Ratio: A Leopold Blake Thriller (A Private Investigator Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers) (6 page)

The President was coming to make a quick speech, something that brought the focused attention of the Secret Service. They had already been there once for inspections and background checks of convention center employees, and had just concluded their second round of sweeps, including locking and welding closed access doors to operations facilities. It made a lot of extra work, especially when another politician’s private security team was scheduled for its own security inspection. 

Rick felt the acid in his stomach and sucked down another antacid, grabbing a packet of chips from the vending machine before heading back to his desk. As he took a seat, his phone rang.

“Hey, Rick,” a voice said on the other end of the line. “We got a couple of guys here to see you. Something about inspecting the electrical system.” 

“Yeah, buzz ’em through,” Rick said, opening his chips. “I’ll meet them outside.” He  hung up and wolfed down half the packet, chewing frantically. Having already missed breakfast, lunch was looking less and less likely. 

Stepping out into the corridor, he made his way toward the service entrance, just as two men stepped through the double doors. Dressed in work clothes, heavy-looking rucksacks slung over their shoulders, the men looked Chinese, or maybe Korean. Rick could never tell the difference. They looked up as he approached.

“Hey boys,” he said with a broad smile and his hand extended. While his boss was on maternity leave, he had plans at making his presence known with upper management. If he was ever going to get the promotion he knew he truly deserved, it would be from keeping a tight ship. “Welcome to the Washington State Convention Center and First Hill Suites Hotel.”

He got head nods and iffy grins from the two men. “Yes, thank you,” one said in heavily accented English. Hell, maybe they were Japanese. 

When Rick realized he wouldn’t get a handshake he tried a different approach. “You said on the phone you want to take a look at the ventilation systems?” 

The older of the two men nodded. “You Mr. Gustafson?”

“Yeah, sorry. Meant to introduce myself. We spoke on the phone.” 

The man smiled. “Good, good. Yes, we’re here to check the ECU and wiring. We might need to do a firmware update, too.” He glanced at his younger companion. “We shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.”

“No problem, gentlemen. This way, please.” 

A few flights of stairs later, the steady droning hum of the ventilation systems was loud enough to make even simple conversation a little difficult. Rick chose not to bother, keen to get in and out as quickly as possible. They reached the lower basement, and Rick pulled out a set of heavy keys. 

“Here you go, boys,” he said, voice raised, opening the steel door. “Go on through.” 

The two men obliged. 

Rick followed behind, switching on the lights. The room was cold, a little damp, most of the space taken up by the two giant machines pumping air through the hotel and convention center next door. He pointed them out. “Since the hotel was built after the convention center, they use separate operating systems and run independently from each other.”

“No problem,” the older man said. “We can take a look.”

Rick watched as they worked with tools, setting up their gear. Some of it was familiar to him, some not. He picked a glass bottle of something from a plastic tub, but it was taken away from him just as quickly.

“You got yourselves some accents.” Rick tried to inject a bit of swagger in his voice.  Make it clear who was in charge. “Where you boys from?”

“Ah yes!” The younger service rep removed a business card from his overalls pocket and handed it over using both hands. After Rick took the card, the man pointed to the logo at the top. “LS Coventry Electrical,” he said, still with the accent.

“No, I mean what country are you from?” Rick asked, a bit louder. “What nation?”

“Oh, just a small country, no one knows it. Such a privilege to live in America,” he answered in a practiced voice.

“Yeah, yeah. Guess it is.” Rick ran his fingers through his hair, not sure what to do with himself. “You guys said you’d be an hour?”

The older man looked up. “Yes, unless we need to do an update on the ECU. That might take a little longer.” 

Rick glanced at his watch.
So much to do
. 

“You okay, boss?”

Rick frowned. “I’m not supposed to leave you down here, but I’m running late on about a dozen different things…”

“Hey, hey, say no more. We’ll clear up after. You got our number, we’re not going to make any mess. We’ll check in with you on the way out, okay?”

Rick scratched his head. “It’s against policy, but…” He checked his watch again.
To Hell with it.
“Fine. You run into any problems, call my cell.”

“No problem. We got this.” The man grinned. 

“Everything is good!” said the other. 

Rick nodded goodbye and stalked off, keen to get back to his desk. With half the nation’s press descending on the hotel, there was too much going on to waste time babysitting. 

Closing the heavy door behind him, Rick headed back up the stairs, a full stack of paperwork waiting for him.

Chapter 7

LEOPOLD WATCHED JEROME lug the heavy suitcases into the hallway, racking his brain for anything he might have forgotten. The bodyguard had packed up a case full of surveillance equipment looted from the backups he kept in the storage room, destined to meet them in Seattle when they arrived. More would be shipped direct from the supplier, Jerome had said, sent straight to the hotel for them to pick up when they checked in. 

He hadn’t left anything to chance. 

A low buzzing noise, and Leopold felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He checked the screen before answering. 

“Detective Jordan,” he said, picking up. He felt a smile cross his lips. “Let me guess; you got an ID on your victim?” 

“You could say that,” Mary replied, the signal a little fuzzy. 

“What time you want dinner?” 

“Not so fast, Blake. We got the ID, but you were off base.” 

“He wasn’t one of yours?” 

“A Fed, from the looks of it.” 

Leopold frowned. “But he was undercover, right? Sounds like a win to me.”

“Close, but no cigar,” said Mary. “My contact at the bureau couldn’t confirm anything. Based on the ballistics report, it looks like this was a close range execution. Caught him by surprise. So I guess it’s safe to say his cover got blown.” 

“Okay, so I got the wrong department,” Leopold said. “But that’s good enough, right?”

“There is no ‘good enough,’” said Mary. “There’s either right, or there’s wrong. You were wrong.” 

“Fine. So I guess that means dinner’s on me.” 

Mary laughed. “Nice try.”

“I still need your help.” 

“What else is new?” 

“Listen, I have to leave town for a few days. I’m stuck on a job I can’t get out of. I’ll officially owe you one.” 

“You’ll owe me two,” said Mary. “At least.” 

“So, that’s a ‘yes’?” 

She sighed. “What do you need?”

“I need you to look into the sale of Chemworks. Try to dig up anything that might give us a lead. You might need to approach some people direct. But don’t flash your badge; that only pisses people off.” 

“You need to let this go, Leopold.”

“I can’t let this go. Have you got any idea what kind of research could fall into the wrong hands? I need to know who’s pulling the strings. It has to be someone on the inside. There’s no other explanation. Nobody on the outside would know how to make this happen, and the only solid lead we’ve got isn’t exactly talkative.”

“Yeah, well, that’s probably because he’s dead.” 

Leopold thought back to the events in Paris. “I’m not complaining. He
was
holding a gun to my head at the time. But there had to be someone else involved; it was too much for one man to do alone.”

“You could have done it by yourself.”

“Yeah, but I run the company,” Leopold said. “And I’m not exactly going to turn chemical research secrets over to an anonymous buyer. If we’re going to stand a chance of figuring this out, I’ll need you to approach someone with ties to Chemworks.” He paused. “Your sister might be able to help. She’s got the connections.”

The line went silent for a moment. “Let’s not bring Kate into this,” Mary said, eventually. “We don’t need the grief. Especially if the WHO or CDC get wind of it. I can do this myself.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Leopold said.

“And don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing, bringing my sister into this.” 

Leopold smiled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Whatever. Just email me the details. I’ll see what I can do.”

“No problem.”

“And I changed my mind. You now owe me three.” Mary hung up. 

Leopold slipped his phone back into his pocket as Jerome emerged from the bedroom with another suitcase. 

“You ready?” Jerome asked, dumping the heavy case onto the tiled floor. “Not that you haven’t been an enormous help, but we’re going to have to haul ass if we don’t want to miss our flight.” 

Rolling his eyes, Leopold grabbed the nearest case. “And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Chapter 8

JUN-YEONG WATCHED RICK Gustafson march out of the room, leaving him and Seong-min alone with their tools. The older man stole a glance at his watch and quickly went back to work.

“The second floor won’t need ventilation for five minutes,” he said in Korean. “If I’m quick, nobody should even notice the systems are off.” He knelt down next to the system that provided air to the convention center and located the subsystem that served the second floor. Flashlight in hand, he found the master electrical panel that ran that system and shut it down. A few inches to the side, the access panel had been tack-welded closed, a label applied with a security warning.

“They’ve already been here,” he muttered, looking up at the kid. “Now what?”

Jun-yeong shrugged. “You’re the expert.”

“Remind me again why I let you tag along?” Seong-min leaned in closer. “You better know what you’re doing with the payload.” He spotted the filtration unit, a separate housing the size of a refrigerator. It hadn’t been sealed shut. Using a specialized screwdriver, he removed the access panel to the housing and slid out several particulate filters. Setting those aside, he flashed a light inside and looked toward the base. 

“Should be enough room,” he said. He flipped the lid off a large plastic work tub, carefully pulling out an electronic device, a custom-made atomizer with built-in timer.  Reaching into his rucksack, he took out a conference schedule printout. Dragging his finger down the list of events and speakers, he stopped at one particular name, double-checking the scheduled time for his speech. 

“The President is due to speak at nine on Saturday morning,” he said. “That means the security team will arrive ten minutes early, then bring him in five minutes after that once they know the area is secure. I need to set the timer for a quarter past the hour, just in case there’s a late start.”

Jun-yeong nodded. “It’s a fast-acting nerve agent. A few minutes’ exposure is all it takes.” He smiled. “And we already know Americans like the sound of their own voices. Plenty of time.” 

Setting the timer on the device, Seong-min positioned it inside the ventilation shaft. Sliding a filter tray back in, there was just enough clearance. Taking the timer  out again, he set it aside. Next, he carefully removed a small, unlabeled glass bottle from the plastic tub. He looked at the fluid inside the dark container, thinking of the phone conversation he had while planning the job.

“Is one bottle going to be enough?” he asked Jun-yeong. It was hard enough just getting that much, and Seong-min didn’t want to go back for more. Their handler had been smart, obviously not Korean, but something in his voice made Seong-min trust him. Comrades were like that, though. Dedicated to the cause, regardless of race. 

 “Just a little goes a long way,” the younger man said. “For the cubic area you’ve told me about, it should be plenty. As soon as this bottle cracks open, the fluid will dump out and turn to a gaseous vapor. That gas will get pushed up into the ventilation system of the convention center, killing everyone moments later. But just make sure it is located beyond the blowers so it can get dispersed.”