by Richard Fox
Ritter immediately recognized one other name; it was highlighted but not crossed off.
“Tony,” Ritter said into a mic on his watchband. “I need to know where Congressman Hawker is. Right now.”
“On it,” Tony said through Ritter’s earpiece.
Ritter opened the black bag. There was a canvas cash belt, a harness used to transport stacks of bills under the wearer’s shirt without attracting much attention. Wads of explosive ammonium nitrate, a white taffy substance flecked with aluminum, wrapped in plastic wrap big enough to fit into the cash belt pouches, were in the bag.
He found two small syringes, filled with red powder, with wires running to a doorbell switch in a side pocket: detonators. He held the wires up to his ear and bent them in half; he heard the glass fiber-optic cables inside break. There was no metal component to anything he found. Ritter could have put the vest together and walked right through a metal detector.
This must be the death pact Garcia was talking about, Ritter thought. The explosives fitted into the cash belt would make the wearer into a walking bomb, what he’d called a “suicide vest” in Iraq. But suicide wasn’t Jefferson’s goal; killing Congressman Hawker was. With only one suicide vest remaining in the tent, Jefferson must have the other.
“Eric, Congressman Hawker is at the DC Marriott for a fund-raising dinner. He’s scheduled to give a speech about—”
“Get me his security detail’s number ASAP and call in an anonymous bomb threat. Jefferson’s next target is the congressman. This time Jefferson is the bomb,” Ritter said.
The flap to the tent flew open. Shelton was there, his Glock aimed at Ritter. Ritter didn’t flinch as he slipped the blank sheet of paper into his jacket pocket, slow and easy for Shelton to see. The sheet with the names stayed cupped in Ritter’s hand.
“You’ve got something?” Shelton said as he holstered his pistol.
“I know his next target,” Ritter said.
****
Zike rubbed his sore jaw and poked at the tender flesh around his neck. The bruises might be mistaken for hickeys, which were decidedly unprofessional in his line of work. A high-collar shirt hid most of them, and as the senior agent on station, it wasn’t his job to be seen by his charge or by the attendees of tonight’s gala.
His perch on the mezzanine overlooking the Marriott rotunda looked out at the rows of chairs radiating in a wedge from the podium where Hawker would deliver his speech. The image wasn’t too dissimilar to the House of Representatives chamber where Hawker would wield the Speaker’s gavel in a few more weeks, if rumors were to be believed. Most of the seats were full of reporters and those rich enough to attend the $5,000-a-plate dinner and photo op following the speech.
A former college history professor turned Beltway think tank manager droned on about the cycles of history. Zike didn’t care to follow along; he kept his eyes on the two points of entry manned by his Secret Service detail.
Congressman Hawker had never considered canceling the event even while a mad bomber was loose in and around Washington, DC. He’d taken to one of the news networks and spoken about strength, about being brave in the face of fear, but that might prove to be a fatal mistake in the next few minutes.
“Sir, Hawker is in the restroom. ETA to the podium is five minutes,” an agent said to Zike. Zike dismissed him with a wave. His agents on the door were selected for their loyalty and adherence to the cause. They knew what to do when the right person arrived.
There. Jefferson made it through a cursory security check and walked stiffly to a seat that opened up next to the podium with convenient serendipity. The agent who gave up his seat so Jefferson’s line of attack to the congressman was short and unobstructed went to the restroom and would never return to the lecture hall.
Zike took the remote detonator, disguised as a thick pen, from his coat pocket. The Iranian had given Jefferson the triggers for the suicide vest. Each trigger had a special fail-safe in case the bomber had second thoughts about his mission. Terrorists in Iraq had pioneered the technique; sometimes martyrdom needed a gentle push. Jefferson was a true believer, but some things couldn’t be left to chance.
Soon.
****
Jefferson felt an electric thrill go through his body as he sat down. Just a few more minutes before Congressman Hawker would make his final public appearance. He debated whether he should charge the podium as soon as Hawker took it or wait until halfway through the speech, when the shock and awe would be the most exquisite.
It was, he realized, the last problem he’d ever have.
Jefferson pulled a trigger from where it was tucked into a sleeve and concealed it in his right hand. He faked a scratch on his collarbone and flipped the safety switch on the vest. His right thumb depressed a trigger with a gratifying click.
The dead-man switch was active. When his thumb came off the button, his world would end in fire.
****
Shelton weaved through traffic; the single flashing dome light on the roof convinced most of the DC traffic to make way, but not all of it submitted.
Ritter shook his cell phone in frustration and tried another number. “No one is answering his phone,” he said.
“Why do you have a congressman’s phone number?” Shelton asked. He slammed on the brakes to avoid an oblivious jogger and managed to splash the jogger with pothole water as they sped past.
“Family friend,” Ritter said.
Convenient, Shelton thought. Ritter’s plan had finally come together for Shelton when he saw Ritter in Jefferson’s tent. Ritter’s organization had trained Jefferson for some nefarious purpose, and their Frankenstein monster got loose. Ritter wanted Jefferson dead to keep him from exposing his whole organization, and Shelton was along for the ride to be the fall guy if things went south.
Shelton wasn’t surprised or hurt by his conclusion. Ritter’s history was full of obfuscation and deception. He’d lied and used Shelton when they were in Iraq. He was doing the same thing now.
The car went into the underground garage at the Marriott. Shelton parked in a handicapped spot, purposefully close to a Porsche on Ritter’s side. Ritter pushed his door open and dinged the cherry-red paint on the six-figure car.
“Seriously, Greg? How am I supposed to get out?” Ritter asked.
Shelton lurched over Ritter and slammed handcuffs on his wrists and the door handle. Shelton smashed his elbow into Ritter’s face as Ritter pulled back, then grabbed the stunned Ritter’s other wrist and handcuffed it to the steering wheel.
Ritter’s head lolled from side to side before he shook the cobwebs out. Shelton jammed a hand into Ritter’s coat and extracted the sheet of paper he’d seen Ritter take from Jefferson’s tent.
“Greg, what the hell are you doing?” Ritter struggled against the cuffs, to no avail.
“I’m not going to let you finish the job. You’re under arrest for the murder of Aaron Garcia. I’ll be back for you once I get Jefferson into custody,” Shelton said. He got out and slammed his door shut, leaving Ritter to rail against no one.
He snapped off the dome light and ran into the building.
Shelton pulled out his badge and held it in one hand, his sidearm in the other. He spotted the congressman’s podium at the end of a corridor flanked by Doric columns.
“FBI!” he yelled as he ran down the corridor. He held his badge high as he ran, repeating himself.
A pair of plainclothes Secret Service agents materialized at the end of the hallway, each with weapons pointing at Shelton.
Shelton came to a screeching halt, his sidearm held above his head next to his badge.
“I’m FBI! There’s a suicide bomber here targeting the congressman,” Shelton said.
The men and women waiting for the congressman stirred but didn’t move. Crazies tended to show up for any notable speech in Washington, DC. A single heckler was par for the course.
“Sir! Drop your weapon and get on your stomach,” the agent ordered.
“There is a suicide bomber here. He’s got a bomb under his clothes,” Shelton pleaded with the agents as he complied with the orders.
A door on the opposite end of the rotunda opened, and Congressman Hawker came out, waving for the cameras. Camera’s flashed, and shutters clicked with the report of machine guns on a distant battlefield.
An agent kicked Shelton’s gun away and hauled him to his feet.
Hawker was steps away from the podium. Shelton had one idea left.
“Congressman! Eric Ritter sent me! There’s a bomb!” Shelton yelled.
Hawker froze at the sound of Ritter’s name. He looked from the podium to the door from which he’d entered, then turned around and ran back.
The congressman’s sudden retreat sent the crowd into a panic. First one, then another, then a flood of people ran for the exits. Runners swarmed around Ritter and the agents, breaking their hold on him. Shelton scooped up his weapon and fought against the tide of fear to get into the rotunda, where a single man remained seated.
He pushed past the last person to flee and pointed his Glock at the clean-shaven man in a checkered sweater.
“Don’t move. Erasmus Toolidge, also known as Jefferson, you’re under arrest,” Shelton said.
Jefferson stood up, his face red with rage, and lifted his sweater so Shelton could see the bomb strapped to his chest. Of the two LED lights on the rig, one glowed green. Jefferson brandished the switch in his hand.
Shelton’s focus turned to the switch in Jefferson’s hand. He’d thought he left this kind of madness back in Iraq, but there it was—a dead-man switch. Jefferson’s thumb was firm against the button; releasing the button would complete the circuit and set off the bomb. Subduing Jefferson without blowing him up just became exponentially harder. Shelton backed away slowly, his gun still aimed at the bomber.
“Bring him back,” Jefferson said. He spat out the words with venom. “You were supposed to give him to me!”
“Buddy, I think you’ve got me confused with someone else,” Shelton said.
“No! Hawker has to pay. He wrote the bill sending all those men and women to Iraq to die. They died in explosions, ripped apart by fire. He deserves to reap what he’s sown. The Iranian said you wouldn’t stop me—he must have let me in here! He said I could kill the rest when I could, but Hawker must die no matter what. Hawker is the war criminal! I have no choice but to do this!” Jefferson’s arms flailed as his frustration mounted.
Shelton felt what little control he had on the situation evaporate as Jefferson’s lunacy became more and more evident. Negotiating with the mentally unstable was almost always futile. Shelton knew this would end quickly and loudly if he didn’t figure out a way to communicate with Jefferson on some level.
“But you don’t, Specialist Toolidge.” Shelton said, addressing Jefferson by his final army title. “You’re not the criminal. You’re the victim, just like all those soldiers Hawker sent to Iraq. I was there. I saw my men killed by bombs. The Iranian set you on this path, just like Hawker sent the soldiers to Iraq.” He lowered his pistol.
“You served?” Jefferson asked. His face went slack as a stable force took hold of his mind.
“Two tours, infantry platoon leader and company commander. Greatest honor of my life was leading men into battle. The only regrets I have are the soldiers I didn’t bring back whole or alive,” Shelton said. “You have the choice our soldiers didn’t. We’ll get you out of that vest. Then you can help me make the men behind all of this pay for what they’ve done. Hawker, the Iranian, Ritter.”
****
Zike watched the standoff through a gap between American and Washington DC flag stands from his perch on the mezzanine. He’d let the conversation go on for too long, his hopes that Jefferson or that FBI agent would set off the suicide vest one way or another weren’t coming to fruition.
Some things he’d have to do himself.
He clicked the pen in his hand and ran for the exit.
****
Beeps came from under Jefferson’s sweater. Jefferson pawed at his clothes, exposing a pair of lit bulbs on his vest, then to the trigger in his hand. His thumb still firmly pressed against the button.
Jefferson’s face fell. He looked at Shelton in shock and fear.
Shelton turned and ran. He made a sliding leap behind a thick column, smashing against the marble floor and skidding to a stop against the wall.
Jefferson’s vest exploded with the snap of a thousand year old redwood tree cracked in half by giant hands. A wave of overpressure swept over Shelton, blasting the air from his chest and knocking pictures from the wall. The glass dome above shattered, and a deluge of shards rained down and flooded the atrium.
Shelton, his head ringing with the force of a clock tower bell, got up on his hands and knees. Most of Jefferson was smeared across the walls. Two bloody lumps of flesh punctured by glass blades were in the jumble of chairs and wood of the dais.
Someone touched his arm. Shelton whirled around, his hand grasping for his missing sidearm.
A uniformed police officer shouted at him, his words lost to the tinnitus roaring in Shelton’s ears.
****
Half an hour later, after a cursory exam by an EMT, the whine in his ears continued. He could understand speech without insisting anyone shout at him. His ears allowed him to wave off the phone calls from the higher-ups in the FBI, who wanted an explanation of how he’d managed to track down the Beltway Bomber.
Shelton, a pair of DC police in tow, went to the car in the parking garage. Jefferson may be lost, but he still had Ritter. Shelton’s stomach dropped to his knees when he saw the driver’s door ajar.
Ritter was gone. The handle Shelton had cuffed him to had been ripped from the door. The steering wheel had been severed by a blade, giving Ritter enough room to pry the other cuff free.
“Damn it,” Shelton said. Bringing Ritter to justice wasn’t going to be that easy after all. He turned to the cops behind him.
“Call Reston PD. There’s a murderer on the loose, and I know where he’s going,” Shelton said in his too-loud voice. He reached into his pocket and took out the paper he’d lifted from Ritter. If this was the only thing Ritter had taken from Jefferson’s tent, it must be vital.
The paper was blank.
Shelton cursed and wadded it up before tossing it over his shoulder. Well played, Eric. Well played.
CHAPTER 8
The next morning, Shelton waited outside Assistant Director Cox’s office at the FBI’s headquarters building in Washington, DC. His night had been a whirlwind of depositions, written statements, and horrible coffee.
His head still ached and his right ear rang like a mosquito was trapped in it. He’d had a bad concussion from an improvised flash-bang grenade in Iraq. Ritter had spirited him away from the hospital before any definitive tests for traumatic brain injury were finished. Shelton considered going to Veterans Affairs for an evaluation. He wasn’t getting any younger, and the headaches were…well, headaches.
“Shelton? Come on in,” Cox said. Shelton hadn’t heard the door open; his hearing still had a way to go before he was healed. Cox was one of the few assistant directors in the FBI who didn’t care for a secretary. The office was old leather furniture and pictures of Cox in Vietnam and on the scene of a swath of terrorist attacks against America—Beirut, Nairobi, Oklahoma City, the Twin Towers on two separate occasions.
There was no coffee in the office, but there was a pile of diet soda cans in the trash next to Cox’s desk.
Shelton sat across from Cox, his written statements scattered across the desk between the two of them.
“Greg, you’ve done an incredible service to the Bureau and the country. You have my sincere thanks for a job well done,” Cox said. He looked fresh, with the perfect coif of hair, which looked like it belonged on someone running for president, and a light spray-on tan. Shelton was pretty sure he looked like a stray dog in comparison.
“I’ve read everything you gave us,
and I’m concerned,” Cox said. “A false FBI agent. Some shadow agency that has perfect access to government networks. The connection between a data breach at TEDAC and an analyst you say was planted there by this…this Ritter character. And some Iranian with the same level of access that was behind everything Jefferson did.”
“Sir, I’m not making this up. Did Reston PD raid that address I gave them? Everything was there: the computers, Ritter’s accomplices,” Shelton said.
“They did. All they found was an empty storage annex,” Cox said. “Agent Gamil, who you insist is really a former army officer named Eric Ritter. But there’s no record of anyone with the description and name of Eric Ritter who ever served in the army.”
Shelton felt a cold fury building within. He wasn’t going to let Ritter get away with this, not again.
“He…he is real. He must have had something to do with that attack on TEDAC. He is part of a conspiracy within the government—has to be,” Shelton said. There wouldn’t be any deal this time. Shelton vowed to fall on his sword, if need be.
“Officially, the incident at TEDAC is being blamed on improper handling of breaching equipment. That being said…I believe you,” Cox said.
“Wait. What?” Shelton said. Cox could have knocked him over with a feather.
“Since 9/11, the Bureau has come across something…sinister operating within the government. We caught a glimpse of it when a number of al-Qaeda suspects we had in custody were transferred to black sites and we were cut off from any information generated after that transfer. Then records started to go missing. Anyone who looked too closely at the matter ran into tax trouble or worse. This wasn’t the normal CIA stove piping. This was a shadow organization that transcended agencies.” Cox sat back in his seat.
“You’re the first person we know of who’s been up close and personal with them. What makes you so special?” he asked.
Shelton explained his connection to Ritter, the search for the kidnapped soldiers in Iraq, and Shelton’s silence over Ritter’s involvement in the deaths of several Iraqis in exchange for Ritter’s protection and assistance once Shelton left the army. The confession was cathartic; Shelton felt years younger for sharing what he knew.
