Not far off they heard a computer printer. An agent brought Morrow several articles from New York newspapers about the heist in Ramapo and Rytter’s arrest. Morrow scanned the articles and placed them before Upshaw.
“Interesting you would have these on your computer, Raife.” Morrow scratched his chin. “I’m sure we’ll find all kinds of enlightening evidence once our cyberpeople take it apart, along with every aspect of your life.”
Upshaw said nothing.
He never asked for a lawyer, he barely reacted. For nearly two hours Morrow carried on what amounted to a monologue.
Then Upshaw said, “I want immunity.”
“We’ll need your information to determine if that is even possible.”
“I want immunity.”
“Give us the information and we’ll raise immunity with the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”
“I had no part in the heist.”
“And you can prove this?”
“I will prove I was in California when it happened.”
“Did you plot it?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to us, Raife.”
“I had no part in it.”
“Gina Saldino says otherwise.”
“Gina who? Never heard of her.”
“She sent you schedules and routes for American Centurion.”
Upshaw shook his head.
“You have a post office box in San Francisco.”
“That’s not against the law.”
“She mailed you information about routes and schedules. Who did you give the routes to, Raife?”
“That never happened.”
“Who are the players?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t take me in circles, Raife.”
“I don’t know.”
“That isn’t much of a case for immunity, Raife. We are going to go through your phone records, computer records, bank records, everything in your life that touches you. Your balls are in a vise and I’m going to tighten it. You’re going to hear them pop, Raife.”
“All I did was secure a self-storage locker. I don’t know why or for whom. A friend of a friend asked me to do a favor—that’s it.”
“Where? Where is this locker?”
“In Daly City, JBD Mini-Storage, unit ninety.”
For the next thirty minutes Morrow tried to extract more information from Upshaw.
It was futile.
The FBI took Upshaw into custody and released his wife and daughter.
“We’ll see how your information plays out, Raife.”
Investigators then moved swiftly to obtain and execute warrants on JBD Mini-Storage, unit ninety, where they seized a cache of motorcycles, M9 Beretta pistols, M4 carbines, clothing, wiring, hardware. When they found the C4, they called the bomb squad.
The storage facility’s security camera provided images of four men and a California license plate of a van backed to the unit. The plate showed the van was rented at San Francisco International Airport by a Devon Farrell of Toronto. The Ontario driver’s license copied at the rental agency for Devon Farrell was counterfeit. Further checks showed a Devon Farrell was a guest at the Hyatt Regency San Francisco on the Embarcadero waterfront.
“That’s across the street from the Federal Reserve Bank,” Morrow said as his squad headed to the hotel. “What are the odds they were setting up to hit one of the trucks there?”
Unlike with Upshaw, the FBI needed to make a swift low-key takedown without SWAT. Showing warrants and badges got the attention and cooperation of the hotel’s management who let Morrow and several agents wait in Farrell’s room. Two SFPD detectives were strategically positioned down the hall. They’d waited about two hours when Morrow got a heads-up over his radio seconds before the locked clicked.
In a heartbeat, two agents seized Farrell, got him to the floor, handcuffed him then positioned him on the king-size bed.
Morrow held up his FBI ID and proceeded to read Farrell his rights.
“You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…”
Farrell didn’t speak as his fingerprints were rolled on the window of a portable scanner and processed.
“Tell us about that tattoo around your wrist.” Morrow held up a copy of the sketch from Lisa Palmer’s description. “Looks just like this one.”
Farrell said nothing while agents searched his room. It didn’t take long before the prints confirmed Farrell was Lee Mitchell Dillon; age, twenty-six, of Toronto, Ontario, Canada.
The Royal Canadian Mounted Police provided more background on Dillon. “What a surprise,” Morrow said, reading the information on his phone. “You’ve seen action in Afghanistan with the Canadian Forces Joint Task Force 2. I bet you know Erik Rytter. Things didn’t end well for him.”
Dillon said nothing.
“Where are your other friends, Lee?” Morrow asked. “Are they in this hotel?”
Morrow’s attention moved from Dillon to the hotel phone-message pad an agent held up between the fingers of his latex-gloved right hand. Morrow stepped closer, reading notations beside the names Unger, Ian and Ivan.
“Would these be the room numbers of your friends, Lee?”
Morrow raised his walkie-talkie.
The cable car for the California Street line stopped in front of the Hyatt.
As Ivan Felk walked around it toward the hotel’s entrance, he grew concerned. Among the taxis, shuttles and parked cars in the circular driveway were four sedans that bore rear dash-mounted emergency lights—the hallmark of unmarked police cars.
The lights weren’t activated, no one was in the cars, but muted police cross talk spilled from the open windows. Felk tried to decipher the coded chatter without being obvious, but the radios were too low.
Wary, he entered the hotel, reviewing the team’s last steps for risk factors. They’d drilled in the morning, rechecked the armored-car route then met at the Plaza across from the Ferry Building to go over the mission again. Then they parted, intending to meet up at the hotel bar about now.
The guys should be in their rooms, or arriving, Felk thought as the escalator delivered him to the mammoth lobby. He looked for any connection to the units out front but saw nothing at the registration desk, nothing at the reception area and nothing by the bar.
Felk joined the throng of tourists waiting at the elevators. Judging by the accents of the conversations, they were likely a charter group from Europe. The chime sounded, doors opened and he squeezed into the next elevator car.
Most of the people joining him inside were silver- and white-haired travelers, excited at having just returned from Napa. Except for the man in front to his left, who was subdued. He was about Felk’s age, the same height with a solid build and an earpiece in his right ear. Felk figured him for a tourist on an audio-guided walking tour, but after deeper assessment of the man’s haircut, his jacket with an ever-so-small bulge consistent with a shoulder holster, Felk pegged him for what he was.
A cop.
