“Of course. I took it to the president as well. Obviously, he wasn’t happy about it. We’re still on, though.”
“Well, hell,” she said in frustration. “What’s with this guy? Doesn’t he realize how serious the threat is?”
“He knows.” There was a pause. “He’s desperate, Rivers. If he pushes this through, he might pick up enough support to start thinking about another four years. Otherwise, he’s done.”
“It’s kind of hard to run the country if you’re dead,” she mumbled.
McCabe winced. “Don’t let anybody else hear you say that, for God’s sake. Listen, I’m needed back at Tyson’s Corner. You can reach me there if you need to, okay?”
“Okay, thanks.” He nodded and walked back to his waiting car. Jodie Rivers stared into the gray waters of the channel as a series of awful scenarios raced through her mind, one after another. After letting her imagination run rampant for five minutes, she reluctantly moved off to double-check the perimeter and the list of foreign dignitaries who had been cleared for access.
Please, God. Not on my watch.
The TTIC was a nonsmoking facility, and Jonathan Harper had given up the habit years ago. With the pressure he was currently under, however, he needed some way to vent, and he wasn’t a screamer.
He smoked outside as dawn broke, with Ryan standing next to him. The younger man was crossing his arms one minute, shoving his hands deep in his pockets the next, as if unsure of what to do with himself. They were alone on the broad expanse of concrete, and they had known each other for seven years. There was nothing awkward in the silence. The deputy director sensed that Kealey was coming to a decision, and waited for him to speak.
“I want to go to the marina.”
Harper took another long drag and exhaled slowly. “Not much for you to do down there,” he observed.
“I know that.”
“What do you need?”
“Some kind of identification,” Ryan said. “I want people to know who I am. I don’t want somebody stopping me every five feet.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Not through us…through the TTIC, maybe. And I’ll talk to McCabe.”
“I need my gun. I have it with me…I just don’t want it to be a problem.”
“It won’t be.”
Harper finished his cigarette, and they stood in companionable silence as the sun topped the trees. “What do you think of Naomi?”
“I like her. She’s…tough.”
“Not bad-looking either.”
Ryan smiled. “Not bad.”
Harper tossed his butt toward the sandpit, missing badly. “I didn’t really want her in on this at first. She’s kind of rough around the edges, you know? Hasn’t really learned to handle people yet. She’s learning, though…Think she’ll find anything?”
“I don’t know. She’s pretty quick. It depends on how lucky she is.”
“Luck is part of it,” Harper conceded. Then, after a few seconds: “Go to the marina. I’ll call ahead for you. Would you know him if you saw him?”
“Maybe…Yeah, I’d know him,” Ryan decided. He hesitated: “I think I’d know him.”
“He’ll know you,” Harper said. “So watch yourself.”
“I always do.”
The room was just about what he’d expected: comfortable, but not lavish, with a few tastefully framed prints on the walls. There was the obligatory television in a tall wooden credenza, twin beds, and a nightstand, along with a small desk that sat adjacent to the door. Upon entering the room nearly twelve hours earlier, he had moved straight to the window to check his line of sight. It was perfect. The van was about 200 meters away, facing toward him, and approximately 75 meters away from the intersection of 13th and Pennsylvania Avenue.
The worst moment had come the night before; he had been forced to circle the block three times before finding a suitable location. Fortunately, he didn’t think anyone had noticed. A considerable amount of pedestrian traffic had cropped up since daybreak, but not one of the passing people seemed too intently focused on the large commercial van that was parked at the curb. Since 12th Street had been closed to through traffic less than a half hour after his arrival, there were very few moving cars on this adjacent street, which made keeping an eye on the van easier than it otherwise might have been.
He had needed to rearrange a few things inside the room. The DO NOT DISTURB sign was hanging on the doorknob in the hall, a minor detail, but an important one. He had pulled the armchair out of the corner and maneuvered it in between the beds. Then he had grabbed the credenza from the narrow end and dragged it over to the space vacated by the armchair, turning it so it was at a right angle to the big picture window. The wooden chair had been taken out from underneath the desk, and placed next to the window in front of the credenza.
These minor efforts meant that he could watch the television and the vehicle at the same time. Vanderveen knew that MSNBC was scheduled to carry the president’s address live from the waterfront. With any luck, he would be able to verify the president’s approximate time of departure; he already knew from Shakib’s document that Brenneman was scheduled to return to the White House at 11:40 AM, but it didn’t hurt to double-check.
FOX News was already showing, on what appeared to be a continuous loop, coverage of the aftermath in Virginia. They had little footage and less information, settling instead on wild conjecture and a long shot of the smoking ruins provided by a low-flying helicopter with a shaky pilot at the stick.
Vanderveen did not know how the FBI had tracked him to that location, but he was not overly concerned. He was only hours away from achieving his goal, and there was no way they could stop him in time. Besides, he was pleased by the efficacy of his improvised device. If the anchor’s estimates were correct, he had managed to kill eight members of the Bureau’s vaunted Hostage Rescue Team. Hearing about it secondhand was somewhat less satisfying than watching the realtor bleed to death, but satisfying nonetheless.
He felt good, despite the fact that he was nearing the end of a long wait. The ringer on the cell phone was on, but the covered switch in the cab was in the OFF position, so there was no power going to the exposed circuitry. The phone he would use to trigger the device rested by his side, but if he was to call now, nothing would happen. He glanced at his watch, a cheap Timex, perfectly suited to his current persona. The digital display read 7:25 AM. At about eleven, he would go down to the van, ostensibly to pick up the notebook he’d deliberately placed on the passenger seat. With any luck, the president and a healthy number of his aides would be dead less than an hour from the time he flipped the switch.
He had done all he could. He leaned back in the chair and went back to watching the street below his window.
CHAPTER 34
WASHINGTON, D.C. • ASHLAND
Driving east on Interstate 66, it didn’t take Kealey long to work his way into the city and toward the waterfront. In fact, the security check he endured on arrival took nearly half as long as the trip had, but it was still less than forty-five minutes after leaving Tyson’s Corner that he was granted access to the Gangplank Marina. From there, it took him another five minutes to locate the person he was looking for.
Ryan felt more than a little foolish as he chased Jodie Rivers through the throngs of reporters positioned behind the metal crowd-control barriers. As they moved, they were jostled by the photographers and cameramen who were jockeying to get a good shot of the president’s motorcade, which was due to arrive any minute. He needed to talk to her, but the woman seemed to be in perpetual motion.
He almost slammed into her when she stopped abruptly at the press gate. There were two men in dark suits and sunglasses checking IDs and the passes that had been specifically designed for the event and distributed the day before by the White House press office. Rivers turned her attention to the covering agent, leaving the other to continue his work.
“Did you get the photographs?” The man nodded. “Let me see them.”
The man, who was at least 7 inches taller than Rivers and twice as heavy, immediately reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
“You guys have been keeping an eye out?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am. Everybody’s checked out on the list.”
Ryan thought the deference showed by the burly agent to the diminutive Jodie Rivers was vaguely amusing, but kept the thought to himself.
The advance team leader turned to show him the sheet. It contained a blown-up shot of Vanderveen’s driver’s license in the name of Timothy Nichols, as well as several other images, showing him with glasses, long hair, dark hair, and a beard, among other things.
“These are enhanced photographs,” she needlessly explained. “We took the original and made some minor alterations. It’s not much, but it makes my people look a little bit harder, helps to keep them on their toes.” Turning back to the agents: “Okay, good work, guys. Stay sharp.”
She handed the sheet back to the man and moved off with surprising speed, Ryan close on her tail. She suddenly seemed to remember that he was there, and turned her head to address him as they pushed through the crowd. “I already talked to Deputy Director Harper, Mr. Kealey, as well as Director Landrieu. You’re free to come and go in this area as you please…In fact, I’m happy to have you here. Every warm body helps. What do you need from me?”
He finally got an uninterrupted minute when they stopped to examine another checkpoint. “Actually, Agent Rivers, what I want to do is check the surrounding roads. You look like you have everything pretty much under control here, so I figure that the best place for me is where you’re short on manpower.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. Something that catches my eye, I guess…I would just feel better if I was on the move.”
She was skeptical. “Sounds kind of pointless.”
“I know, but there’s not much else to do.”
That seemed to satisfy her. “So, again, what exactly do you need from me?”
He shrugged. “I’m carrying…Harper told you that?” She nodded, her eyes instinctively passing over his body. He was wearing a loose-fitting dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, untucked, over a pair of khakis. She didn’t see the pistol, but realized it was probably under the shirt at the small of his back. “I don’t want any problems from your people on the perimeter. Can you let them know that I’m coming?”
She frowned, then said, “I can tell my people, but we’re having a hell of a time with communications. The boys from Metro are pulling a lot of the vehicle checks, and they’re using UHF radios. It’s been giving us problems all day, but I’ll see what I can do. How are you for ID?”
It was Ryan’s turn to frown. “Harper couldn’t get me anything. You know, technically speaking, I’m retired from the Agency, and Landrieu had some problems with that. He wasn’t backing down.”
Wincing, she said, “That could be a problem.”
“I know.” He hesitated. “If you can just get word to your top guy out there, then I can probably start looking around without causing any distractions.”
She thought about that, began to nod when her earpiece sparked to life. She listened intently as Ryan looked on.
Rivers glanced up at him. “The president is about to arrive.”
Over her shoulder Ryan could already see the long procession of vehicles sweeping around the corner onto Maine Avenue. The lights on top of the Secret Service Suburbans were flashing, though the sirens remained silent. The sight of the motorcade’s approach caused a storm of activity in the press pool, as cameramen and photographers hustled for position in the overcrowded area. The distant roar of the demonstrators started to pick up as well, despite the fact that their view of the motorcade was all but obscured.
Ryan saw that Rivers looked nervous. She caught his attention and tried a weak smile. “That press area is giving me fits. It’s a lot bigger than I wanted, but McCabe had to give in to the pressure…The networks went crazy when he sent over our first set of requirements. We got to a third draft before they stopped threatening to sue. The first amendment is a terrible thing, at least from my point of view.”
He nodded his sympathy. “The AIC for Brenneman’s detail is here now,” he pointed out. “That should take some of the weight off you.”
“You’d think so.” She sighed, then turned her attention back to what he had been saying. “Okay, as far as my people are concerned, everything north of Ben Banneker Park is pretty much relegated to the rooftop countersniper teams. That’s a strange combination in and of itself; we’ve got Metro PD, Capitol Hill PD, and my own shooters up there, as well as a few Bureau people thrown in for good measure…All the same, comms are pretty good, with the exception of the Metro guys. I’ll try to let them know you’re coming, but I can’t make any guarantees. I don’t know what happened there; it was just one of the small things that we overlooked, and I’m pissed off about it.”
She looked pissed off, Ryan thought, and she looked pretty good, too. He couldn’t help but think it; her cheeks were flushed with anger, but it worked for her. If he didn’t know better, he might have pegged her as a fresh-faced grad student, the enthusiasm making her seem a few years younger than her age. Because he did know better, he felt a little bit sorry for her; the Secret Service was an environment thoroughly dominated by alpha males, and someone who looked like Jodie Rivers would have had to work twice as hard to be taken seriously. He was sure that her current position had not come easily.
He let the thought go and tried to think of what else to ask her, but she was way ahead of him. “Do you need a vehicle?”
“No, I have one.” Harper was going to be stuck at Tyson’s Corner for the rest of the day, and had given Ryan the use of his forest green ’98 Explorer. “They’re still taking 12th back to the White House, right?”
She glanced at him, hesitated, then nodded. If Landrieu said he was cleared…“That’s right, for the most part. Since 12th Street is closed for construction between Pennsylvania and H, we have to turn onto 13th. We’re scheduled to head back around 11:40. Some of that depends on the weather. We’re supposed to be getting hit pretty hard this afternoon.”
“I heard it might pass us,” Ryan said, looking up as if to confirm the rumor.
“Yeah, well…” she shrugged as the president emerged from the vehicle and flashed a broad grin at the press pool, which immediately responded with a number of clamorous questions. “We’ll see.”
Despite the fact that he had not slept in almost twenty-eight hours, Vanderveen could feel the energy coursing through his body. It was hard to remain seated in the chair, and the mind-numbing scenery offered by the hotel window did little to alleviate his boredom.
He had been surprised and gratified by the extent of MSNBC’s coverage of the event. The cameras had transmitted a live broadcast of the president’s motorcade nearly twenty minutes earlier. A quick count had yielded thirty-six vehicles, which was something of a relief, as it told him that Shakib’s document had probably not been compromised. Of course, if it had, 12th Street would almost certainly not have been closed down, but it was reassuring to see that the Secret Service felt secure in its preparations.
It had never been his intention to attack the motorcade before the meeting took place. It was afterward, when they had already professed their profound commitment to one another, that the sudden death of the American president would do the most damage to the fragile coalition. And he was so very close…
He checked his watch: 9:31 AM. He smiled to himself. It was hard to believe it had all come down to these moments. Staring out the window, he marveled at the changes that would soon be taking place. The buildings at the intersection would suffer the most. Soon they would be faceless rooms, no longer marked by rough stone walls and sparkling windows, but by tangled steel and crumbling concrete, and the shattered bodies of those unfortunate people who resided within.
He was so lost in the images o
f fire and destruction that he didn’t immediately notice the solitary figure moving up the street. His eyes opened a little bit wider, and he stood up and put his nose to the window to get a better look. When his suspicion was confirmed, his breath hissed out between his teeth and fogged the glass. You should have been paying attention, he thought, but it wasn’t a problem; he still had time.
Vanderveen looked around quickly, thinking about what he would need. The decision came quickly; he pulled on his heavy jacket, and grabbed his key card and passport. Reaching for his temporary visa, but then thinking, No, better not to try too hard. Then he was moving fast toward the door.
Ryan had enough confidence in Jodie Rivers to believe that she would make the calls she had promised. He was tired of hanging around, so after a brief conversation with the same agents he had seen manning the press entrance, he passed through the metal detector with minimal fuss and headed back toward Harper’s Explorer. It was parked on 7th Street facing north, but when he got in and looked through the windshield, he was suddenly struck by indecision.
The street in front of him was crowded with vehicles, and the same was true on the other side of the road. He could see police officers walking up and down the rows, calling in license plate numbers and performing quick visual checks. There would be just as many cars on the streets running into 12th, and it seemed like at least half the vehicles were some type of SUV, which was exactly what he was looking for.
He slapped his hands on the steering wheel in frustration and got out of the truck. The streets were crowded with commuters at this time of the morning, and there was little he could do from a slow-moving vehicle. It would be better to walk.
He started up 7th—the time-worn Beretta firmly secured in a drop holster at the small of his back—nodding a greeting to the Metro cops that he passed on the street. He was shivering in the cold air, then remembered that he had left his jacket back in Harper’s vehicle. He debated for a second, then looked again at the long rows of vehicles. The sight gave him a sense of the enormity of his task, after which the decision came easily enough, and he walked quickly back to the Explorer.
Andrew Britton Bundle Page 34
