The Bomb Maker

The men they had in the United States had to be sleeper agents. That was very wise. They were probably training for an attack. Maybe they would mount attacks in other cities at the same time as his, so everything happened at once. Maybe their people were out in the desert in Arizona, New Mexico, or Nevada firing weapons and perfecting battle tactics, concealment, and escapes. Maybe they were even training in explosives.

He hoped they weren’t. He had a proprietary feeling about explosives. He was their expert, and he didn’t want to be easily replaceable. He hoped they weren’t fanatical. When fanatical groups got involved, it was usually to perform suicide attacks. Fanatics gave him the creeps. They didn’t seem to think anything was a victory unless they got killed doing it. But this group seemed calm and polite.

After he crossed the border at the end of the bridge, the US customs officials glanced at him and waved him on. It was a beautiful day, and the bridges were packed with cars inching their way home from Canada. He drove to his hotel. During the drive he had been hoping that when he got a chance to really examine the money and the backpack, there would be something besides the currency. He had seen paper bands around each ten thousand dollars. Maybe there would be a bank’s mark on one or a notation from the counting that would give him an idea of his sponsors’ location or language. But the money was like the men. It told him nothing. He packed the money into a priority mail shipping box and mailed it to himself in California.

He drove to the Buffalo Niagara International Airport, turned in his rental car, and flew back to Los Angeles. The next morning he returned to his workshop and began to concentrate on his work again. As he made more Semtex he assessed his progress.

It had been over a year, and he was still at the same task, but he wasn’t unhappy. He was going to be paid ten million dollars for doing what he would have done for free. He was enjoying being a bomb maker. He had not obliterated the female bomb technician in her apartment, but he had essentially killed her. She wouldn’t be defusing any explosive devices again. The news reports had been vague about her injuries, but he knew she must have used up all her luck just to be alive. She must have broken bones, internal injuries—certainly no ability to hold a hand steady. No doubt she was held together by pins and screws.

Thinking about her distracted him, and he felt the urge to find out about her. He found a photograph of her in the newspaper, and then another, but they were both out of date now—taken before he had blown her up. She had been pretty. That would be over too, like her career.

He found some more articles, and read them. They were just rephrasing the same information. Then he found one that quoted Dr. Devi Majumdar, Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. “She’s in stable condition, doing as well as a person can do with such severe injuries.”

He repeated, “Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.”





21


The man who came into Diane’s hospital room the next morning was easy to spot as a police detective. He was short and broad shouldered but had a narrow waist. He wore a sport coat and a necktie, something few men did during Southern California summers, particularly when the sun was hot and the sky that deep cloudless blue.

This one opened his coat so she could see his captain’s badge, and said, “Hello, Sergeant Hines. I’m Captain Bart Almanzo, Homicide Special. I wondered if we could talk for a few minutes. I promised the nurse I wouldn’t tire you out.”

“Hi,” she said. “I’ve heard of you, of course. Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m in charge of the murder of the fourteen bomb technicians,” he said. “We’ve got a few issues that came up recently, and I thought it would be better to talk to you here instead of waiting. Do you think the person who put the bomb in your apartment is the same one who killed the fourteen at the house in Encino?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I imagine you’ve already talked with Captain Stahl about the technical stuff.”

“Captain Stahl was here last night, but we didn’t get into that too deeply. I was kept unconscious until a day or so ago, and I’m just sorting out impressions and memories. We’ll talk more about it later on, I’m sure.”

“Did he agree it was the same bomber?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why are you both sure?”

“In this city we have lots of scares and a small but steady supply of actual bombs. Most of the bombs we see are rudimentary—black powder in a pipe, or a few sticks of dynamite, or nitrate fertilizer mixed with motor oil. Sometimes there will be a grenade from some old war. I got a land mine once, and someone I know got a mortar shell. Now suddenly we have a few that are all complicated, well designed, insidious, and psychologically astute. The bomb in my apartment was one of those.”

“What sort of bomb did he use in your apartment?”

“He built an initiator that looked like a small version of the fuzes they put on bombs they drop from airplanes. It was cylindrical, and it had a little piece of metal like a propeller that spun around. In the real ones, when the bomb is locked onto the plane’s rack, there’s a length of stiff arming wire attached to the bomb rack that keeps the propeller from spinning around. When the bomb leaves the rack, the arming wire stays, and then the propeller on the fuze is free to turn. As it spins, it lines up a striker with the initiator. You can set the fuze to go off when it hits the ground, or just spins a set number of times. The wire keeps it from blowing up on or near the plane.

“He hid a small bomb inside the glass fixture for the ceiling light in my living room. He had a couple of ways to make the bomb go off. When I stepped inside and turned on the light, it didn’t go on, but there was no pop sound or flash. That didn’t seem right. So I used the flashlight attached to my Glock to scan the dark room for traps and triggers. When I was looking for the actual bomb it occurred to me there was one place I was sure not to look—in the burned-out light fixture. When I raised the flashlight to look, I saw a propeller spinning inside the glass dome. I’d started the initiator’s arming sequence when I turned on the light switch. By then all I could do was take cover.”

“Should we be contacting the manufacturers of military fuzes?”

“No. I’m positive he made this one. I’m not sure what turned the propeller. There might have been a small electric motor spinning it on a screw, or it might have been the spring mechanism of an old-fashioned metal windup toy. The spinner seemed to be the kind of thin, cheap metal that those toys had—usually tin.”

“How did you take cover?”

“I dashed to the next room—the dining room—dropped to the floor, and rolled under my antique wooden sideboard.”

“Is that what all the wood in the photographs came from?”

“I haven’t seen any pictures, but probably. The sideboard was made of maple planks over an inch thick. It’s so heavy that when I had it delivered, it took five men and two wheeled dollies to get it into the building. And I had it full of stuff.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“Things everybody has but seldom uses. I had a few metal trays—pewter, brass, stainless steel, some candlesticks, the good silverware in its carrying case, some pots and pans, and a waffle iron. And of course, all the good tablecloths and napkins and trivets and things you use once a year.”

“Do you think the sideboard is what saved you?”

“I don’t really know, but it couldn’t have hurt. I’d have to look at the blast pattern, see what’s embedded in the floor and walls and furniture, and maybe figure out what quantity of explosive would have fitted in the light fixture. You should probably ask Captain Stahl about that. I’m sure he will have looked, and his judgment is much better than mine.”

“I’ve heard he knows his explosives. Is he a pretty good boss?”

“We all have the greatest respect for him.”

“That reminds me. There’s another bit to clear up, and now is probably as good a time as any.”

She waited. He behaved as though he were approaching a small, wild creature that might get away if he moved too quickly.