senator from Minnesota. To Maggie’s left was the Assistant Deputy Director of Homeland Security, Charlie Wurth. The three men were finally quiet after exchanging pleasantries, a few barbs and then the requisite comments of disbelief and anger. Maggie had simply sat back and tuned them out.
“They warned us,” Senator Foster said for a second time.
“We’ll know soon enough if this was the work of any organized group or simply one madman.” A.D. Kunze looked to Maggie and nodded like it was some secret signal to back him up. “Our Special Agent O’Dell should be able to tell us exactly who to look for as soon as she sees those videotapes.”
Instead of agreeing or offering any assurance, Maggie asked the senator, “What exactly were the warnings?”
“We haven’t substantiated or authenticated them yet,” Kunze answered for the senator. “But I’m certain once we get a look at the terrorists—on the security cameras and from eyewitness reports—we’ll be able to determine if the warnings provide an appropriate template.”
Maggie found herself staring at Kunze. Did he always talk like this? As if surrounded by TV cameras and reporters?
“I’m just curious,” she said and shrugged as though it didn’t matter whether or not they shared. “Warnings and threats often reveal more than intended.”
Senator Foster met her eyes and nodded, “That’s very true.” Then as if to squelch any protests, he added, “And the warnings are all we have right now.”
“You said security had video,” Kunze tossed at Wurth, again reminding Maggie of a politician looking to already place blame if need be.
“Yes, they should have video,” Wurth said with a calm that made Kunze’s bulging vein in his forehead look manic.
“But you know how retail security is. They’re more concerned about shoplifting than bombs. We’ll be lucky if we caught any of the terrorists on camera. And hopefully the cameras weren’t tampered with or destroyed.”
Maggie knew Wurth had been awarded his position in Homeland Security for his work investigating the fraud and failures of the federal government after Hurricane Katrina. He had a reputation for pushing the envelope and getting things done. Compared to his FBI counterpart and the senior senator, Wurth would be the one least worried about political correctness or organizational protocol.
Ironic, Maggie thought as she watched the small, wiry black man. Ironic and refreshing to meet someone who didn’t premeasure his actions to limit his accountability. In other words, it was refreshing to meet someone in this business whose number one concern wasn’t covering his own ass.
Kunze dug a file folder from a bulging leather satchel and handed it to Maggie.
She glanced at the three men as she started to sift through the contents. Each man watched her with different looks that telegraphed their different agendas—looks and agendas as different as were the men.
Maggie guessed Wurth somewhere around her age, middle thirties with a small but athletic frame. He shed his sport jacket as soon as they boarded and rolled up the sleeves of his oxford shirt, a pale pink shirt with a bright red necktie. She immediately liked Wurth who didn’t seem to care about putting on airs or hiding his working-class past. He sat on the edge of his chair, nervous energy tapping out with his foot.
In contrast Senator Foster’s tall, lanky body lounged back in his chair with legs crossed at the ankles and extending well beyond his personal space. His elbows braced up on the chair arms, hands together creating a steeple of fingers that held up his head and seemed to point out the deep cleft at the bottom of his chin. He reminded Maggie of an academic professor, thoughtful, slow to speak as if he truly were pondering every answer before he responded.
Assistant Director Kunze was physically a direct opposite of both Wurth and Foster. Square head on massive shoulders, Kunze looked more like a
“They warned us,” Senator Foster said for a second time.
“We’ll know soon enough if this was the work of any organized group or simply one madman.” A.D. Kunze looked to Maggie and nodded like it was some secret signal to back him up. “Our Special Agent O’Dell should be able to tell us exactly who to look for as soon as she sees those videotapes.”
Instead of agreeing or offering any assurance, Maggie asked the senator, “What exactly were the warnings?”
“We haven’t substantiated or authenticated them yet,” Kunze answered for the senator. “But I’m certain once we get a look at the terrorists—on the security cameras and from eyewitness reports—we’ll be able to determine if the warnings provide an appropriate template.”
Maggie found herself staring at Kunze. Did he always talk like this? As if surrounded by TV cameras and reporters?
“I’m just curious,” she said and shrugged as though it didn’t matter whether or not they shared. “Warnings and threats often reveal more than intended.”
Senator Foster met her eyes and nodded, “That’s very true.” Then as if to squelch any protests, he added, “And the warnings are all we have right now.”
“You said security had video,” Kunze tossed at Wurth, again reminding Maggie of a politician looking to already place blame if need be.
“Yes, they should have video,” Wurth said with a calm that made Kunze’s bulging vein in his forehead look manic.
“But you know how retail security is. They’re more concerned about shoplifting than bombs. We’ll be lucky if we caught any of the terrorists on camera. And hopefully the cameras weren’t tampered with or destroyed.”
Maggie knew Wurth had been awarded his position in Homeland Security for his work investigating the fraud and failures of the federal government after Hurricane Katrina. He had a reputation for pushing the envelope and getting things done. Compared to his FBI counterpart and the senior senator, Wurth would be the one least worried about political correctness or organizational protocol.
Ironic, Maggie thought as she watched the small, wiry black man. Ironic and refreshing to meet someone who didn’t premeasure his actions to limit his accountability. In other words, it was refreshing to meet someone in this business whose number one concern wasn’t covering his own ass.
Kunze dug a file folder from a bulging leather satchel and handed it to Maggie.
She glanced at the three men as she started to sift through the contents. Each man watched her with different looks that telegraphed their different agendas—looks and agendas as different as were the men.
Maggie guessed Wurth somewhere around her age, middle thirties with a small but athletic frame. He shed his sport jacket as soon as they boarded and rolled up the sleeves of his oxford shirt, a pale pink shirt with a bright red necktie. She immediately liked Wurth who didn’t seem to care about putting on airs or hiding his working-class past. He sat on the edge of his chair, nervous energy tapping out with his foot.
In contrast Senator Foster’s tall, lanky body lounged back in his chair with legs crossed at the ankles and extending well beyond his personal space. His elbows braced up on the chair arms, hands together creating a steeple of fingers that held up his head and seemed to point out the deep cleft at the bottom of his chin. He reminded Maggie of an academic professor, thoughtful, slow to speak as if he truly were pondering every answer before he responded.
Assistant Director Kunze was physically a direct opposite of both Wurth and Foster. Square head on massive shoulders, Kunze looked more like a
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