presumably changes the plan on him. Second, we have Arthur Lieberman on
the same flight.” Sawyer glanced at Jackson.
“The man went to L.A. every month, like clockwork, same airline, same
flight each month, right?”
Jackson, eyes narrowed to slits, nodded slowly. Each agent was
unconsciously leaning forward as they followed Sawyer’s logic.
“So the odds of the guy being on the flight by accident are so high it’s
not worth debating. Looking at it cold, Lieberman had to be the target,
unless we’re missing something really big. Now put the two pieces
together. Initially, our bombers may have tried to make it look like an
accident. Then the fueler ends up dead. “Why?” Sawyer looked sharply
around the room.
David Long finally spoke up. “Couldn’t risk it. Maybe the chances are
it goes down like an accident, and maybe not. They can’t wait around
until the papers report it one way or another. They have to take the
guy out right away. Besides, if the original plan was to have the guy
take a hike, him not showing for work would raise suspicion.
Even if we didn’t think sabotage, the guy skipping town would sure as
hell turn us in that direction.”
“Agreed,” Sawyer replied. “But if you want the trail to end there, why
not make it look like the fueler’s some fanatical zealot? Put a bullet
into his temple, leave the gun and some BS suicide note behind filled
with I-hate-America language and let us think the guy’s a loner. You
fill him full of holes, leave behind evidence pointing to the guy
getting ready to run, now we know there are others involved.
Why the hell bring yourself that kind of trouble?” Sawyer rubbed his
chin.
The other agents leaned back in their chairs, looking confused.
Sawyer finally looked at Jackson. “Any word from the ME on our dead
guy?”
“They promised a top priority. We’ll know soon.”
“Anything else turn up at the guy’s apartment?”
“One thing that didn’t turn up, Lee.”
Sawyer flashed a knowing look. “No I.D. docs.”
“Yep,” Jackson said. “Guy getting ready to hit the road after blowing
up a plane will not be running as himself. Way this was probably
planned out, he had to have phony docs, good phony docs ready.”
“True, Ray, but he could’ve had them stashed someplace else.”
“Or whoever killed him might’ve taken them too,” Barracks ventured.
“No argument there,” Sawyer said.
On those words the door to the SIOC opened and through it stepped Marsha
Reid. Petite and motherly looking, with salt and pepper hair cut short
and glasses riding on a chain over her black dress, she was one of the
bureau’s top fingerprint personnel. Reid had tracked down some of the
worst criminals on the planet through the esoteric world of arches,
loops and whorls.
Marsha nodded to the other agents in the room and then sat down and
opened the file she had carried in.
“AFIS results, hot off the presses,” she said, her tone businesslike but
laced with a touch of humor. “Robert Sinclair was actually Joseph
Philip Riker, currently wanted in Texas and Arkansas on murder and
related weapons charges. His arrest sheet is three pages long. His
first arrest was for armed robbery at age sixteen. His last was for
second-degree murder. He served seven years. Was released five years
ago. Since then he’s been implicated in numerous crimes, including two
murders-for-hire. An extremely dangerous man. His trail went cold
about eighteen months ago. Not a peep from him since. Until now.”
Every agent at the table looked stunned.
“How does a guy like that get a job fueling planes?” Sawyer’s tone was
incredulous.
Jackson answered the query. “I spoke with representatives from Vector.
They’re a reputable company. Sinclair–or, rather, Riker had been with
them only about a month. He had excellent credentials.
Worked at several aircraft fueling companies in the Northwest and in
southern California. They did a background check on him, under the name
Sinclair, of course. Everything came out okay. They were as stunned by
this as anyone else.”
“What about fingerprints? They.had to check his fingerprints.
That would’ve told them who the guy really was.”