“There is that, too, yes,” the first lady agreed. “If we wait until after the attack to make the announcement, we’ll be looking at an entirely different playing field, where the American people will have plenty more commanding their attention. Speaking of which, I’d like to move on to a discussion of the potential casualties we’re going to be facing two days from now.…”
CHAPTER
47
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
His call with Kendra Rendine complete, Brixton returned to the Metropolitan Detention Center after exactly one hour. This time he asked for Captain Donovan, as Panama had directed. The same guard behind the glass partition told him to wait, and that wait stretched to ten minutes before Donovan appeared, looking every bit the part of the tough Irish cop he had likely once been.
“Right this way,” Donovan said, holding the door open for him. “Follow me.”
Brixton stored his weapon and phone in a box-size locker and had to go through the metal detector three different times before the buzzer finally stopping sounding, thanks to his watch, then his belt, then the meager change in his pocket. Brixton fell into step behind Captain Donovan and they approached an elevator. Donovan used an old-fashioned slot key to activate the cab and pressed the six. After exiting on that floor, he led Brixton past a row of windowless rooms with arrays of chairs arranged in a classroom style. Donovan opened the last door before a break in the hallway and bade Brixton to enter, closing the door as soon as he did so.
Brixton found Sister Mary Alice Rose standing at a blackboard, working a chunk of yellow chalk across the surface.
“Thought I’d take advantage of the opportunity to get a head start on my lessons for this afternoon,” she said without turning.
“Lessons?”
Sister Mary Alice finally looked his way. The white hair, glasses, and dark liver spots on the backs of her hands attested to Mary Alice Rose’s age, but her slate-blue eyes looked youthful, full of hope, despite her residing for the past two years in a federal detention facility instead of a retirement home. They were the kind of eyes that missed nothing and spoke as clearly as words.
“I teach writing and literature to the other inmates,” she told him.
“Making the best of your time, no doubt,” Brixton noted.
Sister Mary Alice’s blue eyes narrowed on him. “I may be old, but I’m not so old that I can’t remember a face. And I don’t remember yours at all, my boy.”
Brixton cracked a smile at being referred to as “my boy” for the first time in twenty years.
“Robert Brixton, Sister,” he said, extending his hand.
Mary Alice Rose took it in a surprisingly strong grasp. Brixton’s hand came away with a coating of yellow from the chalk.
“You seem to have the advantage on me, Robert. I thought you must’ve come from the lawyers. But you don’t look like a lawyer—certainly not one of mine—and you’re not dressed like one, either.”
“I’m not a lawyer.”
“And yet here we are. I haven’t had a visitor, besides my lawyers, since I’ve called this place home.”
“There’s no record of you even being incarcerated here, Sister.”
“To keep the media and other prying eyes and ears away, in all probability. Speaking of which, Robert, who are you exactly? Since you managed to get through the wall around me, you must be someone very important.”
“Not really. But I am here about something important.”
“What does that make you exactly?” Sister Mary Alice asked him, taking a seat at one of the desks, which reminded Brixton of his high school days.
Brixton took the desk immediately across from hers in the next row, adjusting it to better face her. “I used to be a cop. These days, I call myself a private investigator.”
“I’m afraid if you’ve come looking for dirt in a divorce matter—”
“Not that kind of private investigator.”
“Then what kind might you be?”
“I handle international issues, to a great extent, and more delicate, sensitive matters involving Washington types.”
“I’m not a Washington type,” Sister Mary Alice told him, “and last time I checked I had no delicate, sensitive matters that required investigation.”
“Besides what you’re doing here—other than teaching, that is.”
The nun smiled, looking as comfortable within these prison walls as she was in her own skin. “Even my lawyers have trouble seeing me. I’m told I’ve been placed on some list.”
“Reserved for federal prisoners deemed to still pose a significant risk. They’re made to disappear inside the system.”
Sister Mary Alice nodded. “Makes sense. One of the guards slipped me a letter from a fellow sister who was told I was no longer here and there was no updated record of where I was.”
“Gone and forgotten,” Brixton said.
“Something like that, at least the forgotten part. But I haven’t gone anywhere. And what risk could I possibly pose to anyone?”
“You’re considered a national security risk.”
“Me?” She stifled a laugh but let herself chuckle. “What do you make of that, a simple sister of the Order of Immaculate Conception?”
“Apparently not so simple,” Brixton offered.
Sister Mary Alice took a deep breath. “What are you doing here, Robert?”
“I think you’re in danger, Sister.”
“In here?” she asked him, sounding almost playful. “Where nobody knows where I even am anymore?”
“Somebody knows,” Brixton said, leaving it there.
She took his hands in hers. “You sound concerned.”
“With good reason, I believe.”
“So you’ve come here, what, to rescue me?”
“The somebody in question is out of the picture.”
Sister Mary Alice studied him closer. “Why do I get the feeling that you were responsible for that?”
“Because I am. He’s dead. And if he wasn’t, I would be.”
Sister Mary Alice’s big, bright eyes flashed behind her bifocal lenses. “And me, too, by connection. Gives us something in common, I suppose. But why would a man like that care about an old nun?”
“I know your imprisonment here involves a federal trespassing charge. To answer that question, I’ll need to know the details.”
“Ah,” the nun said, a realization striking her. “You mean, as in where I was arrested.”
“Exactly.”
Sister Mary Alice nodded before responding. “The Y-Twelve nuclear facility in Oak Ridge, Tennessee.”
CHAPTER
48
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Can you spare some change?”
Lia Ganz gave the homeless man a dollar to avoid drawing any attention to herself. She stood in downtown Baltimore, down the street from the Masjid Us Salaam mosque, a stately building that had once housed a nightclub, of all things, and then a bank, before it was bought and converted into a mosque in the early 2000s.
It still looked like a bank, in her mind, thanks to its ornate construction and the raised “Provident Savings Bank” chiseled out of the marble finish of its façade, over the door. The color scheme combined rose, ivory, and a touch of mauve over a redbrick sidewalk leading to a majestic, heavy double-door entrance that looked more fit for an armory or bunker.
Ali Shadid had called her from the Saudi embassy two hours after she’d sat down at his lunch table. She took the call in the fifth hotel room she’d checked into since arriving in Washington, each under different identities. The need for the fifth had surfaced last night; she feared her actions in saving Robert Brixton’s life might have compromised her.
“I’m going to assume whatever mission your presence in Washington involves is approved at the highest levels of your government, Colonel.”
“That isn’t relevant to our conversation.”
“But the assurances I require are.”
“Meaning?”
“Which, of course, remains to be seen.”
“It is important they know that,” Shadid persisted. “Vital.”
That could only mean the Saudi intelligence operative had uncovered information that suggested something very big indeed was in the offing, something with which the Saudis wanted no association.
“In that case, you have my word,” Lia assured him.
“In that case, Colonel, be advised that there are indications that a major terrorist cell is operating right here in Washington. Toward what end, no one seems to know. With whose backing, everyone claims ignorance on. As to which organization is to blame, the intelligence officials with whom I spoke waffled from one to another and back again. They are chasing ghosts.”
“If it were only ghosts, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“We aren’t having this conversation,” Shadid reminded her. “This conversation never happened.”
“Until it comes time to assure my government of your cooperation.”
“I’m glad we understand each other. The inklings are out there, but nothing firm or actionable. All I was able to learn for sure is that the Americans have a number of mosques under surveillance across the region, which they suspect of offering aid and comfort to these jihadis that have melted into their midst.”
“I could’ve gotten that information myself from the internet,” Lia Ganz told him.
“But not this,” Shadid assured her.
He proceeded to tell her that his own underground Arab sources indicated that Masjid Us Salaam mosque had attracted the most attention, from a surveillance standpoint. Without going into specifics, the Saudi intelligence officer said that information he’d gleaned from his sources indicated that recent acquisitions suggested anomalies that had drawn the attention of Saudi intelligence. Air mattresses, for one thing; an inexplicable uptick in food and beverage orders, for another. And a subtle rise in electricity usage.
All three of those, along with several other clues, indicated the mosque was hiding something, along with someones. It was the kind of information the Americans, left to their own devices, would never have been able to attain. A single piece, perhaps, but not the entire string, collated in a fashion that suggested that whatever operation was in the offing had been based just down the street from where she was standing now.
The homeless man, meanwhile, had moved on, leaving Lia Ganz to further tighten her focus on the mosque, as worshippers began to trickle in for afternoon prayers. None of them stood out or sparked any sense of recognition at first glance, nor was there any discernible pattern associated with what she witnessed.
A call back home to Mossad had produced intelligence on the mosque’s imam, a nationalized American named Haussam Zimaar Alaf who had spent his youth in Lebanese refugee camps. He and his mosque enjoyed a stellar reputation in the Baltimore area, going as far as to invite Jews to use Masjid Us Salaam for their own services after a nearby synagogue was vandalized. There wasn’t the slightest hint in his profile suggesting any association with radical Islamists or jihadis; in fact, he had publicly denounced such movements on multiple occasions.
If Shadid’s intelligence was correct, Imam Alaf must have gone to great lengths to establish the kind of cover that would keep him off the radar when the Americans were poking about. Lia Ganz had seen that process play out before, far too often, with the equally common refrain of “If only we had known” or “There had been previous association” inevitably arising during the attack’s aftermath.
Lia had dressed for the occasion in the garb typical of an Arab woman, a disguise she’d donned often enough over the years that it felt like a second skin. She fastened the hijab over her hair and looped it tight, the final element of a disguise bolstered by a shapeless dress that more resembled a smock. Then she ambled slowly down the street, picking up her pace only to follow a group of women through a single open door, where the group broke right, toward the women’s area.
But Lia stopped short of following them into the worship room reserved for women, instead continuing down the hall. Checking doors, appearing lost. It took a few minutes, but soon a burly guard wearing a black suit and flashing a smile that looked painted on his face approached her warily.
“You are not permitted down here, woman,” he said in Arabic.
“I’m new. Just looking for the restroom. But I don’t want to miss the start of prayers. I’ll return to the chapel.”
The man grasped her arm when she attempted to slip past him. “The imam wishes to see you.”
“But—”
“He enjoys greeting all of those new to our halls.”
“What of my prayer?”
“There will be time for that. The imam will see you when his service concludes,” the man said, still holding fast to her arm. “You can pray on your own while you wait. My advice would be to ask Allah for mercy.”
CHAPTER
49
WASHINGTON, DC
After receiving the autopsy face shot of the man Brixton now called Brian Kirkland, Kendra Rendine had tried the number for the burner phone she’d given to Patty Trahan, four times in the past hour. She didn’t want to just text the photo of a dead man to her without alerting her to the fact that it was coming. No sense in spooking her any more than she was already. All four times the calls had gone straight to voice mail.
Which meant …
Cold fear tightened its grip on Rendine’s insides when her phone rang, the burner number lighting up in her Caller ID.
“Patty!” she answered excitedly.
“I saw your missed calls, Agent. I’m so sorry. I plugged my phone in to recharge it and I must have accidentally—”
“I’m going to text you a picture,” Rendine interrupted. “I want you to tell me if this man looks familiar to you. Be warned, the photo doesn’t show his good side.”
She hit Send. Waited.
“Oh my,” she heard Patty Trahan utter.
“I’m sorry. It’s an autopsy photo.”
“It’s not that, Agent. I’ve seen this man before, I’m sure of it.”
“When?” Rendine asked her, an edge of excitement replacing the cold fear that had been flooding her.
“He was the man who delivered the stents to me the morning of the vice president’s procedure.”
* * *
Trahan said more, but Rendine was too distracted to recall any of her words. She needed to tell Brixton, needed to call him now.
Brian Kirkland.
He was the link between the murder of Stephanie Davenport and the terrorist attack on the Metro that Brixton had foiled. Considering that made her reflect on what was coming, whatever all this was building toward. And Patty Trahan wasn’t the only person to have gone dark on her. Her calls to the cell number Teddy Von Eck had texted to her burner phone drew nothing but silence—no ring, no voice mail, no message of any kind. Just dead air.
Either Von Eck was somehow involved in whatever was happening or someone he’d contacted, close to the director, maybe even the director himself, had been compromised. It was testament to the scope of whatever it was she and Robert Brixton had uncovered.
Focus! Rendine willed herself, knowing there was no point in fixating on the terrifying ramifications before her.
She had, for all intents and purposes, been removed from active duty as a Secret Service agent, her credibility and means of access to what she needed cut off. Beyond that, the fact that she couldn’t reach Teddy Von Eck suggested she might well be a target herself, compromised just as he must have been.
Focus!
This had all started with the vice president, specifically with that fateful visit she’d made to the White House. When Rendine had begun looking deeper into Stephanie Davenport’s death, that was as far back as she’d gone, just short of six weeks ago. She’d neglect
ed to consider the fact that something else within that time frame might prove useful, even enlightening. Something on the vice president’s schedule she’d failed to follow up.
Though she was now technically on leave, she still had access to Vice President Davenport’s Secret Service logbook, which basically spelled out her every waking moment in diary form—where she went, with whom she met, how long it took to get there and back. Once written out in meticulous detail, the log was now archived online for easy access.
Rendine started her review with the days when she wasn’t heading up the vice president’s security detail, since those were the days about which she’d be least informed of the minutiae of Davenport’s schedule. All detail heads regularly reviewed the action reports and logs for the shifts immediately preceding theirs, but even she tended to gloss over the mundane and routine as not particularly relevant. So she started her review of the log by focusing on what she might have missed in her initial cursory review. She also focused on the days immediately after the vice president’s meeting at the White House that had left her so unsettled, to see if there was anything Stephanie Davenport might have done in its aftermath.
Rendine was able to pinpoint five log entries of interest for the week after that fateful visit. Four of these seemed easily explainable, once she did a slightly deeper dive, nothing more than a visit to one of the bookstores the vice president enjoyed frequenting, a last-minute radio interview, and a pair of off-the-books meetings that were more political in nature.
That left an address where Stephanie Davenport spent just over a half hour, having met there with someone alone, no member of her detail present in the room. Rendine found this odd, in large part because it represented a break in protocol. She wondered if the vice president had purposely scheduled it for a period when she wasn’t on duty, as if trying to keep it from her primary detail head. Something, in other words, she hadn’t wanted Rendine to know about.
Murder on the Metro Page 21
