“In three weeks, February eleventh, Mr. Getty and his wife plan to get away for the weekend. He won’t make it, some business emergency. She’ll probably go anyway and substitute her boyfriend for a little fun. That looks like our first opportunity. Can you do it then?”
“That works. And you want them both dead?”
“No, personally I don’t care. But Mr. Getty wants both of them killed and the condo blown to hell and back.”
“I can’t guarantee it, you understand?”
“What can you guarantee? I mean, hell, for a hundred grand you gotta make some promises, Mr. Taylor.”
“I know that. I also know that no two projects are the same, no two bombs behave alike. It’s an art, J.W., not a science. I’ll set it for three a.m. when it’s safe to assume they’ll be in the same bed, right?”
“I guess. You’re the expert.”
“Thank you. Now, about the money.”
* * *
Supply chain problems plague every rogue bomber, and phone calls can leave tracks.
On January 26, with the FBI in tow, though he had no inkling of it, Henry Taylor drove to a compound in the Ozark Mountains near the small town of Mountain Home. He had been there before and thought he had some clout. It was the heavily fortified supply base of a man considered by the Feds to be a domestic arms dealer. In a country with tepid gun laws riddled with loopholes, the man was doing nothing wrong and had never been convicted.
Henry couldn’t gain admittance and left the area. His followers assumed he was looking for explosives. He drove to Memphis and made calls from three public telephone booths, but the calls could not be traced in time.
On January 30, Gross called Henry at home and asked him to call the next day from a secure line. Henry did so, and Gross told him that the February 11 weekend trip by Mr. Getty and his wife was still on. Henry said he would be ready, but he did not tell Gross that he was having trouble finding explosives.
On February 1, Henry made his biggest mistake. There were six public pay phones within five miles of his home and office. The FBI guessed that he might use those for convenience and all six were tapped. The hunch paid off. Henry drove to a hot dog stand near downtown Union City and stepped into a red phone booth. His call went to a nightclub in Biloxi, a famous one known as Red Velvet. Five minutes later the pay phone rang and Henry grabbed it.
He told Nevin Noll that he was in a bind and needed some supplies. Noll cursed him for calling the club and hung up. Minutes later he called from his own pay phone and was still angry. In cautious, even coded language, Henry said he needed five pounds. Noll said the cost would be a thousand dollars a pound, delivered.
Outrageous, said Henry, but he had no choice. They seemed to reach a deal and decided to work out the delivery details later.
Jackson Lewis and his team of FBI agents were beyond exhilarated. His scheme and patience had now led them to the Strip. The eighteen-hour days were about to pay off.
* * *
On February 8, Henry Taylor drove four hours to an interstate motel south of Nashville. He paid cash for one night and refused to provide any type of ID. He waited in the lobby for an hour and watched every vehicle and every person. At 4:30 p.m. on the dot, J. W. Gross parked his Buick in the lot and walked toward the lobby carrying a briefcase. Inside, he made eye contact with Taylor and followed him to his room on the first floor.
Since they were a team now, Taylor didn’t bother with searching Gross for a wire. He wouldn’t have found one anyway. The bug was embedded in the belt buckle; its transmitter was hidden in the butt of the pistol. The trackers heard every word loud and clear:
Taylor: So what’s the latest?
Gross: Nothing has changed. Mr. Getty says they’re all set for a romantic weekend in the mountains and excited about the weather forecast. Supposed to be beautiful.