As I studied our written profile of Sandoval, though, something else popped out. For someone who had never served in a forward post in the military or been trained by law enforcement, J. P. Sandoval was a flawless tactician.
I taped the assessor’s map to the side of the cube I was working in and placed my laptop below it. According to information Cassie had pulled from Travis Wells, three trips had been made to D.C. before today. For each, a U-Haul had been rented. The six-by-twelve cargo trailer was U-Haul’s most common size, and from Cassie’s vantage point at the storage facility, Wells and Hemmings had filled every inch of it.
From a quick study of the company’s website, I noted the true size of the trailer’s interior, one that accounted for height and discounted the area above the tires. The U-Haul measured 11′7″× 6′× 5′5″. The volume, then, was 396 cubic feet. Assuming there were air pockets and unused gaps, I estimated 350 cubic feet of usable space. Four trips meant 1,400 cubic feet of weapons and ammunition.
Next, I imagined the square footage that this much cargo would require at the Foggy Bottom property. I made an assumption that the home was meant to be operational—that a militia member could walk up, collect a weapon and its ammo, and proceed on their way. If so, storing the weapons and ammo in a giant cube in D.C. would be impractical. And J. P. Sandoval was never impractical.
I made deductions as to how guns and ammunition would be laid out in an operational manner inside the home. This allowed me, in turn, to make assumptions about the size of the house we were looking for. Delivery of the guns was also a factor. A private area to unload them, box by box, was needed, if not a service elevator from a garage level.
I clicked from a computer layout of the area to the county’s parceldescription of each property, then back to my map, making redX’s that eliminated houses that did not meet my criteria.
The Bureau and ATF would also need a location from which they could run a command center—an empty piece of commercial or residential property.
But what everyone really wanted to know was theexactrow house the U-Haul was heading toward—beforeit got there. Only that would give us a true operational advantage.
A voice broke through my thoughts. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
I had been working robotically. When my mind operates in this manner, I tend to hear no one and lose track of time. But Cassie’s voice was an exception.
She stepped into my work area, studying it. “This was my first cube at PAR,” she said. “Then I moved over by you. By the window.”
I glanced around. The area PAR used to occupy in this office had not been filled since we left, which I had not noticed until now. I lifted my eyes toward my old cube, one over from Cassie’s. The piece of cardboard I’d carefully cut to let in 32 percent of the air-conditioning from the vent above our old desks was still there.
Cassie’s eyes moved to the map. “AreX’s good, or areX’s bad?”
I took in the fifty-three redX’s covering homes in the grid. “TheX’s are good because they’re bad,” I said. “They’re rule-outs. Houses that lack a subterranean garage. Or an elevator. Or are under 2,267 square feet.”
“Two thousand two hundred sixty-seven, huh?” she said, smiling.
“I’m leaning toward multistory homes between 2,600 and 3,200 square feet,” I said. “But 2,267 is my bare minimum. And with the variety of munitions, I’d organize by levels if I were them. Two stories at least. Three preferred.”
Frank came over and inspected the map. “TheX’s?” he pointed.
“Bad,” Cassie said. “So… good.”
“Rule-outs.” Frank nodded. “Do you have the place?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Swell,” he said, his eyes moving over to Cassie. “You both packed and ready?”
Frank is never surprised or impressed by what I do, and that sense of normalcy is something I have always liked about his management style.
“If you’re sure of it, get on the phone with Poulton,” he said to me. “The U-Haul’s a couple hours out from D.C.”
I called Poulton from my cell and read him the address on New Hampshire Avenue in Foggy Bottom.
“There’s an empty office floor,” I said, glancing at my map. “Diagonally across from the place. It’s listed as available on two different real estate sites. Could be a good command center.”
I hung up the phone, and we got going to the airport. As we boarded the plane, Poulton texted me an update:
A team is in place on New Hampshire. I hope you’re right about this location.
When the plane landed in Dulles, I turned on my phone and watched as the texts populated in.
U-Haul thirty minutes out from Foggy Bottom.
U-Haul ten minutes out from Foggy Bottom.
