by Jeff Gulvin
‘I figure she’s gonna go back to New Orleans and then on home. We’ll let her know when the trial’s at and she can fly back.’
‘Is that what she told you she was going to do?’
‘Not in so many words, but it don’t take a genius to figure it out.’ Harrison pushed himself off the wall and flipped away the cigarette butt. ‘I gotta get my shit together, duchess, go see that long-toothed sonofabitch.’
Harada had the truck backed in, and he sat and counted ten seconds, taking in the movement all around him. To his right were the park-information huts, and ahead, the old Vietnam veteran who kept a candle burning for those GIs still missing in action. Tourists were everywhere: on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial immediately to his left; down by the black-glassed waters of the reflecting pool; and crowding the Vietnam War Memorial through the trees. Harada opened the truck door and climbed up into the back, his kimono and sword bundled in one hand. With one movement, he whipped off the tarpaulin. The mortar-firing system lay flat against the bolted-down baseplate. Twelve in the first minute, then it would be so hot that he could only fire four. But a minute was all he needed. Kneeling, he ignored all that was around him, and laid a 9mm pistol beside the baseplate. Then he lifted the bipod and secured the legs so that the mortar faced right across Constitution Avenue. He looked up: people everywhere, but no cops and nobody taking a blind bit of notice of what he was doing. He set the angle of trajectory and calculated the distance. Then he primed the firing pin and picked up the first 120mm shell.
The Fugitive Publicity unit faced the street at the front of FBI headquarters. They had moved from across the quadrangle only three weeks previously, as theirs was not a secret information facility like some of the other departments. Jenny Yates was on the phone to her boyfriend, while her boss was at a meeting down the hall. The office was quiet this morning, only two other support staff at their desks. The rest were involved in the hunt for Fachida Harada. Jenny twirled the telephone cord round her fingers and pressed the receiver against her ear. They had had a fight last night and she was trying to get hold of Bobby to apologise. She was not sure it was actually her fault, but she knew there was no way that Bobby would apologise for anything.
She heard the sudden whine in the air outside just as Bobby came on the line.
‘Bobby, it’s …’
And then the mortar hit the FBI building facing Pennsylvania Avenue. The windows shattered right by Jenny’s desk. Glass flew, masonry crumbled and the whole building seemed to shake. She went down with a pain in her eyes that made her scream and scream. The door to the corridor was blown off its hinges and people outside were sent reeling by shuddering masonry. Jenny was on her hands and knees, unable to see, and when she lifted one hand to her face, she could feel the shards of glass sticking out of her eyes. She screamed again, fear rising in her throat, and, as she screamed, she heard that same whining sound for the second time.
Harada had already pumped in his second mortar when the first one impacted and the explosion resonated through the entire city. He stood now, hefting fresh mortars and dropping them into the firing tube. People on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial were watching him, puzzled initially, and then one man began to shout. Thirty seconds later, there was pandemonium, people running into each other like ants.
The noise was incredible: the shuddering bang as the mortar was lobbed into the air over Constitution Avenue; the smell of cordite and the smoke; and then the massive explosion a matter of seconds later. Harada worked feverishly. At any moment, a wannabe hero might storm the truck. Sweat poured from his brow as the third mortar went in.
On Pennsylvania Avenue, the FBI building was hit again and again. The corridors were filled with smoke and the sprinklers came on, soaking the mass of agents and support staff trying to get out of the building. There were assembly points and designated controllers, some of whom were already dead. On the second floor, doors were blown off and some of the interior walls had collapsed. Shrapnel damage had one man desperately trying to flee, hopping like a broken insect, dragging a mutilated leg behind him.
The mortars kept coming; every few seconds that terrible whining and then the building would shudder all over again. Downstairs, the police were being scrambled, but they had no idea where the attack was coming from.
At the field office, Harrison stared out the window as the first explosions shredded the stillness of the day. Logan was on the phone and when she put it down, her face was as grey as he had ever seen it. ‘The puzzle palace is under mortar attack,’ she said.
Harrison ran for the stairs, Logan and Swann behind him.
Pennsylvania Avenue was panicking, cars smashing into one another as bits of the Hoover building tumbled to the asphalt below. The police were powerless and still the sky rained mortars.
Harada could hear the scream of the sirens. The police would not know where to go initially, but as he looked up from firing the eighth mortar, his eyes fixed on the man talking on a cellular phone and looking at him from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Harada wiped the sweat from his brow and picked up the 9mm. The man’s eyes balled and he dived for cover in the bushes. Harada looked up and down the road: still no police officer.
The final four mortars landed close to the FBI building. The Old Post Office building across the street took a direct hit and the diners in the Pavilion were showered with flying glass and rubble. One bomb landed right in the middle of the road, tearing up great chunks of asphalt and hurling them into the air.
Swann, Harrison and Logan got as far as the Canadian Embassy, but could get no further. Logan was on the cellphone. ‘He’s at the Lincoln Memorial. Let’s go.’
Harrison was driving and he had the strobe lights flashing and the siren wailing. He headed straight down Constitution Avenue, weaving in and out of the traffic, following the great gaggle of police cars that were racing for Memorial Bridge. Coming the other way, the emergency services vehicles were ploughing their own furrow into the heart of the city.
Harada fired the last mortar as the first parks police car drew up and the driver leapt out to take cover behind his door. Harada emptied the entire 9mm clip into the door and the driver slumped on to the pavement, with blood gushing from wounds in his chest. Picking up his bundle, Harada walked calmly over to the police car, kicked the body out of the way and jumped behind the wheel. He swung in an arc, siren howling, lights flashing; and drove the wrong way towards the Memorial Bridge. He bumped on to the roundabout and took it the wrong way. Behind him, police car after police car converged on the truck he had abandoned.
Harada passed between the twin bronze statues of Sacrifice and Valour, given to the city by the Italians. He crossed the bridge, hitting eighty miles an hour, and went straight over the far roundabout and up Memorial Drive. He pulled over on the right and got out of the car. Then he looked back the way he had come and saw a trail of police cars following him. Calmly now, he straightened his jacket and walked down the escalators to the Blue line metro platform at Arlington Cemetery station. A train heading for Franconia-Springfield was just pulling in.
Carl Smylie waited with his cameraman at the Howard Johnson Plaza, directly across the road from the Hyatt and National Airport. They waited on the third floor, which was in the throes of renovation, with dust and bits of wood shavings everywhere. The long corridor was lined with new mattresses, shrink-wrapped in polythene and propped against the walls. Smylie had looked in one room and thought it reminiscent of a bonfire: every piece of furniture piled on the floor as if awaiting only a match. He looked at his watch and heard the explosions in the city. Quickly, he pulled out his cellphone and spoke to Morris. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.
He watched the cameraman watching him, as Morris told him that the FBI building had just been attacked by what were thought to be mortar bombs. Smylie shut off the phone and slipped it into his pocket.
‘You sure this is gonna happen?’ the cameraman said.
‘Positive.’ Smylie went i
nto room 306 and looked across Jefferson Davis Highway to the parking lot next to the Hyatt. The radio van was parked there and he could bounce his signal off the satellite dish on the roof.
Harada rode the Blue line three stops to Crystal City, where he went up the escalators, his package under his arm and the freshly loaded 9mm in his waistband. He walked through the underpass and saw a man getting into his car outside the post office. Calmly, Harada walked up to him, drew the pistol and forced him on to his knees. The man begged for his life, and Harada snatched the keys from his hand and got behind the wheel. It was a matter of a few blocks along South Eades Street and he pulled into the parking lot of the Howard Johnson hotel. He left the car, keys in the ignition, and went into the lobby. He had been here before of course, and, ignoring reception, he went straight to the elevators and climbed to the third floor.
Smylie paced the corridor, looking at his watch and wiping the perspiration from his face. He went back to the elevators, where the cameraman was looking bored, and waited. The bell tinkled and the doors slid back, and Fachida Harada crooked a finger at them, the muzzle of a 9mm pointed at Smylie’s stomach.
Smylie blanched and the cameraman nearly dropped his equipment, and again Harada beckoned. The two men got into the elevator with him and, for the second time, Smylie wondered if he should have phoned the FBI.
The doors closed with a hiss, and Harada pressed for the eleventh floor and the elevator began to rise. ‘I am Fachida Harada,’ he said. ‘Samurai warrior. Thank you for coming.’
‘Pleasure,’ Smylie uttered. ‘In your e-mail, you said something about an interview.’
Harada smiled a thin and mirthless smile. ‘After a fashion, yes.’
When they got to the eleventh floor, he ushered them out ahead of him. Directly to the right was an unmarked door, which Harada gestured for Smylie to open. It led to a grey-walled staircase that rose two flights to another door. Smylie paused at this one and looked through the glass panel to an asphalted roof. Harada kicked the lock and the door flew open, and the heat of the day hit them.
Harada motioned for them to go out on the roof, while he waited at the head of the stairs. ‘You may start filming,’ he said. ‘I would suggest you make it clear that you are being held at gunpoint.’ He smiled. ‘For your own protection, later.’ Then he began to get undressed.
Smylie stood on the roof, nodded to the cameraman, who spoke over the radio to the van downstairs. ‘Get it rolling,’ he said. ‘Live to the network.’
Smylie held his microphone and, pushing his hair away from his eyes, he looked into the camera. ‘This is Carl Smylie and I’m broadcasting to you live from the rooftop of the Howard Johnson on Jefferson Davis Highway, where myself and a colleague are being held at gunpoint by the Japanese Red Army terrorist, Fachida Harada.’
The camera panned to Harada, who was naked now, pointing the pistol at them as he unrolled his bundle and stepped into his silk kimono.
In the command post on 4th Street, Tom Kovalski stared in disbelief at the naked image of Harada pointing his gun at the camera. He snatched up the radio. ‘All units. All units. SWAT roll. Channel six. Suspect is on the roof of the Howard Johnson hotel on Jefferson Davis Highway. I want eyes on target. Repeat, I want eyes on target.’
Two Blackhawk helicopters took to the air as Kovalski ordered a no-fly zone round the hotel. It was a problem because National Airport was only a few blocks across the railroad lines and he told them to close down and reroute aircraft until further notice. Every phone in the command post was ringing off the hook, and Kovalski knew it would be the politicians demanding an update. He ignored them, kept the radio channels open and watched the macabre scene unfold live on national television.
Harrison dropped Swann and Logan at the door of the Howard Johnson. They were first on the scene, and as Harrison idled the car, he tugged the Beretta from his waistband and tossed it to Swann. ‘All yours, duchess. Point the sharp end away from you.’ Then he slammed the car door and was off across the highway to the Hyatt.
Swann weighed the gun in his hand and grinned. At last, he no longer felt impotent.
Logan was already through the doors. She flashed her shield at reception. ‘How do I get to the roof?’
Harada could feel the wind in his face and he walked solemnly away from the staircase to the far end of the roof. He knew that FBI agents would storm the stairs and he knew they would mount snipers on the rooftops opposite. The Hyatt was taller than the Howard Johnson and, in a way, he knew he had made this choice deliberately because of that. Smylie and the cameraman followed him, and he kept the gun on them, but walked barefoot over the sizzling asphalt, with the robes of his ceremonial costume flowing. In his free hand he carried the half-length sword. At the far end of the roof, he stopped and faced the camera. In the distance, he could hear the whump whump of helicopters. ‘My name is Fachida Harada,’ he said to the camera. ‘I am a warrior. The life of the warrior is one of sacrifice and honour. It is but a passing thing, like the breath of wind in winter, the spark of the firefly in the night. As each day passes, the shadows lengthen into darkness.’ He paused then, and, momentarily laying down the gun, he drew the sword and tossed away the scabbard. He bent for the gun once more, pointed it at Smylie and slowly sank to his knees.
Swann and Logan hit the eleventh floor and burst into the stairwell, then they slowed, one on either rail, and carefully made their way up, gun arms extended.
Logan got to the doorway, peeked out and saw Harada at the far end on his knees. ‘What the hell?’
Swann followed her gaze. They could not see him clearly, because he had placed Smylie and the cameraman between himself and the door.
Harrison was already on the roof of the Hyatt opposite, when the first of the SWAT team fast-roped from the chopper. He was at the parapet, armed only with his snub-nosed .38 and was staring across at Harada. He wore white and Harrison could not see him properly, just the top of his head. Clearly, Harada was kneeling, and the two reporters, one of them filming, were standing between him and the exit at the stairwell.
A sniper came alongside him. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he demanded.
Harrison looked into his face and flapped open his shield. ‘I’m your back-up, buddy.’
The sniper took up his position and two others, backed up by their observers, set up at other points on the roof.
Across Jefferson Davis Highway, Harada held his sword in one hand and looked again into the camera. ‘Life flees the warrior like cherry blossom in the winds of April,’ he said softly. Then he laid down the gun, bent his head so he could not be shot from the roof opposite and took the sword in both hands. The cameraman rolled his film and Smylie looked on in horror. And then Harada thrust the sword into the right side of his abdomen. He gasped and looked up, blood spilling over his hands and sweat standing out on his brow. He looked into the camera. ‘The centre of man,’ he whispered. ‘Passion, ambition, the spirit home.’ With that, he dragged the blade right across his middle and thick ribbons of blood sprayed Carl Smylie’s shoes.
In the command post, all were silent. Kovalski watched, frowning. Next to him, Carmen McKensie’s eyes popped out on stalks.
Harada pressed the short sword four inches into his gut. He gasped and blood flew in bubbles from his mouth. Smylie was rooted, the blood sucking at his feet and spreading in a darkened pool behind him.
At the steps, Swann and Logan saw the blood and Swann let go a breath. ‘Sepukko. Like Mishima on the balcony.’
‘We gotta shoot the sonofabitch, Jack. This is live television.’
With one final effort, Harada ripped the sword up to his sternum and flopped forward to rest on both hands, hilt against the asphalt. Smylie turned and vomited, and the cameraman gagged. Harada lifted his head, eyes balled and staring as his blood and guts spilled out before them. With one bloodied hand, he picked up the 9mm and pointed it at the camera. ‘Keep filming or I’ll kill you,’ he whispered. He lifted his head higher now and pointe
d the gun, arm extended, hand trembling, while the flow of blood slowed and his innards hung from the wound in his belly. The sword was still embedded and he made no attempt to pull it out. He looked into the camera, and his face was set and cold, and his arm no longer wavered.
Swann stood in the doorway and looked at Logan. ‘This could take hours. I mean literally hours and hours. He’ll sit like that till he dies.’ He sucked breath. ‘When Mishima did it, he had another guy there with a sword to cut off his head.’ He steeled himself, looked at Logan once more and stepped out on to the roof.
‘Jack.’
Swann waved a hand at her and, gun arm down, he walked slowly towards Harada.
Across on the roof of the Hyatt, Harrison was staring as Swann emerged from the stairwell. ‘What’s the limey sonofabitch think he’s doing?’ He looked at the agent in SWAT gear next to him. ‘Hey, kid. You got a clear shot?’ ‘No, sir. His head’s too low. I can’t see anything.’
Harrison watched as Swann slowly made his way across the rooftop, with Logan covering him from the doorway. Still Harada knelt there, and still he held the gun on Smylie and the cameraman, and the film rolled as the life bled out of him.
‘Fachida.’ Swann called across the rooftop. Harada looked up and their eyes met, and for a moment Harada swung his gun arm towards him. Swann stood his ground. He did not raise his own gun, but motioned for Smylie and the other man to step back. They eased their way aside and Harada swung the gun again, but his hand wavered and his eyes began to glaze.
‘It’s over, Fachida.’ Swann called. ‘Finished. There’s no swordsman here.’ He paused then, biting down on his lip. ‘Lift up your head.’
Harada knelt where he was, his blood drained and the pain was all but unbearable.
‘You’re samurai,’ Swann called to him. ‘Lift your head, Fachida.’
Harada was drifting. He saw the master on the rooftop, as he had done as a boy. He saw Shikomoto when they led him away in handcuffs and he saw him naked in their room in Jakarta. He looked at Swann then, who still stood with his gun pointing down, and slowly he raised his head.
