W.E.B Griffin - The Assassin

Larkin read his mind:

"If you think this is bad, try doing it in New York City. They get out of the way of a whistle only when it's mounted on a thirty-ton fire truck."

There was a New Jersey State Trooper car waiting in a toll booth lane on the Jersey side of the bridge, the lights on its bubble gum machine flashing. As Matt pulled up behind it, a State Trooper, his brimmed cap so low on his nose that Matt wondered how he could see, came up.

"Secret Service?"

"Larkin," Larkin said, holding out a leather identification folder. "I appreciate the cooperation."

"We're on our way," the Trooper said and trotted to his car.

There were more vehicles than Matt could count around what looked like a depression off a dirt road in the Pine Barrens, so many that a deputy sheriff had been detailed to direct traffic. He waved them to a stop.

"I'm Larkin, Secret Service," Larkin said, leaning across Matt to speak to him.

"Yes, sir, we've been waiting for you," the sheriff said. "Pull it over there. Everybody's in the garbage dump."

Matt parked the car and then followed Larkin to the depression, which he saw was in fact a garbage dump.

A tall, slender man with rimless glasses detached himself from a group of men, half in one kind or another of police uniform, a few in civilian clothes, and several in overalls with FEDERAL AGENT printed in large letters across their backs.

"Mr. Larkin?" the man asked, and when Larkin nodded, he went on, " I'm Howard Samm, I have the Atlantic City office of ATF."

"I'm very glad to meet you," Larkin said. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help with this."

"I like to think we have a pretty good team," Samm said. "And Agent Glynes was really on the ball with this, wasn't he? We didn't get that Request for All Information teletype until yesterday."

"He certainly was," Larkin said. "Mr. Samm, this is Detective Payne of the Philadelphia Police Department. He's working with us."

Samm shook Matt's hand.

Well, that's very nice of you, Mr. Larkin, but it's bullshit. Unless driving you around and running errands is "working with you."

"Well, what have we got?" Larkin asked.

"Somebody has been blowing things-specifically metal lockers, the kind you find in airports, bus stations-up with high explosives. My senior technician-the large fellow, in the coveralls?-says he's almost sure it's Composition C-4."

"When will we know for sure?"

"We just finished making sure the rest of the lockers weren't booby-trapped. The next step is taking a locker to the lab."

He pointed. Matt looked. Two of the men in coveralls were dragging a cable from a wrecker with MODERN CHEVROLET painted on its doors down to the remnants of a row of rental lockers. A Dodge van with no identifying marks on it waited for it, its rear doors open.

"We have any idea who's been doing this?" Larkin asked.

"That's going to be a problem, I'm afraid," Samms said.

"Not even a wild hair?" Larkin asked. "Who owns this property? Has anybody talked to him?"

"We don't know who owns the property. One of the deputies found a cabin a quarter of a mile over there. But there's no signs of life in it."

"A deserted cabin?"

"Well, of course, we haven't been able to go inside. So I really don't know."

"You haven't gone inside?"

"We don't have a search warrant."

"We'll go inside," Larkin said. "I'll take the responsibility."

Samm, visibly, did not like that.

"Christ," Larkin said. "Don't you think we have reasonable cause, even if there wasn't a threat to the Vice President?"

"You're right, of course," Samm said. He raised his voice. " Meador!"

The large man in the coveralls with FEDERAL AGENT on the back looked at him. Samm waved him over.

"This is Mr. Larkin of the Secret Service," he said. "He wants to have a look inside that house. Will you check it for booby traps, please?"

"No search warrant?" Meador asked.

"Just open the place for me, please," Larkin said. "I'll worry about a search warrant."

"Okay," Meador said.

Meador, with Larkin, Samm, and Matt following him, went to the van and took a toolbox from it, and led the way to the house. They stood to one side as he carefully probed a window for trip wires, and then smashed a pane with a screwdriver.

When he had the window open, he crawled through it. He was inside a minute or two, and then crawled back out.

"The door's clean," he said. "What do I do with the padlock?"

"You got any bolt cutters in that box?" Larkin asked.

Meador was putting bolt cutters in place on the padlock when two men in business suits walked up. Matt was surprised to see Jack Matthews, who was also surprised to see him. The other man, somewhat older, was a redhead, pale-faced, and on the edge between muscular and plump.

"Mr. Larkin," he said, "I'm Frank Young, Criminal A-SAC [Assistant Special Agent in Charge] for the FBI in Philadelphia."

"I think we've met, Frank, haven't we?" Larkin said.

"Yes, sir, now that I see you, I think we have met. Maybe Quantico?"

"How about Denver?" Larkin asked.

"Right. I was in the Denver field office. This is Special Agent Jack Matthews."

"We've met," Larkin said. "And I think you know Matthews too, don' t you, Matt?"

"Yes, indeed," Matt said. "How nice to see you, Special Agent Matthews."

"Why do I think he's needling him?" Larkin said. "Payne is a Philadelphia detective. Do you know each other?"

"I know who he is," Young said, and shook Matt's hand. "What are we doing here?"

"Well, Frank, if you're the Criminal A-SAC, this will be right down your alley," Larkin said. "Detective Payne and I were walking through the woods and came across this building. Into which, I believe, person or persons unknown have recently broken in. We were just about to have a look."

Meador of ATF looked at Larkin and smiled.

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," he said as he lowered his bolt cutters, "if the burglar used a bolt cutter to cut through that padlock."

"That's very astute of you," Larkin said.

"What are we looking for?" Young asked.

"Signs of occupancy. If we get lucky, a name. So we can ask if he' s noticed anything strange, like loud explosions, around here."

"There are tractor tracks that look fresh," Jack Matthews said, pointing.

"Take a look at the dipstick in the tractor engine," Young ordered. "I'll take a look inside."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't open any doors or cabinets until Meador here checks them," Larkin said. "And it would probably be a good idea to watch for trip wires."

"You think this is your bomber?" Young asked.

"I don't know that it's not," Larkin said.

Matthews came into the cabin after a minute or two to report that the tractor battery was charged, and from the condition of the dipstick, he thought the engine had been run in the last week or ten days.

Matt wondered how he could tell that, but was damned if he would reveal his ignorance by asking.

Jack Matthews moved quickly and efficiently around the cabin, and seemed to know exactly what he was looking for. Matt felt ignorant.

There were no trip wires or booby traps, but there was evidence of recent occupancy.

"There is something about this place that bothers me," Larkin said thoughtfully. "It's too damned neat and clean for a cabin in the boondocks."

"Yeah," Young agreed thoughtfully.

"I think we have to find out who owns this, who comes here."

"County courthouse?" Young said.

"Unless one of the deputies knows offhand," Larkin said.

"Are you going back to Philadelphia?" Young asked.

"I don't see what else I can do here," Larkin said.

"Why don't I send Jack to the county courthouse with my car?" Young asked. "And catch a ride back with you?"