Extreme Measures, page 35
part #11 of Mitch Rapp Series
“Yeah.”
“Take a good look at the photos.” Rapp glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “The place is going to be crawling. They’re going to be in the middle of noon prayer.”
“Well,” said Ridley lightheartedly, “at least they’ll all be there.”
Two blocks away Rapp laid off the gas. Keeping his eyes on the street he asked. “You ever been here before?”
“Not exactly my part of town. Plus it wouldn’t look too good if the deputy director of the National Clandestine Service got picked up hanging around a D.C. mosque. Which reminds me…why are we doing this?”
“We’re not going to bug the place, we’re just going to walk around and take a tour.”
“Two guys from the CIA?” Ridley said, thinking of the article that had appeared in the Post. “This isn’t going to look good.”
“Relax…this isn’t the first time I’ve been here.”
“What?” Ridley asked, shocked.
“I’ve been down here a couple times.”
At first Ridley thought he was kidding, and then realized he wasn’t. “You’re serious?”
“Hell yeah. I came down on a Friday about six months ago. Couldn’t believe the sermon the imam delivered. You would have thought you were in Mecca listening to one of those crazy Wahhabis.”
Rapp slowed way down as they reached the front of the mosque. He turned the corner and pulled over, stopping the car directly in front of a fire hydrant. Rapp popped the trunk and got out. Ridley met him around back, where Rapp popped open a hard case. Inside, resting in foam cutouts, were an M-4 rifle, two extra pistols, and a half dozen spare magazines.
“You carrying your Sig?” Rapp asked.
“Yep.”
“How many extra mags?”
“Two.”
“Good.” Rapp already had a 9mm Glock 19 in a paddle holster on his left hip with two spare seventeen-round magazines. He grabbed the silencer for the 9mm, threw it in his right front pocket, and then grabbed the .45-caliber Glock 21, in case he needed a little more punch.
“Jesus Christ, Mitch. I thought we were just going to take a look around.”
Rapp grabbed a right-draw paddle holster out of his shooting bag for the .45. An extra thirteen-round magazine was already in the holster. “Chris Johnson was no pussy.” He pulled back the slide on the .45 a half inch to make sure a round was in the chamber, then slid the paddle between his shirt and dress pants. “I’m not going to end up in a trunk, burnt to a crisp.” Rapp opened another case and grabbed two radios and a couple of wireless earbuds. He handed one set to Ridley and said, “I go in, you stay outside and keep an eye on things.”
“Well…I’ll be damned,” Ridley said in near shock.
Rapp followed Ridley’s gaze down the street and saw four men moving from the side door of the mosque to a waiting sedan. The first man had to be six foot five and the last man had to be almost a foot shorter. The trunk of the car was open.
“Let’s go.” Rapp gently shut the trunk of his car and started walking with Ridley.
“What’s the name of the short guy Johnson was worried about?” Ridley asked.
“Aabad bin Baaz.”
“That’s right. I think that’s him…the last guy.”
“I think you’re right.”
“And one of them was tall,” Ridley said. “I think that’s him…the first guy.”
“Yeah,” Rapp said, “I wonder why they’re not inside praying like everyone else?”
Rapp got out a half a step ahead of Ridley. His eyes were moving efficiently from one man to the next, assessing their potential threat. Two of them were wearing sport coats with an open collar and dress pants. The other two were wearing dress slacks and dress shirts. From what he could tell, none of them seemed to be armed. The big guy was the first to notice them. He’d already reached the car and had placed a bag in the trunk. He made eye contact with Rapp, and then, without a word, he moved to intercept them.
Rapp did not like what he saw in the guy’s eyes. He was no stranger to violence. With the hopes that he could distract the big guy, he glanced over at the last of the four and said, “Aabad, how have you been?” His casual tone caused the big guy to hesitate for a half step. They were now only thirty feet away. “I need to talk to you.” Rapp knew he was entering that gray area where a gun would be all but useless unless it was drawn. The big guy moved to put himself between Rapp and Aabad, so Rapp stopped and put out his hand to keep Ridley back as well.
Aabad looked at the big man and said, “I do not know them.”
“Get in the car,” the large man ordered, and then started walking toward Rapp.
His left hand came up and was waving them away like a couple unwelcome dogs. Suddenly, the guy had a small wooden truncheon in his right hand.
“Easy there, big guy, “Rapp said.
“You must leave,” he ordered. “You do not belong here.”
“Is that right?” Rapp said in an easy voice. “You ever heard of a public sidewalk?”
“This is the property of the mosque.” He pointed at the three-story brick building. “You must leave.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You must leave now!” the man yelled. He took another step closer and brought the club up, brandishing it in an attempt to scare Rapp and Ridley.
It occurred to Rapp that the big goon had probably used the same club on Johnson. Rapp glared at the man and said, “Get that thing out of my face, or I’ll shove it up your ass and turn you into a popsicle.”
The guy kept coming. The club was now raised above his head.
Without turning, Rapp said to Ridley, “If you have to shoot him, don’t kill him.” He rocked back on his heels like he might move away, knowing it would cause the man to continue rushing carelessly forward with all of his vulnerable areas exposed. Suddenly, like a pole-vaulter’s, all of Rapp’s energy came forward and he charged. His gamble paid off. The big man was used to people backing down. The sight of someone charging him caused him to freeze for a second, and that was all Rapp needed. He made a head fake to the right and then charged straight in. His left hand shot up to grab the wrist with the club while his right hand went for the big guy’s throat. Rapp kept all of his weight moving forward. He clamped his right hand under the big guy’s chin and drove it up, accelerating through the target. The goon toppled straight back. On his way down he managed to grab ahold of Rapp’s right shoulder but it wasn’t enough to break his fall. Rapp didn’t resist. He went down with the man, driving his head into the concrete sidewalk.
Rapp came to a stop with his right knee in the guy’s stomach. He watched as the guy’s eyes fluttered and then rolled back into his head. After that, he went completely limp. The wooden truncheon fell from his hand and rolled across the sidewalk. Rapp’s eyes were drawn to the underside of the man’s wrists, where he saw three distinct scratch marks. There were more marks on the guy’s neck. Rapp was suddenly aware of a familiar smell. He lowered himself down and took a whiff of the man’s shirt. It smelled like a fire. Like burnt food.
“Mitch,” Ridley called out, just as the car started. “What do you want me to do?”
Rapp stood. His right hand grabbed his silencer while his left hand drew his 9mm Glock. He watched as the car backed up to get out of the space. Rapp spun the silencer onto the end and leveled the gun just as the car was beginning to pull away. Two rounds spat from the end of the silencer and both passenger side tires went flat. Rapp walked between two parked cars out into the street, leveled his gun, and shot out the driver’s-side tires. The car limped along for another twenty feet, the engine straining to transfer its power into any real momentum. Rapp shot the driver’s-side mirror clean off the car. The engine roared louder. He took careful aim at the driver’s window and sent a round through the forward-most portion, instantly shattering the safety glass into thousands of pieces.
“Put your hands where I can see them,” he yelled, “or I’ll blow your fucking brains out!” He approached the car from the oblique, saying, “You two in the backseat, get out this side, hands in the air. Let’s go!” he yelled. “Right now!”
The two men spilled out of the car and dove to the pavement. Rapp moved to his left so he had a clear view of Aabad, who was behind the wheel. “Aabad, get out of that car right now.”
The door opened slowly and Aabad got out with his hands up in the air. Rapp waved his gun toward the back of the car. “Hands on the trunk! Let’s go!” Rapp followed him and kicked his feet apart, and then shoved his gun into the back of his neck. While he searched his pockets with his free hand he asked, “Where in the hell you going in such a rush, Aabad?”
“Nowhere,” Aabad answered nervously.
“Why aren’t you inside, praying?”
“I…”
“That’s right, you don’t have a fucking answer, do you?” Rapp smelled Aabad’s suit coat and discovered the same burnt smell he’d gotten from the big guy’s shirt. Rapp practically stuck the silencer through Aabad’s skull. “You been barbecuing lately?”
“What?” Aabad asked, his voice cracking.
“Barbecue! Cooking pork on a grill!”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Rapp grabbed the man’s right wrist and wrenched it up behind his back. Aabad howled in pain. Rapp moved his face within inches and spat, “I know what you’ve been up to, you crazy motherfucker. You tortured my guy last night, didn’t you? You cut off three of his toes, stuffed him in a trunk, and burned him.” Rapp saw the recognition in Aabad’s eyes—the shock that he had been discovered. He twisted the arm further.
“I want to talk to my lawyer!” Aabad screamed. He now had tears in his eyes and was grimacing from the pain.
Rapp laughed, “That ain’t gonna happen. You know why? Because I’m not a cop.” He stuck his gun into Aabad’s face. “You know many cops who carry silencers, you idiot? I’m going to give you two choices, Aabad.” Rapp wrenched the arm a little further and over Aabad’s howls, he said, “You either talk to me, or I cut your toes off, just like you did to my guy. Except I doubt you’ll make it to three. In fact, I bet you start blabbering before I make the first slice.”
“I want my lawyer!” he cried.
Rapp turned to Ridley and was about to tell him to get the car, when the sounds of the city were dwarfed by a booming clap and then a rumble that carried over their heads and rolled toward Maryland. To the uninitiated, it could have been confused with thunder, but not to Rapp and Ridley. They both knew exactly what it was, and before they could verbalize it, two more explosions ripped through the air.
CHAPTER 65
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
NASH stood at the back of the Operations Center on the sixth floor of the National Counterterrorism Center and stared up at the wall at the far end of the room. The big fifteen-by-twenty-foot screen was divided in four. One section showed the estimated casualty numbers from the attack, and the other three showed images of each blast site. The smaller screens along each side were providing live feeds from FOX, BBC, CNN, Al Jazeera, Al Arabia, and the local NBC affiliate.
They had hit three restaurants at almost precisely 12:30. Right in the middle of the lunch rush. The estimated numbers of casualties were staggering. The number on the board right now was at three hundred. Nash was so shocked by it that he had to ask Art Harris if it was a typo. The FBI’s deputy assistant director for the CTC Division said his guy actually thought it might be low.
Nash stood there and stared in semi-disbelief. He’d seen carnage up close over in Afghanistan and Baghdad, but he was just a visitor over there. It was different when it was the city you lived and worked in. On top of all of that was the agonizing fear that the terrorists had gotten their hands on one of the NCTC’s own threat assessments. This attack was right out of a scenario they’d been warning about for several years. All three targets—the Monocle, Hawk ’n’ Dove, and Bobby Van’s—were actually named in the report as locations of extreme concern.
Nash’s assistant, Jessica, approached and said, “The director is on the line for you, and so is your wife.”
“Tell Maggie I love her and I’ll call her later.” Nash stepped forward and put his hand on the shoulder of the man who ran the floor, Senior Operations Officer Dave Paulson. “Dave, you mind if I use one of your phones?” Paulson had four computer screens and three phones on his desk.
He pointed to the one on the far right.
Looking to Jessica, Nash said, “I’ll take it here.”
Five seconds later, the phone began beeping. Nash picked it up and said, “Hello.”
“Mike,” said Kennedy, “I’m in the Situation Room at the White House. When are we going to get those traffic cameras up and running?”
“Any minute, I’m told.”
“Do we know what happened?”
“The system was hacked. They thought they could handle it, but that’s obviously not the case, so I put Marcus on it. I talked to him five minutes ago and he says he’s close.”
“There’s a bit of an incident here. The CBS correspondent just asked the press secretary to confirm a report that these were radiological devices. She claims to have a source in Homeland. Do you have any information that would support that claim?”
Nash could tell by the tension in her voice that she was pissed. “I have heard nothing of the sort. We’re barely an hour into this thing, but our sensors would have picked up a dirty bomb immediately.”
“That’s what I told the president,” she said with frustration, and then asked, “Have you heard any rumors?”
“No, and I’m standing in the Ops Center right now. DOE has their teams at each site, and they’ve given us the all-clear.”
“You’re positive, because the president wants to address the nation in ten minutes. He wants to step on this thing before it creates a panic and people try to flee the city.”
“Hold on a second.” Nash leaned over and asked Paulson, “Dave, have you heard anything about a radiological device?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head vigorously. “Fire and rescue reported nothing, Metro said nothing, and DOE gave it the once over and came up all clear.”
“Thanks.” Nash took the phone off his chest and said, “We’ve got nothing here. She’s either fishing or the rumor mill is working overdrive.”
“I agree. Hold on a second.”
Nash could hear Kennedy passing his assurances onto someone else. After about twenty seconds she came back on the line. “Before I let you go, could you clarify these casualty numbers for me? Why is the Hawk ’n’ Dove so low and Bobby Van’s so high?”
“Apparently a city bus full of people was stopped in traffic when the bomb went off at Bobby Van’s. Also, Bobby Van’s seats more people. The Hawk ’n’ Dove is smaller, and they’re saying the meters were full in front so the guy had to double-park next to a pickup truck, which, fortunately, absorbed most of the blast.”
“Do you have any names for me?”
Nash was afraid this was coming. The Hawk ’n’ Dove was located on the House side of the Capitol and was a favorite haunt for congressmen. The Monocle was on the Senate side, and on any given day you could easily find a half dozen senators having lunch. Bobby Van’s was a block away from the White House, and right across the street from the Treasury Department. Nash had heard nothing concrete at this point, and he wasn’t going to be the one to start any rumors. In a noncommittal voice he said, “I don’t have anything yet.”
“Well,” Kennedy said, her voice hinting of bad news. “This is not for distribution, but Secretary Holtz and Secretary Hamel were having lunch at Bobby Van’s.”
“Shit,” Nash said softly as he looked at his bird’s-eye view of the rescue effort on 15th Street. The secretary of the treasury and the secretary of commerce in one fell swoop. Two cabinet members.
“We’re not getting much information from the Monocle. Do you have any updates?”
Nash glanced up at the big screen and looked at the image that was being provided by an air force Predator drone circling over the city. He had just spoke to Art Harris, who had spoken directly to one of his agents on the scene. “It’s not good.”
“Elaborate,” she said.
“Complete structural failure. The initial blast tore away half of the building, and then the upper floors came down on whatever was left. Harris told me a few minutes ago that one of his guys on the scene says the only way anyone survived was if they were in the basement, and even then it’s iffy.”
“So these estimated casualties at the Monocle are likely to be fatalities.”
“I’m afraid so. We’re calling every senators’ office to see if we can get an idea of who might have been in there.” Again, he listened while Kennedy relayed the news to someone else. He thought he heard the president’s voice, and then Kennedy came back on.
“What about these suspects that Mitch picked up?”
“They should be here any minute. Last I heard they were stuck in traffic. He wanted me to make sure you talked to Senator Lonsdale, though.”
“I did. The president dispatched a car and two agents to pick her up. I’ll have someone follow up with an update.”
Nash looked nervously over each shoulder and saw that no one other than Paulson was close enough to hear what he was about to say. He turned away from Paulson and asked, “What are we going to do about these guys that Mitch is bringing in?”
“I’ll leave that up to Mitch.”
“Irene,” Nash said anxiously, “a third of the people in this building are Feds. I’m talking real Johnny Law types. This isn’t the Hindu Kush. We can’t drag these guys out in back of some mud hut. The Feds aren’t gonna to like any rough stuff.”
Kennedy sighed, “Just let Mitch be Mitch. We’ll sort it all out later.”
Nash was not reassured. “That’s the damn problem, boss. All these gutless pricks will look the other way today, when it’s convenient, but a year from now, when the panels and committees are doing their after-action reports, they’re all gonna act shocked that the suspects were manhandled.”
“Take a good look at the photos.” Rapp glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “The place is going to be crawling. They’re going to be in the middle of noon prayer.”
“Well,” said Ridley lightheartedly, “at least they’ll all be there.”
Two blocks away Rapp laid off the gas. Keeping his eyes on the street he asked. “You ever been here before?”
“Not exactly my part of town. Plus it wouldn’t look too good if the deputy director of the National Clandestine Service got picked up hanging around a D.C. mosque. Which reminds me…why are we doing this?”
“We’re not going to bug the place, we’re just going to walk around and take a tour.”
“Two guys from the CIA?” Ridley said, thinking of the article that had appeared in the Post. “This isn’t going to look good.”
“Relax…this isn’t the first time I’ve been here.”
“What?” Ridley asked, shocked.
“I’ve been down here a couple times.”
At first Ridley thought he was kidding, and then realized he wasn’t. “You’re serious?”
“Hell yeah. I came down on a Friday about six months ago. Couldn’t believe the sermon the imam delivered. You would have thought you were in Mecca listening to one of those crazy Wahhabis.”
Rapp slowed way down as they reached the front of the mosque. He turned the corner and pulled over, stopping the car directly in front of a fire hydrant. Rapp popped the trunk and got out. Ridley met him around back, where Rapp popped open a hard case. Inside, resting in foam cutouts, were an M-4 rifle, two extra pistols, and a half dozen spare magazines.
“You carrying your Sig?” Rapp asked.
“Yep.”
“How many extra mags?”
“Two.”
“Good.” Rapp already had a 9mm Glock 19 in a paddle holster on his left hip with two spare seventeen-round magazines. He grabbed the silencer for the 9mm, threw it in his right front pocket, and then grabbed the .45-caliber Glock 21, in case he needed a little more punch.
“Jesus Christ, Mitch. I thought we were just going to take a look around.”
Rapp grabbed a right-draw paddle holster out of his shooting bag for the .45. An extra thirteen-round magazine was already in the holster. “Chris Johnson was no pussy.” He pulled back the slide on the .45 a half inch to make sure a round was in the chamber, then slid the paddle between his shirt and dress pants. “I’m not going to end up in a trunk, burnt to a crisp.” Rapp opened another case and grabbed two radios and a couple of wireless earbuds. He handed one set to Ridley and said, “I go in, you stay outside and keep an eye on things.”
“Well…I’ll be damned,” Ridley said in near shock.
Rapp followed Ridley’s gaze down the street and saw four men moving from the side door of the mosque to a waiting sedan. The first man had to be six foot five and the last man had to be almost a foot shorter. The trunk of the car was open.
“Let’s go.” Rapp gently shut the trunk of his car and started walking with Ridley.
“What’s the name of the short guy Johnson was worried about?” Ridley asked.
“Aabad bin Baaz.”
“That’s right. I think that’s him…the last guy.”
“I think you’re right.”
“And one of them was tall,” Ridley said. “I think that’s him…the first guy.”
“Yeah,” Rapp said, “I wonder why they’re not inside praying like everyone else?”
Rapp got out a half a step ahead of Ridley. His eyes were moving efficiently from one man to the next, assessing their potential threat. Two of them were wearing sport coats with an open collar and dress pants. The other two were wearing dress slacks and dress shirts. From what he could tell, none of them seemed to be armed. The big guy was the first to notice them. He’d already reached the car and had placed a bag in the trunk. He made eye contact with Rapp, and then, without a word, he moved to intercept them.
Rapp did not like what he saw in the guy’s eyes. He was no stranger to violence. With the hopes that he could distract the big guy, he glanced over at the last of the four and said, “Aabad, how have you been?” His casual tone caused the big guy to hesitate for a half step. They were now only thirty feet away. “I need to talk to you.” Rapp knew he was entering that gray area where a gun would be all but useless unless it was drawn. The big guy moved to put himself between Rapp and Aabad, so Rapp stopped and put out his hand to keep Ridley back as well.
Aabad looked at the big man and said, “I do not know them.”
“Get in the car,” the large man ordered, and then started walking toward Rapp.
His left hand came up and was waving them away like a couple unwelcome dogs. Suddenly, the guy had a small wooden truncheon in his right hand.
“Easy there, big guy, “Rapp said.
“You must leave,” he ordered. “You do not belong here.”
“Is that right?” Rapp said in an easy voice. “You ever heard of a public sidewalk?”
“This is the property of the mosque.” He pointed at the three-story brick building. “You must leave.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You must leave now!” the man yelled. He took another step closer and brought the club up, brandishing it in an attempt to scare Rapp and Ridley.
It occurred to Rapp that the big goon had probably used the same club on Johnson. Rapp glared at the man and said, “Get that thing out of my face, or I’ll shove it up your ass and turn you into a popsicle.”
The guy kept coming. The club was now raised above his head.
Without turning, Rapp said to Ridley, “If you have to shoot him, don’t kill him.” He rocked back on his heels like he might move away, knowing it would cause the man to continue rushing carelessly forward with all of his vulnerable areas exposed. Suddenly, like a pole-vaulter’s, all of Rapp’s energy came forward and he charged. His gamble paid off. The big man was used to people backing down. The sight of someone charging him caused him to freeze for a second, and that was all Rapp needed. He made a head fake to the right and then charged straight in. His left hand shot up to grab the wrist with the club while his right hand went for the big guy’s throat. Rapp kept all of his weight moving forward. He clamped his right hand under the big guy’s chin and drove it up, accelerating through the target. The goon toppled straight back. On his way down he managed to grab ahold of Rapp’s right shoulder but it wasn’t enough to break his fall. Rapp didn’t resist. He went down with the man, driving his head into the concrete sidewalk.
Rapp came to a stop with his right knee in the guy’s stomach. He watched as the guy’s eyes fluttered and then rolled back into his head. After that, he went completely limp. The wooden truncheon fell from his hand and rolled across the sidewalk. Rapp’s eyes were drawn to the underside of the man’s wrists, where he saw three distinct scratch marks. There were more marks on the guy’s neck. Rapp was suddenly aware of a familiar smell. He lowered himself down and took a whiff of the man’s shirt. It smelled like a fire. Like burnt food.
“Mitch,” Ridley called out, just as the car started. “What do you want me to do?”
Rapp stood. His right hand grabbed his silencer while his left hand drew his 9mm Glock. He watched as the car backed up to get out of the space. Rapp spun the silencer onto the end and leveled the gun just as the car was beginning to pull away. Two rounds spat from the end of the silencer and both passenger side tires went flat. Rapp walked between two parked cars out into the street, leveled his gun, and shot out the driver’s-side tires. The car limped along for another twenty feet, the engine straining to transfer its power into any real momentum. Rapp shot the driver’s-side mirror clean off the car. The engine roared louder. He took careful aim at the driver’s window and sent a round through the forward-most portion, instantly shattering the safety glass into thousands of pieces.
“Put your hands where I can see them,” he yelled, “or I’ll blow your fucking brains out!” He approached the car from the oblique, saying, “You two in the backseat, get out this side, hands in the air. Let’s go!” he yelled. “Right now!”
The two men spilled out of the car and dove to the pavement. Rapp moved to his left so he had a clear view of Aabad, who was behind the wheel. “Aabad, get out of that car right now.”
The door opened slowly and Aabad got out with his hands up in the air. Rapp waved his gun toward the back of the car. “Hands on the trunk! Let’s go!” Rapp followed him and kicked his feet apart, and then shoved his gun into the back of his neck. While he searched his pockets with his free hand he asked, “Where in the hell you going in such a rush, Aabad?”
“Nowhere,” Aabad answered nervously.
“Why aren’t you inside, praying?”
“I…”
“That’s right, you don’t have a fucking answer, do you?” Rapp smelled Aabad’s suit coat and discovered the same burnt smell he’d gotten from the big guy’s shirt. Rapp practically stuck the silencer through Aabad’s skull. “You been barbecuing lately?”
“What?” Aabad asked, his voice cracking.
“Barbecue! Cooking pork on a grill!”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Rapp grabbed the man’s right wrist and wrenched it up behind his back. Aabad howled in pain. Rapp moved his face within inches and spat, “I know what you’ve been up to, you crazy motherfucker. You tortured my guy last night, didn’t you? You cut off three of his toes, stuffed him in a trunk, and burned him.” Rapp saw the recognition in Aabad’s eyes—the shock that he had been discovered. He twisted the arm further.
“I want to talk to my lawyer!” Aabad screamed. He now had tears in his eyes and was grimacing from the pain.
Rapp laughed, “That ain’t gonna happen. You know why? Because I’m not a cop.” He stuck his gun into Aabad’s face. “You know many cops who carry silencers, you idiot? I’m going to give you two choices, Aabad.” Rapp wrenched the arm a little further and over Aabad’s howls, he said, “You either talk to me, or I cut your toes off, just like you did to my guy. Except I doubt you’ll make it to three. In fact, I bet you start blabbering before I make the first slice.”
“I want my lawyer!” he cried.
Rapp turned to Ridley and was about to tell him to get the car, when the sounds of the city were dwarfed by a booming clap and then a rumble that carried over their heads and rolled toward Maryland. To the uninitiated, it could have been confused with thunder, but not to Rapp and Ridley. They both knew exactly what it was, and before they could verbalize it, two more explosions ripped through the air.
CHAPTER 65
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
NASH stood at the back of the Operations Center on the sixth floor of the National Counterterrorism Center and stared up at the wall at the far end of the room. The big fifteen-by-twenty-foot screen was divided in four. One section showed the estimated casualty numbers from the attack, and the other three showed images of each blast site. The smaller screens along each side were providing live feeds from FOX, BBC, CNN, Al Jazeera, Al Arabia, and the local NBC affiliate.
They had hit three restaurants at almost precisely 12:30. Right in the middle of the lunch rush. The estimated numbers of casualties were staggering. The number on the board right now was at three hundred. Nash was so shocked by it that he had to ask Art Harris if it was a typo. The FBI’s deputy assistant director for the CTC Division said his guy actually thought it might be low.
Nash stood there and stared in semi-disbelief. He’d seen carnage up close over in Afghanistan and Baghdad, but he was just a visitor over there. It was different when it was the city you lived and worked in. On top of all of that was the agonizing fear that the terrorists had gotten their hands on one of the NCTC’s own threat assessments. This attack was right out of a scenario they’d been warning about for several years. All three targets—the Monocle, Hawk ’n’ Dove, and Bobby Van’s—were actually named in the report as locations of extreme concern.
Nash’s assistant, Jessica, approached and said, “The director is on the line for you, and so is your wife.”
“Tell Maggie I love her and I’ll call her later.” Nash stepped forward and put his hand on the shoulder of the man who ran the floor, Senior Operations Officer Dave Paulson. “Dave, you mind if I use one of your phones?” Paulson had four computer screens and three phones on his desk.
He pointed to the one on the far right.
Looking to Jessica, Nash said, “I’ll take it here.”
Five seconds later, the phone began beeping. Nash picked it up and said, “Hello.”
“Mike,” said Kennedy, “I’m in the Situation Room at the White House. When are we going to get those traffic cameras up and running?”
“Any minute, I’m told.”
“Do we know what happened?”
“The system was hacked. They thought they could handle it, but that’s obviously not the case, so I put Marcus on it. I talked to him five minutes ago and he says he’s close.”
“There’s a bit of an incident here. The CBS correspondent just asked the press secretary to confirm a report that these were radiological devices. She claims to have a source in Homeland. Do you have any information that would support that claim?”
Nash could tell by the tension in her voice that she was pissed. “I have heard nothing of the sort. We’re barely an hour into this thing, but our sensors would have picked up a dirty bomb immediately.”
“That’s what I told the president,” she said with frustration, and then asked, “Have you heard any rumors?”
“No, and I’m standing in the Ops Center right now. DOE has their teams at each site, and they’ve given us the all-clear.”
“You’re positive, because the president wants to address the nation in ten minutes. He wants to step on this thing before it creates a panic and people try to flee the city.”
“Hold on a second.” Nash leaned over and asked Paulson, “Dave, have you heard anything about a radiological device?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head vigorously. “Fire and rescue reported nothing, Metro said nothing, and DOE gave it the once over and came up all clear.”
“Thanks.” Nash took the phone off his chest and said, “We’ve got nothing here. She’s either fishing or the rumor mill is working overdrive.”
“I agree. Hold on a second.”
Nash could hear Kennedy passing his assurances onto someone else. After about twenty seconds she came back on the line. “Before I let you go, could you clarify these casualty numbers for me? Why is the Hawk ’n’ Dove so low and Bobby Van’s so high?”
“Apparently a city bus full of people was stopped in traffic when the bomb went off at Bobby Van’s. Also, Bobby Van’s seats more people. The Hawk ’n’ Dove is smaller, and they’re saying the meters were full in front so the guy had to double-park next to a pickup truck, which, fortunately, absorbed most of the blast.”
“Do you have any names for me?”
Nash was afraid this was coming. The Hawk ’n’ Dove was located on the House side of the Capitol and was a favorite haunt for congressmen. The Monocle was on the Senate side, and on any given day you could easily find a half dozen senators having lunch. Bobby Van’s was a block away from the White House, and right across the street from the Treasury Department. Nash had heard nothing concrete at this point, and he wasn’t going to be the one to start any rumors. In a noncommittal voice he said, “I don’t have anything yet.”
“Well,” Kennedy said, her voice hinting of bad news. “This is not for distribution, but Secretary Holtz and Secretary Hamel were having lunch at Bobby Van’s.”
“Shit,” Nash said softly as he looked at his bird’s-eye view of the rescue effort on 15th Street. The secretary of the treasury and the secretary of commerce in one fell swoop. Two cabinet members.
“We’re not getting much information from the Monocle. Do you have any updates?”
Nash glanced up at the big screen and looked at the image that was being provided by an air force Predator drone circling over the city. He had just spoke to Art Harris, who had spoken directly to one of his agents on the scene. “It’s not good.”
“Elaborate,” she said.
“Complete structural failure. The initial blast tore away half of the building, and then the upper floors came down on whatever was left. Harris told me a few minutes ago that one of his guys on the scene says the only way anyone survived was if they were in the basement, and even then it’s iffy.”
“So these estimated casualties at the Monocle are likely to be fatalities.”
“I’m afraid so. We’re calling every senators’ office to see if we can get an idea of who might have been in there.” Again, he listened while Kennedy relayed the news to someone else. He thought he heard the president’s voice, and then Kennedy came back on.
“What about these suspects that Mitch picked up?”
“They should be here any minute. Last I heard they were stuck in traffic. He wanted me to make sure you talked to Senator Lonsdale, though.”
“I did. The president dispatched a car and two agents to pick her up. I’ll have someone follow up with an update.”
Nash looked nervously over each shoulder and saw that no one other than Paulson was close enough to hear what he was about to say. He turned away from Paulson and asked, “What are we going to do about these guys that Mitch is bringing in?”
“I’ll leave that up to Mitch.”
“Irene,” Nash said anxiously, “a third of the people in this building are Feds. I’m talking real Johnny Law types. This isn’t the Hindu Kush. We can’t drag these guys out in back of some mud hut. The Feds aren’t gonna to like any rough stuff.”
Kennedy sighed, “Just let Mitch be Mitch. We’ll sort it all out later.”
Nash was not reassured. “That’s the damn problem, boss. All these gutless pricks will look the other way today, when it’s convenient, but a year from now, when the panels and committees are doing their after-action reports, they’re all gonna act shocked that the suspects were manhandled.”
