Triple Threat by Jeffery Deaver Page B

she told the other agents. “There’re going to be a lot of people who’d like to take things into their own hands.”
    The area was largely deserted. But just then Dan Simmons, the blogger who’d pestered Dance earlier, the Jude Law lookalike, peered around the edge of the building as if he’d been checking every few minutes to see if they’d make a run for it this way. Simmons hurried toward them, along with his unwashed cameraman.
    Dance ignored him.
    Simmons asked, “Agent Dance, could you comment on the failure of law enforcement to stop the bombing in time?”
    She said nothing and kept ushering Keplar toward the van.
    “Do you think this will be the end of your career?”
    Silence.
    “Wayne, do you have anything to say?” the blog reporter asked.
    Eyes on the camera lens, Keplar called, “It’s about time the government started listening to people like Osmond Carter. This never would have happened if he hadn’t been illegally arrested!”
    “Wayne, what do you have to say about killing innocent victims?”
    “Sacrifices have to be made,” he called.
    Simmons called, “But why these particular victims? What’s the message you’re trying to send?”
    “That maybe bankers shouldn’t be throwing themselves fancy holiday parties with the money they’ve stolen from the working folk of this country. The financial industry’s been raping citizens for years. They claim—”
    “Okay, hold it,” Dance snapped to the agents flanking Keplar, who literally jerked him to a stop.
    Dance was pulling out a walkie-talkie. “Michael, it’s Kathryn, you read me?”
    “Four by four. We’ve got six choppers and the entire peninsula com network standing by. You’re patched in to all emergency frequencies. What do you have?”
    “The target’s a party—Christmas, I’d guess—involving bankers, or savings and loan people, bank regulators, something like that. It
is
a bomb and it’s under the stage in that room you texted me about.”
    Wayne Keplar stared at her, awash in confusion.
    A half dozen voices shot from her radio, variations of “
Roger… Copy that… Checking motels with banquet rooms in the target zone, south of Moss Landing… Contacting all banks in the target zone.
”
    “What is this?” Keplar raged.
    Everyone ignored him.
    A long several minutes passed, Dance standing motionless, head down, listening to the intersecting voices through the radio. And then: “This is Major Rodriguez, CHP. We’ve got it! Central Coast Bankers’ Association, annual Christmas party, Monterey Bay Seaside Motel. They’re evacuating now.”
    Wayne Keplar’s eyes grew wide as he stared at Dance. “But the bomb…” He glanced at Dance’s wrist and those of the other officers. They’d all removed their watches, so Keplar couldn’t see the real time. He turned to an agent and snapped, “What the hell time is it?”
    “About ten to four,” replied Dan Simmons, the reporter.
    He blurted to Dance, “The clock? In the interrogation room?”
    “Oh,” she said, guiding him to the prisoner transport van. “It was fast.”
    # # #
    A half hour later Michael O’Neil arrived from the motel where the bankers’ party had been interrupted.
    He explained that everyone got out safely, but there’d been no time to try to render the device safe. The explosion was quite impressive. The material was probably Semtex, Abbott Calderman had guessed, judging from the smell. The Forensic Services head explained to O’Neil that it was the only explosive ever to have its own FAQ on the Internet, which answered questions like: Was it named after an idyllic, pastoral village? (yes). Was it mass produced and shipped throughout the world, as the late President Vaclav Havel claimed? (no). And was Semtex the means by which its inventor committed suicide? (not exactly—yes, an employee at the plant did blow himself up intentionally, but he had not been one of the inventors).
    Dance smiled as O’Neil recounted this trivia.
    Steve