Compromised

by Tom Saric

  “Really?” Bailey said, making eye contact with Russo. “Crilley and General Kaczmareck set it up. They wanted to create a perceived threat coming out of Somalia, so they got nuclear weapons into terrorist hands and they were going to recover them.”

  Russo sat with his hand on his chin, listening intently. “Nuclear weapons?”

  “Man portable,” Bailey nodded. “Suitcase nukes. But one got through, taken by Kadar Hadad and brought to the U.S. And then…”

  “It’s okay, Bailey, you can tell me.”

  “There is a man named Armand Senechaux, an arms dealer. He has the weapon. And Alban. I trusted him…” Bailey doubled over again, shaking her head.

  “What happened with Alban?”

  “He convinced me that he was on our side. That he was going to stop Senechaux.”

  “Stop him from what?”

  “He lied to me.”

  “Where is he now?” Russo stood, wringing his hands.

  “I think it’s too late.”

  “You must tell me.”

  “They were going to set it off. They said they wanted revenge.”

  “Where?”

  “At the book signing. Janet Carter’s.”

  Russo stared at her for a moment and ran out of the room.

  36

  The drive from the hospital to the George Washington University campus passed like a blur. The whole way Paul thought of Evans’ words, of Fallen Angels. Senator Carter had to be the target. It was Carter who picked up on the Vanity Fair article and ran with it. Carter’s relentless pressuring of Congress led to the launch of the inquiry led to Kadar Hadad’s freedom. It led to Paul’s purgatory.

  But if Sidwell had the weapon, he could have Ellen.

  Traffic swelled and slowed to a trickle until he came up to the police barricade, which prevented vehicles from getting near the entrance. Crowds of people, most carrying signs with phrases ranging from OUT OF IRAQ NOW! to JANET FOR PRESIDENT flowed up the sidewalk, underneath the row of elm trees to his left. Paul slammed his fist into the steering wheel, the honk joining the orchestra of car horns already blaring down the street. He thought to roll down his window, scream out for protestors to turn back, that there was a bomb set to go off. Panic vibrated inside of him; every second he wasted could mean the difference to stopping Sidwell.

  The university buildings loomed in front of him. Would Sidwell really wait for Paul to arrive? Maybe all he wanted was for Paul to know he had set him up. Maybe the book signing was a diversion, one used to set Paul marching along on the wrong path. Sidwell had left him clues, ones that only he could have pieced together. Janet Carter had to be the target. Sidwell had to be close. Ellen had to be there.

  Paul’s gaze traveled across the sea of supporters around him, stretching down the sidewalks on either side of the university building.

  Paul put the car in park, took out the keys, and flung the door open. He tried to take a step, but as his left foot touched the ground, a cutting pain shot up from his left ankle. He rolled up his pant leg to his knee and saw that his ankle had become scarlet and puffy. He pressed on his ankle and the joint felt intact underneath, which meant he probably hadn’t broken it, just a bad sprain. The university entrance was a half mile ahead. He could make it.

  He walked as quickly as he could with the pains in his thigh and ankle, weaving and pushing his way through the people collected on the sidewalk. He passed a blonde woman with each arm outstretched, holding hands with two identical boys who couldn’t be a day over seven. They each wore homemade T-shirts that read Carter Cares.

  As he approached the University, the crowd became thick, with barely enough room to push through. He saw that crowd control barriers had been set up in a wide perimeter around the entrance to the convention center, herding people into three lines. Four police officers directed people in. Paul weaved his way to the barrier and put his hand on the metal fencing. He yelled for the nearest officer to come by.

  A firm hand clasped down on Paul’s shoulder, and something hard and blunt pressed into his spine.

  “You are right on time,” a voice in an eastern European accent whispered in his ear. “Do not try to run, or I will shoot you. We will walk to your right, side by side.” A large, hairy hand reached over Paul’s shoulder and pointed northwest, towards a service entrance.

  Paul started walking. He didn’t recognize the man with the hairy forearms in a blue and red tracksuit, but he knew the man must work for Sidwell.

  As they crossed a driveway, they passed a police officer in riot gear and tracksuit slipped the gun into his jacket pocket. Paul thought of yelling to the officer the man next to him had a gun and was going to bomb the signing. That would only cause a diversion. His best chance of stopping the weapon from exploding was getting to Sidwell.

  They crossed 22nd Street and walked about two hundred yards down Pennsylvania, until they came upon a faded grey utility van with rusted holes around the wheel wells. The rear windows were painted. A worn sign on the side advertised SUPER CITY ELECTRICAL INC. The only things about the van that could seem out of place to someone passing by were the blacked-out windows.

  Tracksuit pressed the rear door handle, swung it open, and pushed Paul inside. The door slammed behind him.

  “For god sakes, Marshall, for a minute there I thought you weren’t going to show up.”

  The twang in the voice stuck in Paul’s ears and took him back to last time he had seen Sidwell, in Addis Ababa. Paul stood hunched over at the edge of the van. Sidwell squatted on a bench behind the front seats. A navy Adidas duffel bag sat on the floor in front of him. Ellen sat next to Sidwell, her hands shackled to an eyehook in the floor. Her face puckered as her eyes met Paul’s, and she burst into tears.

  Paul batted away every impulse he had to run over and take Ellen into his arms, to tell her he loved her, that he was sorry. Sidwell sat on the bench with his arms crossed, a grin beaming through his thick beard.

  Paul didn’t move. He stood there, fixated on Sidwell, part of him curious as to what this crazed man wanted with him.

  “I thought I was going to have to blow this thing without you.” He pointed at the duffel bag.

  “You knew I’d come,” Paul said. “You made it happen that way.”

  “Correction, I made it likely that you’d come.” Sidwell stood up, his head touching the ceiling. “When it comes to Marshall Ramsey, one can never be certain whether he’ll run away.”

  Paul didn’t say anything.

  “Come on there, Marshall, can you honestly deny that? Internal Affairs starts smelling blood in the Kadar Hadad torture. And what do you do? You run. You testify against me and you run away from any consequences. You leave your family behind. But now it all comes crashing back on you, doesn’t it?”

  Paul saw his fist shoot out. He saw it touch Sidwell’s jaw and send his head snapping to the side. He felt Sidwell’s coarse beard scratch his knuckles. Then, he felt two hands clamp down on his shoulders and twist him to the floor. A swift kick came up into his ribs sending a paralyzing pain through his chest, one that made his breathing shallow and wheezy. He heard Ellen scream something. The man with the pockmarks pressed his knee into Paul’s back and forced Paul’s face onto the cool metal floor.

  “Get up.”

  Paul flipped over onto his back, propped himself onto his elbows and looked up at Sidwell, who licked the blood dripping down from his upper lip.

  “Kill me then,” Paul said softly. “You did this for me, kill me. There’s no need to go and set a nuclear bomb off and kill all those civilians.”

  “You actually think the weapon is nuclear?” Sidwell laughed. “C’mon, Marshall. Suitcase nukes are an urban legend, one that intelligence agents use to scare each other.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No, no, but it sure got a lot of people scared. Funny what slapping a few yellow stickers on a bomb can do.”

  “So, it’s not a bomb?”

  “Oh, it’s a bomb all right. Jus
t not nuclear.”

  “Where is it?”

  Sidwell looked at Paul and then at Ellen.

  “Do you honestly think we went too far with Hadad?”

  “Where is the weapon now?”

  “Don’t you think he deserved it? He was a terrorist that killed thousands of innocent people. He killed children and Americans. He almost killed you--”

  “He deserved it,” Paul said. “He deserved everything we did to him and more.”

  “You’re damned right! And the people down there got him released. And that woman made it happen.”

  “You really think those are the same people? Most of the people out there weren’t out of diapers in ninety-eight.”

  “Janet Carter is the same. She’s running on ruining us. This will show them.”

  “Show them what, Steve?”

  “It will show them they cause their own destruction. The same terrorist they got freed has now smuggled in a weapon that killed them. The woman who let him go was killed by him.”

  Paul shook his head. “You’ve gone mad, Steve.”

  Sidwell’s eyes seemingly floated above his cheekbones. He rolled his eyes as if to say you haven’t seen ‘mad’ yet. He shook his head, still chuckling, reached in his pocket and held out a BlackBerry device.

  “Here’s how this is going to work.” He reached out and put his right hand gently on the back of Paul’s neck, as though he was going to pull Paul in for a hug. Paul could smell the coffee aroma emanating from his mouth as he spoke. “I’m going to activate the device on my BlackBerry once Razman and I get to our car. That will give it eight minutes until the device explodes. I will be well out of the blast radius by that time.”

  “So what, then? Everyone dies?” the words came out calmly, even though his heart was pounding away.

  “Not necessarily everyone.” Sidwell smiled wide, like a game show host saying let’s see what’s behind door number 3!

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You might survive. Eight minutes is more than enough time to get yourself out of the blast radius.” Sidwell shrugged. “You can run, Marshall. You can save yourself, again.”

  Before Paul said anything more, Sidwell patted him on the back of the neck, swung the rear doors open, and he and Razman hopped out. They slammed the door behind them.

  It took more than a second for Paul to process what had just happened. He stood at the back of the van, his head touching the ceiling, dumbfounded. Sidwell had given him a chance to run. He could live.

  Ellen cried hysterically, unable to bring her hands to her face to wipe away her tears because they were shackled to the eyehook in the floor. He recognized this would be the last image he would have of her, one that would be burned into his brain forever. A portrait of helplessness.

  He crouched down next to her. He ran his hand down the side of her face and pressed his lips on hers. It only lasted a moment because by this point the tears were coming so fast that she sputtered. She tasted salty, and her whole face was wet. Through her short breaths, she whispered something.

  “It’s okay, Paul. It’s okay.”

  He didn’t say anything. He turned, swung the rear door open, and ran out of the van.

  He ran out into the street, ignoring the sharp pain in his ankle. He scanned the scene around him. People continued to flow past the van on the sidewalks towards the University. He saw the backs of Sidwell and Razman stepping into a black SUV.

  Paul darted through the crowd of people. On the sidewalk underneath a cherry picker, he saw two construction workers chipping away at a section of sidewalk. One of them ran the jackhammer in repeated bursts, while the other shoveled away the debris.

  He ran at them and grabbed the spade out of the worker’s hand. Before the worker reacted, Paul already had a five-second head start.

  He ran back to the van, ignoring the pain in his leg. He jumped inside, lifted the spade over his shoulder, and thrust it down into the eyehook at the bottom of the van, making a loud clang! He kept hitting the eyehook repeatedly. Clang, clang, clang! A spark shot out from the metal on metal contact.

  The eyehook bent slowly and he kept pounding away, harder and harder. The hook broke open a touch and he reached his fingers inside and pulled it apart about half an inch. He unhooked the chain. Ellen was free.

  “Where is the weapon?”

  “I don’t know.” Her hands shook as she spoke. “Somewhere inside. Inside the theater.”

  “Okay. Now go,” Paul commanded and pointed at the open door.

  Ellen stared at him, confusion etched on her face.

  “Just go! And tell the police to evacuate the building!” he turned her around and pushed her out the door before he slammed it shut. He pressed the lock down and heard her slap on the door a few times.

  In his rearview, Paul saw Sidwell’s black SUV, driving down the road, away from the University. He had no idea where Sidwell had placed the bomb, but Sidwell had to have the detonator. What other option did he have? Paul looked at the steering column. He felt underneath the seat for a set of keys. He put the key into the ignition and twisted. It did not start. He tried two more times, pressing the gas, and the third time the van sputtered to life.

  Paul threw the van into drive and cut off a car to get onto the one-way street. He tore up the street toward the last sighting of Sidwell’s SUV. He picked up speed.

  Paul swerved around the corner. The SUV was two cars ahead. Paul pushed into the next lane, running a Honda Civic off the road. He pulled up adjacent to the SUV and cranked the wheel. The van smashed into the SUV, sending the vehicles into the parked cars by the curb. The SUV accelerated, plowing past Paul’s van. Paul floored the accelerator and the van lurched forward, hitting the SUV’s bumper.

  Paul looked up. A red light ahead. Bumper to bumper traffic. The SUV’s brake lights flashed but Paul accelerated, plowing into the rear of the SUV. Smoke rose up from the hood.

  Paul grabbed the shovel from the back and stepped out of the van. He moved to the driver’s side door of the SUV. He swung the shovel at the window, smashing through it, hitting Razman in the head, stunning him. Paul wound up and swung again, this time feeling the end of the shovel crack through Razman’s cheekbone.

  The passenger side door opened and Sidwell stepped out. In one hand he held a gun. In the other a BlackBerry with a timer. 0:32.

  “It’s happening Marshall. You’re going stand with me here until this thing goes off.”

  Paul held the shovel, trying to catch his breath. They heard sirens in the distance. Maybe Ellen had notified police. There were thirty seconds left. There must be a disabling mechanism, but how long would it take to figure that out. He didn’t have time for the standoff with Sidwell, no time to play it smart.

  As Paul’s leg tensed to lunge forward, another car smashed into the pile-up, shooting the SUV forward. Before Sidwell could react, the SUV struck him, knocking him off balance. Paul lifted the shovel and dropped the edge on Sidwell’s skull, knocking him to the ground. The gun and BlackBerry dropped to the pavement. Paul swung again, with all his strength. This time blood poured out of Sidwell’s head and he fell face down onto the pavement.

  Paul tossed the shovel aside and grabbed the BlackBerry.

  0:24

  He stared at the screen, the numbers descending. The screen had a stop button. He selected it.

  0:15

  The digits continued to drop. A prompt for a password.

  0:09

  Paul looked at Sidwell unconscious on the ground. He had come so close, but he was too late. Maybe Ellen got the police to evacuate the building. Maybe everyone was okay. Maybe Janet Carter had been spared.

  Paul slowed his thinking down. Janet Carter. He took a deep breath and punched in the password.

  0:02

  The timer stopped.

  Paul stared at the frozen timer in his hand. He felt someone’s hand on his and looked up. Ellen was there, police officers behind her. Two police cruisers were t-bo
ned into the SUV.

  The officers instructed Paul to place his hands behind his head.

  37

  Three Days Later

  Ellen woke up to the sun's glare through the dusty hotel window. She squinted and rolled over to the digital clock on the nightstand beside the bed and saw it was 10:23 a.m. She had overslept.

  The place was a Holiday Inn Express on the outskirts of Arlington. The FBI covered the bill while they continued their investigation into the botched attack on George Washington University. It wasn’t a bad place; the mattress was soft, the linens clean, and the bathroom had been recently updated. The problem was they wanted her to stay until all the initial interviews were done, which could take up to two months. A long time to live in a hotel room.

  She sat up in the bed, reached for the remote control, and turned on the national news. Three former officials of Homeland Security debated about how an unknown terrorist managed to enter the United States, build a homemade “dirty” bomb and nearly set it off without the FBI getting wind of it. They hailed the brave men and women in the FBI who had stopped the explosion, short circuiting the detonator and saving hundreds of lives. Then they segued into a debate about the merits of preemptive strikes against countries like Iran and Syria and Somalia to stop terrorism.

  There was no mention of Paul Alban, Craig Evans, or Steven Sidwell.

  No mention of Kadar Hadad.

  Ellen smiled a crooked smile and shook her head.

  She turned her head towards the tangle of blankets in the space on the bed beside her, the side that Paul had slept on. She hadn’t heard him get up, which was no real surprise since she had slept like a rock the past three nights.

  She got up and walked to the bathroom. The door was open, and the lights were off. She turned and opened the closet and saw that Paul's shoes and jacket were gone.

  She initially felt a twinge of panic and thought maybe he had run away, that maybe he didn't believe he would be pardoned for any offenses he may have committed during the Somalia affair as the people at Langley had promised. Why should he trust anyone? But she quickly reassured herself that he had probably only gone for a walk, maybe to get a newspaper, maybe to get some food, maybe a coffee, maybe.