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“I don’t know. I’m not paid to question my employers.”
“So when did they tell you to hit the second limo?” Rapp was thinking maybe he’d received the order when he’d picked up the van.
“Twenty to thirty
seconds, before it all went down.”
“Before the blast?” asked a surprised Rapp.
“Yes.”
They must have had a spotter that morning watching the candidates get in their vehicles. Rapp wondered if Agent Rivera shuffled the limousines as they left the compound. It was a fairly common Secret Service tactic. That would explain why they blew up the wrong limo.
“The phone you received the call on…where did you get it?”
“It was waiting for me in the van.”
“Was it also used to remote detonate the bomb?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t suppose you hung on to it?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Rapp was trying to wrap his mind around the entire operation. It wasn’t how he would have done it, but then again the enemy had proven in the past that they weren’t always logistical geniuses. He stood and looked down at Gazich. “One more question. I read your file. You obviously hate Muslims. Why work for them?”
Gazich smiled for the first time. “My enemy’s enemy is my ally.”
“That and the fact that they probably paid you a shitload of money.”
“The money was fine, but I wanted to strike a blow for my country.”
Rapp would have gladly debated him on the issue, but it would have been a waste of crucial time. Guys like Gazich didn’t simply change their mind after a brief conversation. Rapp began closing the cargo door and said, “We’ll be landing in an hour.”
22
BALTIMORE-WASHINGTON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
The big plane touched down softly at 10:47 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. Rapp and Coleman joined the pilots in the cockpit as they taxied to the cargo portion of the airport. They half expected to be greeted by a welcoming committee of police cars, FBI sedans, and a gaggle of news vans. Fortunately, it appeared their cover story had held. It looked cold outside, which was a good thing. Customs officers were humans too. The cold weather would keep them huddled inside rather than out on the tarmac nosing around. Rapp took one final look out the window and then turned to Coleman who was now wearing the same uniform as the pilot and copilot: black pants, white shirt with black and silver epaulets, and a black tie. He was listed as Tom Jones, the plane’s navigator on the official manifest. He had a full set of worn credentials to match. Coleman would clear customs with the two pilots and be off the airport property in thirty minutes or less.
Rapp stuck out his hand. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Good luck with the handoff,” Coleman replied.
“You sure you don’t want to come along?”
“Yeah…right after I get my barium enema.”
Rapp laughed at him and left the cockpit. He passed Stroble who was now wearing a soiled BWI ground crew uniform. “Don’t drop the container.”
“I won’t, boss.”
“And stop calling me boss.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Brooks was waiting by the cargo door with her two bags.
