He went down the steps, holding his hands a few inches away from his sides so they wouldn’t think he had a gun or knife. The walk seemed long, and he felt self-conscious being watched.
When he reached the car, the back door swung open and a man got out. He was tall, with close-cropped dark hair and dark skin. He patted the bomb maker’s legs, belly, and back, then lifted the bomb maker’s arms and ran his hands up and down his sides. Finally he ran his index finger around the inner side of the waistband of his pants to check for anything hidden under his belt. Then he ushered the bomb maker into the backseat of the car, got in after him, and closed the door.
The tint of the car’s windows was so dark he had not been able to see its inhabitants from outside. These four were not the ones he had met in Canada. All but one looked younger, maybe in their mid-twenties. They were all in good physical condition with muscular arms, flat bellies, and buzz-cut hair. The only exception was a man in the front passenger seat whose head was shaved. He seemed older. They had a military look, and their expressions were set and unchanging, but the older one half-turned in the passenger seat to look directly at the bomb maker.
The driver shifted and drove onto the highway for a mile or so before the bald man said, “We’d like you to do something.”
The bomb maker waited. He could not have said what country these men were from, but he sensed it was an old-fashioned place, and traditional cultures always seemed to him to be prickly about formalities. He tried hospitality. “You’re welcome to come to my house to talk in comfort. I have cold drinks and comfortable furniture and air-conditioning.”
“We don’t know you that well.”
“My new friend beside me just searched me for guns or recording devices and found none.”
The bald man said, “We can’t know what you have in your house. You could have both. Or maybe the authorities have been watching you all year, and they’ve put transmitters in your house without your knowledge. The result would be the same.”
“Believe me,” said the bomb maker. “If they knew who I am and where I live, they would have brought an army. I’ve been killing police officers for weeks.” He knew he should stop talking.
The bald man sighed. “If they learn about you later, they’ll search your house for fingerprints and DNA. If we don’t go there, we don’t have to worry about that. But we didn’t come here to argue.”
“Why did you come?” Instantly he realized that this could have sounded disrespectful. So he added, “What can I do for you?”
The bald man smiled, and his teeth looked odd, with spaces between them, but straight and even. “Good. That’s the right attitude.”
“Thank you.”
“You and we are at war with the United States, and that’s a serious thing. We understand that you set off a bomb at a police party last night. How many did you kill?”
The bomb maker resisted the temptation to deceive or exaggerate. “I don’t know. The television news said only two.”
“Both police?”
“No. Nurses. Or one nurse and a young orderly.”
“Is there a chance they just haven’t told the public about other deaths or very serious injuries?”
“It’s possible. Sometimes more people die later. But we can’t count on it.”
“No matter. You disabled a hospital. We saw pictures of the building. A hospital can be as important as a few bomb technicians. And you’ll get the others.”
“Yes,” said the bomb maker. “I will. What happened was—”
“We don’t care what happened. You kill or you die. Learn from your mistakes, and try again. And I want you to do something else for us.”
“What is it?”
“We’re going to need weapons. We didn’t want to risk bringing any here ourselves, but we don’t need to. You’re an American citizen. You can buy them for us.”
“What kind of weapons?”
“We need fifteen Kalashnikov rifles, fully automatic. We need fifteen pistols. Ammunition and high-capacity magazines.”
He knew he would have to be careful now. “I’m a bomb maker. I don’t have an armory of guns.”
“Of course not,” said the bald man. “But you’ll buy them for us.”
“This could take some time,” the bomb maker said. “There are laws, even for citizens, and the government is very careful about that kind of weapon. The ammunition for an AK is hard to find, and has to be bought in small lots. Each of the rifles will have to be altered, the trigger and sear mechanisms replaced with hand-tooled ones so the rifle will fire on full auto.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” the man said. He was getting impatient. “So do what’s necessary.”
The man lifted a small day pack off the floor in front of him, swung it over the back of his seat, and tossed it onto the bomb maker’s lap. “Here. You’ll need money for the guns and ammunition. I don’t want you using any of the bomb money. Buy and transport everything yourself. Don’t bring in other people. Use the cell phone when the guns are ready for us.”
He stared at the bomb maker hard, as though he were trying to decipher a form of script he had never read before. “Don’t get caught.” He tapped the driver’s arm and the car pulled onto the shoulder. “Go home and do your work.”
The man who had let the bomb maker into the car now slipped out and stood holding the door open. He watched the bomb maker get out and swing the day pack over one shoulder. The bomb maker moved slowly, hoping to hear one of the men in the car say something to another, so he could hear the language they spoke, but they said nothing and looked ahead through the windshield, not at him. The man got in and closed the door, and the big sedan glided back onto the highway like an alligator sliding into a river. A moment later the second car slid onto the road and accelerated after it.
When he was alone, the bomb maker swung the day pack around to his belly, unzipped the main compartment, and looked inside. There were stacks of hundred-dollar bills, all with paper bands as though a bank had banded them. One probably had, but there was no printing on the bands. He estimated that the hoard was another hundred thousand dollars. He closed the pack.
The sun was bright and fixed just past the highest point of its arc. The two cars were already out of sight. He turned toward his house and began to walk. It took only about three minutes before he wished he had brought a hat and sunglasses. The sun on the desert seemed almost white. He judged that he was two miles from home and would be there in forty minutes. When thirty minutes had passed he still couldn’t see the stretch of road where he lived, so he revised his estimate to three miles.
He knew very well why they had left him out here. If he had been the sort of man who got scared and changed his mind, he might call the police or FBI and turn them in. He wasn’t the kind of man who panicked, but these people weren’t fond of risks.
After another ten minutes he saw houses he recognized—both abandoned—and after another mile, he found his own. He turned and walked up his driveway, found his key, and let himself into the bath of cool air in the dim interior of his house.
During the walk he had been thinking about the guns. He would have to do some planning and some traveling to fill the order. He wondered about his backers. Did they know everything about this country, or nothing? Were they able to assess what was difficult for him and what wasn’t? The only thing he could be sure of was that they wouldn’t care.
28
It was after six, and Stahl was at his desk trying to stretch the squad’s schedule slightly so there would be an overlap at the beginning and the end of each team’s shift. So far the bomber hadn’t noticed those weak periods during shift changes, but Stahl couldn’t believe he wouldn’t. He wanted every moment covered, and if the bomber struck during the half hour of double staffing, Stahl would be able to hold over the finishing shift and send out the fresh shift to handle the emergency.
There was a knock and he saw Andy through the clouded glass of his door. “Come on in.”