Backfire

Almost immediately, Cheney said, “Yes, yes, but I’m not there. What do you know for a fact, so I’ll know if I can add anything?”

Smart, Savich thought, pulling information from the media for a change.

Cheney punched off his cell, rejoined the group. “That was the anchor of the six-o’clock news. He told me only a corner suite on the sixth floor of the Fairmont was badly damaged. Naturally, he had no idea it was Xu’s suite. I didn’t tell him I already knew from my own people it was completely gutted, a lot of smoke and water damage on that whole floor, but he did tell me the fire’s out.

“The anchor wanted to know if a terrorist was holed up in the Fairmont and if he managed to shoot the FBI agent in the street. He wondered if the FBI had bombed the suite to get the terrorist to come out.”

Cheney grinned at them. “Where do they get this stuff? Like the FBI carries grenades around with them in their holsters. I told him I was only now finding out anything, and to give me an hour.”

Eve asked, “What will you do when he calls back?”

“I’m going to give him our photograph of Xu to put on TV. Given the bomb was at the Fairmont, you can bet everyone will be watching the news to find out what happened, which means everyone will know what Xu looks like by tonight. If the media wants any more than that, I’ll tell them to talk to the police commissioner.”

“Many thanks,” Virginia said.

Cheney said, “Now, tell me about the bombs, Harry. Was the first one a hand grenade?”

Eve wondered how the devil Harry would know, when Cheney added, “Harry was in Special Forces before he joined the Bureau.”

Harry said, “It wasn’t a conventional grenade or some of us would be dead, Xu included. There was no shrapnel, too much boom, and too much blinding light. It was a flash-bang. We used those suckers a few times in Afghanistan, when the situation called for something debilitating but not fatal, like cleaning out an enemy nest.

“Flash-bangs are powerful, they’re effective, and they’re pretty small. I’ll bet Xu carried one around in his pocket, in case he ever found himself in trouble.

“I’m thinking he must have suspected something wasn’t right when he got to his room at the Fairmont; maybe our agent in the hall spooked him. Anyway, he must have had the canister in his hand when he opened the door to the suite. He threw it at us, and there was a deafening noise and a blinding light. I knew what it was, but that didn’t stop my ears from buzzing or help me see any quicker, and, of course, it hurt.

“There was instant fire everywhere, walls of it, and that was Xu’s doing, too. Flash-bangs make a great incendiary device if you wrap them in an accelerant, like Sterno in a Ziploc bag, and duct-tape the bag to the canister. It would make the canister that much bigger, but not too big to carry in a jacket pocket. The Sterno ignites and gets blasted in all directions. It’s a potent weapon.

“Since Xu knew what was coming, he had a second to turn away, prepare himself. We didn’t, but we did manage to fire through the flames even though we couldn’t see anything. Luckily, one of us hit him.”

Nurse Blankenship returned and nodded to Savich. “Agent Savich, your wife will be going to CT now, before she’s admitted to her room. You can go with her. She’ll be out in a second.”

“There she is,” Eve said.

Sherlock was lying on a gurney, a white sheet pulled up to her neck, what looked to be rolls of cotton bandage wrapped around her head. There were streaks of blood at its edge, probably from her hair. She looked pale. “Give us a moment,” Savich said to the orderly and nurse.

He slipped her hand out from under the sheet and squeezed it. “Sweetheart, are you awake?”

She whispered, “Yes. I was only resting my eyes.” She looked around at everyone. “All of you guys are here? Hey, is this some kind of party? Is it my birthday?”

Savich knew she was trying to make a joke but was too woozy to pull if off. He said, “Yes, it’s a party, and you’re the guest of honor. After you get this dinky head scan to make sure your brains are in good working order, we’re going to cut you a slice of your birthday cake.”

Her eyes dropped to half-mast, her voice faded, but Savich, who knew her as well as he knew himself, heard the whisper of humor when she said, “I sure hope it’s carrot cake.”

“Yes,” Eve said, “with butter-pecan ice cream.”

Savich leaned close. “After the scan, the doctors want you to camp out here for a couple of days. Is that okay with you?”