Jim DeFelice - Threat Level Black

“I think he’d have some sort of vantage point to watch from, or be nearby when the bomb blew,” Macklin told Fisher. “What if we search every apartment the fire escape connects to?”

“That’s twenty-one apartments,” said Fisher.

“We should at least make sure he’s not living in another one here, and that this is just a decoy.”

The bomb had gotten NYPD somewhat more interested in what was going on, and Macklin now had the manpower to do the interviews. On the other hand, the explosion had alerted the other occupants of the building, and Fisher figured anyone dumb enough be a terrorist or hide one would be smart enough to lie about it or, smarter still, to have fled. Still, there was always the chance that someone might remember something about a cross-dressing neighbor with five o’clock shadow. Besides, they were still mired in the straw-grasping phase of the investigation, and so Fisher didn’t object-as long as he didn’t have to do any of the interviews.

“What are you going to do?” Macklin asked.

“Climb the fire escape.”

“It’s getting pretty dark.”

“It is, isn’t it,” said Fisher, going to the blown-out window and stepping through the frame.

A pair of mangled beach chairs sat folded at one side of the roof, but otherwise it was empty. The small door at the top of the stairway locked from the inside. Fisher jiggled it but it wouldn’t give. Picking the lock was no good; Fisher had to go all the way down and then trudge up the stairs to see if there was a bag or other hideaway.

A simple dead bolt secured the door to the roof; there were no bags or keys hidden anywhere that he could see, and his second search of the roof failed to turn up anything except a fifty-cent coin near the edge of the roof. A ladder led from the back of the building to the adjacent roof. Fisher climbed over it and continued his search, still without results. A third roof sat adjacent to this one, eight feet lower and across a narrow alley.

The sun had gone down quite a while ago, but the lights from a building across the street made it possible to see, though not particularly well.

Which was why he wasn’t sure whether the long narrow object near the front of the roof was a ladder or not.

The easiest way to find out was to jump across. Fisher did so, rolling onto the flat surface and bumping into a large can of roofing tar. Fortunately, its top remained intact; Fisher was already down to his last reasonably clean suit.

The object he’d seen was a long two-by-four with three shorter pieces of wood nailed to it. Fisher took it to the side and hooked it over the brick lip on the adjacent building. The board made it possible to get up to the other side without too much trouble, though it creaked under his weight.

So the guy who used it was a little shorter and at least as skinny, Fisher thought.

The FBI agent picked up the edge of the board and flipped it back to the other roof, then jumped back to examine the roof. There was no stairway down; the roof was accessed through a flat trapdoor that was not only locked but chained.

A small bag was wedged in a crack in the low wall at the front of the roof. Fisher held it up and saw that it was marijuana, or at least something herbal. He stuffed it back in place and continued his search in the shadows. As he did, his stomach began to growl. Wondering if he could hunt up a midnight hot dog vendor, he went back to the ladder board and hooked it into place. He was just reaching across when he saw the tar bucket he’d knocked into earlier.

The thing was, the tar on the roof was dry-very, very dry.

And who tarred a roof in March?

Old can, probably used as a seat.

Or a hiding place. Fisher pried it open.

The remnants of tar had congealed long ago. Newspapers had been stuffed into the top, and in the middle of the newspapers sat a small knapsack. There was a shirt inside, along with a gas mask, an autoinjector similar to the one he’d found at Mrs. DeGarmo’s, and a set of night goggles.

“Hey, Colonel, how are you doing?” said the voice on the cell phone when Howe answered.

A very recognizable, if inconvenient, voice.

“I’m very busy right now, Fisher.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“It was my answer,” said Howe.

“Listen, I need some advice.”

“This is a real bad time, Fisher. I’ve had a tough few days and I’d like to relax.”

“Tell me about it. I just missed getting blown up by a nail bomb in New York City.”

“What do you need advice for?”

“If you had an E-bomb, how would you drop it? Would you rent a plane?”

“How do you know it’s going to be dropped?”

“I don’t. That was what the experts said when we were talking about it. You would use it over a set of transformers or a big switching yard, someplace where you can have a big impact. So I’m figuring airplane.”

“Or a cruise missile,” said Howe. “Or a UAV.”

“What’s a UAV?”

“Fisher, where are you?”

“At the moment I’m standing in a hallway of a prewar apartment in Chelsea, watching some crime scene guys pull nails out of the wall.”

“Can you get to a secure phone?”

“If I have to. Take me an hour and a half, though.”

“Call me back on this line with your sat phone, then I’ll call you.”

Howe killed the cell phone. There was a secure phone at NADT he could use, but of course that meant leaving Alice.

She was in the kitchen, clearing the dishes from dinner.

“I’m going to have to go,” he said.

“Now?”

“In a few minutes, yeah. It’s, um…it’s important.”

“And you can’t talk about it.”

He shook his head.

“Is it related to the other day?” she asked.

“No.” His answer was honest-he didn’t think it was at first-but as he thought about it he decided it might be. It was too late to take it back, but the realization made him feel guilty, as if he’d deliberately lied.

“Very mysterious,” she said, closing the dishwasher. Alice walked to him, sliding her arms around his waist to his back, pulling him down to her lips. “When did you have to leave?”

Howe’s story about the UAVs gave Fisher a tenuous connection with the Koreans, but the agent had already used up his quota of tenuous connections on the case.

“You have any evidence there were other UAVs?” Fisher asked as they discussed it over the secure connection. Fisher was using Macklin’s office; he pushed back in the seat and gazed up at his reflection in the overhead mirror.

The man looking down at him frowned. Fisher decided mirrors were overrated.

“No evidence at all,” said Howe.

“How about the CIA or somebody. Would they know?”

“The CIA didn’t even know they existed until I saw them,” said Howe. “One of them was just recovered a few days ago. It’s being shipped back for inspection. One of my guys is going to be on the team looking at it. I mean, one of NADT’s guys.”

“Could they have smuggled one of these UAV things out of the country?”

“If they could get an E-bomb out, sure. They’re pretty small. The North Koreans exported all sorts of weapons, Fisher. They used to sell Scud missiles all over the world. We could’ve stopped them, but we didn’t.”

“Mistake, huh?”

“You have any serious questions?”

“If you had one of these E-bombs, you could drop it from a UAV?” asked Fisher.

“You could. Or you could just fly the UAV to a specific point and altitude, then detonate it. There’s a problem, though, from what I’ve heard. The UAV they found has no engine in it.”