“What’s that?” said Snyder.

“Places out in the desert,” said Dimmick. “It’s where old planes, commercial jets, go to die. According to the intelligence file, Thorn would buy one under a fresh alias each time. Then he and the plane would disappear overseas somewhere. Scary thing is nobody knows what he did with them, whether he sold them, and if so, to whom.”

“After 9/11 you would think somebody would be watching this,” said Snyder.

“You would think,” said Dimmick. “Still, what do you do if there’s a buyer, a company with cash, and a seller who has a used plane sitting on the ground? Sooner or later he has two choices, sell it or scrap it. From what I understand, the boneyards are over-flowing with grounded planes right now, airline travel being in the pits. According to the information in the intelligence reports, Thorn was partial to four of the boneyards, three of them considered major aviation parking lots and one other smaller one. They think he may have done repeat business at these over the years. One of them is in California, at Victorville; two others are in Arizona, near Tucson; and the fourth is in New Mexico.”

Dimmick gave Snyder the details regarding names and specific addresses for these facilities and Snyder took notes.

“Apart from that, intelligence says he’s former military, but they wouldn’t tell us which country. First hired out as a mercenary to small Third World countries about twenty years ago. Somewhere along the way he turned to the dark side and started taking pay from subnational terror groups.”

“It sounds as if he and Liquida are on the same career arc,” said Snyder.

“Kinda does, doesn’t it? You want me to write it up, put it in a report?” asked Dimmick.

“No, it’s not necessary. But I would like you to do one other thing. Is there any way we can find out whether Thorn might have shown up out at any of the boneyards recently, say within the last year or so?” It was a long shot, but the fact that Thorn was bumping around in Washington and showed up in pictures with Jimmie meant that he was back in the world and up to something. There was a chance that somebody at one of the boneyards might recognize him, and if so, it could provide a lead as to what he was up to, or better yet, where he was.

“It will take shoe leather and money,” said Dimmick. “It could get expensive. We’d have to take the photographs you gave us and the pictures from the FBI’s wanted posters, when we get them, and send somebody to each of these places to ask questions. See if anyone recognizes him.”

“Don’t worry about the expense,” said Snyder. “Do it.”

“You got it,” said Dimmick.

“Thanks. Call me when you have more,” said Snyder. Then he hung up.

Snyder swiveled around in his chair to face the computer. He opened his e-mail, hit Compose, and started to type in the name Joselyn Cole. Before he got to the l in her first name, the computer produced her e-mail address. He typed “Liquida and Thorn” in the subject box, and began to unload all the information the investigator had just given him. He laid heavy emphasis on Thorn and his presumed activities at the boneyards, underlining the name of each place and their locations.

Snyder left out the fact that he had hired an investigator and told her instead that the information had been obtained from un-disclosed but highly reliable sources. This made it sound more important, the inference being that he had more than one. He told her that these sources had credible information that Liquida was involved in the attack on the naval base near San Diego a year earlier. Then Snyder mentioned that he had seen Internet news items in which Madriani’s name appeared in connection with this same event, and asked whether she knew anything about this. He wondered if this would surprise her, or if she already knew. Snyder wanted to believe that he could trust her. He desperately needed an ally, and Cole had history on Thorn.

She was also a mover and shaker with friends in high places and access to the press. For the last several days file footage of Cole coming down the steps of the Capitol and reports of her testimony before Congress had been on the airwaves. She had ignited a firestorm of debate. Snyder was impressed. He studied how she’d done it.

Joselyn had emphasized the danger of precision weapons by telling the panel that these were the dream weapons of future assassins. As far as the cold logic of the weapon was concerned, the only difference between a carload of terrorists and a room filled with elected officials was the finger on the trigger and the selection of targets. The suggestion that in time this might change was all it took. Cole pushed their button and suddenly the weapon was a threat to them.

It was an obvious point, but it wasn’t lost on Snyder. All politics is local, and nothing is more local to most politicians than saving their own asses. If Cole could do it in the halls of Congress, why couldn’t he do the same thing outside, on the streets of Washington? Hold a news conference and go public.

He had already sent letters to the Metropolitan Police in Washington about Liquida and Thorn. He’d received nothing in reply. Follow-up phone calls netted the usual response. They couldn’t discuss the investigation, talk about persons of interest, or identify suspects.

The fact that Dimmick, with his inside sources of information, was unable to confirm whether the police were actively looking for Thorn or Liquida convinced Snyder that he was getting nowhere.

Dimmick had given him plenty of information, especially on Thorn. Snyder had the photographs from the FBI showing Thorn with his son. He could blow them up into posters. That would play well on television. The fact that he could now identify Thorn by name and provide details about his background, the fact that he was a merchant of death, that he bought airplanes and was linked to terrorists and wanted by the FBI. Snyder started to smile at the thought. It could be a hot story if it was handled the right way, the way Joselyn Cole had done it in front of the committee.

He could toss out Liquida’s name, the fact that he was a former hit man for the drug cartel and was now believed to be associated with terrorists, and that his fingerprint was found at the scene of Jimmie’s murder. He wondered about Madriani and what he might say. It was Madriani who’d told him about Liquida and his thumbprint on Madriani’s business card. Snyder could skate around it at the press conference. Just tell them there was a fingerprint. No need to tell them where it was found. Let the police deal with it.

His son was murdered because, as Madriani or his partner had said, Jimmie was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was a victim. Now, from what Snyder could see, the police were looking for his killer in all the wrong places. Either that or they weren’t looking at all. Crime was like everything else. Cases went cold because cops got lazy. He wasn’t going to allow that to happen to Jimmie’s case. To Snyder, the investigation of his son’s murder was like a living, breathing soul. It was all he had left. It galled him that there was no death penalty in the District of Columbia, a place where violent crime was the local sport. If the killer was arrested before Snyder could get his hands on him, Snyder would move on to the trial and live for that. And if the killer was convicted, he would live for the trial’s penalty phase. And if you cornered him and asked him what he would do once the killer was marched off to prison and locked away, Bart Snyder couldn’t tell you, because he didn’t know. To him the concept of closure was a lie.

But for now he would be satisfied to have the media asking questions, demanding to know why the cops weren’t developing the information he had given them on Thorn and Liquida. He would blow the lid off the investigation, smoke out the people in charge, and force them to answer his questions. He was tired of standing on the outside looking in, calling and getting no answers. It was his son who was dead. He had a right to know what was happening. And he wasn’t going to sit around and wait to find out.