“Yeah, I was. But today we almost missed that sandwich. We got lucky, and that’s the only reason the stolen intel is still contained. Leaving Smolin out there, regardless of how much surveillance we plant around him, is too much of a risk. We have no choice, they’re too damn good,” she ended her argument with frustration in her voice.
Jeremy looked at her intently, then nodded and replied, “OK, let’s pick him up.”
…67
“Gotta hand it to you,” Jeremy said as they were arriving at the Botanical Gardens, where surveillance had told them they could find Smolin, “you got some serious skills.”
“Thanks,” Alex said modestly, then decided to take advantage of Jeremy’s state of mind. “That means you’ll let me interrogate Smolin?”
“You know I can’t do that,” he said apologetically. “Nothing changed in our procedure book since the last time we had this argument.”
They walked silently for a few yards, then he continued, “Oh, and you need to stay here. You can’t come any closer to where he is.”
“The hell I can’t,” she snapped at him. “Yesterday I was able to come within fifty feet of him, today I can’t?”
“It’s procedure. In case he pulls a gun, or fires it. You could get caught in the crossfire or get hurt. You haven’t gone through our gun proficiency. You’re a civilian, after all. How about you start behaving like one?”
“We’re supposed to be partners; for Christ’s sake, Jeremy, don’t be such an ass. Can’t you just bend the rules a little? There’s enough manpower here to arrest a dozen Russians.”
“No,” he said firmly. “I won’t risk it; it’s not worth it. You either stay here, or I’ll lock you in the back of the car.”
“Fine, whatever,” she grumbled angrily, splitting the word in half as to make it more powerful.
She watched the three men approach Smolin’s backgammon table. He was alone, reading a newspaper. He sensed their arrival and put the newspaper down on the table, then stood slowly, assessing his options. He knew what the three men wanted even before they spoke.
She felt her hair stand on end; there was something about Smolin, something feral. She started walking toward him in a brisk pace, almost running, discreetly clasping the handle of her gun under her jacket.
“Evgheni Smolin?” Jeremy said, wielding his badge. “I’m Agent Weber with the FBI. We’d like to speak with you, ask you a few questions.”
As if in slow motion, Alex saw Smolin check his surroundings quickly, looking left, then right, making an assessment of the environment. Then he pulled his gun, lightning fast, and pulled the trigger, aiming for Jeremy’s head. But Alex had already fired her PPK, and her bullet hit Smolin in the right shoulder, causing him to swerve his gun and miss the target.
Smolin’s bullet whistled past Jeremy’s head, missing it by less than a foot and hitting the old oak tree behind him. The other two agents approached Smolin and disarmed him, then started reading him his rights.
“Whew,” Jeremy said, wiping his sweaty forehead, “what kind of consultant are you?”
She smiled and holstered her weapon. “You’re welcome.”
…68
“I’m getting used to this place,” Alex said, looking at the familiar entrance to the Botanical Gardens and following the silhouette of a roaring jet taking off against the sunset sky. “I’m starting to like it,” she added, hungrily chewing a bite from a slice of pizza.
They ate near the hood of Weber’s car, standing on the sides with the extra large, extra cheese between them, eating as if there was no tomorrow.
“I think we’re done with this park,” Jeremy said. “With Smolin locked up, there’s no reason to visit anymore. Oh, and they’ll have your gun returned to you by tomorrow.”
His phone rang. He took the call hands free, recognizing the number.
“Weber here, go ahead.”
“This is Moore. The team finished reviewing the surveillance tapes again, and there aren’t any sandwiches starring in all those hours of film; none whatsoever.”
“But did you notice anything out of the ordinary at all? With anyone? I know you’ve looked before, but now we know more than we did back then. Pull older street video feeds,” Weber insisted.
“OK, give me a few,” Moore said and hung up.
They sat quietly, admiring how the sunset colors lit the sky, creating wondrous colors and shapes in the exhaust of passing jets.
“You hanging in there?” Alex asked quietly.
“Yeah…” Jeremy replied in his typical manner, after hesitating a little. “It’s not every day you hear the bullet coming, you know.”
“Yup,” she replied.
“And when it did, when I heard it coming, it was like it took forever, and all I could think about was my son. He… he needs me to come home every day. He needs me, so I gotta live,” he said, watching intently another jet gain altitude.
“And you will,” Alex said.
Moments of silence slipped by, as the sky turned darker and the first stars appeared.
“Thank you,” Jeremy said after a while.
“Don’t mention it,” Alex replied.
The phone rang again, almost deafening in the peaceful evening.
“It’s Moore.”
“Go ahead,” Jeremy said.
“We’ve seen occasional bike messengers pick up and drop off from Smolin’s residence, maybe two or three times in the past month. Then one of the agents remembered he’d noticed a couple of bike messengers pick stuff up from Bob McLeod’s residence, but didn’t think it was relevant.”
“Oh, God…” Weber said, and hopped behind the wheel of his Charger.
…69
FBI Case # 174-NR-24578
Content of decrypted message on SPAM biofilm
[start message]
Laser weapons system (LaWS) functional and ready to be deployed on naval warships. First hull #DDG1005 in Norfolk. On schedule: DDG136, DDG105. More hull #s to follow.
Technical solution for power source and power storage for LaWS is small enough to allow installation on planes, drones.
Prototype on drone scheduled for early next year. Deployment on fighter jets by mid next year.
Installation schematics, cannon capabilities will become available soon.
Engagement protocol recommends use LaWS to disable, not destroy. Target weapon systems, propulsion, and communications. Keep casualties to minimum.
Recommend effort to obtain power source and storage schematics ASAP.
[end message]
…70
Several Dodge Chargers were parked on the adjacent streets leading to Bob McLeod’s street. Two surveillance teams had kept eyes and ears on McLeod constantly since Saturday night, waiting for him to make a move. Finally, he made the anticipated move. He placed a call to FastLite Messenger Service.
A bike messenger, probably eighteen years old, scrawny and crazy fast on his two wheels, appeared from around a corner. He wore a T-shirt and a cap, both inscribed with the FastLite logo. Jeremy waved his badge at him and stopped him before turning on McLeod’s street.