KOSOVO

CHAPTER Seven

Alex Ripper hated Washington. There were more reporters per square inch in Washington than any other place on the planet, and it looked like the lion's share of them were surrounding the warehouse as he approached. Sergeant Mike Powers, DCPD, met him at the door. "Damn close, this one," Mike said as they walked inside.

"Who was first in?" Ripper asked.

"I was, Rip. I was just leaving the courthouse when I heard the blast. I ran across the parking lot and came in just as Bartle was coming through the warehouse door there. He's the one who found the old guy - Hampton."

"Anyone else been in here?" Ripper asked as he approached the inspection bay.

He glanced to his left and noticed a shoe near the wall. A large metal desk sat on its side, the corner sticking into the next room where it was thrown through the wall.

"Just me and Bartle, Hampton's assistant. We were waiting for the medics - and you."

"Who called the ambulance?"

"I did. The kid was more shook up than injured - he'd been in the back stocking the shelves. One look at Hampton says he's not going anywhere, or if he is, he's already there."

"Thanks, Mike. Can we get a couple of guys to keep the vultures back?"

"Happening as we speak. Anything else?"

"Not yet. Let's meet Mr. Hampton."

b c b

"News desk," the voice said in his ear. "How can I help you?"

"The People for Free Yugoslavia will take no more. Your corrupt government bombs our land and offers lies to make up for it," said Ivan breathlessly, not giving them a chance to trace the call. "More people will die in Washington until Yugoslavia is free! There are more bombs!" With this, Ivan slammed down the phone, breathing hard. He stood, staring again at the wall, and shivered.

Tom Scully sat at his desk with a blank expression on his face, holding the phone to his ear.

"What's up, Tom?" asked Sam Granger, his editor. "Obscene phone call?"

"I don't know if it was a crank or what, Sam, but this guy just said more people will die in Washington unless we free Yugoslavia. Anything on the wire about people dying in Washington?"

"No," Sam said dryly. "Better check National."

Tom punched a button on his phone and listened.

"Marty."

"Hey Marty, this is Tom Scully over in foreign affairs. Just got a strange call about people dying in Washington. You heard anything?"

"No, but that's not unusual. Let me check it out and I'll get back to you."

"Thanks, Marty," Tom said as he punched another button on his phone.

"Carol, Tom. Get me Bill Meskil at the Post. Thanks."

"Keep me posted, Tom," Sam said as he turned to go; "and write down what this guy said to you while it's still fresh in your mind. You never know, it could be for real."

Tom wrote down what he remembered of the tirade, and sat reading it over.

"Mr. Scully, I have Mr. Meskil from the Post on line three," Carol's voice said over the speakerphone. Tom picked up the handset and punched the third button.

"Hey Bill, thanks for calling me back so quickly. Any news of a bomb threat or anybody important being hurt over there?" Tom waited for a response, but heard nothing. "Bill?"

"Tom," Bill said in a whisper. "We had an explosion at a warehouse here, and the fibbies are all over it. Don't know what's going on, but they've got us sealed out. First word out is a gas line rupture, but we're not buying it. What have you got?"

"I got a call ten minutes ago saying, and I quote, "more people will die in Washington. There are more bombs."

"Jeez," Bill gasped. "Any group affiliation?"

"Maybe. Who's keeping you guys quiet?"

"Ripper, FBI. Says to keep it quiet until he says otherwise."

"Well, tell him what I just told you and give him my number. If anything comes of it I'll let you know."

"Hey, Tom - your caller. Domestic or foreign?"

"Don’t know. He had an accent. How long ago was the blast?"

"Couple of hours ago. This may be the real deal, man. Nobody outside could have heard about it yet."

"Could be. Call Ripper for me, okay?"

"Right away. Keep in touch on this, okay?"

"Will do. Thanks, Bill."

b c b

Alex Ripper knelt over the remains of Walter Hampton, recently deceased shipping coordinator. Bits and pieces of several packages were strewn about the warehouse floor, all being photographed, labeled and measured in distance to where Ripper now knelt. He slowly scanned the debris for anything suspicious - bits of styrofoam, cardboard, what looked like hundreds of pages and bits of books, along with shards of glass or metal.

Being within the scope of the White House, the investigation had to go flawlessly. This one would be picked over by every department head in Washington, each with an idea that the bomb was meant for them. The President and Staff Chief Potter had already called Hawkins, the agency chief, expressing concern and pleading earnestly for action. Within 24 hours the pleas would become demands, and Ripper was already feeling the cross-hairs beginning to focus on him.

Mike Powers crouched next to Ripper. “Looks like three or four packages went with the blast, Rip – the books were probably in one, not sure about the others. Photographer’s almost done, then it’s all yours.”

“How’s the kid – Bartle?”

“Pretty shook up. Says he just brought that cart in a couple of minutes before the blast. One of your guys is with him now, out in the back.”

“Thanks, Mike. You locked this down pretty quickly – I appreciate it.”

“No problem. You know, of course, that I wouldn’t want to be you right now.”

“Yeah,” Alex said, as he stood and patted Mike’s shoulder. “Lucky me.”