Threat Level

by William Christie

  “Good thing you’re not driving.”

  “I mean it. How can these people take it? At least I got ordered here.”

  “This is where the money is, my friend. I think we’re going to have to PT your ass after work. You need to blow off some steam.”

  “You’re right about that. At least lying in that stinking cane field I was doing something.”

  Meanwhile, Paul and Beth were talking. “It’s insane to have these military cowboys working cases with us,” Paul Moody complained to Beth. “If they start shooting we’ll all hang.”

  “We don’t have enough people working the case as it is,” Beth replied. “And have you ever seen them shoot? They’re the best in the world, and that’s no joke.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “Next street, turn right.”

  “This one?”

  “That’s it.”

  Moody was going slow so Beth could read the house numbers. “Another Pleasant Valley Sun-day-ay,” she sang.

  “God,” said Moody. “If your musical tastes were just a little less lame they’d have a chance of being funny. There’s the house.”

  “Keep going,” Beth said quickly.

  “Wha—?”

  “Don’t slow down, Paul. Keep going.”

  “They missed the house,” Troy said to Storey. He picked up his radio.

  “Don’t make that call,” said Storey.

  “Why not?”

  “They know how to read house numbers. Let’s see what’s going on.”

  They followed the FBI sedan to the end of the street and made the right turn with it. The sedan pulled over and Storey slid in behind.

  “What’s up?” Troy said to Moody.

  “Don’t ask me,” Moody replied.

  “Didn’t anyone see that?” Beth demanded. “Every blind shut tight, every curtain drawn. Every single window. The only house on the street like that. And with a car in the driveway.”

  The men all looked at each other.

  “Attention to detail,” Storey said to Troy.

  “Glad someone around here has it,” Troy said.

  Storey then asked Beth, “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m going to call it in first. They’ll probably just laugh at me.”

  Beth disappeared into the sedan.

  “Did you notice those windows?” Troy asked Storey.

  “No. You’re the sniper. Why didn’t you observe it?”

  Beth was out of the car. “They didn’t laugh at me, but they’re not calling out the cavalry unless we give them something more. We can stake the house out if we want to.”

  Moody shrugged.

  “You really think we’ve got something?” Storey asked Beth.

  “Just a feeling that something’s not right,” she said.

  “Fine with me,” said Storey.

  “I’ve got nothing else planned,” said Troy.

  Moody shrugged again.

  25

  The rows of white stones stretched out over the hillsides. Abdallah Karim Nimri’s first thought was that there were not nearly enough of them. He carefully positioned the tripod and faced the camera to the west, as if to capture the setting sun. He did not need the telephoto lens—he could see the Pentagon and surrounding roads very clearly from the Arlington National Cemetery hillside.

  Nimri checked his watch. This was a crucial decision. He did not know exactly when Rumsfeld would leave the Pentagon. The truck had to be in position beforehand, but every minute sitting on the highway was more risk. He flicked open the cell phone and dialed. “Go, Dawood.”

  From where he was Nimri couldn’t see the paint mark. Dawood had to stop far enough away from the Pentagon so as not to attract the building security. Far less attention would be paid to a broken-down truck heading away from the Pentagon.

  There was the truck. It looked like Dawood was stopping in the right place. Nimri could not see him get out of the truck. Then the hood tilted down. Dawood should be under the trailer now. Nimri smiled as he watched the truck rock to one side as the air left the slashed tires.

  Nimri dialed again. “Excellent, Dawood. Have you activated the phones? No?” Nimri gritted his teeth to keep himself from shouting into the phone. “Go back into the cab and turn on the two phones. You have now. They are on? You are sure? Very good. No, they have not left. Patience now.” Nimri realized that he could not stay on the phone with Dawood. Not only could he think of nothing to say, he did not want to be distracted. “Dawood, I will call you back when I see them getting ready to leave. No, everything is fine.”

  Nimri broke the connection with relief. The traffic was inching along the highway. Gridlock. Lights were coming on as the sun dropped to the horizon.

  Then flashing lights appearing around the highway curve caught his attention. A police car moving fast in the breakdown lane.

  Nimri got back on the phone. “Dawood, there is a policeman approaching you. No, do not activate the switch. If it stops behind you, get out and speak to him. Tell him your company is sending a repair vehicle. Stay on the phone with me. If he asks, tell him you are talking to your company. Remain calm and persuade him. You can do it.”

  Nimri took a second cell phone from his pocket. The first two numbers in the phone book were the two phones taped up in the cab of the truck. He had hope, though. Dawood’s English had no accent, and he could be mistaken for a Latin. But Dawood had no Virginia driver’s license. If the policeman asked to see it, he would have to blow up the truck.

  The blue and gray Virginia State Police cruiser stopped behind the trailer, where Dawood was already standing. Afraid he’d get hit by the traffic, the trooper vigorously directed Dawood to come around to the passenger side of the cruiser.

  Dawood said a short prayer beseeching God’s help. He knees were twitching beyond his control.

  The trooper ran the plate through his computer. It was clean, and registered to Legacy Fuel of Springfield, the company on the logo. He brought the passenger window down, and the truck driver leaned his head in.

  “Blow a tire?” the trooper asked.

  “Two, sir,” said Dawood. He gestured with the phone. “My company has a wrecker on the way.”

  “You’re not too far from home. But it’ll still take them a while to get here in this traffic.”

  Dawood shrugged.

  “Looks like you’re full.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Got your paperwork?”

  “In the cab.” As Dawood gestured toward the truck he forgot all about the cell phone, and the hand holding it dropped to his side.

  The trooper looked at the traffic. “That’s okay, you don’t have to go get it.”

  But the last thing Nimri heard was, “In the cab.” Then nothing. He thought the policeman was taking Dawood to the cab. The policeman would see the firing system and the two phones. Nimri scrolled to the first number in the phone book of his other cell. All that work, and to be thwarted at the last minute.

  “You need anything?” the trooper asked Dawood.

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  Nimri put his thumb on the Send button.

  “Okay,” said the trooper. “Look, do me a favor, buddy . . .”

  Someone farther down the line of traffic was leaning on their horn. Dawood had to lean farther into the cruiser to hear, and propped his elbow on the edge of the window frame to brace himself. Which brought his arm, and the phone, inside.

  Nimri pushed the Send button.

  “Wait in your cab until your wrecker gets here,” the trooper continued.

  Cursing, Nimri fumbled to turn the phone off, almost dropping it. He instinctively stuck it under his armpit, as if that would block the signal from going out. His eyes were on the truck, waiting for it to blow up.

  “This traffic’s murder, and I don’t want you to get hurt,” said the trooper. “When I pull out, walk up with my car for protection, and stay in the cab.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Dawo
od.

  “Take it easy, buddy,” the trooper replied.

  The truck didn’t blow up. Nimri looked down at the phone in his left hand, which was gripping it so tightly the blood had left his fingers. He jammed the phone into his pocket, irrationally feeling that if he even held it, it might transmit by accident.

  The trooper bulled out into traffic with a blast of his siren. Of course the traffic stopped for him. Dawood walked alongside the cruiser, which stayed with him until he boarded the cab. The trooper waved, and Dawood waved back. The cruiser’s flashing lights switched off.

  “Brother Abdallah,” Dawood blurted excitedly into his cell phone. “Did you hear?”

  The temperature was only in the low sixties, but the steady breeze coming over the hillside made the sweat on Nimri’s face feel cold. “Yes, Dawood, I heard. You did very well.” He suddenly realized that he hadn’t checked the Pentagon in all this time. He squinted into the twilight, heedlessly swinging the camera around for a better look through the telephoto lens. The black limousine and two black SUVs were formed up at their usual spot in front of the Mall entrance. “Dawood, it will be very soon now. I must make another call. I will call you back shortly.”

  “I understand, brother.”

  Nimri dialed al-Sharif at the house. “It is almost time. Bind them securely and leave the house. You have not forgotten to destroy the planning materials? Good. God willing, I will meet you at the rendezvous.”

  Nimri called Dawood again. The limousine doors were open.

  26

  “Time to go,” al-Sharif told Omar. “Make sure they’re tied up good.”

  “It’s a mistake to leave them alive,” said Omar.

  “I know.”

  “Then why don’t we take care of it ourselves?”

  “Orders,” said al-Sharif.

  Omar was plainly unconvinced.

  “If we kill them it’s going to be on the news,” said al-Sharif. “When Nimri sees it, we’re out. You know what that means? We have to leave the country, because we’re going to be on the Ten Most Wanted List. You try living somewhere else, without the organization. Not me.”

  Omar seemed to be reappraising his position.

  “I thought so,” said al-Sharif. On their way through the dining room he grabbed the maps and papers off the table and stuffed them into his jacket pocket.

  “You were supposed to burn those,” said Omar.

  “I didn’t have time,” al-Sharif said defensively. “I’ll get rid of them later. You just go make sure they’re tied up.”

  “Vehicle pulling out of the driveway,” Troy said to Storey. “Red Chevy Blazer.”

  “Red Chevy Blazer pulling out of the driveway,” Storey said into his radio.

  “The wife’s car,” Beth said to Moody. Then into her radio, “Copy.”

  Troy had the Kowa spotting scope braced on top of the backseat. He cackled with glee. “Jackpot! Al-Sharif and Omar. Al-Sharif’s driving.”

  “You sure?” said Storey, not really believing their luck.

  “Of course I’m fucking sure.”

  Storey ignored the display of sniper temperament—they were such divas. “Anyone else in the car?”

  “Not in sight. They could have someone on the floor.”

  “Well, do they?”

  The excitement made Troy testy. “I didn’t bring my X-ray spotting scope.”

  Beth’s hunch really paid off, Storey thought. “You got it, Beth,” he radioed. “Al-Sharif and Omar in the Blazer. Al-Sharif’s driving. No one else in sight.”

  Beth’s voice crackled over the radio. “You sure?”

  “You sure you’re not related?” said Troy.

  “No one else we can see,” Storey said into the radio.

  Beth picked up the car radio handset and called it all in.

  “You are absolutely the luckiest—” said Moody.

  “They’re coming down the street toward us,” said Troy. “How are we going to play it?”

  “That’s up to Beth,” said Storey. He called her. She was on the other radio, and Moody told him to stand by.

  “We could take ’em right when they drive past,” said Troy.

  “Hold on to your ass,” said Storey. “It’s not our party.”

  “Fine. What happens when they pass us before the FBI decides what they’re going to do?”

  “Duck down out of sight and let them pass.”

  Beth’s voice came up on the radio. “Hostage Rescue Team’s going to take down the house. We follow the car and take no action until backup gets here.”

  “Cavalry’s on the way,” said Storey.

  “Cavalry never had to ride through northern Virginia traffic,” Troy replied.

  “I’m not worried about taking them down,” said Storey. “I’m worried about staying with them. It’s getting dark and they could be heading into traffic. And the FBI won’t notify the local cops. That’s their pathology.”

  “Local cops probably aren’t ready for these boys,” said Troy.

  Storey said into the radio, “Beth, how do you want to work the tail?”

  “We’ll come in behind, you fall back,” said Beth. “If they get suspicious, we’ll switch off.”

  “Here they come,” said Troy. “Hit the deck.”

  The Blazer passed the Grand Cherokee at the end of the street, stopped, and turned right. The FBI sedan went by a few moments later.

  Storey turned on the ignition.

  “I’m staying back here in case I need to shoot,” said Troy, remembering Pakistan.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” said Storey. “We’re just backup. If there’s any shooting to be done, I’d just as soon let the FBI do all of it.”

  “I’m with you,” said Troy. “But the tangos might have other ideas.”

  “They usually do,” said Storey.

  “Looks like they’re headed for Ninety-five,” Beth said to Moody.

  “They get on Ninety-five we’ve got real problems,” said Moody. “They get on Ninety-five heading into D.C. and all those problems get even worse.”

  “What’s the ETA on our backup?” Beth said into the car radio.

  “Fifteen minutes,” same the answer from Quantico.

  “They’ll be on Ninety-five by then,” said Beth.

  “If we try and stop them and they get a chance to make a phone call to that house, especially before HRT gets there, we’ve got a potential disaster on our hands,” said Moody. “If they’ve got hostages on the floor of that Blazer . . .” He let the rest hang out in the air.

  “It might be better to have a standoff in a car where we can contain the scene,” said Beth, thinking out loud.

  “Unless they blow up the car as soon as we try to pull them over,” said Moody.

  Beth was becoming impatient with the way the dialogue was going. “Well, what do you say, Paul? Take them down or take the risk of losing contact?”

  “I don’t know—it’s your call.”

  With undisguised contempt, Beth said, “Okay, Paul, I’ll be sure to make a note of that for the record.” Then on the radio to Storey, “Ed, our backup’s fifteen minutes out. We can’t risk losing them in the dark. We may have to take them down before they can get on Ninety-five.”

  “Told you,” said Troy.

  “Whatever you want to do is okay with us,” Storey said into the radio. “There’s a park about a quarter of a mile ahead.” He’d been checking the map while they were staking out the house.

  “Better there than on a residential street,” Beth radioed back.

  “You might want to remind them we’re the ones with the bulletproof vehicle,” said Troy.

  “Good point,” said Storey. Then into the radio, “Beth, remember our vehicle’s armored.”

  “I’m keeping it in mind,” Beth replied into the walkie-talkie. Aware of the kind of groupthink that took place when the boys were standing around the radio watching each other and their own backs, she took out her cell phone and called Timmins di
rectly. “Ben? Yeah, I didn’t want to use the radio. What do you want to do? Look, Ben, if you want me to let them onto the highway, I’ll let them onto the highway. Then at least get the local police to seal off the streets around the house. You’re right, Ben, that’s your call. You’ve got about a minute before they’re on a busy road that accesses Ninety-five. I do not want to try and take them down there. Okay, then call me on the radio and clear me to take them down.” Beth knew Timmins was going to hate doing that, but she also knew that if everything worked out right he’d remember being in charge, and if things went wrong his memory of the call was going to become really fuzzy.

  Timmins’s deputy came over the radio, clearing them to apprehend the suspects.

  Beth smiled and went back to the walkie-talkie. “Ed, we just got clearance to take them down.” And she told him what she wanted to do.

  “Roger,” said Storey. And then to Troy, “We’re taking them down. Buckle up.”

  “Hold your arm out,” said Troy, threading on Storey’s body armor vest. Then he donned his shooting glasses. “How’s my hair look?”

  “Perfect,” Storey replied, without taking his eyes off the road.

  Beth put on her SWAT tactical vest. “Lean forward,” she said, sliding Moody’s body armor behind his back. Alternating hands on the wheel, he slipped his arms in and she secured the front.

  Beth tripped the lights and siren.

  “I’m going to have to get used to the concept of giving them fair warning,” Troy remarked to Storey.

  “What the fuck?” al-Sharif exclaimed. He looked down at the speedometer. It wasn’t speed. “Did I run a red light?”

  “No,” said Omar.

  Al-Sharif took a closer look in the rearview mirror. “That’s an unmarked car. This is no traffic stop. They must’ve gotten Nimri or Dawood.”

  “What are we doing?” said Omar.

  “You can do what you like,” said al-Sharif. “I’m not going back to prison.”

  “I killed a cop,” said Omar.

  “Then get that duffel bag open.”

  Omar climbed into the backseat.

  “They’re not running, and they’re not stopping,” said Moody.

  Omar pushed the open vest over al-Sharif’s head, connecting the front and back panels with the Velcro straps. He jammed the metal cylinders in between the seat cushions. Pipe bombs, foot-long sections of steel pipe filled with gunpowder and capped at both ends. He rocked thirty-round magazines into the two folding stock AK-47s and cocked the actions.