talien
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Prince: Part 2 – The Briefing
Jim-Bean joined Caprice and Hammer at the St. Louis airport, but he left out the fact that he hadn’t flown to the location.
Their contact arrived in the early afternoon, FBI Special Agent in Charge for St. Louis, Louis Gaston. Gaston was a fortyish, graying African-American, with a closely trimmed mustache, a very mild Creole accent, and the demeanor of a man who hadn’t slept for three days.
“I’m your escort for this evening’s opera,” said Gaston with a smirk.
Flanked by two burly agents in trench coats, Gaston ushered the three agents into a stretch limo.
“We’re going to the home of Larry Daniels, a retired U.S. Air Force colonel and member of the board of directors of McConnell-Bayless. The mansion is located near the University City district on the west side of St. Louis. Last night, at about one in the morning, there was an explosion in the Daniels’ mansion. Six hour sago, the forensics team announced that they were stumped. According to all the laws of physics, this explosion was impossible. It defies all logic.”
“What kind of explosion?” asked Hammer.
“Apparently there was a sex and drugs party in progress at the time of the explosion. Nine people were killed: Larry Daniels; an upscale procurer of refreshments and entertainers named Neal Beagley; St. Luis City Commissioner Stanley Cable; and six assorted party-girls. Daniels’ servants survived because they were in another wing of the house. Guess they weren’t invited.”
“So there were no survivors who were at the party?” asked Caprice.
“There’s one.”
“Can we talk to him?” asked Jim-Bean.
“That’s a little problematic,” said Gaston. “It’s Antony DiTorrio, Democratic Senator from Missouri and Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. He suffered a broken arm and is currently under close guard at St. Louis General Hospital.” He handed Hammer a file on Senator DiTorrio, everything they could collect in the last twelve hours.
Hammer flipped through the folder and then passed it around to his companions. The photo showed DiTorrio to be a slim, wiry man, a bit jowly, with dyed brown hair.
“DiTorrio is a fifty-eight year-old native of St. Louis. He’s been in Congress for twenty years.”
“Is he clean?” asked Jim-Bean.
“Near as we can tell, yes. Since his quiet and generous divorce settlement, he’s developed a serious interest in party girls.”
“Any kids?”
Gaston shook his head and handed another file. “Here’s Daniels’ file. Daniels had an exemplary career as a USAF administrator. He graduated from the Air Force Academy, but bad eyesight kept him from becoming a pilot. Worked in administration and procurement at the Pentagon, sometimes for us.” Us, of course, meant Majestic. “He was expected to rise even higher than the rank of colonel, but at the close of his twenty-year hitch, he took a high-paying job with McConnell-Bayless.”
“Did he share any of his experience with McConnell-Bayless?” asked Hammer.
“Daniels might have been responsible for brokering arms deals during the Iran-Contra affair, but there was so little evidence that the Justice Department never pursued it.”
Gaston leaned forward. “We’re considering this a terrorist bombing. The problem is that the forensics people have found nothing to suggest there was any explosive used. No residue of nitrates or other explosive has been discovered, and no fragments from anything resembling a bomb, timer, or detonating device can be found. Even weirder, the structural damage to Daniels’ mansion does not match any known combustion or blast pattern.”
“I don’t understand why we’re involved,” said Caprice, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, this is standard terrorist stuff. Even if it’s some kind of weird explosion, there’s plenty of other teams that could handle this.”
Gaston smiled. “You don’t get it, mon ami. But you will when you see the site. It’s easier to show you than to explain.”
Jim-Bean joined Caprice and Hammer at the St. Louis airport, but he left out the fact that he hadn’t flown to the location.
Their contact arrived in the early afternoon, FBI Special Agent in Charge for St. Louis, Louis Gaston. Gaston was a fortyish, graying African-American, with a closely trimmed mustache, a very mild Creole accent, and the demeanor of a man who hadn’t slept for three days.
“I’m your escort for this evening’s opera,” said Gaston with a smirk.
Flanked by two burly agents in trench coats, Gaston ushered the three agents into a stretch limo.
“We’re going to the home of Larry Daniels, a retired U.S. Air Force colonel and member of the board of directors of McConnell-Bayless. The mansion is located near the University City district on the west side of St. Louis. Last night, at about one in the morning, there was an explosion in the Daniels’ mansion. Six hour sago, the forensics team announced that they were stumped. According to all the laws of physics, this explosion was impossible. It defies all logic.”
“What kind of explosion?” asked Hammer.
“Apparently there was a sex and drugs party in progress at the time of the explosion. Nine people were killed: Larry Daniels; an upscale procurer of refreshments and entertainers named Neal Beagley; St. Luis City Commissioner Stanley Cable; and six assorted party-girls. Daniels’ servants survived because they were in another wing of the house. Guess they weren’t invited.”
“So there were no survivors who were at the party?” asked Caprice.
“There’s one.”
“Can we talk to him?” asked Jim-Bean.
“That’s a little problematic,” said Gaston. “It’s Antony DiTorrio, Democratic Senator from Missouri and Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. He suffered a broken arm and is currently under close guard at St. Louis General Hospital.” He handed Hammer a file on Senator DiTorrio, everything they could collect in the last twelve hours.
Hammer flipped through the folder and then passed it around to his companions. The photo showed DiTorrio to be a slim, wiry man, a bit jowly, with dyed brown hair.
“DiTorrio is a fifty-eight year-old native of St. Louis. He’s been in Congress for twenty years.”
“Is he clean?” asked Jim-Bean.
“Near as we can tell, yes. Since his quiet and generous divorce settlement, he’s developed a serious interest in party girls.”
“Any kids?”
Gaston shook his head and handed another file. “Here’s Daniels’ file. Daniels had an exemplary career as a USAF administrator. He graduated from the Air Force Academy, but bad eyesight kept him from becoming a pilot. Worked in administration and procurement at the Pentagon, sometimes for us.” Us, of course, meant Majestic. “He was expected to rise even higher than the rank of colonel, but at the close of his twenty-year hitch, he took a high-paying job with McConnell-Bayless.”
“Did he share any of his experience with McConnell-Bayless?” asked Hammer.
“Daniels might have been responsible for brokering arms deals during the Iran-Contra affair, but there was so little evidence that the Justice Department never pursued it.”
Gaston leaned forward. “We’re considering this a terrorist bombing. The problem is that the forensics people have found nothing to suggest there was any explosive used. No residue of nitrates or other explosive has been discovered, and no fragments from anything resembling a bomb, timer, or detonating device can be found. Even weirder, the structural damage to Daniels’ mansion does not match any known combustion or blast pattern.”
“I don’t understand why we’re involved,” said Caprice, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, this is standard terrorist stuff. Even if it’s some kind of weird explosion, there’s plenty of other teams that could handle this.”
Gaston smiled. “You don’t get it, mon ami. But you will when you see the site. It’s easier to show you than to explain.”
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