A novel
PROLOGUE
"Iraq," Senator Hollis Montgomery stated. "Afghanistan. Syria. The American people are a generous people, but at a certain point, even the most generous person has to say: enough!"
The Senator was addressing General Ulysses Benton, one of three uniformed officers testifying before the Senate Appropriations Committee. To Benton's left, was a Navy admiral. To Benton's right, an Air Force general. Behind these three men, in rows of seats fanning back, additional military men and women were mustered. It was time to slice up the budget pie and each service had marshalled forces for the fight.
Montgomery raised a finger for emphasis. "History, General. American history. It has been the rare occasion when foreign adventures have benefited our country. It's time to bring our young men and women home." The cameras were rolling and Senator Montgomery intended to make the most of it.
Ulysses Benton leaned forward. His stare was not friendly. "It wasn't the military that sent our servicemen and women overseas, Senator." No pansy-ass civilian was going to lecture him.
"Carrier groups," Montgomery declared, ignoring Benton. "That's the future. Mobile platforms that can bring the fight to any theater, that keep our servicemen and women out of harm's way, that don't necessitate a nod from local despots before we can land a plane or deploy troops."
Admiral George Carrington, seated to Benton's left, former Navy SEAL and Commander of the Fleet, looked pleased. More carrier groups meant more money for the Navy. "The USS Cole, Senator," Benton responded. "The USS Stark. Ships are vulnerable."
"Apparently, less so than you imply, General, if you're compelled to reach back thirty years for an example. Our navy has the most advanced defense systems imaginable. Our ships are no more vulnerable than your troops, once they're deployed."
"What worries me, Senator, is not the vulnerability of my troops," Benton confided. "What worries me is the vulnerability of our neighborhoods and schools. Our homeland, Senator. That's the target I'm concerned about. We have to get out in front of the enemy." Benton paused and looked meaningfully at Montgomery. "We don't want to get caught with our pants down."
Montgomery's face soured. He had been caught with his pants down, by some swine of a tabloid photographer. That had been a close election.
"A nuclear North Korea, senators," Benton went on, addressing all the people on the dais. "In a few short years, a nuclear Iran. These are countries that supply weapons to terrorists, that already have sophisticated missile capabilities, that are led by people unconcerned with the consequences of rash actions. We cannot currently defend our coasts against a short-range nuclear missile attack."
The senators on the dais assumed a properly serious mien. Film footage often became campaign footage, either for or against.
"We don't want to find ourselves wishing we had acted when we had the chance," Benton continued. "Thousands of ships approach our shores every year. Dozens of ships enter Baltimore harbor every day. If one of those ships were carrying a nuclear missile, Washington would be uninhabitable for generations."
The General had grabbed the senators's attention. The senators worked in Washington.
Admiral George Carrington looked uneasy.
"A missile-defense system, senators. That's what our country needs. That's what the American people want. We have the technology. All that's lacking is the political will to put that technology to work." The General spoke confidently, but in reality, a viable missile-defense system was years, maybe even decades, off. And it wasn't at all certain the American people wanted another trillion-dollar defense system, not if they had to pay.
The senators looked contemplative (for the cameras). It was budget season, and every petitioner arrived with a bogeyman in the hope of scaring up a little green for their department or service. Sometimes, it even worked.
With the right pitch, a missile-defense system might be able to be sold, especially if it was packaged as a jobs bill. Jobs meant votes. And votes meant reelection. There was no other consideration on the Hill.
Admiral George Carrington felt the wind change. A missile-defense system would take funds from the Navy and every other branch of the military, except the Army. It would take funds from social programs, not that Carrington cared about that.
Carrington glanced at Benton. Carrington knew the man, a champion strategist. If Benton was suddenly pushing for a missile-defense system, it seemed likely the man knew of a threat that would convincingly demonstrate the need for such a system. Discovering the nature of that threat, and neutralizing it, would have to become a priority.
SHELL GAME
DAY ONE
The shock of the first explosion was felt seven miles away, but oddly, because of the geology of the underlying rock, there was almost no sense of disaster at the plant itself, until the containment walls were lost and the secondary explosions began. Then a series of deep concussive booms, like nearby lightning strikes, rocked the walls of the buildings and lifted the ground.
Steve Merrill and David Cook, sitting in a security hut beside the front gate, looked up from their video monitors. Plumes of red and green flames were shooting out of the disassembly bunkers, a little over five-hundred yards away. And raining down amid the flames, a black and poisonous hail, was the gravel and rock that was supposed to have saved the day. A chunk of rock hit the tin roof of the security hut. Merrill and Cook jumped.
"Holy shit!" Steve Merrill said.
"What the hell?" David Cook wondered. David Cook couldn't take his eyes off the flames. "That's not supposed to happen."
"No kidding," Steve Merrill replied. Steve picked up the phone and hit the emergency button.
A second later, someone at company headquarters answered. "This is Merrill, at Race Brook. The bunkers just blew and we've got flames shooting up."
There was a pause, then the person on the other end of the line explained how that couldn't happen.
Steve Merrill rolled his eyes. "Well, it did." Steve slammed down the phone. "The next thing you know, he'll want to come down and see for himself."
The two on-plant fire engines raced up to the bunkers and stopped. Men in contamination suits jumped off the trucks and started pulling hoses.
Steve Merrill rechecked the monitors: the woods surrounding the plant were quiet; the alley between the razor-wire fences was clear; and, except for the seismic sensors, no alarms had been triggered. Enemy helicopters were not landing. The perimeter had not been breached. The plant, and the nuclear weapons within, was secure. It was only an accident.
Steve Merrill's eyes were drawn back to the flames. Black smoke was rising out of the bunkers now, a greasy pall. Steve was glad to see that smoke wasn't drifting his way. It was headed toward the east, toward Worcester and Boston. Steve didn't need to wonder what was in that smoke that wasn't supposed to be there. The warheads they were taking apart in the bunkers were in that smoke.
Steve turned toward David Cook. "There'll be fire trucks and ambulances coming from off-site. They go right through. But on the way out, the usual procedures. For everyone."
Every vehicle that left the Race Brook plant was searched. And, randomly, scans were done. The Department of Energy didn't want any of Race Brook's employees taking home souvenirs.
Another explosion rocked the site, and more flames shot up. Radiation monitors began to chirrup, like so many crickets.
"Oh sweet Jesus," Steve Merrill moaned, looking down at the dials. The needles on three of the monitors were climbing steadily.
Instinctively, Steve checked the wind again. It was still out of the west, a gentle September-afternoon breeze.
Steve turned back to the monitors. They were clicking like pinwheels - six of them, now.
Steve picked up the phone and hit the emergency button again. This time, it was almost a minute before someone on the other end answered. "This is Merrill, at Race Brook. We've got radiation reaching the eastern perimeter."
There was a long pause, then the man on the other end said he would pass the information along.
Steve set down the phone. When he looked up, he saw a sight that made the hairs on his neck rise. Cars were headed toward them. A lot of cars. And those cars were moving fast: the guy out front looked to be doing eighty. Those people weren't on their way to the assembly area. Those people were going to crash the gate.
The approaching cars had formed a wedge, like a flock of geese. When those cars hit the gate, over-sized tire busters would rip the wheels right off the axles. It would take all afternoon to clear the wreckage.
In the distance, from off-plant, a siren sounded.
Steve hesitated another moment, then made his decision. "Open the gate."
"That's not the protocol!" David Cook protested.
"If those people crash the gate, how's help supposed to get through?"
David Cook stared. He didn't have an answer.
The wedge of cars raced closer.
"Open the fucking gate!" Steve ordered.
David Cook slammed down on a button. The tire busters dropped, and the gate rolled smoothly back.
Steve Merrill picked up a pad. "We're going to write down the license plate number of every car that goes through. I'll get the first car, you get the second. Every other car."
Thirty-four cars passed the gate. The seventeenth car was driven by a man named Edward Thayer, and Ed had the core of a nuclear bomb in his trunk.
*
The beep beep beep blended perfectly with the squeak squeak squeak, and at first only seemed a more energetic response from the box spring, itself responding to the more energetic exertions above. But then the rhythm above changed, and the beeping stayed the same.
"What the hell?" Margaret demanded, opening her eyes.
Detective Vincent Razzano tried to catch hold of his pants, but his pants were on the floor and out of reach. Margaret shoved him off the bed.
"Doesn't that thing have an off switch?"
Vincent found the pager and silenced it. The pager had two modes: beeping, and vibration. It didn't have an off switch. Vincent wasn't supposed to be out of touch.
He picked up his cell phone and called in. As usual, it took a good long minute for someone at State Police headquarters to answer.
"Razzano, here," Vincent said to the irritated voice that finally picked up. "Six two eight nine." Vincent glanced at Margaret. She wasn't smiling. But neither was she reaching for her clothes. Vincent thought her legs, from her ankles to the top of her thighs, must have measured a yard.
Finally, the man who wanted him came on the line, Captain Bryce Halligan. "Why the hell aren't you in your car, Razzano? You're supposed to be on stakeout."
Vincent was supposed to be overseeing the surveillance of a chop shop on the outskirts of Worcester, where it was suspected stolen cars were being disassembled. But after two days picking their noses, it was obvious to everyone on the stakeout the chop shop had been abandoned. "McGrath is covering it. I had to hit the can."
"You're on the can every time I call. You need to change what you're eating."
Vincent glanced at Margaret and smiled. "I had a meeting with a snitch. A guy's gotta stay on top of things."
Margaret glared at him.
"The can is where you meet your snitches?" Halligan wanted to know. "You picking up some change on the side?"
Halligan met with his snitches at headquarters.
"You on the can now, Razzano?"
"That's right."
"Well finish up, and get your ass over to Race Brook. They've had some fireworks, and you're going to lock things down until the feds show up."
Fireworks at a nuclear weapons disassembly plant. That didn't sound good. "What kind of fireworks?" Vincent asked.
Halligan chuckled. "The kind that leave a guy glowing in the dark."
"I need a special suit or anything?"
"Nah, just your regular crumby clothes'll be fine. And Vincent, don't let the feds shut you out on this one. I want to be kept informed." Halligan had people all over the state keeping him informed. Halligan intended to be Superintendent one day.
Vincent dropped his phone on his pants.
A civil-disaster emergency. Probably there were casualties. He would have to file a report.
Margaret was scowling at him.
Vincent had met her on the street. She was jogging. He was looking for witnesses to a burglary and homicide. As she came abreast of him, Vincent flagged her down. He'd wanted to know whether she had been on the street the previous afternoon. She hadn't. Vincent had had his notebook out, but didn't ask her name, address, or anything personal, only a couple of innocent questions. She was tall, with green eyes and blond hair to her waist. When he was finished with his questions, he put the notebook away and took a step back (he'd taken psychology courses). Then, in an interested but offhand sort of way, he'd asked if she wanted to go dancing. He had on his most relaxed face. It was summer and his tanned arms spoke for themselves. The muscles that wrapped his forearms were as large as bridge cables.
That was five weeks ago. Now, he dropped by on Tuesdays and Fridays for forty minutes of R&R. And once a week, they had dinner together.
"You're going to take off," Margaret said, "aren't you?" She was a photographer. She did weddings.
Vincent sat down on the bed. "Yeah, eventually."
He slid his hand under one of her ankles, lifted her leg, and started to rub his chin along her calf. Running had made the muscle large and smooth. Margaret hooked her other leg around his neck and pulled him closer.
While Vincent was AWOL with Margaret, four-hundred miles away, on the fourth floor of the Pentagon, Admiral George Carrington was staring out the window. Carrington had a phone to his ear. "Send Terry in here!"
A missile-defense system would suck funds out of the Defense budget for decades. The Navy would be fighting its wars from rowboats.
There was a knock on the door and Commander Paul Terry walked in. Terry was thirty-four and, like Carrington, a former SEAL. Terry was Carrington's aide. Terry stopped a few feet from the desk.
Carrington swiveled to face him. "Congress has never been interested in appropriating money for a missile-defense system."
Terry caught the drift. "Benton was planting a seed."
"That bastard has something in the works."
The game hadn't even started, and they were already playing catch-up.
"It would have to be a missile threat," Terry decided, "if he's looking for anti-missile funding."
They had their work cut out for them.
"Are you still friends with his secretary?" Carrington wondered.
Terry smiled. "Benton should have never made a pass at her."
"I want to know who's been in his office, and what meetings he's attended. Go back a year."
Terry understood.
"We'll need his email and cellphone records, too," Carrington decided.
"I know someone at the NSA," Terry said. With close to one hundred thousand employees at the NSA, everyone did. It was only a question of having something that person wanted.
*
Edward Thayer gunned his Buick Skylark past the bar and into the parking lot, just on the far side of a blue utility van. The van was down at the end of the lot, facing out, right where it was supposed to be. Two men were in the van: Louis Grabois and Sean Doyle. Grabois was in the passenger seat, and Ed knew him, though Ed knew him as Pete.
Ed glanced at Grabois, then got out of his car and walked back to the bar. When he came out, Pete and the van would be gone, as would the nuclear core in his trunk, and he would be one million dollars richer.
Ed pulled open the door to The Wet One and stepped inside. Two other guys from Race Brook were there. Ed let out a laugh when he saw them. "Jesus, Charley, I didn't think anyone could have driven here faster than me."
"I'm on my second," Charley admitted, raising his glass of whiskey. "Then there's going to be a third, then a fourth. Bill, here" - Charley nodded at the bartender - "is going to send me home in a cab." Charley drained his glass.
Ed stepped up to the bar. "Lemme have one of those, Bill."
Bill started pouring.
"You hear what happened?" Ed asked.
Bill nodded.
"Goddamn."
"Close call, huh, Ed?" Bill offered.
"Doesn't get much closer," Ed allowed.
"That's what Charley said."
Two more men from the plant stepped through the door to the bar. The Wet One was on the way home for just about everyone. Edward Thayer drank down his whiskey.
The shit was really going to hit the fan, Ed thought. The Department of Energy might even close the plant, because of the bad PR they were sure to get. As soon as people found out. Any minute now.
Ed glanced at the TV - some stupid talk show with fat ladies.
The DoE would have to shut the plant, Ed decided. People would insist. That would be a gift, because then he wouldn't have to quit and call attention to himself. He might even be able to collect unemployment. Finally, the system would work for him.
Ed grinned an idiot's grin, and signaled for Bill to pour him another.
It had gone just like he and Pete planned, smooth as a bowling ball on a newly-oiled alley.
Six months before, as Ed was carrying his clothes out of the Laundromat, a man approached him on the street, a man who said his name was Pete. Ed had known immediately Pete was some sort of military. Violence, and a sort of enforced restraint, came off Pete like an odor. It occurred to Ed that Pete had chosen when to approach him, that Pete knew his routine. Pete had been watching him, and Ed hadn't realized it. Pete offered him a million dollars. One million dollars, in cash, in advance.
"In advance of what?" Ed had wanted to know. Ed remembered the day exactly, a chilly day, even when the sun peeked out from behind the clouds.
"And ten thousand dollars," Pete continued, "right now, this very minute, if you'll only give some thought to a certain matter."
"What matter?" Ed asked. It was the first time in his life someone had approached him about a job.
"But you have to be willing to take some risks," Pete admitted. "Get your hands a little dirty." Pete's eyes had locked on his. "Could you do that, Ed? For a million bucks?"
Ed set his laundry in his car, then turned toward Pete. "What exactly are we talking about?"
"I want you to steal me enough plutonium to make a bomb," Pete said.
Ed nodded. Then he shook his head. Then he nodded some more. The man in front of him was a terrorist. And now Ed could ID him. Pete would have to kill him. Ed had to clear the phlegm from his throat before he could speak. "That's against the law. And dangerous."
"It certainly is," Pete agreed.
"What do you want it for?"
"I'm going to sell it," Pete said.
A business transaction. Ed would get paid, then Pete would get paid.
"There's a lot of security at the plant," Ed said.
"Less than you'd imagine," Pete replied.
"Those guys'll shoot me."
"Don't get caught." Pete made it sound like shoplifting.
"The plutonium won't explode by itself."
"I know that, Ed. How could you steal it, otherwise?"
Did Pete already have the electronics?
"They log in the nuclear material," Ed said. "Every scrap. They have a computer that keeps track. If I stole stuff, they'd know."
"A million dollars," Pete said again.
A million dollars might have been the top of Mount Everest. It was something Ed knew he would never see, not unless the bank put on a display. He'd be broke when he retired. Thirty years hoping he didn't get laid off, then clipping coupons until he died, just like his mom and dad. His dad didn't even make it to retirement, a quiet man, who'd gotten quieter and shorter as he got older, as if, an inch at a time, his father had been sinking into the grave.
Ed realized this wasn't the first time Pete had offered someone a large sum of money. Which meant Pete must be generally successful at what he did.
Ed was both surprised and resigned when he heard himself say, "Okay."
Pete nodded. "We do this, Ed, you gotta act normal, the whole time. Nothing changes about you. You don't start smiling, if you don't usually smile. You don't become an optimist. You don't start talking about what you're going to do if you win the lottery. Otherwise, people'll get suspicious. You understand?"
"That's a lot to remember."
"You're a smart guy. You gotta keep it inside."
Ed thought about that. He kept it inside anyway. "Okay. I can do that."
"You got a girl?" Pete asked.
"No one serious."
"You don't tell her about this. That's not how you impress a girl. Later, once this is over, you get yourself a new girl, someone who only knows you as rich. Girls talk. All girls talk."
"Right."
Pete handed him an envelope with one hundred one-hundred dollar bills. "Nose around. Look for routines: who does what every day, or once a week; what's the pattern of deliveries. If you know where someone's going to be, you can make a plan around it. Maybe a guy's not quite doing his job. After a week, or a month, or a year, nothing happens, people get sloppy. They figure nothing will ever happen. Then, when something does, it catches them by surprise. That's usually all you need." And bit by bit, he and Pete had put together a plan.
The guys in bunker two were cheating. They were smokers, and twice a day they snuck off to the bathroom to light up, which was against the rules because there was no smoking in the bathrooms, and because Scott and Brian went to the bathroom alone, and no one was supposed to wander the plant alone. DoE Rule Number One: the buddy system. First Scott, then Brian. Scott took eight-and-a-half minutes in the morning, and nine-and-a-half minutes in the afternoon. Brian took nine minutes and forty seconds each time.
"That's your play," Pete agreed. "Wait till one guy's gone, trot on down to the bunker, whack the guy who stayed behind, whack the other guy when he gets back, and grab the stuff."
Pete made it sound simple.
"And then what?" Ed had wanted to know. "How am I supposed to get a plutonium core off the grounds, or even out of the building?"
Pete opened his arms, as if the answer was there for anyone to see. "You need a diversion, Ed. Something that'll direct attention away from you. You're in a bunker filled with high explosives. If those explosives go, people are going to panic. They'll run. You just follow along."
"They'll know I did it."
"How will they know?"
"There are cameras in the bunkers. They're hooked up to recorders."
"So fix it so the recorder doesn't work."
Ed stared. Pete had all the answers.
They were in a bar and Ed was suddenly looking like a dog that had messed the floor. "What's up, Ed? You're looking kind of restless."
"Plutonium is pretty hot stuff."
"Radiation?"
"Yeah."
"You guys wear special suits?"
"No, why?"
"For the radiation."
"It's only a problem when you get down to the nut. They do that in a glove box."
"What about before that?"
"The physics package acts as shielding. The uranium, and the high explosives."
Pete picked up his beer. "So steal the physics package, if you're worried about getting fried."
The whole physics package. It wasn't something Ed had thought about, because Pete had only asked about the plutonium. "Those things weigh a ton," Ed said. "Literally?" Pete wanted to know.
"No, but they're heavy."
"How heavy, Ed? A hundred pounds? Five hundred pounds? Could you pick one up and walk with it?"
He'd have to carry it up two flights of stairs, and out to the parking lot. "I might be able to walk with one." A case would help - his gym bag. He was always walking around with his gym bag. "There's still getting it off the grounds."
Pete smiled. "Think about it, Ed. You're working in a plant that takes apart atom bombs. There's an explosion. A big explosion, what with all the high explosives in that bunker. What's the first thing you're gonna do?"
Ed shrugged. "Report the accident?"
Pete shook his head. "You're gonna run, Ed. Everyone's gonna run."
"That's not the protocol."
"Time like that, Ed, people aren't thinking about the protocol. They're thinking about saving their ass. Half the people on that plant are gonna make a break for it." If he hung back, Ed thought, the building would be empty when he left. No one would notice him lugging the nuke.
"You want to do this fast, Ed. You want to blow the bunker and scoot. Guy sits around thinking about things, that's when stuff goes wrong."
It would take him a minute to get down to the bunker. A couple of seconds to club the guy there. Another minute to grab the physics package and get it into his gym bag. And two minutes to haul the thing back to his cubicle. If the explosives went right away, he wouldn't have to kill both guys.
"I don't need to kill them both. I can be in and out before the second guy gets back."
He would kill Brian. Brian was always giving him a bad time, and not in any kind of friendly way. Brian had more than once called him a fag because he worked out at the gym with the security guys, and because he wasn't married. Brian would be the one who died.
"It's your call, Ed," Pete said. "Just let me know how much time you need to get clear of the explosion."
Ed figured three minutes, once he had the nuke in the gym bag.
*
Ed gave Scott forty-five seconds to get to the john, then he raced down to the bunker tunnel. No one was in the passage. No one ever was, except at lunch, and quitting time, and when the nukes were being moved around. That happened once or twice a day. He'd had to wait a month until the timing was right.
The door to the number two airlock was open, held by a wedge. Ed knew Scott left the door wedged, because Scott once told him about it over a beer. Scott didn't want the computer snitching on him each time he grabbed a smoke.
Ed trotted down the incline to the bunker and reached for the door. It was locked. Ed stared at it: a five foot wide steel door that looked like it could stop King Kong. Ed hadn't realized the bunker door needed a key. Scott had never mentioned that. Ed had planned on surprising Brian. Now, he would have to wait for Scott to come back. He would have to kill Scott, too.
Ed glanced at the steel pipe in his hand. He didn't want to kill Scott. He liked Scott. He would have to think of a new plan. He would have to give back the million dollars. Pete would probably kill him.
Ed whacked the door with his fist. Then whacked the door again. Maybe Brian would answer. Maybe Brian would think Scott had lost his key.
Ed checked his watch. He was running out of time. Scott would catch him on the way out.
Ed whacked the door again, and the door slid open an inch. Ed drove forward with his shoulder, knocking Brian back a foot. Then Ed swung the pipe. Brian's mouth fell open. The pipe broke Brian's jaw.
Brian dropped to his knees. Ed hit him twice more.
The physics package fit perfectly in the gym bag. And the lid wasn't even on one barrel of explosives. Ed squeezed the cellophane-wrapped detonator Pete had given him and set it in the barrel. Then he grabbed the gym bag and ran. The adrenalin was pumping so hard Ed didn't even feel the weight.
And now he was a millionaire.
"You'll want to put that someplace safe," Pete had told him, handing over a large attache case.
The case was heavy. It had heft. A million bucks. A million bucks! He was a man with money now. No more getting pushed around.
"A safe-deposit box," Pete suggested. "But not in your own name. This job goes down, the feds'll be all over everyone who ever walked through that plant. It won't take them a minute to find your box." Pete handed Ed a driver's license with a different name. Ed's picture was on the license.
"How the hell did you get this?" Ed asked, amazed.
"And don't be a schmuck, and run out and buy a brand new Caddy. What do you think the first question on everyone's mind's gonna be?"
Ed nodded.
"Don't buy anything you wouldn't ordinarily buy, or do anything you wouldn't ordinarily do. Just lead your regular life."
"My regular life is what I'm trying to get rid of. What the hell good is a million bucks if I can't spend it?"
"You can't spend it now," Pete explained, "or even next week. But maybe in a month, or a year, you'd like to move. Someplace no one knows you, where your spending habits aren't established."
Ed smiled. "Like Tahiti."
Pete laughed. It had the quality of river ice breaking up. "Maybe you'll get lucky and some of your buddies will quit. Then you can quit too. Wait a month. Look for a job but don't find one. Then move out west somewhere. Get yourself hired, something unspectacular. Kill a year. Then move again and start spending."
Ed nodded. That was how he would do it. Except when he moved again it would be to a third-world country. With a million bucks, he'd be able to live like a king almost anywhere. There'd probably even be an expatriate community. He'd fit right in.
"And if you're thinking," Pete went on, "now you got the mil, you can skip any time you want, it's time to stop thinking. You cheat me, as long as it takes, I will find you."
Ed hadn't been thinking along those lines at all, though it seemed likely he could avoid Pete more easily than the combined police forces of the federal government. Of course, the government wouldn't kill him outright if he got caught.
"In fact," Pete said, "a very healthy way for you to think about this million dollars is it isn't yours until you do the job. That way, something unforeseen happens, like you get the willies, you can always give it back and no hard feelings."
Ed understood perfectly.
But he hadn't gotten the willies; and nothing had gone wrong. That certainly called for a celebration.
"Lemme have another one, Bill," Ed said, holding up his glass. "I was sitting right on top of that goddamn thing when it blew." In a year, he would be drinking coconut rum floats, or some other exotic concoction, on a quiet island in the middle of nowhere. Maybe he would do that for the rest of his life.
Bill filled Ed's glass with whiskey. "You were right there, huh, Ed?"
"Thought it was an earthquake for a second. You ever been in an earthquake, Bill?"
Bill poured himself half a glass of scotch. "I was in Frisco once. They had a small one while I was there."
"Weird, huh?"
"The earth moving, that's not something you expect, growing up around here."
"Well, that's what it was like. Whole building jumped. Practically knocked me out of my chair."
"What'd you see on the monitor?" Charley piped in.
"Nothing," Ed replied. "The power went with the first heave."
"It all looked normal, huh?"
"Near as I could tell. Course, I'm not looking at the monitors the whole time. My eyes'd bug out."
In fact, Ed's eyes had been glued to the monitors. It had seemed an eternity before the explosives went.
A year earlier, this whole plan would have been impossible, because a year ago Ed had a partner on the monitors. But then the boys upstairs decided the buddy system only applied to those people actually handling the nuclear materials. After that, Ed and a dozen other people at the plant were working solo.
Ed glanced around the bar. Two more guys from Race Brook had wandered in. Except for some biker, and Keith Wolfe, a local drunk, they were the only ones in the place. Ed lifted his glass for a refill. By now, the van would be gone, and all evidence he had done anything wrong.
Bill topped off Ed's glass.
"Who's the biker?" Ed asked.
Bill shrugged. "Never seen him before."
Edward Thayer lifted his glass of whiskey and took a sip. He was thirty-two years old. He didn't have kids. He didn't have a wife. He didn't have an ex-wife. And now he was ready to retire. Plenty of guys had done worse.
Commander Terry was thinking the same thing. He had a date that evening with Evelyn Hartswood, Ulysses Benton's secretary. The two of them were going to demolish a two- and-a-half-pound T-bone steak, and probably a bottle or two of red wine. Evelyn was twenty-six years old, a triathlete, and liked late nights. Terry knew exactly how they would be spending those after-dinner hours.
*
There were two state police cruisers, and two troopers in uniform, blocking the entrance to the Race Brook plant when Vincent Razzano pulled up. Vincent stopped his car behind them and got out. Vincent knew both troopers, and they knew him. "Got it all zipped up?" Vincent asked the sergeant.
"Captain doesn't want anyone going in or out," the sergeant confirmed, "only emergency personnel. Wants to leave it to the feds, let them do the paperwork." Beyond the patrol cars, the Race Brook plant stretched for over a mile. The site used to be forested, just another stretch of Massachusetts's forgotten midlands. Now the grounds surrounding the buildings were as bare as a garden in March. What wasn't paved was plowed.
"You talk to anyone inside?" Vincent asked.
"Just the guys at the gate," the sergeant said, "to tell them what was up."
Vincent could see two men through the windows of the security hut. The windows were so clean they seemed invisible. "So what'd they say?"
"They said fine."
"About what happened."
"They're not sure what happened," the sergeant said. "The bunkers blew."
"Where they keep the bombs?"
"Where they take apart the bombs."
Off to one side of the plant, the red lights of fire engines announced the disaster. Vincent didn't see anyone running, which meant the disaster was about over. A good time to show up, when the adrenalin was wearing off. People would be chatty.
The fire engines were clustered around a single building, like circled wagons. The other buildings looked deserted. "Anybody hurt?" Vincent asked.
"Guard thought there would have been people inside the bunkers when they blew," the sergeant said. "Guy didn't think those people would have made it out."
Vincent took another look at the bunkers. He would have to file a report, maybe even conduct an investigation. A waste of time, since the feds would be doing the same thing. He could hang back, let the feds do the work. He could hand his captain the fed report. That would be good enough.
"They had some radiation leakage," the sergeant said. "The wind carried it past the fence on the east."
The Governor lived to the east. The Governor had pushed for this plant. "You call it in?" Vincent asked.
"Guard's got a link to the Emergency Management Agency. He called it in."
"You check to make sure he placed that call?"
The sergeant smirked. The sergeant was ten years older than Vincent, and didn't think much of troopers who went to work in cargo pants and a Bruins T-shirt. "Not all of us are paranoid, Razzano. Guy says he did it, I believe him."
A bird flitted to the ground at their feet, a sparrow. It pecked once at the asphalt, considered Vincent's sneakers and the sergeant's shoes, then took off for the trees thirty yards away. Into the breeze. If Vincent stayed where he was, he wouldn't have to worry about the radiation that was on its way to the Governor's house.
Vincent walked up to the hut. Steve Merrill opened the door.
"You got radiation monitors in there?" Vincent asked.
Steve Merrill nodded.
"Getting any readings off them?"
"They've been quiet for a while," Steve said.
Vincent took another look at the plant. He'd never been inside. There'd been a lot of hollering when this project was proposed. But in the end, the plant was built anyway. Politics, and money, pushed it through. Politics was like sex: once things got humming, the responsible course was the last thing on people's minds.
"So you don't think the people in those bunkers made it out," Vincent said.
Steve Merrill shook his head. "There wouldn't have been time."
"How many people are we talking about?"
"Probably eight."
Vincent would have to do some poking around, if only for form. "You got a boss in there?"
"Roy Compton," Steve Merrill said.
"Why don't you roll back that gate."
Vincent found Roy Compton standing outside the bunker complex. Compton was his size exactly: six feet tall and thick with muscle. Vincent showed the man his ID. "Things quieting down?"
Roy nodded toward the bunkers. "Just cooling off the rocks."
"They burn long?" Vincent asked. The bunkers looked like volcanoes that had exploded. Gravel and dust were everywhere.
"Four-and-a-half minutes," Roy said. "There's not that much inside that can burn."
"Off-site contamination?"
"Oh yeah."
Roy wasn't wearing a contamination suit.
"What about here?" Vincent asked.
"We oughta be okay," Roy said.
Vincent didn't look convinced.
Roy nodded at the firemen. "The foam forms a barrier, stops the air from moving around, locks in the radiation."
"What about the grounds?"
"The east side of the plant'll need some cleaning up."
Vincent looked toward the east. Only a single building stood between the bunkers and the perimeter wire. "I thought these things weren't supposed to leak." The question everyone would want an answer to, Roy decided. Was Detective Razzano looking for someone to blame? That's what cops did. A lot of people might think he was partly responsible for this disaster. Roy took a step nearer to Vincent.
"They've got engineers who design these things," Roy said. "Got it all figured out: how high to make the roof, the size of the room, how much rock you need up above, the kind of rock. They build in a margin of safety. One of these things goes, and people get fried, it makes everyone look bad."
People were going to start pointing fingers, Vincent thought, and Roy Compton didn't want to be who they had their eye on. "So what went wrong?"
"Last March," Roy said, "after the plant passed its second safety inspection with flying colors, the boys upstairs started crunching numbers, trying to figure, now that the operation was up and running smooth, how they could make an extra few bucks. It's labor that kills you, so they cut the work force. But that meant skipping a few things, like moving the high explosives out of the bunkers every day. They still had to move out the nukes. You can't get the next weapon until the disassembled components are logged back in. But the high explosives, that's background."
"You're saying these explosives were stored in the bunkers?" Vincent asked.
"All summer. The number crunchers decided the high explosives could help heat the plant. Had a special furnace designed. Got an extra federal credit for being green: an ecologically friendly company, cutting down on our use of fossil fuels. But the guys who designed these domes didn't plan on piles of high explosives."
"How much of this stuff are we talking about?" Vincent asked.
"There are eleven drums sitting in number five."
Vincent stared. That was an almost inconceivable quantity of high explosives. He was surprised the entire plant hadn't been flattened. Somebody was going to lose his job over this, maybe even go to jail.
A black Crown Victoria pulled up behind them, and a wiry man in a brown suit hopped out of the passenger seat, Gene Mathison. Three other men, also in suits, climbed out of the car. The feds had arrived.
Mathison marched up to them. "Gene Mathison, FBI." Mathison held up an identification badge.
Vincent didn't even glance at it. He pulled out his own ID and held it out. Roy Compton did the same.
Mathison actually took the time to read them. He looked up. "The Federal Government will be taking over this investigation, as well as the management of this plant. Until that investigation is completed, you'll both be reporting to me." Mathison spent a moment surveying the bunkers. "Are they still leaking radiation?"
"The monitors haven't detected anything for a while," Roy said.
Mathison had the sour look of a losing coach: changes would have to be made. "Are you saying you haven't checked, Mr. Compton?"
Roy stared.
"Get someone up there with a scope," Mathison ordered.
Roy radioed in the order.
Gene Mathison did a slow, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree rotation, taking in the plant. Vincent could almost see the man making a mental list of everything that needed to be done.
"Detective, I want more troopers at the gate. Teams are going to be coming in from Washington and Boston. There will likely be media representation and protesters. I want order kept. I want these civilians to see that there's nothing to see. I want them to get bored and go home."
"I'll have to clear that with my captain," Vincent said.
But Gene Mathison had already done that.
Mathison turned toward the gate. "Has the wind been out of the west all afternoon, Mr. Compton?"
Roy nodded.
"So most likely the bulk of the plant's grounds are uncontaminated. But I want to know that. Put together a crew and test for radiation. Mark the contaminated areas and do what you have to, to keep the dust from spreading. Have you verified the security of the nuclear weapons?"
"First thing."
A disaster, but not an unmitigated disaster, Mathison thought. "Who was monitoring the video feeds when the bunkers blew?"
"A man named Edward Thayer."
"Is he on the grounds?"
"He ran."
"I want him back," Mathison ordered, "along with everyone else who ran." Mathison turned toward Vincent. "That can be your job, Detective."
*
While Vincent was headed off to round up Race Brook's delinquent employees, Edward Thayer and his co-workers were settling in to an afternoon's drinking at The Wet One. The television flashed: a news bulletin.
"That'll be us," Charley decided. "Someone musta finally called it in."
Bill turned up the volume.
"This is Kathleen Reynolds," the woman on the television screen announced, "with the Boston News Team and this late-breaking story. Just minutes ago, the nuclear weapons disassembly plant in Farnsdale experienced a detonation of materials and a partial collapse of several structures. According to eyewitnesses, the explosion sent a cloud of dust and smoke over the surrounding woodlands and communities. With us now, by video link, is Thomas A. Anderson, a spokesman for the Race Brook plant."
The camera cut to a man in a charcoal-gray suit.
"Mr. Anderson," Kathleen Reynolds said, "what can you tell us about the disaster today at Race Brook?"
Thomas Anderson smiled. "Well, Kathleen, I can tell you it certainly wasn't a disaster."
Charley laughed. "If that bag of wind had been in one of those bunkers, you can bet he'd be singin' a different tune."
Thomas Anderson looked straight at the camera. "This afternoon, at approximately 2:49, a minor explosion occurred at the Race Brook plant. The damage was limited to, and contained by, the disassembly bunkers."
Kathleen Reynolds still looked concerned. "A number of terrorist organizations have claimed credit for what happened today."
Thomas Anderson smiled. "Most of these groups would claim credit for an eclipse, Kathleen, if they thought they would be believed."
"So this was not a terrorist act," Kathleen said.
"I can't give you the specifics, Kathleen, but the Race Brook plant is better protected than Fort Knox. This was simply an accident. An act of God."
"Did an atom bomb explode?" a grim-faced Kathleen Reynolds asked.
Thomas Anderson looked horrified. "Good heavens, no. That could never happen. These devices have been disarmed; and they don't contain enough nuclear material to go critical by themselves."
"But nuclear materials were in those bunkers, when the explosion occurred," Kathleen Reynolds suggested.
For the first time, Thomas Anderson looked uncomfortable. "We're still investigating that."
"Was there a release of radiation?"
"To my knowledge," Thomas Anderson said, "there was no release of radiation into the environment."
"And if you believe that," Charley said, "I've got a bridge I'd like to sell ya. Those flames were shooting up a hundred feet." Charley turned toward Bill. "Gimme another one, Bill."
Bill started pouring.
"So there's no need for people in the surrounding communities to evacuate," Kathleen said.
"There is no danger whatsoever to the people living in the vicinity of the plant," Thomas Anderson stated. "As a safeguard, and to reassure the public, the Emergency Management Agency is sending in a team to take air and soil samples."
"When will that be completed?" Kathleen asked.
"We're hoping by the end of the day."
"And what about Race Brook?" Kathleen asked. "What does the future look like?"
"Naturally, we hope to be up and running again as soon as possible," Thomas Anderson said. "The exact timeline will depend on the extent of the damage, and the results of our investigation."
"The next one's on the Governor," Charley announced. "Looks like we'll be living on unemployment insurance for a while."
"Mr. Anderson, were people in those bunkers today, when the explosion occurred?"
Thomas Anderson looked uncomfortable. "I don't have that information, Kathleen."
Charley's face was grim. "I've got that information. I bet we've got eight dead."
Ed turned toward him. "What are you talking about, Charley?"
"Four bunkers blew," Charley said. "You do the math."
Ed stared. That wasn't possible. He'd only rigged the barrels in number two. "Four?"
"I was right outside," Charley said. "It happened fast, like a string of firecrackers going off. Number two went first. Then one, then three and four. Then people started flying out of that building like there was bees after them. That's when I took off."
Ed felt his bowels loosen. Eight dead - the guys he ate lunch with, guys who had bought him drinks. For a second, those men materialized behind Bill. Those men didn't look happy, like Ed had stuck them with the check.
"What'sa matter, Ed," Charley smirked, "the adrenalin wearing off? You're looking kind of green."
Ed tried to focus.
"Hey, Bill, Ed here needs another drink."
Bill topped off Ed's glass. "You okay, Ed?"
But Ed was already headed for the bathroom.
*
Vincent knocked on the screen door. Then he opened the screen door and knocked on the front door. Then he rang the bell again.
Nothing. Edward Thayer wasn't home.
Vincent backed up a few steps. Edward Thayer lived in a small, but neat house that stood among other small, neat houses on a quiet suburban street. There was no car in the driveway, and no car in the garage. So where the hell was Ed?
Louis Grabois knew. Ed was having a celebratory drink, America's newest millionaire.
It took Grabois six weeks to find Edward Thayer. A dull plodding time. First, Grabois put together a list of Race Brook employees. He managed that from license-plate numbers, grabbing the information as each employee passed the plant gate. With license numbers, he was able to get names and addresses.
Then Grabois started following people. Women with children he dismissed. The same with older married men. And people who seemed content with their lives. And those with substance-abuse problems - garbage cans and recycling bins provided the clues there. And of course, Grabois eliminated the members of the plant's security team. Photographs of the patrols, and drinking buddies, served to identify that group. Which left Grabois with five candidates. He paid to have background and credit checks done on those five people. And he watched them, for almost three weeks, to see how they spent their time and money. Then, Grabois picked Ed. Big, strong, sort of insecure, sort of bright Ed. There were very few people who couldn't be bought, but finding one with the nerve to steal, and maybe kill, was another matter, even for a million bucks. But Ed went for it, a little twitchy at first, what with his questions and worries; but in the end Ed bit, like a mouse who couldn't resist the cheese.
As soon as Edward Thayer stepped into the bar, Louis Grabois hopped out of the passenger seat of the van. At the same time, Sean Doyle pulled the vehicle forward, until the side door of the van was lined up with the Buick's trunk. Now a person walking in or out of the bar wouldn't be able to see what they were doing.
Grabois slipped a key into the Buick's trunk. It popped without a hitch. A large, lead box greeted him.
Grabois grabbed one of the crudely made handles, Sean Doyle grabbed the other, and together they hoisted the box out of the trunk and onto a piece of plywood in the back of the van. Handguns in shoulder holsters showed under each man's jacket.
A piece of plywood was in the Buick's trunk. Grabois grabbed it, closed the trunk, and hopped into the van. Doyle already had the van in gear. In a second, they were on the road.
A perfectly smooth transfer - seventeen seconds from start to finish; no witnesses. The operation was humming like a Rolls, and the finish line was coming into sight. Grabois lifted the lid of the lead box and peered inside. A gym bag sat there. He unzipped the bag and found a large, dark-gray soccer ball. When Grabois held a Geiger counter over the ball, a slow popping started, like a kid snapping gum. Grabois grinned. Edward Thayer had done it. Grabois was amazed, not because he lacked confidence in his ability to organize an operation, but because however hard one planned, however many contingencies one allowed for, there was always one more wrinkle, some twist or turn of the universal humor that reached up like a root to catch a guy's ankle.
Like the time a flock of birds took out the canopy and tail of the small plane he was flying. He'd had to walk out of Zaire. Or the time a caravan of hunters showed up at a weapons drop, thinking it was their resupply plane. He'd lost two men in the ensuing firefight, and never got paid for the weapons.
Grabois set the lid back on the box. Three million bucks was just about his. He laughed and slid into the passenger seat, pressing the fingers of his hands into one another to tighten the gloves he was wearing. "The turnoff's just ahead," he said.
Sean Doyle nodded. Sean was studying the woods, looking for the tree that would signal their turn. A moment later, they reached the tree and the dirt road they were making for. Sean swung onto it, an old logging road.
After fifty yards, the road bent left and worsened. A field opened to the right.
Sean stopped the van. If anyone saw them, that person would think they were hunters scouting the area for deer. The camo-patterned jackets they were wearing would lend credence to the story.
Sean killed the engine. "How long did the Fat Man say he would be?"
"An hour or less," Louis Grabois replied. Grabois climbed out of the van and lit a cigarette.
Sean glanced at his watch. Another fifty-eight minutes. The time would never pass. Waiting with the stuff, exposed, was the worst, the part of the operation he hated most. Sean climbed out of the van and lit a cigarette. He didn't know what was in the lead box in the back of the van, but he could guess. Not that many things needed to be wrapped in lead. It told him why he was getting eight grand for this job. Not too shabby a pay day, if they didn't get caught. And Grabois, as far as Sean knew, had never been caught.
Paul Terry was clever that way, too. Eight years of SEAL training, and another four in the Navy's bureaucracy, had taught him to plan ahead, and to watch his back. The secret to succeeding in covert missions was the same as the wilderness ethic: leave no trace.
Terry was standing at the bar of a tavern, his back to the wall and his eye on the crowd. Terry was waiting for Michael Resnick, an NSA civilian employee. Michael was a college friend and fraternity brother. The two men, as young men, had partnered in their share of pranks, and had more or less stayed in touch, doing each other the occasional favor. Terry's had involved killing a Rottweiler, and sending the neighborhood bully to the hospital with two broken legs. Now, it was Michael's turn.
*
Susan Sheehan was sitting on her front porch when Vincent pulled up. Vincent got out of the car, walked up the neatly tended brick walk, and stopped in front of her. Susan was rocking in an aluminum easy chair, staring at Vincent didn't know what.
"Mrs. Sheehan?"
Susan's jaw tightened slightly. Vincent noticed her hands were clasped in her lap, as if she'd been waiting.
"Don't get too many days like this, end of September," Susan said.
Vincent turned to see what she was staring at. But there was nothing across from her, only the street, another house, and a band of sky. A single leaf had turned orange on the maple by the road.
"It's usually rainy and cold. Least it seems that way, thinking about the time of year. Don't hardly pay attention usually. Busy running here, running there. Kids back at school, and all their activities, and working, too. Can't remember the last time I just sat and watched the sun making its way across the sky."
"I'm Detective Razzano," Vincent said. "With the State Police." He held up his ID. "They need you back at the plant, ma'am."
Susan shook her head. "They don't need me. I work in the cafeteria. I can't help them with what went wrong. They got questions, they can talk to me right here."
"I can't make that decision, ma'am."
Susan folded her arms across her chest. "Then find someone who can, because I'm not going back. I saw that smoke coming out of those pits. I know what they got down there. Now it's everywhere. I got kids to take care of."
"We're not going to that part of the plant, Mrs. Sheehan. We're going to the cafeteria. It's safe there."
Susan scoffed. "You think I believe that? I follow the news. You people in government lie as easily as kids smile."
Vincent was going to have to arrest her. He could see it in her eyes: the resentment, a lifetime of being told what to do. "Mrs. Sheehan, you can get in your car and I can escort you back to the plant, or I can bring you there in handcuffs."
Susan Sheehan thought about that for a moment, then lifted her hands.
Vincent sighed, and cuffed her and walked her to the car. When he set his hand on her head to make sure she didn't bump it on the roof, it occurred to him she might turn and bite him.
Edward Thayer was having a different thought. Ed was sitting on the john looking up at the biker in front of him. Ed had been in the process of throwing up the drinks he'd gulped down, when the biker came into the bathroom, quiet as a cat. The knife in Ed's kidney spun him around and sat him down. Ed remembered thinking the toilet, without the seat down, was pretty large. A guy could fall in.
The second knife thrust caught Ed under the ribs. Ed's mouth gaped. He couldn't catch his breath to scream, even though he wanted to.
The biker slashed Ed's pockets, and grabbed his wallet and cash. Then the man shoved Ed against the tank and closed the door to the stall.
The guys at the bar were still staring at the TV, when the biker came out. He walked unhurriedly to the door and pushed it open, stepped to the big Harley just outside, swung his leg over the seat, kick-started the beast to life, and roared out of the parking lot, scattering gravel against the side of Charley's car and wrecking the paint. Bill first noticed the man as he crossed in front of the window by the door: the shadows in the room changed. Bill looked toward the john. Ed had been in there a while. Had the biker been in there, too? Bill didn't know. He'd had his eye on the TV. Bill stepped around the bar, walked across the room and pulled open the door to the bathroom. "Ed?" Bill could see Ed's shoes under the door of the stall. "You okay, Ed?"
Ed's left foot was resting at a crazy angle. Bill eased open the door to the stall. The entire lower half of Ed's shirt was red. The blood was running into the toilet like out of a faucet. "Oh, shit!"
Bill hurried back to the bar, picked up the phone, and dialed 911.
"What's up, Bill?" Charley asked. "Where's Ed?"
"Just shut the hell up," Bill ordered. "Hello?" Bill shouted into the phone. "Hello? This is William Rice at The Wet One, in Farnsdale, on Shirkshire Road. One of my customers just got knifed by a biker, a big fat guy in black leather. He took off on a Harley not two seconds ago. The road to Brookfield."
"Are you talking about Ed?" Charley shouted.
Vincent heard the call on his radio: a homicide at The Wet One. He glanced in the rearview mirror.
"You see a motorcycle tool past, Susan, while you were sitting in your rocker?"
Susan glowered at him. "I ain't saying nothing without a lawyer."
Vincent stared. There was only so much guff he was willing to take. "Here's the way it's going to be, Susan. You either answer my questions, or I take you to jail. You broke the law, leaving that plant."
Susan's face hardened into a mask of hate, but Vincent could also see the fear that had crept into her eyes. "There's always motorcycles on that road," Susan said, "ever since they put down a new coat of asphalt."
"You drink at The Wet One?"
"Place is a dump."
"Do the guys from the plant drink there?"
"Sure," Susan said. "It's a regular stop."
Vincent picked up his radio and called headquarters. "This is Razzano. Put me through to whoever's covering that homicide at The Wet One."
It was a couple of minutes before Sergeant Raymond Wojcicki came on the line.
"Raymond? This is Vincent. You got a name on that corpse?"
"Edward Thayer," Wojcicki replied.
Gene Mathison wasn't going to be happy. Vincent stomped down on the gas. "Raymond, don't let anyone leave that bar." Vincent hit the siren.
Twenty-four minutes after Louis Grabois and Sean Doyle left the parking lot of The Wet One, they heard the roar of a motorcycle headed their way. Grabois opened the back doors of the van. He grabbed one side of a thick steel plate, Sean Doyle grabbed the other, and together they dragged it out, until it formed a ramp to the ground.
As they stepped to the side, the Fat Man came charging down the lane and, barely slowing, rode the bike up the ramp, ducking at the last second to miss the roof. For a big guy, he was surprisingly agile.
Sean Doyle grabbed one side of the steel plate, Louis Grabois caught hold of the other, and together they slid it into the van alongside the bike. The Fat Man was already securing the motorcycle to the hooks on the van's walls. Grabois helped him finish the job while Sean got them rolling. In a minute, they were back on the main road and up to speed. A few seconds later, a State Police car raced by in the opposite direction, its lights flashing. The trooper didn't even glance at them. The Fat Man stared grimly. "He'll never know how close he was."
"A roadblock would have had us," Sean Doyle conceded.
"A roadblock, and he and his buddies would have been dead," Louis Grabois pronounced, setting his hand over the pistol under his arm. Grabois handed the Fat Man a valise. The Fat Man opened it and took out the things inside, setting them in a neat pile beside the lead box. The Fat Man did not comment on the lead box; it might not have existed. He took off his jacket and shirt, and the body armor he had on, and, with a handful of scented wipes, began to wash off the tattoos on his arms. When that was done, he pulled off his mustache and wig, and shaved the stubble from his face with a battery-powered razor. A moistened washcloth removed the dirt from his face and hands. He rubbed deodorant under his arms, and slipped on the white shirt and sport jacket that had been in the valise. He clipped his fingernails and cleaned them, and changed his pants and shoes. Everything he had been wearing went into the valise. The Fat Man now looked like a successful accountant, which was another thing he knew how to do.
Sean was on Route 9 now, headed toward Worcester.
The Fat Man pulled on a pair of gloves and began to wipe down the motorcycle with a handkerchief. When he was finished with that, he wiped down the valise.
In Spencer, they got rid of the motorcycle, leaving it, with the key in the ignition, behind a convenience store. They had stolen it, now someone else would do the same. In Cherry Valley, they set the valise in a dumpster. A block later, they ditched the steel plate, and the piece of plywood from Edward Thayer's trunk. Grabois had picked the spots the day before.
The Fat Man began to vacuum the back of the van with a dust buster. The dust buster, the ropes they'd used to tie down the bike, and the electric razor went into a garbage can in Worcester.
Five minutes later, they were in front of the bus station. The Fat Man had a ticket. Sean Doyle did not. It was a little after four.
Grabois handed them each an envelope. The Fat Man's was a bit thicker. "I'll be in touch," Grabois said, as the Fat Man and Sean stepped out of the van.
The two men hoped he would. Working for Louis Grabois was a good way to pick up some cash.