The way I hear it, you make any impolite noises, the DCIS isn’t exactly going to jump right on it. Now just get the hell out of my office.”
Stafford gave a crooked smile and walked over to the office door. “Nice try, Carson,” he said. “But I don’t have to convince my people back in Washington. All I’ve got to do is convince the Army. Tell them I think it’s here and that you’ve got it. I’ll bet they’ve got some seriously mean bastards who might want to come talk to you. Think about that, smart guy. Because I think you’ve made a huge mistake. I can’t prove it — yet — but if I tell them, maybe I won’t have to. Happy Trails, Carson.”
Stafford hurried to his car, anxious to get out of there in case Carson had a gun stashed somewhere. The DRMO manager had been white with either fury or fear when he’d slammed the door on him back there, and there was no telling what he might do. As he drove away from the DRMO, he thought about Carson’s reaction: That had been a direct hit if he’d ever seen one. The man had all but pissed himself when he’d said the word cylinder. Son of a bitch stole it, and I’ll bet he’s going to try to sell it. Damn, he thought: Could it be the girl was for real? He tried to think of what to do next. And how the hell had Carson found out about his problems in D. C.? Whom had he been talking to? Sparks? Had Ray been playing him along all this time? He didn’t want to believe that. He really didn’t want to believe that. He hit the state road and sped down through the wasteland of trucking terminals. He’d been bluffing about calling the Army, of course, and about telling anyone else: How could he, when his only “evidence” was a supposedly psychic child’s drawing?
He could always claim that Dillard had told him, but of course he hadn’t, and Dillard was hardly reliable witness material. But if he was right about the cylinder, Lambry might not have just quit. It might yet be determined that Lambry’s remains had been dragged off into the bushes by the rail yard dogs after that explosion.
And maybe he was all wrong about the Army’s little exercise at the DRMO.
Except you weren’t wrong about what you saw in living three-dimensional color on that monitor, he thought. That thing was a perfect match to the girl’s drawing.
Maybe the thing to do is to go to that team’s home base. Where is it — Anniston? Go to the Army installation at Anniston and see if anything is stirring. Surely if they had lost something like a chemical weapon, there’d be things happening, some visible undercurrents of a crisis. He was a Fed; he could get onto a military base.
And do what?
The interchange with the Atlanta Perimeter was visible up ahead. There was an all-night gas station on the right, and he swung the Crown Vie into the parking lot next to a fuel pump. The sign on the pump informed him he had to prepay at the money window.
He pulled out the government bag phone and called Ray Sparks’s home number. Sparks answered, and Stafford was relieved to hear the sound of a television in the background, which meant Sparks was still awake.
“Ray, this is Dave Stafford.” “Why did I know that, Dave?” Sparks said in a weary voice.
“Ray, look, I’m non-secure on a car phone. I think I’ve found out what’s going on at that DRMO. We need to talk.”
“Okay.”
“I mean we need to meet and talk. No phones.”
“Jesus, Dave. Now?”
“Yeah, now. It’s much bigger than simple fraud against the government.
I’m in southeast Atlanta, near the Perimeter. Can we meet somewhere?” Sparks sighed. The television sounds were not audible anymore.
“Okay,” Sparks said. “But this better be good, Dave.
And within the bounds of your current assignment, right?”
“Not even close, Ray. But definitely worth your time.” The store attendant was watching him through the bulletproof money window.
” ‘Not even close.’ Why did I know that, too? All right. You don’t know your way around Atlanta, so I’ll come down to your hotel. What are you driving?”
“It’s a white Crown Vie, government plates.”
“Okay. Park out front of the hotel. You’ll be reasonably safe downtown in a government car. I’ll be there in forty five minutes. And, Dave, no shit, you’d—”
“I haven’t done anything, Ray. Not yet. I’m bringing it to you first, all right? Just like I’m supposed to. Just get downtown, buddy.”
He hung up before Sparks could protest further. He got out and walked over to the window.
“I need ten bucks’ worth of regular and a map of Alabama,” he said to the black man behind the glass.
21
Carson sat in his office clenching and unclenching his fists. That god damned Stafford! How in the hell had he figured it out? How in the hell could he know what the cylinder even looked like?
Lambry. Fucking Lambry must have said something to that idiot Dillard before his little accident. Boss Hisley had mentioned that Dillard had been seen talking to Stafford. Shit!
The Army had come and gone. He still owed Tangent a call, but Stafford had thrown some serious shit in the game. Should he tell Tangent that Stafford knew? That could well and truly queer the deal. But if he didn’t, and Stafford did go to the Army, the deal might be queered anyway. They’d either come back and tear the DRMO to pieces, or — what?
He thought furiously, it all depended on how the Army was handling this thing internally. They’d be in an uproar if they thought some of their precious CW was missing, but they’d be just as terrified about their screw up becoming public knowledge. They might just tell Stafford to take a hike. What Wendell Carson needed now was some leverage, some serious Washington leverage.
Well, hey, how about Mr. Tangent?
Tangent claimed to be well connected. He’d tell him exactly what had happened and let him neutralize Stafford, especially since Stafford was already in bureaucratic disgrace. The original source of Stafford’s information, however indirectly, had to have been Lambry, but Lambry was Monster piss and his house was a blackened memory. If Lambry was indeed the source, Stafford was shit out of luck. And evidence.
A feeling of calm certainty settled over him. Only well dell Carson now knew where the cylinder was. Lambry was dead, so Stafford had to be bluffing. The Army had not found it, and they were probably even now breathing a sigh of relief in the fervent hope that it had gone into the demil process with the shipment of coffins.
So tell Tangent, he thought. Tell Tangent and ask him to poison the well there in D.C. Absolutely. Discredit Stafford badly enough and no one would listen to him, least of all the Army, who had every incentive not to want to hear it. Yes, they might have to put off the transfer for a day or so, but once Stafford was out of the picture, they’d be in the clear. Then all he had to worry about was getting his money without losing his skin in the process.
He picked up the phone and called the 800 number.
Colonel Fuller rubbed the sides of his face with his hands as Major Mason concluded the briefing. “So, basically, nothing?” he asked. “No trace elements detected, the containers have all been cut into scrap metal, and the DRMO is clean?”
“Yes, sir. They gave the demil area and the compaction modules a very thorough sweep. The demil machine is, of course, designed to destroy toxic organics using multiple acid interactions. It’s a totally closed system, so even if the cylinder went into the machine inside one of the coffins, any release would have been contained anyway, and then neutralized.”