Guilty Minds

“Two’s enough.”

– 

I drove out to Maryland, leaving Dorothy behind in the hotel suite, stationed at her laptop. On the way I stopped at a Wells Fargo branch and withdrew a lot of cash.

Merlin lived in a small bungalow in a development in Dunkirk, Maryland, not far from the Patuxent River. He’d turned his garage into a workspace and parked his Honda in the driveway. The garage was immaculate, with a couple of workbenches and tools hanging neatly on pegboard mounted on the walls.

He’d already done some of the hard work. He’d popped open a couple of cheap cell phones and had fished out the wiring. Each phone was now connected by electrical wire to a blasting cap.

“Nice work,” I said. On the workbench next to the blasting caps were two cylinders wrapped in brown paper on which was printed: HIGH EXPLOSIVE. DANGEROUS. 8 OZ. DYNAMITE. CORPS OF ENGINEERS, US ARMY. A couple of red gasoline jugs sat on the floor nearby.

“Where’d you get the dynamite?”

“I drove out to the Aberdeen Proving Ground. Pat Keegan still teaches there.”

“Keegan. Of course. I should have thought of him. What about the stingray?”

“Hold on. It’s in my car.”

He returned with a piece of equipment-surprisingly old-fashioned-looking given how extremely sophisticated it was-the size of a small suitcase. It was white, with switches and LED lights and indicator dials on the front.

“Merlin,” I said, “you got it! How?”

“Calvert County sheriff’s office. They didn’t need it today, so it’s going ‘missing’ for a few hours.”

“You’re amazing.”

“Nah. A guy there owes me a lot of favors, that’s all.”

The stingray was a powerful surveillance tool used by government agencies and law enforcement. But its existence is generally kept secret. Basically, it’s a cell phone-tracking device that acts like a cell tower. It puts out a signal stronger than nearby cell towers, forcing mobile phones or devices to connect to it first, instead of to a real tower. So it allows you to capture cell numbers in the vicinity, and numbers dialed, and other data. The US Marshal’s service uses stingrays in planes, flying over areas where they suspect a fugitive is hiding; they can nab their fugitive based on his cell phone number. It essentially lets law enforcement track your location without a warrant. It’s real Big Brother stuff.

We fell silent for a moment, and then Merlin said, “Do we even know where his house is yet?”

My cell phone rang. “Maybe,” I said.

It was Dorothy. “The package is in Thurmont.”

“At the post office?”

“Right.”

“That’s early. Let me know when it moves again.”

I ended the call and said, “Not yet. We will.”

Working quietly, we assembled the components of two bombs, each in a cheap nylon duffel bag that Merlin had lying around.

Shortly after eleven-thirty, my cell phone rang again.

“It’s moving,” Dorothy said.

“Out of the post office?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” I said to Merlin. “It’s time to get going.”

“Can I smoke in your car?”

“Afraid not.”

“Vape?”

“Rather not.”

“Then hold on. I’m gonna need a cigarette first.”

75

The night before, Tom Vogel had gotten a call from Ellen Wiley.

Her stalker problem was worse. Now her stalker had tried to break into her Georgetown house. She wanted to hire the Centurions to start immediately. Not in a week. Tomorrow.

He e-mailed her a contract, which she promised to sign and express mail back to him, along with a check. He’d given her a PO box. He was expecting the package.

He was not expecting what was inside.

Not a signed contract and a check, but a gift. A book Ellen thought he’d enjoy.

A hardcover whose spine was about an inch and a half thick. A book that might raise eyebrows but not provoke suspicion.

Because glued into its spine, and therefore hidden, was a small round flat disc no bigger than a silver dollar. A battery-operated GPS tracking device. Whose movements Dorothy could follow on her iPad.

I’d considered staking out the post office instead, waiting for someone to unlock his PO box, and then follow him. Simpler, maybe. But these people were hyper-vigilant. Tailing people like this would be like putting a leash on a snake. It’s just going to slip you.

No, this way was more sophisticated. I figured that Vogel wouldn’t go to the post office himself. He’d send an underling. And the underling wouldn’t open the package. He’d bring it right to Vogel.

But then Vogel, expecting a signed contract and a check, would pull out the book. A gift from Ellen Wiley. He’d consider it strange: idiosyncratic, but not alarming.

And if my intelligence was right, Vogel didn’t keep a regular office. He lived in a compound. The express mail package would be brought right to his home. The tracker would tell us precisely where it was.

And then I was going to pay him a visit.

– 

Dorothy called back about ten minutes later. “The package is leaving the town of Thurmont and heading to Gorham, the next town over.” I hadn’t even heard of these Maryland towns.

“Okay,” I said. “Merlin and I have to go make a pickup. Keep updating me.”

“On it.”