Field of Fire

by Marc Cameron

  Volodin fought the urge to hyperventilate. Trusting a stranger at this point was far too dangerous. And still, they could not simply walk out the doors and into the waiting guns of Rostov’s thugs.

  Still scanning the room for a way out, he followed the line of the high ceiling to a set of washrooms located along the wall that divided the area where they now waited from the adjacent hanger he’d seen as they’d disembarked the airplane out on the tarmac.

  He put a hand on his daughter’s arm. Only one more person stood between them and the Customs official. Volodin gave a slight nod toward the far wall. Kaija followed his gaze. He did the math in his head to convert to Alaska Time—twenty hours ahead of Providenya. “It is almost 4:00 P.M. here,” he said.

  Kaija gazed up at him, eyes wide. The little girl waiting to be told what to do had returned.

  “It will be a risk,” Volodin continued, “but I believe it to be our only option. After we clear Immigration and Customs—”

  A muffled gasp rose from the travelers crowded in with their bags around the ticket counter thirty feet away. Volodin looked up to see a Native woman carrying a baby throw a shocked hand over her mouth. All eyes in the room turned to a television mounted on the wall above the popcorn machine.

  The news feed at the bottom of the screen said the shaky images were streaming live from Texas. Hundreds of people ran, trampling others, as those around them fell dead and dying from some unseen force—all amid the pageantry and waving flags at an American high school football game. News commentators stammered, trying to make sense of what they were seeing—but Volodin knew. His heart was a stone in his chest. This was his doing, his fault. He fought the urge to vomit.

  Machinelike, he pushed his duffle bag forward with his foot and shoved his passport onto the simple wooden table. He doubted the Customs agent would make a scene in front of the other passengers, even if he were in league with the men outside. But the situation had suddenly changed with the awful scenes unfolding on the television. He and Kaija might make it past Colonel Rostov’s thugs, but if the Americans ever discovered Novo Archangelsk was his creation, they would stop at nothing to find him. He’d been certain he destroyed it all. And yet he was obviously mistaken. A batch had gotten away from him. His mouth hung open as he watched the horrible footage on the screen. Only a very few people even knew of the existence of New Archangel gas. Fewer still had access to his lab—but one of them had smuggled some to America. Volodin closed his eyes as a cold reality washed over him. The real question was not how they had taken the New Archangel, but how much.

  Chapter 4

  Dallas, Texas, fifteen minutes earlier

  The interview with Allen Lamar’s high school teacher took less than twenty minutes—but it had scared the hell out of FBI Special Agent Joel Johnson.

  Now, as he slammed the door to his forest green Dodge Durango and ran across the rapidly filling parking lot toward a packed football stadium, he wondered if five agents were going to be enough. The brassy blare of two high school bands greeted him on the crisp air of the Texas evening.

  One of the two supervisors assigned to the Dallas Area Joint Terrorism Task Force, or JTTF, Special Agent Johnson had done time in Pakistan, Central America, and a couple of refugee camps in Europe. He’d seen enough despair, madness, and evil that he was not an easy man to scare. Social media would have everyone believe that armed terrorists were lurking behind every rock and tree—a fact of life that only made it difficult to root out the real threats. But the teacher who called in the tip wasn’t some paranoid conspiracy theorist. Sixteen-year-old Allen Lamar appeared to be the real deal.

  The teacher had recounted the cold hard facts of the boy’s downward spiral, how she’d watched Lamar change from an introverted math genius with few friends to a popular thug, disdainful and threatening to everyone in the school who wasn’t a member of his select group of acolytes. Allen’s new friends called him Tariq Mohammed—and he made it clear that this was his war name.

  Allen’s teacher had seen this sort of behavior before—youth finding themselves, experimenting with boundaries and new sets of friends. She’d been ready to write the behaviors off as teenage angst—difficult to watch, but not out of the norm.

  And then she’d found the manifesto. Her jittery principal, fearful of another “Clock Kid” scenario and the legal battles that went with it, was furious when she’d contacted the FBI directly instead of the boy’s parents. Agent Johnson felt an overwhelming sense of foreboding when he’d read the letter. Peppered with the hateful regurgitated spewage of at least three well-known Internet Imams who had close ties to the Islamic State, Lamar/Mohammed detailed, in his awkward handwriting, his fervent wish to kill as many infidels as possible.

  The JTTF was comprised of representatives from federal, state, and local agencies and ordinarily capable of standing up a large surveillance operation at a moment’s notice. But late afternoon on “Federal Friday,” when agents tended to disappear early from the office, were problematic, even when stopping a suspected terrorist. Most of the agents, troopers, deputies, and detectives who made up the task force had families and all the attendant commitments that went along with them.

  Countless high school kids followed the Hate-America crap that slimed the feeds of a dozen social media sites. Standing up a rolling surveillance on one of them at the last minute seemed a futile waste of a weekend. It was all too easy for otherwise good people to become cynical under the constant barrage of reports regarding sleeper cells of bearded men, strange women wearing hijabs at Walmart, and radicalized teens about to ship off to join the Islamic State. Johnson was on constant guard to make sure the bona fide threats didn’t get buried in the noise.

  To make matters worse, Lamar was already on the move by the time the teacher called in with the tip, giving Johnson zero opportunity to brief his team—or put a real team together. It was like some unwinnable test scenario from the Bureau’s supervisory selection process. Everything had to be done on the fly, utilizing agents who were available rather than those who were chosen for their superior abilities. Johnson had been lucky to find five warm bodies who would answer their cellphones.

  Nearing the stadium, Johnson stepped from the asphalt parking lot to the concrete sidewalk that led to the long bank of ticket booths. He lived just five minutes away from this very field, but his boys were too young to play football so he’d never been inside. A pressing crowd teemed like thousands of salmon trying to swim up four narrow streams. Static crackled in the tiny, flesh-colored bud in Johnson’s ear as he slowed with the crowd to funnel through the stadium gates. Hidden by shaggy blond hair, a clear plastic “pigtail” ran from the earbud and disappeared into the collar of the agent’s black leather jacket and the neck of a burnt orange University of Texas sweatshirt. The shirt was a size too large but covered the Glock .40 on his hip should he need to loose the jacket. A voice-activated microphone, sensitive enough to pick up his mumbling curses, was pinned inside that same collar, also out of sight. This surveillance kit negated the need to go all Hollywood and lift a hand to his lips each time he needed to communicate or, worst of all, touch a finger to his ear. A cellphone would have been even less conspicuous, but encrypted radios allowed each member of the team to hear the conversation of all parties in real time.

  “I got eyes on,” Andrea Lopez said, sounding breathless and a little too eager over the radio. She was fresh meat, just four months on the job and still covered with the entire can of whoopass they poured on new agents before they left Quantico. Her training report noted that one of the male agents in her class had made the mistake of calling her Betty Bureau Blue Suit during defensive tactics training and earned himself an “accidental” elbow to the jaw. She could handle herself but she was a hair too aggressive for Johnson’s taste. Blind aggression combined with inexperience was a good way to get hurt in this line of work.

  “He’s inside the ticket gate,” Agent Lopez continued. “A second male just walked up to him. Olive
skinned, wearing a red hoodie. I’m moving closer so I can try to identify him.”

  “Negative,” Johnson snapped, drawing a wide eye from the blue-haired grandmother who happened to be walking next to him. He lowered his voice. “Just keep your distance for now.”

  “Welcome to the party, Joel,” a second female said over the radio. This one was much calmer, more seasoned. At fifty, Angie James had recently become a grandmother while working undercover inside a violent splinter group of the Black Israelites in Harlem. Fifty was the new thirty, she often said, and where Angie James was concerned, Johnson was inclined to agree. It was she who had guessed Allen Lamar was going to a football game after he’d left his house. She’d been ahead of the game since Johnson had given her a thumbnail brief and made it to the stadium less than two minutes after the boy pulled up in his mom’s Corolla.

  “Our rabbit’s walking toward the concession stand,” James said. Rabbit might sound odd to anyone who overheard the conversation, but it was much less prone to inducing fear than target.

  “Concessions under the grandstands?” Johnson’s New York accent made him immediately identifiable to his team on the radio. He shoved a twenty-dollar bill under the glass at the ticket booth and shuffled impatiently while he waited for his change.

  “That’s negative, sir,” Andrea Lopez stepped on Agent James as both women tried to broadcast at the same time, sending a garbled mess across the air.

  “Talk to me, Angie,” Johnson said, calling the agent he wanted by name, and at the same time shutting down the jittery Lopez. He used plain talk instead of radio codes, so the two guys from Dallas PD assigned to the JTTF who were already inside would be on the same sheet of music.

  “West end of the field,” Angie James came back. “Concession stand is a series of trailers, located just past where the band lines up to go through the gate at halftime.”

  “Copy that,” Johnson said, falling in with a river of football fans streaming toward the bleachers on the home-team side.

  The smell of popcorn and chili warmed the crisp Texas breeze. Parents, brothers and sisters, grandparents, church leaders, scoutmasters—all wearing jackets and sweaters of bright red, the color of the Fighting Rams of Reavis, Texas. A larger-than-normal press gaggle milled along the track—four from local news affiliates and at least two from major cable networks. It seemed like a lot for a local high school football game, even in Texas.

  Johnson stopped in his tracks, thinking, letting the current of red booster jackets flow around him. “Why are there so many cameras?” he asked over the radio, to no one in particular but expecting one of the DPD detectives to answer.

  “It’s an underdog story, boss,” Lopez came back, breathless, like she’d been running . . . or was just excited at the prospect of tailing a bona fide terrorist. “Reavis High just got big enough to make AAAA status. This is their first year to compete with larger schools. It’s getting them some real national attention.”

  The knot in Johnson’s gut tightened. Huge crowds, nonexistent security, and media attention were just too juicy a venue for a radicalized teenager who appeared ripe to go over the edge.

  A shorter, squarish man with dark hair shoved his way through the crowd and fell in next to Johnson. His tailored gray sports coat and black open collar shirt made him look like a New Jersey wise guy. Johnson felt a flood of relief. Special Agent Dave Gillette would make seven on the surveillance. It was almost getting doable.

  “I thought your kid had a baseball game?” Johnson said, still processing the realities brought on by all the media attention.

  Gillette raised dark eyebrows and scoffed. “It’s T-ball, and he’s not very good. I got your message a few minutes ago and then headed this way when I heard the radio traffic.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here.” Johnson resumed walking toward the concession stand. He didn’t relax, but felt better. With Angie James and Dave Gillette they might actually make it through the evening.

  Both former street cops—Gillette in Miami and Johnson with NYPD, they’d been assigned to NYFO—the New York Field Office—as their first duty station, then gone their separate ways before drawing the Dallas office by chance. Each of them had been promoted to supervisory agent but over different squads.

  “What do you think?” Johnson said as they walked through the crowd.

  “I think I could use a hot dog.”

  “I mean about the kid,” Johnson frowned.

  “I don’t know.” Gillette shrugged. “He’s fresh, isn’t he? Not likely to do something right away. Maybe he’s just coming to meet some friends at a ballgame.”

  “What if we’re the ones who are fresh?” Johnson said. “Maybe this kid’s been under our radar for months blending in.”

  “Or maybe he’s just a kid at a football game.” Gillette rubbed his face. “I read your briefing notes. The teacher said he was a normal little socialist shithead until two months ago.”

  A line of Reavis High School cheerleaders, all red faced from the chilly evening air bounced and tumbled on the track in front of the band at the end of the grandstands nearest the gates. Young and pretty, their short uniforms allowed them to show a great deal of leg while still maintaining their apple-pie wholesomeness—the way only a high school cheerleader could. The Reavis High School band’s section belted an explosive drum-and-horn challenge that carried across the field to the rival school.

  “That gets the blood up,” Johnson said nodding toward the band.

  “El Degüello,” Gillette said. “Santa Anna played it before he stormed the Alamo. Means ‘Slit Throat.’”

  Johnson released a pent-up sigh. “Let’s hope that’s not Allen Lamar’s theme music.

  A line of twelve young women dressed in crisp white skirts and matching sequined cowboy hats twirled large flags in Reavis High colors, moving in perfect precision with the band. The drill team, blaring band, the smell of frying food in the air—it was like a county fair, about as American as a place could be.

  Gillette ran a hand over his hair. “You think two months is long enough to radicalize a kid?”

  Johnson scoffed, picking up his pace. “I think a shitty two-minute Islamic State video is enough to radicalize someone who already believes all this is an abomination.” He shook his head. “Lopez, what’s our guy up to?”

  “Still at the concession stand, boss,” the agent said. “He’s getting nervous though. Keeps looking over his shoulder. Maybe he’s looking for—”

  She fell silent for a moment. Johnson froze mid-step, half expecting the jittery Lopez to come back and say she’d been made.

  “They’re coming your way now,” Robinson, one of the DPD detectives said at length. “Rabbit bought a can of potato chips and a Coke.”

  “See,” Gillette said. “Told you he was just here to watch the ga—”

  “Hold on a minute.” Angie James came over the radio, tension putting a quiet hush on her voice. “The guy who sold Lamar the potato chips and Coke just came out of the concession trailer and joined them. Looks Middle Eastern, but I can’t be sure from this vantage point.”

  “All three of them are walking east,” Lopez said. “They’re on the sidewalk between the bleachers and the fence that runs along the field.”

  “We’re moving up too,” Robinson said. “If you’re coming toward concessions, we should all meet somewhere in the middle at the foot of the stands.”

  “Keep your distance until Gillette and I get there,” Johnson said, the pit in his stomach growing deeper. He used his peripheral vision so as not to look at Lamar directly. Animals and humans alike were wired to notice if someone was looking directly at them. A tiny difference in the amount of white around the iris was enough to spook someone from a block away. “Maintain a loose tail. I’ve got them in sight. Lamar’s in the middle in a white sweatshirt . . . passing two little kids playing catch.”

  “That’s them,” Angie James said. “Hang on . . . Are you seeing that?”

  “I am,�
� Johnson said, breaking into a trot. Lamar was still a good fifty yards away.

  The two other youths fanned out, one on either side of Allen Lamar, backs against the fence, facing the bleachers—as if preparing to protect him.

  There came a time to bring people in—before they had a chance to shoot up a football game. Johnson intended to do just that until a crowd of Reavis High School alumni came stomping down the stadium stairs to stop directly in his path. The announcer had everyone stand for the National Anthem—completely blocking any view of Allen Lamar and his two friends. “Can you see him?” Johnson snapped, clenching his teeth to keep from shouting.

  “Nope,” Gillette said, shouldering his way through the crowd.

  “He’s just standing there, Joel,” Angie James said. “All three of them appear to be looking at the flags.”

  “For the Anthem?” Gillette said. “That doesn’t sound like a terrorist.”

  “I don’t mean the American flag,” Angie James said. “The drill team flags—like they’re checking wind direction and speed. I don’t like it, Joel. That’s something I would do before I took a shot.”

  “Converge,” Johnson said, knocking a bleached-blond Reavis alumni into the fence. “Everyone move in.” He made it to within fifty feet of Allen Lamar before the boy opened the cardboard cylinder that looked like a potato chip tube and dropped in the soda can like a mortar shell. White foam began to bubble over the top of the cylinder, like an open soda can after it had been shaken.

  Red and white drill-team flags fluttered behind the boy, snapping in a gentle Texas breeze that blew directly toward the grandstands.

  Chapter 5

  Khabarovsk, Russia

  Legs crossed at his desk, Rostov held the phone to his ear with his left hand and listened. Interrupting the general during one of his tirades was a good way to get shot. With his right hand, the colonel used the stub of a black pencil to compile a list of people he wanted to strangle. Judging from General Zhestakova’s tone, he had his own list of such names—and Rostov was on it.