“Virgil Walker,” the doctor said as they all got in and the copter lifted off. “The two towers.”
“Isn’t that a movie?” the other soldier yelled out over the noise.
“Huh?”
“I said isn’t that a movie, ‘The Two Towers?’ ” They didn’t seem to be drawing any further fire. Hopefully they’d taken care of all the bad guys down below.
“Oh, yeah – I remember; that movie was out a few years ago. Why the hell would she say that? Must have been delirious. And who the hell is Virgil Walker?”
“Hell if I know. But you’d better tell Captain Isaacs, just in case. Maybe it’s some intelligence thing.”
“Yeah – remind me later or I’ll forget.” The two copters rose quickly into the night. Below them, flames leaped out of the ruins of the hut where Nancy had been imprisoned.
CHAPTER 21
Back in Washington
Virgil stood on the hospital steps, his face more careworn and wrinkled than it had been a few weeks earlier, his formerly paunchy mid-section now a bit thinner. His scalp showed through the remaining locks of gray hair on his head. Harry was with him. They’d just paid a visit to Nancy’s family, who were maintaining their vigil outside of intensive care, where Nancy remained after her transfer from a hospital in Germany. She was still in critical condition from the stab wound, but it looked like she’d eventually recover. Even so, her family had been far from happy to see Harry, who they blamed for putting her in danger. And Nancy had been one of the lucky ones. Two other American hostages being held by the same militants had been killed in the raid that freed Nancy. This was Harry’s third visit to a grieving family in the last two days.
Coverage in the papers hadn’t been positive, with editorial writers – particularly the Times’ own – demanding to know why the failed raid had been launched when it could put Nancy and the other hostages in danger, and why the soldiers dispatched to free the Americans hadn’t been able to better protect them once the raid began. As for Virgil, he couldn’t get the site of Nancy’s pale face as she lay in the hospital, tubes projecting from her body, out of his head. She hadn’t regained consciousness since the raid, and it looked like she’d be in a coma for some time to come. How long, no one could say.
The Times’ lead editorial today, Dec. 20, was titled, “A Misguided Military Raid,” and called into question the Army’s decision-making abilities. “The tragic deaths of two hostages and the horrific injury suffered by New York Times’ reporter Nancy Hanson is yet another example of U.S. military incompetence in Iraq,” the editorial concluded. “The Defense Department needs to provide a full explanation as to why the raid was ordered, why it failed to provide adequate protection for the American hostages, and how lessons from this botched operation will be applied to future hostage situations in a war where news from the front just keeps getting worse.”
“You goin’ back to the office, Virge?” Virgil heard Harry asked. It sounded like it came from far away, but he nodded. They were the only ones left on the stairs, except for Harry’s ever-present aides, a few steps behind and higher up. The reporters and photographers who’d followed Harry to the hospital to report on his visit were packing to leave. They’d already been told that Harry wouldn’t take any questions, and there were several security officers barring media access to the sidewalk and the stairs beyond it, where Harry and Virgil stood.
Harry was blinking in the chilly January air, and he now took out a monogrammed white handkerchief from the pocket of his dark suit and blew his nose softly. Two of Harry’s aides approached, each with a briefcase.
“Sir, should we call the motorcade?” Susie asked.
“No, wait a while,” Harry said. “Virge and I will just wait here a few more minutes.”
“OK, just let us know when you want to go,” Susie replied. She walked back up the steps and got on her phone.
“You can ride with me,” Harry told Virgil.
“No. I think I need to take a long walk alone,” Virgil replied. He wrapped his coat around him more tightly. The sun had gone behind clouds, intensifying the December chill.
“I wish I could do that,” Harry said. “They don’t let you walk around by yourself once you’re in the cabinet, you know. A damn shame.” He blew his nose again.
Virgil stared at the ground. He wished he could crawl into it.
“Look, Virge, I know you’re blaming yourself for this, but that’s counterproductive,” Harry said. “First of all, you were tryin’ to do the right thing, and second of all, the orders to proceed came from the General, not from you. The raid failed because a lot of things went wrong all at once, and we were dealing with some tough customers in a really bad neighborhood. It wasn’t anything you did.”
“I’ve told myself that, Harry, but it doesn’t really wash,” Virgil said, shaking his head. “If I hadn’t gone beyond my job responsibilities and tried to track her down, no one would have made the raid in the first place. Those hostages are dead because of me.”
“Virge, they might have died without you doing that, too,” Harry said. “Those Al-Qaeda guys, they were playin’ for keeps. They might have eventually killed the hostages anyway. Not to mention other unspeakable things. Stop readin’ the damn papers so much. Those newspaper people always want to blame someone, but sometimes, no one’s to blame.”
“Thanks, Harry, that means a lot, it really does. But I think this is it for me in government. I’m really thinking it is. Everything I’ve done has gone wrong. I’m not helping anyone.”
A gust of wind came up and blew Harry’s handkerchief away. “Damn thing,” the defense secretary said. Susie chased it down and brought it back to Harry, who stuffed it back in his suit jacket. Harry went coatless despite the 35-degree weather.
“Don’t you go steppin’ down on me, Virge,” Harry said sternly. “I still need you. And that reminds me. General Davies gave me a message that I think you’ll find interesting.”
“Really?” Virgil said, turning his face toward Harry’s. He couldn’t begin to imagine what sort of message Davies might have for him.
Harry fished a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. He handed it to Virgil.
Virgil read it aloud.
“Nancy Hanson, recorded by Cpl. Martin Simmons, M.D. ‘Tell Virgil Walker: The Two Towers.’ ”
He stared at the paper for a minute. Harry watched him and waited for him to say anything.
“Two towers,” Virgil said, as if to himself. “How…? How could she know?”
“I can’t say I understand it myself,” Harry said. “Had you talked to her since the time you gave her that memo?”
“No,” Virgil replied. “Not once in five years.”
“Did you tell her then that you thought the World Trade Center could be a target?” Harry asked. “I’m guessin’ that’s’ what she’s talkin’ about. Unless you and her were secret Tolkien fans together, which I doubt rather highly.” There was a brief sparkle in Harry’s eyes.
Virgil frowned, and slowly answered. “No. No. I don’t think I ever mentioned those buildings to her, and I know I kept them out of my memo. We didn’t have specific intelligence pointing to any particular buildings, but those towers definitely would be a plausible target,” Virgil said, speaking more quickly now. “I mean, you read her article back then, right? I was quoted saying buildings may have been targeted, but I never said…” he paused for a moment, and then added, “I didn’t want to cause panic.”
“I think you did, anyways,” Harry said, with a small smile. “But the point isn’t what you told her then, it’s what she’s tellin’ you now. Why would she say those words right then? Why would she have thought of you?”
Virgil shifted his weight to favor his good leg. He’d been standing a long time on the hard concrete stairs, and his bad leg was starting to talk to him rather loudly.
“Well, I have to think about it,” Virgil said. “But if I were to make a quick guess, I’d say she saw or heard something
in captivity that made her think the buildings are in danger, or were in danger at some point.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, nodding. “That’s what I think, too. I’m goin’ to need to bring this up with the military and with some of the higher ups. People need to know if those buildings are targets. Those fellas you’re following around, any luck trackin’ ‘em down?”
“The FBI’s on it, but nothing yet,” Virgil said. “They can’t find a trace of any of them. It’s like they’ve vanished from the country.”
“Oh, we’d know if they left the country,” Harry said. “Virge – no leaving your job until you help locate those fellas. You may know more about them than a lot of people, with all that research you’ve done. Now you run along and git me a talking points memo for Bush and Cheney. I want to discuss the next steps with them.”
“Will do, Harry; will do,” Virgil said, trying to sound enthusiastic. He didn’t feel that way. Writing a memo for Bush and Cheney wasn’t something he relished doing, knowing how they tended to react to any of his advice.
“Susie, I’m ready to go back – tell the motorcade to come,” Harry called out. “Virge,” he said, putting his arm around Virgil. “Take a short walk if you want, but then I need you on this case. Get yourself together, now, you hear? We’re goin’ to get through this. OK?”
“I’ll do my best, Harry.”
Virgil watched Harry’s short motorcade pull away down Connecticut Avenue toward downtown, and he climbed slowly down the stairway, figuring he’d walk until his leg got too painful and then grab a cab. He realized he wasn’t far from the restaurant he and Nancy had eaten in that time five years ago, the day all this had started, really. He thought about walking by, but decided not to relive that memory any further.
As he walked, the sun appeared again from behind the cloud, lighting up the busy street and immediately warming the air about 10 degrees. With the sun out, Virgil felt a sudden burst of inspiration, a new desire to move forward and find the people who’d done this to Nancy. To find the people who even now threatened his country. Now he himself had a personal reason to finish the job, and seeing Nancy’s family suffering intensified his need to get back on this case and start moving.
“Taxi!” he yelled.
CHAPTER 22
Alev Reaches Out
After the terrorist hijackings of 2001, the U.S. government had set up a terror alert number. Anyone with a tip on a possible plot could call in anonymously and talk to the authorities.
Alev, sitting in her comfortable apartment back in Munich, had researched this fact on the Internet. She stared a moment more at the phone before she dialed the number from the cheap cell phone she’d just bought at the drug store down the street and waited. She’d been back in Germany two weeks, and Ziad hadn’t called her. Despite what she’d said at their parting, she found herself wishing he would. She knew she’d still take him back if he’d come to her.
But despite her loyalty to him, she knew she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if an attack occurred and she hadn’t said or done anything to stop it. No, she wouldn’t tell the authorities his name, but she would tell them that an attack was imminent and that the perpetrators seemed to be operating out of Chicago.
“Hello, FBI,” a woman’s businesslike voice said on the other end.
Alev, who spoke English with a slight accent but not enough to hinder her, told the woman what she knew.
“You say this is some sort of terrorist plot and it might be in Chicago, right?” the woman repeated to Alev when she was done.
“Yes, yes,” Alev replied quickly. “It’s my boyfriend. I’m afraid he’s mixed up with it.”
“Ma’am, you have to tell me his name, or I’m afraid we can’t do much to follow up,” the woman said.
“I can’t do that,” Alev said. “But he’s in Chicago, and I think he’s been with some criminals. I just want you to be on the lookout.”
“OK,” the woman said, sighing audibly. “Have it your way. But there are seven million people in Chicago, and it’s going to be hard to find out anything if we don’t have a name and an address.”
“I know,” Alev said. “But I just can’t do that.”
“Can we have your name?” the woman asked.
Alev pushed the “end” button on the phone, and without thinking too much she placed it in her desk drawer. Then she stood up and looked out the window at the headlights of cars moving along the dark street, feeling ashamed that she couldn’t do more.
CHAPTER 23
“Security” Guard
John “Jack” Hardaway became a security guard at Baltimore-Washington International Airport in the 1980s. He was a tall, thin man of around 50, his pink head completely bald, with eyes that seemed to probe into people when he looked at them.
Hardaway boasted an exemplary job record. His supervisors praised him for his professionalism and his devotion to duty. His background checks were absolutely clean. Hardaway never turned down an extra shift, and commanded a group of guards who worked hard to stay in his good graces.
But in his personal life, things weren’t so hot. His supervisors didn’t know that Hardaway was a compulsive gambler who hung around New Jersey casinos during his off hours. Which explained why Hardaway recently went through a very unpleasant divorce from his wife of 25 years, including a fight over child support for their teen-age children. He lost the case, and now had to pay a rather large sum to his ex-wife every month. Recently, he’d become more aggressive than ever at the blackjack tables, intent on winning enough to cover his excessive child support, but the cards didn’t favor him. As he drove to the bar now to meet his contact, he owed his wife $22,241.07 and had just $933.23 in the bank. Those numbers kept playing in his mind. He envisioned them outlined in flame, branding into his skin, and gripped the wheel harder as he drove through the early evening darkness.
Hardaway had an unblemished reputation with his superiors, but his reputation around town was slightly less clean. He’d taken payments in the past to ensure that certain packages made it onto certain planes. Never anything lethal – Hardaway wouldn’t let that happen – just packages that might be better off not going through security. With Hardaway’s security pass, he could access just about any area of the terminals and tarmac, and he also knew most of the luggage handlers who worked at the gates. Some of the luggage handlers could be convinced to look the other way when Hardaway asked them to, especially when he gave them $50 or $100 to shut their mouths. It wasn’t something he did often, but it was a small side business, and the longer he did it, the better he got. Like many criminals who succeed over and over, he had become a bit brazen, and confident that he’d never get caught.
His recent financial troubles put Hardaway in a very difficult position. He needed thousands of dollars right away, or he could serve time for failure to pay child support, his lawyer had told him. He’d put out the message among his network that he was open to doing a job, and a possible order had come through rather quickly. It looked like some big money might be involved, and he was eager to learn more.
On this night, Dec. 21, the longest night of the year, Hardaway pulled his gray Chevy Impala into the parking lot at the anonymous-sounding Joe’s Bar and Grill on a suburban road about three miles from the airport. As he got out and shut the car door, a big jet flew just overhead on final approach. The noise filled the world, but Hardaway didn’t even notice, he was so used to it. He threw his cigarette butt on the pavement and stomped it out with a brown work boot. What was the world coming to when they wouldn’t even let you smoke in a bar, he thought to himself bitterly.
He trudged through the slushy parking lot and walked into the warmth and dim lights and wailing country music of the bar, looking around. The smell of beer hung in the air. He’d been told the name of the contact - some guy named Julio – but not what he looked like. Now he scanned the handful of customers at the bar and the dark wooden tables, trying to see if anyone looked Hispanic. He checked his watch to see
if he was early. Nope – right on time.
“Table for how many?” asked the young hostess, approaching him with a menu. The bar was on his right, and toward the back were some tables.
“I’m looking for my friend,” Hardaway said. “A guy named Julio.”
“Julio? Yeah – he’s right over here. Just follow me.” The hostess pulled a menu off of a pile sitting on a table at the entrance and walked past the bar into the seating area. Sure enough, Hardaway saw a dark-haired man at one of the tables. He didn’t look particularly Hispanic, but he was dark skinned like some of those Mexicans, Hardaway thought to himself. Doesn’t matter what he looks like, he supposed. None of the other tables nearby were occupied. The place was pretty much empty except for some old men nursing beers at the bar and watching basketball on TV.
“Here you go,” the young lady said, putting a menu on Julio’s table. “Can I get you a drink?”
“A Miller Light. Thanks,” Hardaway said. He sat down across from Julio and the waitress bounced back toward the bar. Hardaway admired her rounded rear end as she walked away. Then he looked across the table. The man stared at him intently.
“Julio?” Hardaway asked, suddenly feeling nervous for some reason. “You’re Julio, right?”
“Yeah,” the man said quietly, hand on his mug of beer, his eyes never wavering from Hardaway. He had a slight accent, but it didn’t sound Hispanic to Hardaway, who worked with lots of Mexicans. Maybe this guy was from South America or something.
“You Jack?” the man asked.
“Yeah – I’m Jack. Look, let’s not waste time. What’s the job and what does it pay?”
The man looked over Hardaway carefully. It made Hardaway feel uncomfortable, like he was being sized up.
The Towers Still Stand Page 22
