FORTY

The owner of the hardware and mining-supply store in West Virginia was gingerly holding onto the box of explosives. He set it down cautiously on the counter. Then he pointed to the contents, so his customer could look inside.

The customer standing in front of him was a man in a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. He was wearing blue jeans and boots.

The jeans looked new.

He didn’t recognize the customer.

“Which mining operation did you say you are working at?”

“Wyler Coal,” Atta Zimler said, concocting the name instantly and doing a good imitation of a slow drawl. “It’s a small mine. It’s family owned. Just opened up.”

“Okay,” the hardware man said. “So anyway, these are the solid-pack Bridgewater-type blasting caps. They detonate from an electric spark…”

“Good,” Zimler said. “That’s what I’m looking for.”

“What are you using as your primary explosive?”

Zimler grinned. He had no intention of telling him the truth. His primary was military grade plastic explosives he had already obtained on the black market for a pretty penny at a drop spot outside of Pittsburgh. All he needed now was a detonator. Blasting caps set off by an electric charge would be perfect. He had already purchased the remote switches from an electronics shop. Rigging those up with cell phones to send the charge would be child’s play for him.

“Primary explosives?” Zimler replied. “Oh, the usual. Now these caps, they won’t detonate by accident with static electricity in the air, right?”

“Nope.”

“Stray cell phone signals, that kind of thing won’t do it?”

“No. You have to send the electric charge directly to the cap for it to blow.”

“Good,” Zimler said. “My attitude is, when you blast, you want to make sure that your target gets the full force. And only when you want it to go off. Timing is everything. Right?”

Something hit the store clerk strange about the conversation, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. “Yeah, I guess so…,” he replied.

Pulling out a wad of bills, Zimler paid cash.

Before the store owner handed over the box of blasting caps, however, he grabbed a clipboard and slapped it on the counter. “We’re supposed to get this from everyone who wants explosives. Got to put your John Hancock right here…”

Zimler smiled and acted like he understood the phrase. But he hesitated for just an instant.

He looked at the clipboard and noticed the signatures on it.

“You want me to sign here?”

“That’s the general idea.”

Zimler signed a fake name. The shop owner handed over the box.

“Y’all be safe now,” he said to Zimler.

“Of course,” Zimler said as he took the bag with the box of blasting caps in it and then left the store. He had taken a long detour to pick them up, but it was worth it.

At one point in time, when Zimler had been on his way to West Virginia to secure the blasting caps, he had been going east on the Pennsylvania turnpike. That was before he had turned south toward the West Virginia border. At that precise moment Zimler was less than fifty miles away from Special Agent John Gallagher’s location.

The FBI agent was still stuck in Philadelphia before returning for New York. He had one more stop to make. But it was a crucial one. He knew he had to face Miles Zadernack at FBI headquarters. But hours before he was due at the airport, he had received a call from the Philly police detectives. Surprisingly, the lead detective was good to his word and was calling him with some additional information about their investigation into the murder of Roger French.

“Agent Gallagher, we’ve got something you might find interesting.”

“I’m all ears.”

“A video surveillance tape.”

“From where exactly?”

“Taken from the video camera in the lobby of the building where Roger French’s insurance company had their offices.”

“Oh, yeah, I do love lobby surveillance video,” Gallagher said with a bounce in his voice.

There was a pause on the other end. The detective didn’t know exactly how to respond to this wise-cracking FBI agent.

Finally he said, “Come on over. We’re in the viewing room.”

When Gallagher hung up he suddenly felt as if he was seeing the light breaking in the distance. With any luck Zimler would be ID’d on the tape. And if that happened, then Miles Zadernack would have to listen to him.

Things were looking up.