Free Wrongful Death by Robert Dugoni Page B

it. It depresses me.”
    One of the largest chemical manufacturers in the world, Argus had recently been in the news for receiving a $1.2 billion-dollar reconstruction contract in Iraq. The contract sparkedcontroversy because Argus had a long-standing penchant for hiring out-of-office, high-profile politicians and paying them large “retirement” packages when they found their way back into public service, usually in influential positions inside the administration’s cabinet. One of those former employees, an Argus president in the 1990s, was Frederick Northrup, the current secretary of defense.
    “The turn is coming up,” Jenkins said. “Slow down.”
    Given its prominence, Sloane expected Argus’s entrance to be grand, but the turnoff was marked by nothing more than a three-foot-high stucco wall bearing the company name in gold letters. Two hundred yards down a gravel road they came to a guard booth and a ten-foot-high chain link fence with barbed wire strung across the top. A black-and-yellow gate also blocked the road. It looked like a border checkpoint to a Cold War–era Soviet country.
    A guard in a starched white shirt and a blue polyester uniform stepped from the booth adjusting a police-style hat squarely on his head and tucking a clipboard under his arm. With reflector sunglasses he looked decidedly serious.
    “Can I help you, gentlemen?” The guard directed the sunglasses across the seat at Jenkins, then to the backseat before redirecting to Sloane.
    “We’re here to see Robert Kessler,” Sloane said.
    “Do you have an appointment with the captain?”
    “Yes, we do,” Sloane said, noting the guard’s reference to Kessler’s military rank.
    “I’ll need picture ID from both of you.”
    They fished out their licenses and the guard put them on his clipboard as he walked to the back of the car. In the rearview mirror Sloane watched him log the license plate, then circle the car looking through the windows into the interior before returning to the booth and picking up a telephone.
    Sloane looked to Jenkins. “What do they make here, enriched uranium?”
    Jenkins put a finger to his lips, turned on the radio, and pointed through the windshield to a long black rod atop a light pole just beneath a surveillance camera. “Someone’s watching, and listening—those rods are directional microphones.” He pointed to a disc inside the gate. “And that’s a satellite dish.”
    “Maybe they watch cable,” Sloane joked.
    Jenkins turned off the radio as the guard returned with their licenses and handed them white plastic cards dangling at the end of strings. “Wear these around your necks at all times while you’re on the property.” Straightening, he pointed down the road. “Take your first right and park in front of the third warehouse building on your left. Someone will meet you.”
    Jenkins leaned across the seat. “What number building is that?”
    “It’s the third building,” the guard repeated without elaboration. Then he stepped back from the car, pressing a button on his belt. The arm rose automatically and the chain link fence rolled to the right.
    Dropping the transmission into drive, Sloane drove onto the property. “The guy has the demeanor of a concrete wall.”
    Jenkins turned the radio back on. “The buildings aren’t numbered.”
    “Is that significant?”
    “I don’t know yet.”
    Around a bend in the road, Sloane saw a large industrial complex of corrugated metal buildings that looked like small airplane hangars. The railroad spurs ran behind the buildings, disappearing behind a large processing plant. Smokestacks emitted white steam.
    Jenkins pointed to vans and eighteen-wheel trucks parked in multiple loading bays. “No advertising on the trucks or the buildings. Understated entrance. They keep a low profile.” He flippedup his white card. “What do you want to bet these cards have sensors to track our location while on the property?”
    Sloane looked down at the