Don Pendleton - Hazard Zone

“Of course, of course,” Kroger said. “I apologize. I’ve talked to so many people this past week, and none of them have been able or willing to tell me anything. I don’t even worry about what this will do to our business, you understand. I know Ms. Carson’s father personally. How will I ever look him in the eye again?”

Bolan already knew that the senator’s death was being kept quiet for a few days for security reasons, so telling Kroger anything about it now wouldn’t serve any larger purpose. “I’m sure he’ll understand that you weren’t responsible,” he said.

“I hope so, very much,” he said. “Now, what can I do to help you?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure there’s much you can do,” he admitted. “At this point, I’m simply following my instincts. Would you mind if I took a look around the property, maybe talked to some of the staff?”

“Not at all,” Kroger said. “I can escort you, if you like, or our new security manger, Mr. Kowal, whichever you prefer.”

“I’d like to meet Mr. Kowal, anyway,” Bolan said. “Since he’s new, he may be able to offer a unique perspective.”

Kroger agreed and picked up the phone, calling Mr. Kowal, who arrived several minutes later, and introduced himself. “Call me Rob,” he said.

Kowal was a rather unassuming man, with brown hair and eyes that likely made him unnoticeable most of the time. His manner was one of friendly professionalism. “What would you like to see first, Agent Cooper?”

“Let’s start with the security tapes from the night Amber Carson was last seen alive,” he suggested. “Then I’d like to talk with housekeeping.”

“If you’ll follow me?” he asked.

Bolan nodded, thanked Kroger and followed Kowal out of the office. The security manager’s office was a short distance down a back hallway, and Bolan found himself pleasantly surprised. Most hotels and resorts couldn’t afford—or wouldn’t spend—the money for a genuine security professional, let alone the kinds of equipment on display here. The office was clean and well organized, and a bank of camera monitors was placed against one wall. They displayed views of every hallway, the lobby, the driveway and the back patio area. A uniformed security officer was watching the monitors closely, occasionally tapping a button to change a camera angle.

“Impressive,” Bolan said. “This is a pretty nice setup for a resort.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not as good as it could be,” Kowal said. “I was brought on board just a few days ago, and it’s too late to help that young woman.”

“What was the security situation when you were hired?” Bolan asked.

“Pretty standard,” he said. “The cameras were all operational and recording, but there was no monitoring security staff. After midnight, the resort was running only a single security officer for the entire property, and he spent most of his nights rousting drunk rich kids instead of looking for real trouble.”

“What have you changed since you came on board?”

Kowal gestured to the man seated at the monitors. “As you can see, I’ve got a man assigned just to watch the camera feeds—rotating staff there every three hours to keep their eyes fresh. I also added the gate guard, and we have four officers on foot patrol during the day–it bumps to six between 6:00 p.m. and midnight, and then drops to three between midnight and 4:00 a.m.”

“Sounds about right,” Bolan said. “Any trouble so far?”

The security manager shook his head in disgust. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Drunk rich kids carrying on, for the most part. A couple of minor scuffles out on the patio, and once on the beach—all easily handled and nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Have you talked to the staff on duty that night?” he asked. “Reviewed the video footage?”

“Both,” Kowal said. He turned to the officer seated at the monitors. “Dave, can you bring up the footage from the night of Amber Carson’s murder, please? Just from the patio.” He moved to a blank monitor, turned it on and gestured for Bolan to sit down.

Both men watched as Amber and her friends drank shots out on the patio, then saw her move to get something to eat. There wasn’t an audio feed. “Who’s the guy hitting on her?” Bolan asked.

“Actually, a member of the staff. He was off duty, and so long as things didn’t get out of line, the management had allowed it. I’ve since changed that policy.”

“Wise,” he said. “Has this employee been questioned?”

“By the local police, myself, Mr. Kroger and two federal law-enforcement officers who came in yesterday evening,” Kowal said.

Bolan thought that was curious. He asked which agency the federal officers were with, and Kowal snorted. “They showed FBI credentials, but I don’t think so. Maybe military or NSA, but not FBI.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Educated guess,” Kowal said. “They didn’t talk like FBI.”

“You seem to know your way around law enforcement,” Bolan said. “Better than most resort security officers I’ve ever heard of. What’s your background?”

Kowal smiled. “Secret Service until four years ago. I quit to launch my own company.”

“Doing resort security? Kind of a step down, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

This time Kowal actually laughed. “No, my company is a security consulting agency. Once they’re set up here and I’ve got a good man in place to run things, I’ll be on my way to wherever the next job takes me. It may not sound as cool as Secret Service, but it’s about ten times the money.”

“Makes sense,” Bolan said. “So, what’s your take on this situation?”

“Jamaica is a gilt-covered cesspit,” he said. “But generally speaking, the real bad guys, the posse crews, leave the tourists alone. Too much trouble—high risk, low reward. I think Amber Carson was targeted, if what I’ve heard is true.”

“What have you heard?” he asked.

“She was raped, ritualistically murdered, and then somehow her body was rigged with a light explosive that was attached to weaponized anthrax. When it went off, it killed Senator Carson, some folks in the examination room where they were conducting the autopsy, and turned Bethesda Naval Hospital into a quarantine zone.”

Bolan leaned back in his chair and reassessed the man sitting before him. Not only was his information dead-on accurate, but it was only known to a handful of people in the world right now. “I thought you were out of the Secret Service,” he finally said.

“I am,” Kowal said. “But I still have friends there, and I like to keep in the loop about what’s going on in that end of things. You know how it is. You’re never really out of service.”

“You’re well-informed,” he admitted. “Most of that hasn’t been made public yet. Kroger still thinks her father is alive. Have you heard anything from the staff that makes you think they might know more than they ought to?”

“No, but I’m the new guy and not a local, so that makes me persona non grata with the islanders. It’s a closed community in general and really hard to break into, but I’m not here to make best friends. I’m here to get a job done.”

“Kroger’s going to find out, probably sooner than later. They won’t be able to keep that under wraps for long,” Bolan said.

“I know,” he said. “But he won’t find out from me. Right now, I’m just doing the job I was hired to do—make the resort as secure as possible. Though that horse has already left the barn, I think.”

“Me, too,” Bolan said. “I just wish I knew where the damn thing ran off to.”

After finishing up with the security manager, Bolan decided to give the property a quick visual inspection. Kowal had happily agreed. Though the man seemed more than competent, another set of eyes might spot something new or different. First, Bolan went up to Amber’s floor and checked out the condominium, which was still protected by police tape and unchanged from the night of her death. Then, he went all the way to the roof, which turned out to be unremarkable—as did the beach, the patio and the walkways around the main resort building. In short, nothing jumped out at him as out of place.