Alex Kava: Black Friday

Patrick glanced around again while the Project Manager still searched the upper level, scanning the railing where Maggie had been earlier. Then Patrick saw her. She was coming down the escalator, smiling and chatting with a woman next to her. The Project Manager turned his back to Patrick, just for a second or two and Patrick used the opportunity to point him out. He swung his free hand up, jerked his index finger at the man's back then brought his hand to his head and raked his fingers through his hair just as the Project Manager turned around.

Did Maggie see it? Did any of the others? It might have been too late, because now the guy was leaving. After all, he didn't need to be near the bomb to detonate it by remote control.

Maggie tried to keep the panic from showing. It felt like something had her by the throat. She had to concentrate on breathing. She had to remind herself to slow down. Look by moving her eyes, not her head. Stay calm. Move nonchalantly. No nervous twitches. No jerks or twists around.

She tried to figure out who Patrick was looking at. None of the men around him looked like the sketch. The only olive complexion belonged to a guy with short, spiky sun-bleached hair, dressed in khakis and a navy blue jacket.

She eased her way toward the escalator.

"I have a remote," the voice came again over her headset. "You don't have any choice but to let me walk out of here."

No one answered him. There was silence. They could no longer talk to each other now. Their communication system was useless.

She started down the escalator and asked the woman next to her if she'd had a good holiday. The woman started telling her about her trip while Maggie smiled at her and looked over her shoulder. Patrick looked miserable. He glanced in her direction. She wasn't sure if he'd seen her. Then suddenly she saw him raise his hand. He jerked a finger in one direction and ended up pushing back his hair. He had pointed to someone. He was giving them a signal, telling them who the Project Manager was.

Maggie came off the escalator, turning in Patrick's direction. She was close enough now to catch his eyes. He flicked his away, looking over in the same direction he had pointed.

The Project Manager had to be the man in the navy blue jacket and khakis. He was walking away, headed toward an exit but able to keep an eye on Patrick.

"You'll let me leave," he said and this time she could see his lips move. He still hadn't noticed her, and he no longer looked from side to side.

Kunze was closest to Patrick. He and the cleaning woman were edging their way forward. It didn't look like he had identified the Project Manager yet. Maggie examined the railing above, but she couldn't see Wurth. Was she the only one?

She looked back at Patrick and this time their eyes met. He pointed again and mouthed something to her. He was telling her to go after him. Don't let him get away. But how could she leave Patrick chained to a suitcase bomb?

The Project Manager was at the front doors, walking out. What would stop him from detonating the bomb once he was out of impact range? She had to stop him.

Maggie waved at Kunze to help Patrick. He moved in with the cleaning woman and her cart. Maggie took off running, dodging her way around passengers. She dug her right hand under her jacket, gripped the butt of her Smith amp; Wesson but kept it in its shoulder holster.

She slammed out the door onto the sidewalk and stopped. She'd seen him turn to his right but she couldn't see him now through the line of curb-side checkins. She pushed her way through, stumbling over luggage and feet. He was there, up ahead, five car lengths, getting into the passenger side of a black sedan. Maggie shoved herself between startled passengers but the car was already pulling away. She saw the license plate and watched helplessly as it sped away.

Out of breath, she leaned against a concrete bench. And that's when it happened. The explosion sent vibrations under her feet almost knocking her over.

It was too late. She was too late.

Monday, November 26

Federal Bureau of Investigation

111 Washington Avenue South

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Maggie waited though her patience was wearing thin. She didn't want to talk about it anymore. Nothing she said would change things. No amount of debriefing could remove the guilt and regret.

A.D. Raymond Kunze came in alone this time. He sat down across from her. He didn't say anything. Instead he folded his hands on top of the table, intertwining the fingers, a gesture Maggie recognized. What was it, again? She tried to access her memory to psychology of body language. Cupped hands, at the beginning of a conversation, often meant holding a fragile idea. It made her tense up even more.

"There was no way any of us could have known about a second bomb," he finally said.

She nodded. Shifted in the hardback chair, stiff from sitting too long. She wanted to stand, pace, burn off her nervous energy.

"It damaged a parking garage. Almost a hundred vehicles. Dozens of injuries but only two fatalities."

He said it like it was a scrape, a minor mistake. She agreed that next to Oklahoma City, next to Mall of America, this one was minor, indeed.

"It could have been so much worse," he said when she didn't respond.

"Any leads to catching him?"

"He's like a ghost. Gone. Vanished. We think he blew up the parking garage to destroy the vehicle he may have used."

"What about the black sedan?"

Kunze looked away. Stared at his hands. Glanced at her but wouldn't meet her eyes.

"I got the license plate number," she insisted. She had tried to look up the number herself, using her security clearance and still she came up short. Each time she was denied access. A reference code was given instead.

"You were upset," he said, but the tone was way too gentle for Kunze. "You must have remembered the number wrong. It happens. Nerves. The adrenaline. Makes us transpose a number or two."

She stared at him. She knew even he didn't believe what he had just said. And she couldn't help wondering if that's how it had happened in the Oklahoma City case. Is that how they explained away evidence that didn't fit their theory? Someone must have gotten it wrong?

"I looked up the number myself."

He didn't seem surprised.

"It gave me a reference code. I don't have the clearance to track it, but I think it may have been a federal government vehicle."

This time he met her eyes and held them. "Leave it alone, O'Dell. Just leave it alone."

"Did you know?" she asked him.

"I still don't know," he told her frankly without hesitation. "And I don't want to know. Neither do you. Go home. Take some time off. Be glad we saved an airport full of people from being blown to pieces."

"But the case is far from finished."

"It is for you," and again, he said it much too gently for Kunze. "You're officially off the case. Too personal, considering what happened with your brother."

She wanted to challenge him. Was it because it had become personal or had she gotten too close to the truth? A truth Kunze seemed willing to ignore.

He pushed his chair away from the table, scraping and screeching across the floor and closing the subject. He stood and opened the door, dismissing her before she could argue.

She followed him into the hallway. Charlie Wurth and Nick Morrelli were three doors down. They had just come out of their debriefing rooms. A door clicked behind her. She turned around to see another agent bringing Patrick out of his room. He looked exhausted and she caught him unconsciously rubbing his wrist where the handcuff had bit into his skin and left a mark.

The gesture brought back that feeling again, the one that took her knees out from under her like a roller-coaster ride with the bottom falling out and the walls spinning out of control. She thought the suitcase bomb attached to Patrick's wrist had exploded. But instead, it had been the parking garage, a second bomb.