Page 13 of Denied Access
“Yeah,” Joe said, standing to one side so David could climb down from his perch on the toilet. “They put bombs in toy trucks, dolls, teddy bears, you name it. Thousands of Afghan kids were maimed or killed.”
“Animals,” David said, reaching to brush a stray hair from his face.
Joe grabbed his partner’s wrist. “Don’t fucking move.”
“What?”
Rather than answer, Joe snared the thin filament draped across David’s forehead between his thumb and forefinger. Lifting the wire from his face, Joe gently followed it back to the cubby. The filament was attached to the bomb.
“Think I found the trigger,” Joe said.
Like watching a match flare to life, Joe could tell the exact moment his companion made the connection. The thespian’s emotions flitted across his face, changing from irritation to confusion to the final stop—terror. David’s mouth opened, and his eyes widened. For a blissful moment the operator was silent.
Then he began to speak.
“If we are mark’d to die, we are to do our country loss—”
“Cut that out,” Joe said as he gently settled the filament back into the cubby.
“You kidding me? I almost got a face full of roofing nails. I think I’m entitled to a little Shakespeare therapy.This story shall the good man teach his son—”
“If you don’t stop, I’m going to rip out your tongue.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll use my inside voice. Is that a trip wire?”
Joe wondered the same thing. Hopping up on the toilet, he examined the cubby’s interior, looking for the tamper mechanism. Obviously, the bomb wasn’t rigged to blow if the wire went limp or else David would now be reciting his favorite play face-to-face with its author. His gaze tracked to the cupboard door. Then he understood. “Here,” Joe said, pointing at a divot in the wood. “This is where the filament was attached.”
His partner clambered onto the toilet next to him. “How do you know?”
“How many times have you seen a nail or tack embedded on the inside of a cupboard door? Whoever set the bomb must have secured the wire to something they pinned to the wood. Did you open the door fast or slow?”
“Slow.”
“Why?”
David shrugged. “I was afraid the hinges would squeak, and I didn’t want everyone in the bar to know I was looking for toilet paper.”
Joe began to chuckle.
“What?” David said.
“Sorry,” Joe said, his chuckle progressing to a full-fledged laugh. “Just trying to wrap my head around the idea that your prudishness is the only reason I’m not a human pincushion.”
David pointed to the toilet paper holder. “It was empty.”
“Because whoever planted the bomb wanted the next person in here to yank open the cupboard door,” Joe said. That sobering thought put a damper on his humor. “They didn’t have a specific target. Anyone who used the toilet would have been fair game.”
“Like the Russians in Afghanistan.”
“Yeah,” Joe said, his mind replaying the earlier argument between the two groups of men. “Were you able to understand what they were yelling about?”
“A bit. The folks seated at the table were ethnic Russian Latvians like most of the people who live in Daugavpils. The pair who got their asses beat were probably members of a Latvian nationalist militia. Some offshoot of the Popular Front of Latvia I’d guess.”
“The what?”
David rolled his eyes. “Did you readanypart of the briefing book?”
“I just saved your life. Maybe dispense with the smart-ass comments.”
