The Enemy Within

“On the phone with the White House again, I think,” Koenig answered. He sounded disgusted. “Between the National Security Advisor, the press secretary, the head of the Secret Service, and half a dozen other lesser lights, I suspect Mike’s talked to half the god damned executive branch already.”

Thorn shook his head. As much as he wanted in on this investigation, he didn’t envy the FBI the task of trying to cope with the nation’s rattled political leaders. By targeting so many congressmen, opinion leaders, and important journalists, whoever had masterminded the press club bombing had struck squarely at the heart of the current political elite. From everything he’d seen on TV and read in the papers last night and this morning, both Congress and the administration were undeniably and understandably in a panicked uproar. They wanted concrete results, and they wanted them now.

He suspected that was part of the reason the FBI had summoned Flynn to Washington from the West Coast instead of handing the task force command to one of the Director’s immediate subordinates. Ever since he and his investigative team had cracked the Golden Gate Bridge massacre in less than forty-eight hours, Special Agent Michael Flynn had a media reputation as a miracle worker.

From what Helen had told him, Flynn’s reputation inside the Bureau was equally impressive but very different. He didn’t try walking on water to obtain results, he drained the whole pond. He was a detail man a man who paid attention to every piece of evidence, no matter how insignificant it seemed at first. As a rookie, Flynn was said to have solved his first big case a kidnap-murder by following up on what at first seemed only a typo on a bank deposit slip.

That was just as well, Thorn thought, carefully studying the bomb-shattered dining room. He doubted there would be any miracles this time. Everything he’d seen so far seemed professional to his practiced eye. The timing, the way the charges had been placed to maximize the damage and casualties. Everything. He said as much aloud.

Koenig shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe.” He nodded toward the red-helmeted explosives experts scouring the wreckage. “Our boys have already identified at least six separate devices. There may have been more.”

“All triggered simultaneously?”

“Or so damned close together it makes no real difference, Colonel,” Koenig said.

They were definitely up against a pro, then, Thorn decided. Bomb-making was a far more sophisticated and dangerous art than most people realized knowledge that several vaporised sixties radicals had acquired the hard way. Rigging a series of six charges to go off at the same time required either enormous luck or practiced skill. Right now he would put his money on skill.

“And the explosive used was plastique?” he asked.

Koenig nodded again. “We’re picking up residues all over the place. The lab work will take some time, but we’re pretty sure it was standard commercial-grade C4.”

At least that was good news. Explosives intended for peaceful civilian use included chemical tracers that would help law enforcement zero in on the manufacturer and even on the specific batch. Given enough time and a lot of legwork by its agents, the FBI should be able to track the plastique used here back to its source.

“What about those phone calls claiming responsibility? You think they were genuine?” he asked.

Koenig frowned. “They were genuine, all right. Both came in before the news of this massacre hit the wires. We’ve got partial audiotapes from the two newspapers, but I don’t know that they’ll lead us anywhere.”

“Oh?”

“Whoever made those calls used a lot of electronic filtering on his voice,” Koenig explained. “Plus, he was reading from a prepared script. We’ve got our sound techs trying to pick up what they can, but they tell me it’s like listening to a robot, not a man. Hell, the call could even have been computer-generated. ”

That was another indication that they were up against at least one professional, Thorn realised. He shook his head. No matter what the politicians wanted to hear, he suspected that finding those responsible for this butchery was not going to be fast or easy. “Does the Bureau have any data on this New Aryan Order? Anything that would make you believe they could mount a strike like this?” “Not much,” Koenig admitted. “We’ve got a handful of groups calling themselves that in our database one in Maryland, one in Idaho, two in the South, and a couple more in the upper Midwest.” He scowled. “We spent most of last night poring over the bias of the top wackos and their chief lieutenants, but I’ll be damned if we could see anyone with the guts or the brains needed for this stunt.”

The FBI man spread his hands. “Of course, this could be a whole new set of slimeballs calling themselves the New Aryan Order one we hadn’t picked up before. Hate groups don’t pay much attention to copyright laws.”