“Pretty low tech stuff you have there. Not exactly a NASA telescope.”
Washington nodded. “Yep. But most bombs are homemade. With the exception of your basic C4 or Plastique, and you and I both know how tough it is to get your hands on that stuff these days.”
“What’s the baby monitor for?”
“Cheapest closed-circuit television system you can buy. This one’s wireless, and while the RF signal can be a problem around some devices, I think the refrigerator’s metal should blunt that a bit. Going to set it up so when the door opens we can see what’s inside. That is, assuming the door pull isn’t a trigger.”
“And the rope?”
“I’m going to tie it onto the handle and pull open the door.” He waved at Jordan. “Can you help me into the jumpsuit? They’re a two-person operation.”
“Can I go in?” Jordan said.
Washington shook his head. “You can only disarm after you’ve completed the written test.”
Jordan sighed and held the clothing while Washington stepped into the jumpsuit. It had large Velcro tabs on the back that held it in place, a high collar that stuck up six inches around Washington’s face; an additional, thicker Kevlar torso section added another layer of protection. The mask included a ventilator system, microphone, and installed web camera. Jordan lowered the helmet over Washington’s head.
“Don’t the web camera and microphone operate on a radio frequency too?” Russell asked.
Jordan nodded. “But it can be turned off.”
“All right, I’ll see you in five.” Washington’s voice was muffled behind the mask.
Washington grabbed the rope and one half of the baby monitor setup and started toward the house. It was clear from his gait that the cumbersome suit was hindering his stride. He disappeared inside and reappeared five minutes later, walking backward while he unspooled the rope. It extended almost thirty feet from the door, and Russell and Jordan retreated an additional thirty.
“I’m going to pull it,” Washington called to them.
“Just like that? What if it explodes? I’ve got my wallet in there, my car’s in the garage, not to mention a brand new laptop.”
“Casualties of war. Ready?”
Russell took a deep breath, held it, and nodded.
Washington hauled on the rope.
Nothing happened. Washington lifted off the heavy mask and glanced at his watch.
“Not a trigger. Maybe timer. Let’s have a look.” He lumbered to the back of the truck, where the two panel doors hung open, and plunked the mask down. Russell joined him, with Jordan right behind. The baby monitor was up and running and the screen gave an excellent view of the open refrigerator’s interior. Washington angled it so that Russell could see.
“Anything strange? Different? Condiment bottle where it wasn’t before?”
The refrigerator’s contents looked untouched. Russell shook her head.
“Nothing that I can see.”
“Why break into a house, open the refrigerator, look inside, and leave?” Jordan said. “Absolutely nothing was accomplished. If they wanted you dead, you’re not, and if they wanted to blow up the house, they didn’t. I don’t get it.”
“A display of expertise? Trying to make you jumpy?” Washington sounded as puzzled as Jordan.
Russell took a deep breath. “Maybe. But if it’s a warning, it’s a pretty subtle one, and I’ll be honest with you guys: the types of people that could be after my hide aren’t known for their subtlety.”
Russell stared at the image of the refrigerator. “There is one thing.”
Washington perked up. “What?”
She pointed to the plastic cover for the refrigerator light. “The cover is slimy looking. It almost looks like someone wiped it with petroleum jelly.” Jordan bent in to take a closer look.
“You sure it wasn’t that way before? I mean, the interior of my refrigerator could use a good scrubbing.”
Washington tapped him on the shoulder. “You single?”
Jordan nodded.
“Then you’ll learn. My wife sees dirt that I don’t even notice. Women don’t allow slime in the refrigerator.”
Russell smiled for the first time since the ordeal began. “You stereotyping me?”
Washington grinned back. “Yes, I am.”
“Well, you’re right…this time,” Russell said. “I’m certain I would have noticed that before.”
Washington rubbed his jaw while he stared at the monitor. “Not likely that a bomb is in that small a container. Besides, we’d see the outline of one through the plastic.”
“Perhaps something biological?”
Washington nodded. “That’s outside my area of expertise. We’ll need a lab tech to come in and take some swabs.”
“Now the only question is how did they get the alarm code and once they had it, why did they bother to shut down the electricity?” Russell told the men about the recently installed code.
“Got to be either a camera somewhere or a device implanted into the keypad that tracks your key strikes. I’ll check for both,” Jordan said. “As for the electricity, maybe they thought it would knock out the alarm system altogether?”
“Hard to believe guys sophisticated enough to enable a keystroke reader wouldn’t know that most alarm systems have backup batteries.”
“I think they wanted it dark in case you woke up and targeted them. Harder for you to see them to kill them,” Washington said.
Russell followed both men into the house, looking around the front yard before closing the front door. She threw the deadbolt and joined them in the kitchen. Washington was peering into the refrigerator and Russell joined him. From the closer view the slime on the light cover was even more pronounced. Washington closed the door.
Jordan removed the cover from the alarm keypad and said, “We’ve got a reader.” He removed a small circuit board, clipping the wires that attached it to the system and replacing them. The alarm pad beeped. “I’ll check all of the pads.”
While Jordan worked on the keypads, Russell and Washington searched the house for anything else suspicious that the intruder might have left. They found nothing. When they were done, Washington and Jordan left.
Russell sat at the kitchen table, her pistol within reach, and watched as the sky lightened with the new day. The refrigerator hummed.
12
Smith touched down at Washington Dulles at three in the afternoon, having hopped a military charter that was scheduled to fly some members of the Department of Defense administrative staff home from The Hague. None had stayed at the Grand Royal, and all wanted Smith’s take on the attack. He gave little information, choosing to act the innocent bystander rather than the operative that he was. The terrorist’s plane ticket was in his pocket.
He’d faxed the photos and the plane ticket to Klein, and now he sat and worried about the unidentified woman in the photo. While he was sure Howell could take care of himself, he wasn’t sure about the woman.
Once he landed he turned on his phone and waited for it to load. As other passengers deplaned, one man, a DOD staff member, tapped him on the shoulder.
“Looks like you have an escort waiting.” The man waved to one of the windows. A military vehicle and two MPs he recognized from Fort Detrick waited on the tarmac. Smith stayed in his seat, however, and waited for his phone to load. He had two messages; one from Klein and one from Russell. He called Klein first.
“I’ve landed. Any luck on the photo?” Smith said. He heard Klein sigh over the phone.
“None. We loaded it into some face recognition software and accessed CIA personnel files for the past five years, Department of Defense, and the World Health Organization’s database of scientists, diplomatic envoys for various nations, and as many consular personnel records as we could find. Also, I pulled a search on every present and past judge of the International Criminal Court. Nothing. Whoever this woman is, she’s not military, diplomatic, or security. I even accessed present and former Secret Service personnel.”