From beside me Rudy said, “It’s a genuine perspective check, isn’t it?”
“Hooah,” Top said softly.
“Major Courtland…?” We turned to see a big man in a beautifully tailored lightweight charcoal suit come striding across the floor, hand out, a smile on his tanned face. I recognized him at once from Grace’s description. Linden Brierly, regional director of the Secret Service. We stepped up to meet him by the podium that had been erected between the display cases. It was a three-step affair heavy with red, white, and blue bunting and bristling with microphones, none of which were currently turned on. I’d checked.
Grace made introductions and offered her hand; Brierly gave it a firm single pump. “Sorry for borrowing the Secret Service as our cover, sir,” she said. “The President thought it would be best under the circumstances.”
Brierly didn’t miss a beat. “Sure, sure, I understand,” he said, though he probably didn’t like it. I wouldn’t if I were in his shoes; but he hadn’t gotten this far in his career by letting sour grapes show on his face. He looked around to confirm that there was no one else in the room except Brierly and Echo Team. “I’ve met your boss. Mr. Deacon.” He paused and his smile became a bit rueful. “Or is it Church? There seems to be some disagreement about that.”
“He prefers to be called Mr. Church.”
“Interesting man,” Brierly said. “I tried to run a background check on him and pretty much had my knuckles beaten with a ruler by the Commander in Chief.”
Grace returned his smile but said nothing, nor did Rudy. I practiced looking like a cigar-store Indian.
Brierly waited a second, then shrugged. “Okay, I get it. No problem, Major. So, tell me what I can do for you?”
Grace and I had agreed that she’d handle Brierly and I’d take Lee, so she dug right in. “Sir,” she said, “we’d like to discuss the candidates you suggested for transfer to the DMS.”
That dialed down the wattage of Brierly’s smile. “Why is that, Major?”
Instead of answering she asked, “What can you tell me about the men you chose to recommend?” She recited eleven names including Sergeant Michael Sanderson, who was one of Dietrich’s security men, and Second Lieutenant Oliver Brown. The others I hadn’t yet met.
I saw Brierly flick a glance across the room at Ollie and then return his gaze to Grace. “Can you be a bit more specific?”
“Just dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s,” she said with a smile.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “And for that you flash a presidential order?”
Grace said nothing.
Brierly sucked his teeth. “Okay,” he said, “you caught me.”
I stiffened, but then he upped the wattage on his smile. “A couple of my recommendations were entirely self-serving, I’ll admit it. Mike Sanderson is the son of an old friend of mine. Mike’s career seemed to stall in place after he left the army and joined the Service. We all thought he’d rise like a meteor but he didn’t make the cut to the presidential detail, and when you miss that step you tend to tread water. I promised his dad I’d look out for him and the DMS seemed like a chance for a fresh start.”
“And Lieutenant Brown?” Grace asked.
Brierly colored. “Well… that’s a little more awkward, and I’m not sure if it’s something we should even be talking about.”
“Sir, we’re here on the orders of the President himself.”
Brierly sighed and stared at the empty air between Grace and me for a few seconds, the muscles in the sides of his jaw flexing as he thought it through. We let him. Finally he said, “Okay, but it’s on your head if this information gets out because I’ll damn sure know that it didn’t come from me except right here and right now.” He nodded to himself, the decision made. “Homeland and the Service have done a number of ultra–top secret operations since nine-eleven. Off-the-books stuff, if you follow me.”
“Of course, sir,” Grace said. I nodded. A lot of black ops stuff never makes it onto paper. Plausible deniability is easier without a paper trail.
“Ollie was never in Iraq. That, um, was a cover story. He’s been Delta Force for four years and has been used in over twenty operations. Extreme stuff. Missions that involved military intelligence, the Service, Homeland, and the CIA… but more recently, until he was transferred to the DMS, Lieutenant Brown has officially been a Secret Service agent, but one that we’ve had out on loan to the Company.”
“We know he’s with the CIA,” I said. “Are you saying he’s more than just another one of their spooks?”
He grunted. “Captain, until I transferred him he was one of this government’s very best operators. Covert ops, infiltration, and special skills—he has the full package.” Brierly looked past me to where the young man was standing foursquare, staring hard in our direction. “And on top of all that, he’s the best assassin I’ve ever seen.”
Chapter Ninety-Eight
El Mujahid
“HOW DO I look?” the Fighter asked.
Ahmed turned in his seat and smiled broadly. “Perfect! Amirah herself would not recognize you!”
El Mujahid leaned over and looked at himself one last time in the Explorer’s rearview mirror. With blue contact lenses, an expert hair dye that gave him wavy red hair, skillfully crafted latex appliances, and makeup that gave him pale skin and a scattering of freckles the Fighter looked like a rawboned young Irishman. Saleem had even used special tape to change the shape and angle of El Mujahid’s nose, giving it a snubbed and uptilted look. Padding in his gums gave him more prominent cheekbones. Even he could not see the man he was beneath the makeup.
“The boy is a wizard,” the Fighter agreed.
“Now… there’s one last thing to do before we go,” said Ahmed as he took a small case from the glove compartment, unzipped it and removed a prefilled syringe. The liquid was a luminous green-gold that sparkled in the sunlight. “Roll up your sleeve.”
El Mujahid did so and held out his arm. He didn’t even wince when Ahmed plunged the needle into his flesh and injected the entire contents into him.
“Amirah said that the antidote will be at its strongest in forty minutes,” Ahmed said, “and advises that you release the plague at that point. She said that you should be completely protected, but also said that once you activate the device you should get away as quickly as possible.” He drew a breath. “Besides, things will be getting very violent very quickly.”
El Mujahid looked at his wristwatch. “Then we had better move.”
Ahmed nodded and removed a second syringe from the case and injected himself. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with toucans on it and gave himself the shot high on his shoulder where it wouldn’t be seen. He put the syringe case back in the glove compartment. He hung a lanyard around his neck to which was clipped a plastic ID holder. It read: PRESS.
“You have only two doses?” the Fighter asked. “What about your woman, Andrea?”
“She’s a woman.” Ahmed spread his hands in a man-of-the-world gesture. “We all make sacrifices.”
El Mujahid nodded. He had made his own sacrifices to the cause where women were concerned.
“There is no God but Allah,” Ahmed whispered.
“And Mohammad is His prophet,” agreed El Mujahid.
Ahmed put the car in gear and drove off.
Chapter Ninety-Nine
The Liberty Bell Center / Saturday, July 4; 11:26 A.M.
BRIERLY TOLD US that he stood behind his decision to send Ollie to us and that he’d stake his reputation on the fact that Ollie was every inch a “true American.” A phrase he used three times. “Look, I have an event to run. The First Lady will be here in a couple of minutes.”
“Mind if we loiter about, sir?” asked Grace.
He frowned at her. “Am I going to have some trouble here today?”
I cut in on that. “Wouldn’t you agree that since nine-eleven there’s been a potential for threat at every major national holiday and political event?”
> Brierly studied me for a three-count and then his voice dropped to a less friendly whisper. “Don’t fuck with me, Captain. I got a pretty damned cryptic ‘keep your eyes open’ sort of memo this morning from Washington but it had zero details and I really don’t like being kept in the dark. If your team is here because of a specific threat then I need to know about it and right goddamn now.”
I opened my mouth to reply in kind, but Grace stepped between us and took Brierly by the elbow and led him out of earshot of everyone in the room. They stood with heads bowed together for three minutes and I could see his body becoming more rigid with each passing second. Then he gave a nod and moved toward the door, walking as if his boxers were filled with jagged glass.
“What’d you tell him?” I asked when she rejoined me.
“The truth,” she said. “Or at least as much of it as he needs to know.”
“He didn’t look happy about it.”
“Are you?”
“Point taken.”
“He said he’ll quietly increase the circle of protection around the First Lady. He has a number of agents in plainclothes who can be seeded into the crowd at the ceremony.”
“Good. The more the merrier.”
Another agent entered the chamber a minute later and hurried over to us, introducing himself as Colby, Brierly’s number two. “I’ve been asked to brief you on the on-site security.” He led us to a STAFF ONLY door hidden behind a screen on which the Declaration of Independence was printed. “If we need to remove the First Lady in the event of a crisis, agents will escort her through here and then lock the door behind them. There are offices and other rooms back there and we have a designated secure spot as well as escape routes.”
After he left I dialed the cell number for Robert Howell Lee and, after verifying that the line was secure, identified myself and read the note from the President that ordered everyone to offer complete and immediate assistance to my investigation. He answered that with a long silence and I could imagine him trying to figure out what the hell was going on. I hadn’t told him. I broke into the silence and asked him if he could meet us in the bell chamber.
“What… you mean now?” he demanded. “Are you out of your mind, Captain? Do you have any idea what is going on? We have—”
“We can grab a few minutes after the speeches,” I interrupted. “This won’t take long.”
“Can you at least tell me what the hell this is about?”
Grace had returned and she and Rudy were leaning close to eavesdrop on the call. She mouthed the words: “Play the card, Joe.”
So I did. “Yes, sir, we are here representing the Department of Military Sciences.” I let him digest that. Whether he was guilty or innocent it was a hell of a bomb to drop and he had to react.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. There was another pause. “All right, give me a few minutes. I’m on the other side of Independence Mall in the communications center and I have to get someone to cover for me.” He disconnected.
I turned to Rudy. “Well? Did he sound spooked to you?”
He shrugged. “He sounded harried.”
Grace nodded. “Let’s face it; we picked a bloody stupid time to come up here.”
“Can’t catch someone off guard if they have time to prepare,” Rudy said.
She shrugged and I looked over at my team. Ollie’s face was pure hostility and had been ever since he saw that we were there to interview the man who had sent him to the DMS. He eyed me with that cold shooter’s squint and I gave it right back to him. Skip saw the look passing between us and frowned; and he took a half-step back from Ollie as if afraid to get in the way of something. I noticed that Top, Bunny, and Gus were casually looking from them to me, but nobody said anything.
The door behind us opened and a big man entered. He was dressed in the standard navy blue and red tie of the Service. He was every bit as big as Bunny, with thick shoulders, flaming red hair, and an Irish snub nose.
“Who are you?” Dietrich asked sharply, moving to intercept him.
“Special Agent Michael O’Brien,” the man said in surprise, holding out his ID. He held a metal case in the other hand. “I was detailed to check the room before the First Lady’s party moves in here for the speeches.”
Gus checked the ID and called it in while he inspected the metal case. It held the standard electronic scanners and nitrate sniffers that would show if anyone had planted bugs or bombs in the room. Dietrich nodded his approval and handed back the ID.
Dietrich closed his phone and sketched a salute to the agent. “Okay, O’Brien… the room’s yours.”
Chapter One Hundred
Gault / Outside the Bunker / July 4
THE ROVER SAT in the lee of a stand of palm trees about a hundred yards from the tent that hid the entrance to Amirah’s bunker.
“Now what, sir?” asked the driver. “Is your contact meeting you here?”
“In a way,” Gault said. “Toys? Would you oblige?”
Without a word Toys drew his pistol and shot the driver in the back of the head. The impact knocked the man against the steering wheel and splashed the window with bright blood.
“Sorry, old chap,” Gault said distractedly.
Toys’s face was stone as he removed the clip and replaced the round. He didn’t want to come up a bullet short at some crucial moment. He looked at his watch. “Zeller’s team is still twenty minutes out. Where do you want to wait for him? I don’t like being this exposed.”
Before Gault could answer the sat phone rang and Toys put it on speaker. For a moment Gault’s heart lifted, hoping that it was Amirah, but then the American’s voice barked at them.
“Line?”
“Clear, my friend. How are things going?”
The American’s voice was shaky. “God… they’re on to me!”
“What are you talking about?”
“The DMS… they’ve sent agents here to interview me.”
“Christ! How did that happen?”
“I don’t know… Sebastian, you have to do something.”
Gault almost laughed. “What is it exactly you expect me to do? I’m half a world away.”
“I have to get out. We haven’t been able to find El Mujahid. He could be anywhere! And these agents are right here… now.”
“You haven’t found him?” Gault was stunned. “Listen to me, we’re paying you too much money for you to let something this important slip through your hands. Fix this!”
“How? The only way I can bring more assets to bear on this would be to go to my own superiors, and that would land me in federal prison for the rest of my life!”
“Well, I daresay that getting arrested is going to be the least of your problems, wouldn’t you think?” Gault’s voice was cold.
“What should I do?”
“Make whatever calls you have to make to let the proper authorities know about the threat. Call the DMS. Tell them that you received an anonymous tip, something like that. Tell them that there is a biological threat. Just for God’s sake don’t mention me, and try not to implicate yourself. Maybe they can stop the Fighter before he can open the bloody gates of hell. Then get as far away as you can. An island somewhere. If this thing is released then an island is the only chance you’ll have.”
“God…”
“I’m about to clear up my end of things. I suggest you do the same. Be a hero. Save the day.”
The American mumbled something that Gault thought was a Hail Mary, and then the line went dead.
“Bloody hell,” he said, staring out through the bloodstained windshield. “The man’s a coward and a fool.”
“You get what you pay for,” Toys said with an irritated sigh. He looked at his watch. “There’s still sixteen minutes before Zeller’s team reaches the Bunker. We can’t just sit here.”
“No,” agreed Gault. They got out of the vehicle and drew their pistols. Nothing moved, so they moved quickly and quietly toward the line of tents by the mountain wall. The camp app
eared to be deserted, but as they darted from the shelter of one tent to another they found four corpses lying in a row, their hands and ankles bound, their throats cut. Their blood had soaked into the desert sand and flies buzzed around them. They were all men on Gault’s payroll.
Toys snorted. “So much for the element of surprise.”
Chapter One Hundred One
The Liberty Bell Center / Saturday July 4; 11:47 A.M.
SPECIAL AGENT O’BRIEN completed his sweep of the center, packed his gear back into the metal case and stowed it under the podium. Linden Brierly entered from another door and with him was a contingent of grim-faced Secret Service agents and at least four members of my old task force, and following them were half the members of Congress, a couple dozen assorted local politicians, and the First Lady and the VP’s wife. We faded back against the wall and tried to blend into the woodwork the way the Secret Service are supposed to do. I got some strange looks from my former task force teammates, but no one broke protocol to catch up on old times.
Robert Howell Lee had not yet arrived. I looked at Grace, who shrugged. “Give him time,” she said; but there was no time. Brierly, looking stressed and flushed, was trying to guide the ladies to their spots between the two bells, but the women were not cooperating. They were pausing to glad-hand everyone and engage in chitchat while outside the press photographers were snapping pictures through the big glass windows; and beyond the press a veritable sea of people waited for the festivities to commence. Eventually they let about two hundred civilians into the room, which meant that everyone was packed like sardines.
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