by Vince Flynn
All of the sudden a voice Hanousek didn’t recognize came on the line. “Paul, what’s going on?”
“Debbie, we’ve got Mitch Rapp from the CIA, and Skip McMahon on the line.”
“This is the trailer we’ve been looking for and it’s hot…just not as hot as we expected it to be.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rapp asked.
“They’ve either shielded it, or the device is no longer in the trailer and we’re seeing contamination.”
“Debbie,” said Reimer. “Get an HPG count and skip the X-ray. Have the FBI drill a hole in the side of the trailer. Do it nice and high. You know the routine.”
Hanousek relayed the order to one of her techs who grabbed a black case and ran over to the trailer. Another man pulled out a cordless drill and Hanousek pointed to a spot on the top third of the trailer. It took little effort for the drill to pierce the thin metal skin. A small fiber optic camera with an infrared light on the end was fed through the fresh hole like a snake.
Hanousek cupped the small video screen in her hands, shielding it from the rain with the brim of her hat. She strained to make sense of the grainy black-and-white image. After a second she closed her eyes and said, “The trailer is empty.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Rapp and McMahon had both been hovering over the speaker phone, one on each side of the conference table. Neither man asked Hanousek to repeat herself. They’d heard the disappointment in her voice as well as her words. They both stood there in deafening silence, too caught up in trying to calculate the implications of what they’d just learned to respond. The bomb could be anywhere.
McMahon finally straightened up. He placed his hands on his hips and let out a sigh of frustration. “Do you want to call the president, or do you want me to do it?”
Rapp didn’t answer right away. He hovered over the speaker phone, palms flat on the table, arms locked, brow furrowed. There was no way these men had simply vanished. Rapp looked up at McMahon. “They didn’t just walk out of there. They had some mode of transportation.”
Hanousek’s voice came out of the speaker. “I don’t think so. The son of the owner just told me his parents’ car is still here.”
“Where are the parents?” asked Rapp.
“No one knows.”
“What’s their car look like?”
“It’s one of those big four-door Cadillacs. Brand-new.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t they just take the car and drive out of there?”
“Maybe they met someone there?” McMahon guessed.
Rapp shook his head. “Not likely. They were on the run.”
“What about the neighbors?” asked Reimer. “Has anyone checked with the neighbors?”
“That’s a good idea,” replied McMahon. “I’ll make sure the Sheriff’s Department gets on it right away.”
Rapp finally stood. He turned around and looked at a map on the wall. They were missing something. He’d been on the run before in a foreign country, and none of this made any sense. The Cadillac was a golden opportunity to change vehicles and get away. “Are we sure they only had one vehicle?”
There was a moment of hesitation and then Hanousek said, “I never thought of asking. Hold on a minute.”
About five seconds later Rapp could hear Hanousek repeat the question, and then he heard a man say, “No. They only had the one car.”
Rapp was still staring at the map trying to get an idea of the lay of the land. He only had a general idea of the house’s location. “Debbie, describe for me what the setting is like there. How big is the lot, how close are the neighbors…anything that might be useful?”
“It’s a nice place…big. Probably around ten acres or more. You can’t see the neighbors. The road in is real private. You cut through the woods and down a sloping drive to the house and then beyond that there’s the river.”
Rapp froze for a second, and then returned to hovering over the phone. Something she had just said struck a note of familiarity. “Did you say river?”
“Yeah.”
“What river?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ask the son?” Rapp turned back to the map.
“The York River.”
Rapp found it on the map and traced it with his finger. He turned quickly and picked up the transcript of al-Adel’s interrogation that he had been reading when McMahon and Stealey had come in the room just ten minutes ago. He flipped through the pages searching for the passage that he couldn’t quite remember. Rapp ignored both Hanousek and McMahon who tried to ask him what he was doing.
He found the passage and skimmed it. “Debbie,” Rapp said earnestly, “ask the son if his dad has a boat.”
Her reply came two seconds later. “Yes, he does.”
Rapp pinched the bridge of his nose. “Has anyone bothered to check and see if it’s there?”
Rapp could hear Hanousek ask the question, but he could barely make out the man’s answer. He was saying something about his father never leaving his car parked outside, and that was why he noticed the cab and the truck in the garage right away and he’d heard about it on the news so he called the police right away, and no he hadn’t had time to check on the boat.
“The boat!” yelled Rapp. “Go see if it’s there.”
Rapp grabbed his secure mobile phone and punched in Dr. Akram’s number. Someone else answered and told Rapp Akram was busy. “I don’t care what he’s doing, put him on the phone right now.”
Less than five seconds later Akram was on the line. “Mitch.”
“Are you with al-Adel?”
“Yes.”
“Ask him why they planned on attacking New York by boat.” Rapp turned around and looked at the map again, shaking his head and silently cursing himself for not seeing it sooner. It made no sense. Why would a man who couldn’t swim decide to get on a boat, when he could simply drive the bomb into the city? The answer was obvious. Because he feared detection.
Akram came back on the line. “He said something about sensors at all the bridges and tunnels leading onto the island.”
“Just like D.C.” Rapp looked back up at the map.
“What sensors?” asked Akram.
“Never mind, I’ll tell you later.” Rapp ended the call and a second later Hanousek was back on the speaker phone. He already knew what she was going to say.
“The boat is gone.”
POTOMAC RIVER
They were only twenty miles from their destination. The wind had picked up a bit, so it was difficult to tell if the rain had diminished or not, but it looked as if it was clearing to the east. Al-Yamani had been worrying about the weather all morning. His greatest fear was that the entire event would be canceled. Losing the weapon that was to destroy New York was enough of a setback, he did not need another. He had journeyed all this way, and he desperately wanted the president and the other American leaders to suffer Islam’s fiery vengeance. The rain would reduce the number of people who were predicted to show up for the event, but al-Yamani would gladly spare thousands of those people their lives if it meant he could kill the president.
Today would mark the beginning of a true global jihad. Al-Yamani would show his fellow Muslims that America was not so mighty after all. He would show them that with great sacrifice even America could be brought to her knees. Al-Yamani knew that America would strike back. He doubted they would have the courage to retaliate with nuclear weapons, but if they did it would still be worth the sacrifice. They would be drawn out from behind their relatively safe borders and forced to fight.
Muslims from around the world would resent them for the godless people that they were. The destruction of the American capital and its leaders would have disastrous economic effects mostly here in America, but in today’s global economy everyone would be affected. The master plan, with a strike in Washington and then a follow-up attack in New York, would have undoubtedly shattered the American economy and sent the rest of the world into a global depressio
n. But even so, a nuclear attack in Washington was no small feat. At a bare minimum, it still had the potential to create great economic hardship.
Muslims were used to hardship. They would flourish in a global recession, whereas the fat, lazy Americans would not. They would be seen for who they were in the face of such hardship, and resentment for them would continue to grow. Al-Yamani took great solace in knowing that he was about to ignite a revolution. It was the one thing that helped him ignore the pain that had spread to every single inch of his body.
They were now approaching what looked to be a large bend in the river. Hasan, who was driving the boat, pointed to the left. “I think that is what they call Mount Vernon.”
“What is it?” asked al-Yamani who was sitting next to him.
“It is where George Washington lived. The man they named the city after. And up ahead is Sheridan Point. Once we clear it I think we will be able to see the city.”
Al-Yamani smiled. “Where is Khaled?”
Hasan yelled for his friend and a moment later he was at al-Yamani’s side. “Get the scientist and have him arm the weapon.”
Khaled lowered his voice to a whisper and asked, “When he’s done, can I kill him?”
Al-Yamani would have liked to do it himself, but he doubted he had the strength to dispatch even someone as weak as Zubair. “Yes, you may.”
“Thank you.” Khaled turned and went below. A moment later he returned with the scientist.
Zubair had one of the lead aprons on and was holding his laptop. Al-Yamani was about to tell him to take the apron off, but decided it wasn’t worth it. They had seen only a handful of boats all morning, and right now they were the only boat in sight.
“Do you need any help?” asked al-Yamani.
“No. I only need to know when you would like the bomb to go off.” Zubair checked his watch. “It is eight minutes past eleven right now.”
“Two hours from now.”
Zubair tilted his head in a questioning manner. “How much longer until we reach the dock?”
“We should be there in an hour.”
“That will not leave us much time to get away.”
“It should be more than enough.”
Zubair was about to argue and then thought better of it. These other two soldiers of the jihad had been giving him dirty looks for two days, and he got the distinct impression they would like to hurt him. “Very well.”
Zubair walked to the stern, stepping out from under the canvas cover and into the falling rain. He had spent months designing the fire set so that he was the only person who could both arm and disarm the weapon. With the aid of his computer it would take only a few seconds to start the countdown. Zubair opened the cooler and briefly admired his work. No longer was the oxidized hunk of poison visible. It was concealed by an outer shell of plastique explosives and a complex maze of blasting caps and six separate firing circuits. If by chance anyone found the bomb, there was no way they would be able to defuse it in time. Each firing circuit was independent of the other, and each one used its own unique set of wiring with multiple false leads built in.
The Pakistani scientist plugged a cable into the data port he’d placed near the top of the weapon and plugged the other end into his laptop. Holding the computer with one hand he pecked the keys with the other. He entered two separate sets of passwords to get to the proper screen and then punched in the countdown sequence. He wanted to be as far away as possible when this filthy weapon exploded. The numbers 02:00:00 appeared on all six detonator screens. Zubair smiled at the knowledge that only he could now stop this explosion from occurring. He entered one last password and then watched as all six screens began counting down in unison.
Zubair closed his computer, unhooked the cable, and then shut the cooler. He turned around to get out of the rain and ran smack into the chest of the imposing Khaled.
“Are you done?”
“Yes,” Zubair answered a bit nervously. He did not like the way these two men treated him.
The scientist’s spastic demeanor, the laptop, the lead apron, and the rain-slick surface of the deck, all contributed to what happened next. Khaled reached out and grabbed the Pakistani by his free arm. His other arm plunged up and out with the four-inch blade that had been at his side. Instead of piercing the Pakistani’s chest like he’d planned, the blade hit the lead apron and stopped dead.
The Pakistani screamed and tried to spin away. In the process, the laptop came up and hit Khaled in the chin, stunning him for a half second. He recovered quickly though and reached out to grab hold of the back of the Pakistani’s shirt. This time he would not be thwarted by the apron. He swung his blade viciously and plunged it into the side of the man’s neck. When he withdrew his blade the entire back of the boat as well as Khaled were sprayed with bright red blood.
The geyser of blood hit Khaled in the eye, and he lost his balance for a second on the rain-soaked deck. At the same time the Pakistani jerked wildly and broke free of the larger man’s grip. With blood spraying out between his clenched fingers, Zubair reeled, stumbled, and then fell over the side of the boat and into the river.
The boat was traveling at twenty mph. Hasan turned to al-Yamani and asked, “What do you want me to do?”
Al-Yamani looked through the rain at the body in the water. Zubair was already sinking, though his arms were slapping the surface, and he was struggling to stay alive. No one could lose that much blood and survive. He looked down at an embarrassed Khaled. He was covered in blood as was a good portion of the deck and the side of the boat, though the rain was already washing it away.
Al-Yamani looked straight ahead and said, “Keep going. Even if they find his body they won’t be able to stop us.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Rapp burst through the door and sprinted across the rain-soaked parking lot to the waiting helicopter. The wind had picked up a bit, and the sky was clearing to the east. The rain would not last much longer, and as soon as it stopped, people would start flocking to the river and the National Mall. Rapp opened the starboard door of the Bell 430 helicopter and jumped in. The door to the executive helicopter clicked shut sealing out the noise of the twin Allison turbine engines and the five spinning rotors.
Four men were sitting in back dressed in plain clothes just as he had requested. One of them carried a long Special Purpose Rifle and the other three carried MP5 submachine guns. All four of the weapons had silencers affixed to the barrels. Rapp would talk to them in a minute when he was done briefing the pilots.
Rapp handed the pilot the photo he’d pulled off the manufacturer’s website and said, “This is the boat we’re looking for. She’s thirty-seven feet long and has Scandinavian Princess, York River, VA written in gold letters on the stern.”
The pilot handed the photo to the copilot and asked, “Where do you want to start?”
“Let’s hit the Key Bridge and work our way downriver from there.”
The pilot nodded and the fast executive helicopter lifted off the ground. Its landing gear retracted smoothly up into the belly of the craft and it began slicing eastward.
When they discovered that the boat was missing, Rapp had asked to speak directly to the son. He got a full description of the boat and they pulled it up on the manufacturer’s website. The guy’s father had named it the Scandinavian Princess after his wife. The son had asked Rapp if he thought his parents were all right. Rapp didn’t have the heart, or the time, to tell the guy that his parents were most certainly dead, so he lied. Al-Yamani was on a quest to kill thousands, and Rapp doubted he would show compassion for two elderly people, no matter how kind they might be.
When Rapp hung up with the son, he made three phone calls. The first was to General Flood at the Pentagon. Rapp told Flood precisely what he needed, and where he wanted the particular assets staged. Flood listened patiently. Having worked with Rapp many times, the four-star general had complete confidence in the younger man’s analytical and tactical ability. He told Rapp the as
sets would be in place as quickly as possible. Rapp’s second phone call was to the CIA. He wanted the helicopter and a four-man security team dressed in plain-clothes sent over to the Joint Counterterrorism Center ASAP. The third and final call was to Kennedy. He did not want to talk to the president. He was not going to try and explain what he wanted to do and then have to ask for permission. There was no time for that. Kennedy said she would pass everything on to the president and get back to him.
Rapp looked up at the four men sitting in the back of the helicopter. All of them were reasonably fit and they had that ex-military look. If there was more time, Rapp would have called in a freelance team that he was used to working with, but time was something they were running short on. “Who’s in charge?”
Three of the men were sitting directly across from him facing the front and one was sitting next to him with his back to the pilots. The one sitting next to him put a finger in the air and said, “I am.”
Rapp stuck out his hand. “Mitch Rapp.”
“I know who you are, sir. John Brooks.” The man who looked to be about Rapp’s age shook his hand. “It’s an honor to be working with you today.”
“You might not think so after I tell you what we’re up to. Are you guys SOG or SWAT?”
“SWAT.”
The CIA had a top-notch security force with its own SWAT team as well as a little-known paramilitary outfit called Special Operations Group. Both were staffed predominantly by men and women with military experience. “What’s your background?”
“Two tours Green Berets. Stan and Gus here served with the Rangers and Sam was a sniper for the Corps.”
Rapp looked at the last man. “You ever killed anyone with that thing? And I need an honest answer.” The guy looked to be in his early twenties.
“Not this rifle in particular, sir, but I did a tour in both Afghanistan and Iraq. I’ve got recorded kills up to six hundred yards.”
“You ever shot anyone from over a hundred yards from a helicopter?” A long aerial shot from a moving, vibrating helicopter was one of the most difficult tasks in the business.
