Executive orders - Tom Clancy [472]
Please come in.
Thank you. Mrs. Sminton, do you know the gentleman who lives next door?
Mr. Azir, you mean?
That's right.
Not very well. Sometimes I wave.
Do you know if he's home now?
His car's not there, she replied, after looking. The agents already knew that. He owned a blue Oldsmobile wagon with Maryland tags. Every cop in two hundred miles was looking for it.
Do you know when the last time was you saw him?
Friday, I guess. There were some other cars there, and a truck.
Okay. The agent reached in his coveralls pocket and pulled out a radio. Move in, move in. Bird is probably-say again, probably-out of the coop.
Before the widow's astonished eyes, a helicopter appeared directly over the house three hundred yards away. Zip lines dropped from both sides, and armed agents slid down them. At the same time, four vehicles converged from both directions on the country road, all of them driving off the road, onto the wide lawn straight toward the dwelling. Ordinarily, things would have gone slower, with some period of discreet surveillance, but the word was out on this one. Front and back doors were kicked in-and thirty seconds later, a siren went off. Mr. Azir, it seemed, had a burglar alarm. Then the radio crackled.
Clear, building is clear. This is Betz. Search complete, building is clear. Bring in the lab troops. With that, two vans appeared. These proceeded up the driveway, and one of the first things the passengers did was to take samples of the gravel there, plus grass, to match with scrapings from the rented cars left at Giant Steps.
Mrs. Sminton, could we sit down, please? There are a couple questions we'd like to ask you about Mr. Azir.
SO? MURRAY ASKED, arriving in the FBI Command Center.
No joy, the agent at the console said.
Damn. It wasn't said with passion. He'd never really expected it. But he expected some important information anyway. The Lab had collected all manner of physical evidence. Gravel samples could match the driveway. Grass and dirt found on the inside offenders and bumpers could link the vehicles to the Azir house. Carpet fibers-maroon wool-on the shoes of the dead terrorists could put them inside the house. Even now, a team of ten agents was beginning the process of discovering exactly who Mordecai Azir was. Smart money was that he was about as Jewish as Adolf Eichmann. Nobody was covering that wager.
Commander Center, this is Betz. Billy Betz was assistant special agent in charge of the Baltimore Field Division, and a former HRT shooter, hence his dramatic descent from the helicopter, leading his men and a woman.
Billy, this is Dan Murray. What do you have?
Would you believe it? A half-empty crate of seven-six-two ball ammo, and the lot numbers match, Director. Living room has a dark red wool rug. This is our place. Some clothes missing from the master-bedroom closet. I'd say nobody's been here for a couple of days. Location is secure. No booby traps. The lab troops are starting their routine. And all eighty minutes from the time the Baltimore SAC had walked into the Garmatz Federal Courthouse. Not fast enough, but fast.
The forensics experts were a mix of Bureau, Service, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, a troubled agency whose technical staff was nonetheless excellent. They'd all be shaking the house for hours. Everyone wore gloves. Every surface would be dusted for fingerprints to match with those of the dead terrorists.
SOME WEEKS AGO you saw me take an oath to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States. That's the second time I did that. The first time was as a brand-new Marine second lieutenant, when I graduated from Boston College. Right after that, I read the Constitution,