter Church had prepared for me. It was a presidential order allowing me access to assess the integrity of the scene. They read it carefully. Twice.
“You can’t take anything out,” said the tall one.
“Don’t want to,” I said.
“We’ll have to search you when you come out, you know.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Don’t fuck with anything in there.”
“I won’t.”
“We don’t want trouble,” said the short one.
“I’m on your side, guys,” I told them as I pasted on my most charming smile.
The short one gave me another up and down inspection. “NSA recruiting ball players now?”
“It was my day off,” I said, leaning on ‘off’ enough to convey irritation. Not at them, but at the system. “I had tickets for the double-header.”
That did the trick; they relaxed and nodded.
“Sucks to be you,” said the tall one and gave me half a mean grin.
“We have the game on the car radio,” said the short one. He wore the other half of that same grin. “Phils are up by two in the second.”
“I’m from Baltimore.”
“Like I said, it sucks to be you,” said the tall one. Laughing, they turned and walked back to their vehicle.
“And a hearty fuck you, too,” I said under my breath as I headed over to the building.
It was no less ugly from ground level, and perhaps a little less appealing. It was bigger than I expected. Three-storeys tall in parts, with lots of shuttered windows and reinforced doors. A discreet sign on a pole read, THE KOENIG GROUP, with a phone number for information.
I removed a small earbud, put it on, and attached an adhesive mic that looked like a mole to the side of my mouth. Two taps of the earbud connected me to Bug, the computer uber-geek who provided real-time intel for all field work. Even though this was a low-profile job, DMS protocol required that I use my combat callsign.
“Cowboy’s online,” I said.
“With you,” said Bug.
“What’ve you got?”
“We did a thermal scan on the place, but it’s cold. No one home.”
“That’s what I want to hear.”
I walked around the building. It really was a large mess. The additions and walkways looked almost like they’d grown organically, expanding out of need like a cramped animal. The paint jobs didn’t match section-to-section, and for a company with a lot of private funding the exterior of the joint was poorly maintained. Weeds, some graffiti, trash in the parking lot.
“Place is a dump,” I said.
“Better inside, from what I hear,” said Bug. “Some cool stuff.”
A red DO NOT ENTER sticker was pasted with precision to the center of the front door. I ignored it and used a preconfigured keycard to gain entry.
“Going in,” I said quietly.
“Copy that,” said Bug. “Watch your ass, Cowboy.”
“It’s on the agenda.”
The entrance lobby was small and unremarkable. A receptionist’s desk, some potted plants and the kind of frame pictures you can buy at Kmart. Bland landscapes that probably weren’t even of places in New Jersey. The lights were out, which was surprising since the key-reader was functional. The entrance hall was dark, and daylight didn’t try too hard to reach inside. When I tried the light switches all I got was a clicking sound. No lights.
I tapped my earbud. “Bug, I thought the power was still on.”
“It is.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“Let me check.”
I removed a small flashlight from my pocket and squatted down to shine the light across the floor. The immediate entrance hallway had a thin coating of damp grime on the floor — a side effect of the building’s position near a bay and a swamp. There were footprints in the grime, but from the size and pattern it was clear most of them had been left by responding police officers. Big shoes with gum-rubber soles. The prints went inside and then they came out again. If there were prints by an intruder, they were lost to the general mess left behind by the cops. Pretty typical with crime scenes, and pretty much unavoidable. Cops have to respond and they can’t float.
I tapped my earbud again, channeling over to Church. “Cowboy to Deacon.”
“Go for Deacon.”
“Did anyone have eyes on the cops who came out of the building last night? Are we sure they weren’t carrying anything? Or had something in their pockets?”
“The ATF agents on duty last night searched each officer,” said Church. “It was not well-received.”
“I can imagine.”
And I could imagine it — responding blues getting a pat-down by a couple of Federal pricks.
“Why didn’t the ATF agents accompany them inside?” I asked.
I could hear a small sigh. “The ATF agents had left the scene to pick up a pizza.”
“Ouch.”
“Those agents have been suspended pending further disciplinary action.”
“Yeah, fair call.”
“Which is why the ATF is rather prickly about your being there.”
“Copy that.”
I channeled over to Bug.
“Where are we with those lights?”
“Working on it,” he said.
The lights stayed off, though.
There was a closed door behind the reception desk, so I opened it and entered a hallway that was as black as the pit. There was no sound, not the slightest hint that I was anything but alone in here, but regardless of that I drew my pistol. It’s hard to say if, at that moment, my caution was born out of a concern not to accidentally disturb any evidence left behind, or because the place was beginning to give me the creeps.