Then there was silence and his crushing weight on her back. Nothing else, until he rolled off and she saw that there was part of a leg sitting two feet in front of her face.
That was when she began to scream.
CHAPTER 33
TYSON’S CORNER, HANOVER COUNTY,WASHINGTON, D.C.
Back at the TTIC, Ryan had finally stopped trying to fight the fatigue and decided to get some rest while he could. He tried to crash out in a secretary’s office, but sleep didn’t come. His mind was too occupied by everything that was going on, but most of all, it was Katie who held his thoughts.
Ryan recognized that he was largely responsible for their current situation, but he couldn’t help but feel let down by the fact that she had just run out on him without even trying to talk about it first. He was thinking about this, and getting angrier, when he realized that he had done exactly the same thing to her when Harper first asked him to come to Washington.
He was not pleased by this recollection. It would have been a whole lot easier to blame the whole situation on her, but at the same time, he wanted nothing more than to see her again. If being the first to apologize made that a possibility, then it was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make.
And all it would take was a phone call. In the dim light of the office, Ryan looked up at the clock on the wall: 5:23 AM. He knew she wouldn’t be awake, and Katie wasn’t a morning person in any case. She would be much easier to apologize to in a couple of hours.
He shut his eyes and tried to let the exhaustion overtake him. He was curled up uncomfortably on the cot, thinking about how he would explain everything to her when the door swung open, the lights came on, and he heard a distant voice calling his name.
Suddenly, it didn’t seem so distant. When he opened his eyes and saw the expression on the deputy director’s face, he was instantly wide awake. “What? What is it?”
Harper’s voice was strangled. “Vanderveen just got seven guys from HRT in Hanover.”
Ryan was standing now, looking around for his shoes. “How? Was he there?”
“No, he rigged something up in the basement. They’re still trying to figure it out.”
Ryan stopped what he was doing and suddenly felt cold. He didn’t want to ask it, but knew he had to. “Naomi?”
He breathed out a long sigh of relief when Harper shook his head. “She was 300 meters away when it blew. She’s pretty shook up, though.”
“Oh, fuck,” Ryan said. He rubbed the stubble on his cheeks with open palms. “Oh, fuck.”
The area around the house was swarming with police cars and ambulances by 6:45, their flashing lights less pronounced now that the sun was occasionally peeking through the heavy clouds. The firefighters had pretty much finished their work, slightly aided by the damp snow that was still drifting down over the wreckage and surrounding fields.
The barn, for the most part, was still intact. Naomi was sitting with her back against the timbers, wearing a thick blanket around her shoulders and staring at what was left of the house.
Looking around, she saw a group of Bureau investigators trying to determine the outer boundaries of their search area. Maginnes was aimlessly wandering around the charred remains with a strange mixture of pain and confusion on his face. He had lost Larsen, Canfield, and Hudson, as well as four other members of his unit. One assaulter had been blown back through the front door, and had managed to escape with second degree burns, a broken leg, and a concussion. He had already been airlifted to a hospital in Richmond.
Naomi’s own injuries were minor; a few scratches was all she had suffered physically, but she couldn’t get the sight of that blackened stump out of her mind, nor the sound of Maginnes’s anguished moan when he had caught sight of it a few seconds after she did. She closed her eyes to block it all out, then opened them again when she heard someone calling her name.
It was Brett Harrison. He was standing next to a group of forensics people and holding a cell phone in his hand. As she stood up and walked over on shaky legs, she thought, if anything, the SAC looked worse than Maginnes. His face was as white as a sheet, and he couldn’t seem to focus on anything for more than a few seconds at a time. When she reached him, he muttered, “TTIC,” and handed her the phone.
“This is Kharmai.”
It was Kealey. “Naomi! Are you okay?”
When she heard the concern in his voice, it finally caught up with her. She turned her back to the group and tried to stifle a sob. “No.”
“Jesus,” he said. She couldn’t read his tone of voice. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m just…” Ryan heard some strange noises over the line and realized she was trying to hide the fact that she was crying. “It was pretty bad, you know? God, this was my idea, Ryan. I’m the one who-”
“Naomi, it’s not your fault,” he interrupted forcefully. “Those guys knew the risks going in. Vanderveen did this, not you. Okay?”
There was a long pause. “I’m sorry,” he said in a softer tone. “I should have been there-”
“No,” she said emphatically, unconsciously shaking her head in agreement with her own words. “You would have been in the house. I couldn’t have… dealt with that.”
On the other end, Ryan was lost for words. What he came up with, after about four seconds, was: “Come back to Washington, Naomi. I don’t think you ca — I just think you should come back.”
She could see that he was trying to make it easy for her. It would be so easy to give up being tough. She could go back to Washington, where he would show her some friendly concern and nothing more. She could sit behind a desk in the CT watch center and sip coffee, watch it play out on CNN, and remain perfectly safe.
But Vanderveen was still running free, and she wasn’t ready to give up just yet. And Ryan had been about to say, before he caught himself, that there was nothing else she could do in Virginia. Well, screw you, too.
“I’m not coming back,” she said. On the other end, Ryan was surprised by the sudden steel in her voice. “I’m going to grab one of Harrison’s aides and go talk to some people. I want to know what he’s driving, what he looks like. Otherwise, we’re still running blind.”
“Okay,” he said, after a moment of indecision. “Hold on a second.” He relayed the message to Harper, who broke off from another heated conversation with Patrick Landrieu to give his approval. “Harper says that’s fine. And he’s glad you’re okay. I am too, you-”
“I know,” she interrupted. “I’ll let you know what I come up with.”
Pressing the END button before he could respond, she looked once more at the surrounding devastation and wiped away her few remaining tears. Okay, Naomi, she told herself. Time to get back to work.
Washington, D.C., in the half light of morning. The clouds were rolling in from the south, but the sun still poked through occasionally, sending bright beams spilling down over random objects and people. Looking around the waterfront, Jodie Rivers sipped from her travel mug and stood in quiet appreciation of the sight. She had worked herself to the point of exhaustion over the past week, and although there was a lot going on, she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to enjoy her morning coffee. Especially after getting called to the TTIC at one in the morning and the sleepless hours that had followed the meeting.
The colors of the city had that vivid look that is peculiar to a certain type of overcast weather. Across the sparkling surface of the channel, the grass of the East Potomac Golf Club seemed like an endless sea of emerald green. Although there was no precipitation, the air felt heavy and still, and she had received numerous reports of a storm moving in by early afternoon.
It would come too late to do her any good, though. For now, there was no trace of rain or snow on the ground, and no reason to cancel the boating excursion that was scheduled to begin in less than two hours. At least no reason that she could successfully argue to President Brenneman or his chief of staff, Ed Rigney.
She was painfully aware that they were present
ing an irresistible target less than three weeks after two successive terrorist attacks. Unfortunately, the Secret Service served at the pleasure of the president, and once he had his mind made up, all they could really do was set up a good perimeter, surround him with as many agents as possible, and hope for the best.
The barriers leading into Maine Avenue were already doing their work. High above, using their high-powered binoculars the rooftop observers were scanning the assembled groups of demonstrators, now and then whispering a quiet description over the Service’s dedicated radio link. In response to the description, someone would get bumped in the crowd by one of the interspersed agents. In each case, the target of the bump was completely oblivious to the fact that he or she had just been thoroughly checked for weapons. The Secret Service agents posing as demonstrators carried no signs and dressed neatly, if not conservatively, but they did shout out the occasional slogan to keep up appearances. So far the demonstration was peaceful enough, for which the uniformed Metro cops were grateful as they looked on with watchful eyes and neutral expressions.
Headed south toward the waterfront was the endless procession of embassy limousines bearing French and Italian diplomats. USSS personnel from the Uniformed Division checked each vehicle for explosives with CCTV wands, which projected the undercarriage onto a 4.5-inch screen positioned at waist level. Credentials and faces were scrupulously checked against existing documentation while other agents looked on with MP5s held low by their sides. Two junior aides from the French embassy who were missing their passes were pulled out of their vehicles and held for twenty minutes while their identities were confirmed, much to the consternation of the French ambassador and his head of security.
The preparations had been endless, and they seemed to be paying off, Rivers thought. Still, the integrity of the perimeter was largely dependent on the mind-set of a potential assassin. She knew that there was no way they could guarantee protection if an individual was willing to die himself in order to kill the president. An individual alone on a suicide mission was the greatest fear of any Secret Service agent, and Rivers was no exception. She found herself thinking about William Vanderveen: God, I really hope he wants to live.
“Daydreaming again, Jodie?”
She turned her head to smile at Joshua McCabe. “No, just enjoying the scenery. Pretty, isn’t it?”
He followed her eyes to the golf course opposite the channel. “Yeah. Too bad for the golfers, huh?”
“I guess.” The course had been shut down under PDD-62, on the grounds that it was too large a space to cover with their limited manpower. “What’s going on?”
“Everything’s moving right along. You did a good job getting the French and the Italians on file, by the way. We’ve been able to clear them pretty quick.” She bobbed her head at the compliment. “Did you hear about Virginia?”
She looked up sharply. “No.”
He grimaced and shook his head. “Someone should have told you… The raid went to shit. Vanderveen set a trap and took out a bunch of guys from HRT. They didn’t find a vehicle in the barn.”
“How did he do it?”
“Some kind of bomb. They’re still looking into it. Anyway, they assume he’s coming our way. So…”
She closed her eyes and thought about it. “I don’t know what else to do,” she finally said, giving a little shrug of her shoulders. “We don’t have the manpower to extend the perimeter anymore. Did you pass this along to Storey?” Jeff Storey was the Agent in Charge of the president’s detail, and scheduled to arrive in two hours with the main party.
“Of course. I took it to the president as well. Obviously, he wasn’t happy about it. We’re still on, though.”
“Well, hell,” she said in frustration. “What’s with this guy? Doesn’t he realize how serious the threat is?”
“He knows.” There was a pause. “He’s desperate, Rivers. If he pushes this through, he might pick up enough support to start thinking about another four years. Otherwise, he’s done.”
“It’s kind of hard to run the country if you’re dead,” she mumbled.
McCabe winced. “Don’t let anybody else hear you say that, for God’s sake. Listen, I’m needed back at Tyson’s Corner. You can reach me there if you need to, okay?”
“Okay, thanks.” He nodded and walked back to his waiting car. Jodie Rivers stared into the gray waters of the channel as a series of awful scenarios raced through her mind, one after another. After letting her imagination run rampant for five minutes, she reluctantly moved off to double-check the perimeter and the list of foreign dignitaries who had been cleared for access.
Please, God. Not on my watch.
The TTIC was a nonsmoking facility, and Jonathan Harper had given up the habit years ago. With the pressure he was currently under, however, he needed some way to vent, and he wasn’t a screamer.
He smoked outside as dawn broke, with Ryan standing next to him. The younger man was crossing his arms one minute, shoving his hands deep in his pockets the next, as if unsure of what to do with himself. They were alone on the broad expanse of concrete, and they had known each other for seven years. There was nothing awkward in the silence. The deputy director sensed that Kealey was coming to a decision, and waited for him to speak.
“I want to go to the marina.”
Harper took another long drag and exhaled slowly. “Not much for you to do down there,” he observed.
“I know that.”
“What do you need?”
“Some kind of identification,” Ryan said. “I want people to know who I am. I don’t want somebody stopping me every five feet.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Not through us… through the TTIC, maybe. And I’ll talk to McCabe.”
“I need my gun. I have it with me… I just don’t want it to be a problem.”
“It won’t be.”
Harper finished his cigarette, and they stood in companionable silence as the sun topped the trees. “What do you think of Naomi?”
“I like her. She’s… tough.”
“Not bad-looking either.”
Ryan smiled. “Not bad.”
Harper tossed his butt toward the sandpit, missing badly. “I didn’t really want her in on this at first. She’s kind of rough around the edges, you know? Hasn’t really learned to handle people yet. She’s learning, though… Think she’ll find anything?”
“I don’t know. She’s pretty quick. It depends on how lucky she is.”
“Luck is part of it,” Harper conceded. Then, after a few seconds: “Go to the marina. I’ll call ahead for you. Would you know him if you saw him?”
“Maybe… Yeah, I’d know him,” Ryan decided. He hesitated: “I think I’d know him.”
“He’ll know you,” Harper said. “So watch yourself.”
“I always do.”
The room was just about what he’d expected: comfortable, but not lavish, with a few tastefully framed prints on the walls. There was the obligatory television in a tall wooden credenza, twin beds, and a nightstand, along with a small desk that sat adjacent to the door. Upon entering the room nearly twelve hours earlier, he had moved straight to the window to check his line of sight. It was perfect. The van was about 200 meters away, facing toward him, and approximately 75 meters away from the intersection of 13th and Pennsylvania Avenue.
The worst moment had come the night before; he had been forced to circle the block three times before finding a suitable location. Fortunately, he didn’t think anyone had noticed. A considerable amount of pedestrian traffic had cropped up since daybreak, but not one of the passing people seemed too intently focused on the large commercial van that was parked at the curb. Since 12th Street had been closed to through traffic less than a half hour after his arrival, there were very few moving cars on this adjacent street, which made keeping an eye on the van easier than it otherwise might have been.
He had needed to rearrange a few things inside the room. The DO NOT DISTURB sign was hanging on the do
orknob in the hall, a minor detail, but an important one. He had pulled the armchair out of the corner and maneuvered it in between the beds. Then he had grabbed the credenza from the narrow end and dragged it over to the space vacated by the armchair, turning it so it was at a right angle to the big picture window. The wooden chair had been taken out from underneath the desk, and placed next to the window in front of the credenza.
These minor efforts meant that he could watch the television and the vehicle at the same time. Vanderveen knew that MSNBC was scheduled to carry the president’s address live from the waterfront. With any luck, he would be able to verify the president’s approximate time of departure; he already knew from Shakib’s document that Brenneman was scheduled to return to the White House at 11:40 AM, but it didn’t hurt to double-check.
FOX News was already showing, on what appeared to be a continuous loop, coverage of the aftermath in Virginia. They had little footage and less information, settling instead on wild conjecture and a long shot of the smoking ruins provided by a low-flying helicopter with a shaky pilot at the stick.
Vanderveen did not know how the FBI had tracked him to that location, but he was not overly concerned. He was only hours away from achieving his goal, and there was no way they could stop him in time. Besides, he was pleased by the efficacy of his improvised device. If the anchor’s estimates were correct, he had managed to kill eight members of the Bureau’s vaunted Hostage Rescue Team. Hearing about it secondhand was somewhat less satisfying than watching the realtor bleed to death, but satisfying nonetheless.
He felt good, despite the fact that he was nearing the end of a long wait. The ringer on the cell phone was on, but the covered switch in the cab was in the OFF position, so there was no power going to the exposed circuitry. The phone he would use to trigger the device rested by his side, but if he was to call now, nothing would happen. He glanced at his watch, a cheap Timex, perfectly suited to his current persona. The digital display read 7:25 AM. At about eleven, he would go down to the van, ostensibly to pick up the notebook he’d deliberately placed on the passenger seat. With any luck, the president and a healthy number of his aides would be dead less than an hour from the time he flipped the switch.
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