“If my son were missing,” says Cannon, “I’d for sure search his apartment. In fact, I’d do that first.”
“You’re right,” says Alex. “The visit with campus security was a waste of time.”
“How much did Ned tell you?” asks Bree.
“Not much,” says Cannon. “Just that he wanted to make sure the Charlotte office would be at your service. That includes me personally. Whatever you need. He also said that Damon is a very special kid.”
Alex looks over at Bree. “Yes,” he says, voice cracking. “He definitely is.”
CHAPTER 15
Sampson
SPECIAL AGENT NED MAHONEY and I sit in the office of Chief Barbara Lucianne, head of the Metropolitan Washington Airports Authority Police Department.
The Airports Authority provides security at both Dulles International and Reagan National. Lucianne’s office is in terminal one, and from the dark look in her eyes and the tone of her voice, I can tell that she’s personally offended that one of her facilities was used to help stage a terrorist attack.
Like Mahoney promised, agents are searching every corner of the garage. But I’m hoping the chief can give us some solid leads.
“Here’s what I’ve got,” she says, pointing at a monitor on her desk. She taps a keypad to start the footage. “Your van left parking garage one today at about seven thirty a.m. The plates match the numbers you gave me. Sorry, but this is the best shot I have of the driver.”
On her screen, we see the van pause at one of the automatic gates as the driver pays the parking fee. She freezes the image. The person behind the wheel is nearly a shapeless form, wearing sunglasses, a plain white baseball cap pulled down low, a surgical mask, hands covered by gloves. I lean forward, wishing I had X-ray vision to see through the bastard’s disguise.
“The tricky bastard paid in cash,” says Lucianne. “And with the gloves, there’s no point in recovering the bills he used for fingerprint analysis.”
“He must have known he’d be under surveillance,” says Mahoney.
“Why do you think the van was here in the first place?” she asks. “Why not drive directly to the target?”
“Maybe for a handoff,” I suggest. “From the bomb maker to the driver. There aren’t a lot of people with the balls to transport a van filled with explosives. This guy could have been a hired gun, paid to bring the van into DC and then disappear.”
“How long was the van here in the garage?” Mahoney asks.
“Just overnight. Ticket system says it came in at eleven fourteen p.m.”
I point at the monitor. “Show us.”
Lucianne taps a few keys. The entryway angle is even worse. All I can see is a masked lower face and a gloved hand grabbing the ticket from the toll machine.
“Same guy?” asks Mahoney.
“Looks like it to me. But I don’t think there’s enough of an image there for biometrics.”
“Where did he park?” asks Mahoney.
Lucianne clicks to a view deep inside the garage. The van is parked against a column at the end of a row, at the far end of the camera’s range. The time code reads 2:05 a.m.
“Was that camera on all night?” I ask.
Lucianne nods. “I scrolled through the footage at high speed before you got here. Van never moved. And nobody got out.”
I look over at Mahoney. “Son of a bitch probably slept in the vehicle. With a bomb inside.”
Mahoney nods. “Which makes him either very brave or very dumb.”
“Or maybe just very comfortable with explosives.”
Lucianne’s eyes darken again. “Well, any sorry son of a bitch who drags my airport into this crime better know I’m coming after his ass.”
