A Brewing Storm

Chapter Nine

Storm and Toppers found seats at a bar on the main floor of the Union Station terminal. She placed her cell phone in front of them so they would not miss any calls. She was jittery.

All around the bar, there was motion. Commuters rushed to catch trains. Tourists gawked at the restored rotunda, wandered from shop to shop in search of souvenirs, and snapped photographs. A homeless man begged for quarters. Neither Storm nor Toppers paid attention to the whirlwind. Their eyes were on the pink cell phone resting on the bar. They were waiting for Rihanna’s voice.

“What’s taking them so long?” Toppers complained.

It had been nearly a half hour. Something caught Storm’s attention. It was a news reporter on the flat-screen television behind the bar. Storm motioned for the bartender to turn up the volume.

“Park police do not believe the explosion was the work of terrorists,” the petite blond news reporter breathlessly announced. As the camera pulled back, viewers could see that she was standing outside the Robert E. Lee mansion. Red and blue strobe lights from emergency vehicles flashed against the house’s marble columns.

The reporter said, “Once again, this does not seem to be a terrorist attack. However, a spokesman for the National Park Service said the explosion was not the result of some natural cause, such as a garbage fire. An explosive device was put into the trash can, but it was more like a powerful Fourth of July firecracker than a bomb, the spokesman said. At this point, we don’t know why someone would want to blow up a trash can here. There’s speculation it might be part of a protest against the memory of Robert E. Lee and the Confederacy. However, no damage to Lee’s home was done. The explosion was loud and strong enough to destroy the trash can and all of the trash inside it. But there was no serious damage.”

An anchorman’s face appeared on the screen, and it looked as if he were about to make a joke when his face turned somber. “I’ve just been told there has been a second explosion in a trash receptacle,” he said. “This one in Georgetown on the C and O Canal path. There are no apparent injuries, but the blast has alarmed businesses and homeowners in the area. A bomb disposal unit is en route to the scene, and police have roped off the area and urged people to stay away from the canal path. Bomb-sniffing dogs are being sent in to search for other devices that may be hidden in trash cans by the canal.”

The anchorman paused and then said, “A third explosion has been reported. This one in a trash can at Hains Point. I repeat, this is the third confirmed report of an explosion in a trash can. We have been told that the chief of police, the National Park Service, Homeland Security, and the mayor have agreed to hold an emergency meeting, but, once again, it is not believed that this is a terrorist attack. There have been no injuries because of the explosions, which the police have stressed are more like giant firecrackers than they are bombs. The purpose of the explosions, according to one fire department official, was to make a loud noise, destroy the containers, and burn whatever was inside them-rather than to injure persons or cause property damage. One source speculated that this could be a misguided prank by someone who understands basic chemistry and simply wanted to do something to frighten this city.”

Because Battery Kemble Park was more isolated, it took a few more minutes before the fourth blast made the news. When the anchorman announced it, Toppers said aloud, “They’re destroying the money.”

The bartender and several customers gave her curious glances.

“Let’s go,” Storm said, gently taking her elbow and maneuvering her through the crowd that was now congregating around the bar’s television.

By the time that they reached the terminal’s exit, Toppers looked terrified.

“This was a mistake,” she said. “Something horrible is going to happen to Matthew. I just know it!”

Chapter Ten

Storm and Toppers went directly from Union Station to Senator Windslow’s SOB. Agent April Showers was already there. So were Senator Windslow and his distraught wife, Gloria, who was crying in her husband’s arms.

“We found Matthew Dull,” Showers said quietly.

“Is he okay? Where is he?” Toppers asked.

Then she realized why his mother was in tears. Toppers gasped and whispered, “Oh my God!” She collapsed on the floor. Storm helped her to the couch, and Gloria hurried over to hug her. The two women held each other and sobbed.

“His body was found floating in the Anacostia River,” Showers said.

“Executed?” Storm asked.

Before Showers could reply, Gloria turned on them.

“You two were supposed to keep my son alive! I trusted you!” she shrieked.

Senator Windslow stepped between his angry wife and the targets of her fury. “It would be better if you two left us alone for right now,” he said.

Both started to leave, but the senator asked Storm to stay behind for a moment. When he did, Windslow leaned in close to his ear so that neither his wife nor Toppers could hear what he was whispering.

“What the hell happened?” he asked. “I saw the news flash. Why did you let those bastards blow up my money?”

“Later, Senator,” Storm replied.

“Easy for you to say. You just didn’t have six million bucks blown to pieces.”

Agent Showers was waiting to ambush Storm in the hallway outside Windslow’s office.

“You went behind my back,” she said, her eyes ablaze. “We might have been able to save that kid if we’d worked together. The shit is going to hit the fan when the media finds out that Matthew Dull is dead.”

Continuing her tirade, she said, “You need to tell me what the hell happened after you ditched my men in that parking garage on K Street this afternoon.”

“Are you arresting me?”

He already knew the answer. Jedidiah Jones would not allow Storm to be arrested. Or interrogated. Survival of the fittest. Jones would not permit it because it would tie him and the Agency to this mess.

“Not yet,” she snapped. “But if you don’t come with me right now to headquarters and tell me what happened-I am going to recommend to my superiors that you be arrested.”

She was bluffing. He knew it.

“I’m not going with you,” Storm said quietly. “I have more important things to do.”

He wanted to tell her, but he was not yet ready. There were still a few pieces that he needed to gather.

“I hope you have a damn good lawyer,” Showers said, “because I’m going to nail your ass to the wall.”

Now she was beginning to irritate him.

“Since you mentioned it, what do you think of my ass, Agent Showers?” he asked. “Most women like it.”

For a moment, he thought she might actually slap him. Instead, she walked away enraged, her three-inch heels smacking the marble floor like a stick beating a snare drum.

Showers finally got it. She understood that he was right. She knew that she was on the bottom of the totem pole. She was in line to become the scapegoat, the fall guy, the weakest link. It wasn’t fair, but it was what would happen. What she still didn’t seem to realize was that Storm was the only person who could save her.

Chapter Eleven

The J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue was considered such an architectural eyesore after it