Page 113 of The Atlas Maneuver

He had nothing to pick the dead bolt with and noticed that the door swung inward. So he gave the wood a frenzied heave.

But it held.

Another.

And the jamb gave way.

He reached for his weapon.

Beyond, the door opened into a compact warehouse-like space with lots of open containers in varying sizes and a stack of long aluminum poles. Workbenches fronted one wall. On the far side an overhead garage door was closed. Raised, it would expose a large rear exit. For loading? Aiko had said that her man mentioned a van had been inside.

But it wasn’t here any longer.

He pushed the broken door closed. Aiko fanned out and began investigating. He did too.

“Take a look at this,” she said.

He walked over to where she stood before one of the workbenches. Beside it was an open plastic bin that contained a quantity of olive-black Mylar film with adhesive tape on one side, the peelable covers still there. Also scattered among the waste were some oversized white plastic envelopes.

All of which he recognized. “Those are plastic explosive wrappers.”

“M112 and M118 to be exact,” she added. “Both C-4 composition.”

She was correct. His eidetic mind recalled the details.

Gray, malleable, like modeling clay, able to be fashioned into any desired shape. Safe. Easy to transport. And exploded only by the shock wave from a detonator or blasting cap. Popular stuff. Used by the military and terrorist organizations worldwide.

A small wooden box sat beneath the workbench. He crouched down and retrieved it. Inside were wireless detonators, two remote controllers, and three blocks of C-4 still in their wrappers. Another box of detonators was empty. He bent over and sniffed the wastecontainer, catching a faint, oily odor. Like tar. C-4 was odorless but, like natural gas, there were additives that generated a smell to aid in detection.

“Seems the information regarding explosives was accurate,” Aiko said. “They were building a bomb.”

“And a big one too.”

Knives lay on the workbench, its wooden surface scarred by long lines. Plastic residue filled the marks. He sniffed them. Same odor. He pointed. “It has to be cut on a non-sparking surface.”

“Cut for what, though,” she asked.

Good question.

He looked around some more.

Two cardboard boxes lay open on the floor, which he walked over and inspected. Inside both was a layer, a few inches deep, of ball bearings, but both boxes were otherwise mostly empty. On the far side he found a spray gun, along with open cans of red paint, most of their contents gone. On the grimy concrete floor lay a stencil, stained red from use.

He held it up.

VOYAGEZ &AMUSEZ-VOUS. French. Travel and Have Fun.

“They had a van here,” he said. “Looks like something was painted on it.” He’d already noticed that the paint was for a metallic surface.

Aiko found her phone and tapped. “That’s an event planning company here in Marrakesh. My guess? They are handling the event at Gledhill’s compound.”

His mind was adding, subtracting, fitting, piecing, trying to assemble the various elements into a coherent message. Then another of the boxes caught his eye, along with what looked like an invoice tapped to the outside. He stepped over, ripped it free, and read.

“This contained pure oxygen cylinders,” he said. “Small, compact ones.”

He walked back to the aluminum poles. Some eight to ten feet long, others longer. Stout. All of them around six inches wide and hollow.

“These are struts or supports,” he said. “Does that event company have a website?”

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