The Kremlin Phoenix by Stephen Renneberg Read Free Book Online

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explosive. That’s why there’s not much left of the bomb. I’m hoping we can
scrape up enough residue for a chemical analysis, but if not, we’ve still got
that chip. It’s a very interesting chip, considering it’s not one of ours.”
    “Ours?”
    “It’s not available in North
America. From the metallurgy, I’ve identified some of the compounds used in its
manufacture. I’m still trying to get a match, but I suspect the entire bomb was
smuggled into the country.”
    Harriman looked at the sliver of
metal with renewed interest. “From where?”
    Chaing winced uncertainly. “I’m
still trying to work that out. It’s custom made.”
    “Is it a terrorist device?”
    “No, terrorists don’t make bombs
that sophisticated.”
    Harriman handed the plastic
envelope back to Chaing, who slipped it into his pocket. “Let me know if you
find out where it came from.”
    “I know someone who does a little
metallurgy for the intelligence community. I’ll ask him to look at it, off the
record.”
    Harriman nodded. “OK, but keep it
quiet.”
    Chaing got up to leave. “You know
Rick, even McCormack’s gold fillings melted. Can you believe it?” Chaing walked
off toward the exit.
    Once the doctor had left, Woods swiveled
his chair towards Harriman. “I checked Goldstein’s calls for the week before
his death. Two calls were made to him on Monday from an abandoned warehouse.”
    “Abandoned?” Harriman said
thoughtfully. “It’s worth a look. Get a warrant, and a couple of black and
whites – just in case.”
     
    * * * *
     
    Harriman’s unmarked car rolled quietly
down the back street, followed by two squad cars. There were no flashing
lights, no sirens, no screeching tires as they pulled up in front of a dilapidated
warehouse near the East River. The name of the company that had once owned the
building had been painted over. The few windows high above the street were
smashed and the roller door was splashed with graffiti, while the front door
was secured by a shiny new, heavy duty padlock.
    The cars parked in front. Harriman
sent two uniformed officers to cover the rear while he, Woods and two more
uniformed officers approached the front door. An officer carrying a sledge
hammer took out the padlock on the front door, then Harriman led the charge
inside, guns drawn.
    Four paces through the doorway,
Harriman relaxed, convinced the warehouse was empty. Dust and cobwebs shrouded
the interior, except for a single wooden chair beside a telephone in the middle
of the floor and a heavy concrete road barrier placed parallel to the rear wall.
A thin black cable snaked its way from the telephone across the floor to the
wall, skirting a small oil patch in front of the roller door, where tire marks
and shoeprints marked the dust.
    Harriman holstered his pistol,
studying the interior while Woods waved to a forensic specialist waiting
outside.
    “Dust the phone and the chair for
prints,” Woods said.
    Harriman skirted the oil patch
and examined the roller door’s tracks. They were not covered in dust from lack
of use, but glistened with grease. “Don’t touch anything!” he shouted, then turned
to Woods who was inspecting the telephone. “Get the front door fixed. I want
the same type of padlock on it. Once the padlock is on, drive a screw into it
so it can’t be used. Whoever’s using this place won’t know his key doesn’t
work. And put more graffiti on the door. Make the damage look like vandalism,
not police.”
    “You think the perp’s coming back?”
Woods asked.
    “Maybe.”
    Harriman approached the door, gauging
how severe the damage was. The padlock had taken most of the force of the impact.
Once it was replaced, the ruse had a chance. He stepped outside to study the
street. On the other side of the road were several cars parked in front of a
row of rundown buildings they could use to watch the warehouse.
    Woods came outside. “Look at
this,” he said, holding up an empty cartridge box. The