by Jeff Gulvin
Harada stood up and tugged at the knot of his tie, then slipped off his shirt and placed it on a hanger alongside his suit in the closet. Today was hot, warmer than yesterday, and he would wear nothing but a pair of shorts under the cotton one-piece coverall. He fired up the truck and then backed out into the lot, before swinging the nose round and heading down past the Catholic University. He sat in traffic for a few minutes, listening to the newscasters on the radio, with his arm dangling out of the window. The truck was fitted with a scanner for the police radio channels. He drove south on North Capitol as far as Bloomingdale, before turning east to Edgewood and the second self-storage lot, where he kept the black independent cab. Here he changed quickly, this time into a pair of blue slacks and an open-neck shirt, and pocketed the false cab driver’s licence, this one under the South Korean name of Hu Li.
Dressed and ready, he opened the back door of the security truck and carefully took out the three separate devices he had prepared. He laid them on the workbench and inspected the packaging, the first in a McDonald’s ‘to go’ bag, the second and third in plastic garbage sacks. He had shaped three separate charges, exactly half a kilo of C-4 in each, and wired them into the short-fuse military timers. These had been rigged with separate safety-arming switches, assembled from the components he carried in the truck, which would give him enough time to place and arm all three.
Back in the cab, he headed downtown, easing through the weight of the traffic. As with his truck, the cab was fitted with a radio scanner and he had three cloned cellular phones in a box under the seat. The Federal Triangle was choked as usual. Harada watched the city cops moving the traffic on as he hit Pennsylvania Avenue and passed the FBI headquarters. He knew exactly where he was going, having done the necessary research over the past six months. He drove south-east on Pennsylvania until he hit Constitution Avenue and the US Capitol building dominated the skyline. ‘Land of the free, home of the brave’—the very epicentre of the democratic world. Harada thinned his eyes at the memory of Jakarta all those years ago, and considered all that had taken place in between. Again, the level of his own betrayal stung him, urging on his resolve to complete this task and make his own peace. He swallowed briefly at the thought, then recalled the courage of the master, and stepped on the gas pedal once more. He swung the cab past Capitol Hill and slowed at the junction with Delaware Avenue, where a traffic cop was issuing a speeding ticket. Harada pulled over and deposited the McDonald’s bag in the garbage can on the side of the road. The police officer did not look up.
Back in the cab once more, Harada waited for the traffic to slow and then pulled out and headed south of the Capitol building to Maryland and 7th. Here, he placed the first of the plastic garbage sacks in another trash can, before driving to George Washington University Hospital, across the street from Foggy Bottom metro station. The last sack he placed in a trash can to the left of the bus shelter, where an old man sat looking at his shoes. Across the street, the hot-dog and novelty vendors were busy serving commuters who came up the escalators from the station. Harada looked at his watch. Twelve minutes had passed since he placed the first device at Delaware. Sitting back in the cab, he picked up the telephone and dialled.
The operator took the call at the Hoover building. ‘FBI.’
‘My name is Fachida Harada. Listen to me very carefully.’
Logan was talking to Kovalski, and Swann was preparing to head back to New Orleans, finish his lectures and then return to London. Kovalski’s phone rang and Logan picked it up. The muscles tightened round her mouth.
‘How did he sound?’ she said.
‘Calm,’ the operator told her. ‘Very calm.’
‘What exactly did he say?’
‘That he had planted three bombs.’
‘Where?’
‘Delaware and Constitution, Maryland and 7th, and right across the street from Foggy Bottom metro.’ The operator’s voice was agitated. ‘He said we had exactly forty-five minutes before they would detonate.’
Logan put the phone down and related the conversation to Kovalski. ‘It was definitely Harada?’ he said.
‘He gave her his name.’
‘What about demands?’
Logan shook her head. ‘Another forty-five minutes, Tom.’
Kovalski picked up the phone.
Swann could hear the sirens screaming, as the task force rolled for the second time in three days and got the evacuation started. Forty-five minutes was not a long time. He stood at the window on 4th Street, looking across at the Federal Museum and thinking. He knew that Harada would be watching the chaos. He would be monitoring the response of the authorities, timing vehicles, gauging the directions they came from. Logan came off the phone to a colleague on Pennsylvania Avenue.
‘What’s the distance between the devices, Chey?’ Swann asked her.
She indicated the locations on the wall map. ‘We’re smack bang in the centre,’ she said. ‘Maryland and 7th is just across Stanton Park.’
Swann stared at the map for a few moments, considering. ‘What’re the cordon settings?’
‘The bomb squad want to go for two hundred metres. We don’t know how big the devices are.’
Swann nodded. ‘He’ll be in the area, Chey. He’s a specialist. Right now, I think he’ll be checking your response times and seeing if he’s picked the correct RVPs.’
Logan stared at him for a moment. ‘So he can booby-trap them. Don’t worry, they’re being searched.’
They got her car and drove down 4th, under the Labor building and on to Pennsylvania Avenue. Traffic was backing up everywhere as people were forced away from their workplaces. Harada had effectively placed one of his devices at either end of Capitol Hill and both ends of the building were being evacuated. ‘He picked a helluva day for it,’ Logan said. ‘They’re considering the President’s extensions to the Brady Bill.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Gun control.’ Logan glanced at him. ‘The House is full of congressmen.’
They made it to the rendezvous point at Delaware and Constitution, and Logan met up with her counterpart from the metropolitan police. The evacuation was proceeding, but there was an air of panic about it and Swann was reminded of London in the old days. He scanned beyond the barriers of police tape, from where they had formed up to the east of Capitol Hill on Maryland and 1st Street. He looked at his watch. Seven minutes had elapsed since Harada’s call. The police had reacted quickly, but the evacuation was still in its early stages. They had been up and down the streets within the immediate vicinity, using loudhailers and phones to get everybody out of the buildings.
At Foggy Bottom, the hospital evacuation was taking longer, and Logan was monitoring the progress with McKensie, who was on-scene commander. Swann watched Logan as she organised things: thoroughly professional, crisp, calm and concise. She stood with her back to him now, one hand on her hip, speaking into her cellphone. Beyond her, police cars cruised up and down the street, shepherding people across the perimeter line and out of danger. The rendezvous point had been chosen quickly, the most obvious location given the proximity of the devices. Three of them. Swann thought about that. Three of them all at the same time, spread across the centre of the city. A strike at the heart of government. Harada was a professional. He knew exactly what he was doing. But the JRA had not been active since the spate of bombings they carried out on behalf of Qaddafi. So why now? he wondered.
Logan came over to him. ‘We’re spread a bit thin, Jack,’ she said. ‘Tom Kovalski wants to know if you’ll go to the Foggy Bottom rendezvous point and help out. Carmen’s down there, but it’s bedlam because of the hospital. We’ve got EOD coming in from all over the place, our own bomb squad, the Washington PD, and the Navy at Indian Head.’ She pointed to where her car stood with the door open and an agent in the driver’s seat. ‘That guy’ll drive you.’
The agent got him across town in a matter of minutes and they screeched up to the rendezvous point with a howl from t
he siren, light flashing on the dashboard. The team had formed up on a patch of grass and flowerbeds, just off a roundabout with a statue of George Washington in the middle of it. The RVP overlooked a parking lot—still being cleared of vehicles—which formed the roof of the metro station. The explosives officer was already there, watching the crisis site through binoculars. The police had got their initial cordons in, but there were twenty-nine minutes to go and the evacuation was slow because it involved bedridden people. The media were everywhere now—cars, vans and helicopters from all over the city. McKensie was coordinating from a tactical operations center, speaking to Kovalski at the command post. Swann climbed into the truck beside her.
‘What can I do to help?’
‘Look at the scene, Jack. Tell me what I’m not seeing.’ Sweat was forming on McKensie’s brow. ‘The parking lot worries me.’
Swann looked where she looked. A uniformed cop was directing drivers away from the area. Lots of the cars would have to stay, though, and Swann imagined all the places a professional like Harada could find to lay booby traps.
‘There’s not enough time to search every vehicle, Carmen.’ He shook his head. ‘But something tells me he won’t have laid any traps.’
Harada eased his cab past the rendezvous point and saw Swann watching the parking lot. This had been where he had figured they would set up, and, right now, they would be worrying about all the cars in the lot above the station. He had timed how long it had taken the bomb-squad van to react and from which direction it had come. He already knew where the police department housed their specialist vehicles, but he was not sure if the FBI used the field office or the underground car park at the Hoover building. Now, he had that answer and could calculate their ETA at any of his proposed locations. A cop waved him on and he was forced away from the tapes. He gauged the distance in metres from the potential seat of the explosion. Two hundred. They had done their homework and were being very careful. Two hundred was far more than was required, but they did not know that. Professional. He had imagined they would be. They showed as much at Arlington and they were more on their guard now. Spinning the wheel under the palm of his hand, he turned the cab and headed for Pennsylvania Avenue. He doubted he would make it back to the lock-up before the bombs went off.
Swann called Logan’s cellphone. ‘Cheyenne, it’s me,’ he said. ‘Everything’s set here, the cordons are in at two hundred yards and the RVP is clear. What’s happening with the third one?’
‘It’s clear.’
Swann looked at his wristwatch. ‘I make it eight minutes. What’s your plan if nothing goes bang?’
‘I gotta talk to the EOD guy about that yet, but I figure he’ll let things sit for a while longer.’
She had to go then, as another call came in from the Bomb Data Center at headquarters. Swann looked at his watch. Six minutes. He lit a cigarette and moved back beyond the outer cordon with McKensie, so only the explosives officer and his driver were left inside the perimeter. Swann scanned the faces of the police officers and firefighters, the paramedics, and men and women running around with FEMA written on their backs. The Federal Emergency Management Agency, McKensie had told him. They always attended situations like this. She smiled as she said it. ‘The FBI is the lead agency, but the politics can be almost as bad as the bomb. Not only do we have FEMA, we’ve got all the different jurisdictions to think about, not to mention the ATF. The task force should’ve superseded all the politics, but it doesn’t seem to work that way.’
Swann looked at his watch. ‘In a way, it’s just as well,
Carmen. I’ll tell you, you’ll need every ounce of manpower you can get to find this guy. He’s planned this for a long time. There’s nothing random about it. He’s got a specific agenda and he’ll make sure he stays ahead of the game.’
She looked at him with her mouth half open.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I hate to be a harbinger of doom, but he’s done his homework. Look at what he’s achieved today—taken a line across the city and stretched resources. Forty-five minutes is not a long time, Carmen. But it’s long enough to get the media hassling you, believe me.’
Swann counted the minutes down, aware of the tingling sensation in his gut, the anticipation edged with fear that he had experienced so many times before. He could smell the tension in the air—the air of uncertainty. Police cars were still milling around this side of the cordons, and he hoped to God they had got everybody out of the hospital.
And then the bombs went off.
Swann was standing at Carmen McKensie’s shoulder and felt the sudden surge of heat in his face, as the blast wave swept between the buildings and glass shattered in a maelstrom of fragments. Swann steadied himself against the impact, one hand over his ear. High explosive, not very much of it, maybe half a kilo, stashed in a lunch box or a paper bag or rubbish sack. One of the first things he had noticed when he got to Washington were the garbage cans on every street corner. He looked round at McKensie.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked her.
She grinned. ‘I’m fine. Guess you’re used to this, huh?’
Swann nodded. ‘What you just heard was about a pound of high explosive.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Pressure wave. Low-grade explosive pushes at buildings, high-grade makes them fragment.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s all about heat, blast and fragmentation, a solid becoming gas instantaneously.’ He borrowed her cellphone and called Logan.
BobCat Reece was in his compound on the banks of the Missouri River, north-east of Great Falls, Montana. He was watching CNN broadcasting from three different bomb scenes in Washington D.C. With him were Jerry Freer and Olaf Mayberry, his lieutenants. Like Reece, both were ex-Green Berets and, right now, both wore military fatigues. Mayberry leaned one elbow on his knee and studied the screen, a military-style dog tag and a crucifix dangling from silver chains round his neck. ‘Who the fuck did that?’ he muttered.
Reece glanced at him, pressing the heel of his thumb against his jaw. They had only just got back from Nevada, where the ideas behind the new network had been discussed. Up until now, everything had been random—unorganised cells with no special affiliation to anyone. But with the recent deaths in Missouri, Oregon and now Nevada, the time had come to move up a gear.
Swivelling round in his chair, Reece scrutinised his encrypted Internet access—the kind of encryption the FBI wanted the government to ban. He tapped the keys and saw that messages were coming in from all over the country. It was loosely agreed that the West Montana Minutemen would take the lead in the new-look star system of resistance: a chain of operatives and different groups linked to the hub in Montana. Reece read a few of the messages, then sent out an encrypted all-points bulletin to every e-mail address he had on his system. He wanted to know who had planted the bombs in Washington.
Harada drove the security truck slowly back from Edgewood. The streets were still clogged with traffic, people leaving all parts of the, city, not just the downtown federal area. The beginnings of panic. This was something the citizens of Washington were not used to. He could hear sirens wailing from every direction and he imagined the melee down by the White House: congressmen being removed from Capitol Hill, workers from the State Department and the university, and every other type of government facility. Chaos in their minds, in the minds of the authorities, but nothing compared to what he was planning. Carefully, he listened to the radio for word on casualties. As yet none had been reported, which was how he had planned it. But it was still early and they may not have got everybody out. Noncombatants in a war zone. It would be regrettable, unfortunate, but that’s what happened in war.
He considered all that he had witnessed. As with Arlington, it had been the police who arrived on-scene first and they who managed the evacuation. Clearly, they had some form of standard operating procedure and they had taken no chances by evacuating as far as two hundred yards.
He slowed the truck for a roadblock. They had got them in qu
ickly and, as he approached the cathedral on Massachusetts Avenue, he could see three cruisers stopping the traffic. He sat and drummed his fingers on the wheel, inching forward until it was his turn. The policeman was young, fresh-faced, with cropped black hair and sunglasses. Harada could see his gun was housed in a holster you could not yank the gun from. It was one of those twist-and-release affairs. He rolled down the window and smiled. The policeman looked him squarely in the eye and Harada knew then that the FBI had released minimal details. They had probably told the cops they were looking for an Asian, maybe they had gone as far as to say Japanese. He was Joe Aoki, however, a refugee from the war in Vietnam. The policeman looked at him, then at the side of the truck, and then he stepped closer to the window. Harada had both hands on the steering wheel. It put the officer more at his ease and Harada smiled at him. ‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Can I see your driver’s licence, please?’
‘Sure.’ Harada reached for the glove compartment and took out the licence. He had his other papers there, but handed over only the licence.
The policeman took it and looked it over, then glanced at the track once more. ‘Is this your vehicle, Mr Aoki?’
Harada nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘How long have you been in the United States?’
