The Saracen Incident

by Jack Bowie

  * * *

  Upon recognizing a new drive, Greystone’s program searched all the files on the device for a PGP extension. Greystone knew this was Chamberlain’s referred method of encryption and not one that would likely be used by Braxton or Goddard. The program rapidly found journal.pgp.

  The program then used Chamberlain’s public key, the one he made known to his colleagues, to check the file’s author block, or signature. This would verify that the file had indeed been written by Chamberlain. The file passed the test.

  As the verification name “Chamberlain” was being written to the laptop’s screen, the program sent a special signal to the computer’s parallel interface. The interface was internally wired to a small Radio Shack relay and then to a tiny Belgium initiator.

  The initiator was pressed into a half-pound of C-4 plastic explosive that Greystone had meticulously molded around the other components in the laptop’s case.

  Three milliseconds after the program sent the signal to the interface, the initiator detonated. The detonation wave traveled through the compound, initiating a complex exothermic reaction that vaporized the laptop and sent an unearthly scream through the still Virginia night.

  Chapter 69

  Vienna, Virginia

  Tuesday, 12:30 a.m.

  A CALM STILLNESS washed over him. Braxton felt the world slowly slip past in a kaleidoscope of soft colors. It was quiet and peaceful.

  Then bursts of light shattered the tranquility. They burned through his eyelids, interrupting the serenity of his travels. He tried to ignore them, shut them out, by closing his eyes tightly, but they were too insistent.

  He forced a look and saw strange faces above him. Two men and a woman, hovering over him, shining small flashlights in his eyes, poking at his body. Why were they doing this? Why would they disturb him so?

  Slowly, voices joined with the images.

  “Pulse is 50, BP 130 over 65. Pupils are responsive.” It was a thin male voice.

  “This one looks okay for now. He’ll hold out ‘til the ambulance gets here.” A female voice. But deep and harsh, not like Susan’s. “Let’s get back to the woman.”

  The images disappeared and he was alone again. He tried to go back to the other place, but somehow realized that he couldn’t return; it was time to move on.

  Pain racked his body as he tried to push himself up. He looked down to his legs and found he was nearly buried: pieces of furniture, plaster sections of wall and ceiling, the remains of clothes and belongings.

  The last thing he remembered was Susan telling the intruders the location of the drive. She had held him close and taken away some of the pain. He had closed his eyes.

  Then there had been an explosion. He had apparently survived, but where was Susan? She had been next to him on the floor.

  He dug through the rubble, sat up, and surveyed the room. All the walls had been blasted out; he could see the courtyard in front of him and the interior of adjacent rooms on his sides. The bathroom was a dark abyss.

  There was no sign of Susan, no other bodies at all. Hadn’t there been others with them?

  He looked toward the courtyard and saw that the paramedics—he had determined their identity by now—were huddled over a stretcher in the parking lot. He climbed out of the room and staggered over to the group. They were working on Susan.

  “How is she?” he asked the female as she ran past him toward the ambulance.

  “She’s unconscious,” the paramedic replied without looking around. She yanked a case out of the side of the vehicle and turned around. “Who are . . . Jesus, you were inside! Go sit down.”

  “Will she be okay?”

  “We don’t know. We’re trying to get her stabilized. What’s her name?”

  “Susan. Susan Goddard. She’s a student at Georgetown. You’ve got to help her.”

  “Any allergies? Medical conditions?”

  “I . . . , I don’t know.”

  “Okay. We’re doing everything we can. Who are you?”

  “Eh, Adam.”

  “Okay, Adam. Go sit down over there on the grass. We’ll get back to you as soon as we can.” She pointed to a grassy area at the end of where the building used to stand.

  She left him and rushed back to her colleagues.

  He didn’t see any sign of either assailant. They couldn’t have escaped the blast. They must be buried in the rubble.

  He suddenly felt very dizzy and searched for a place to sit. There was a small bench behind the ambulance and he managed to struggle over to it. He dropped his head into his hands and tried to stop the world from spinning.

  As his head cleared, he heard the wail of sirens. He peered around the back of the truck and saw two police squad cars skid into the parking lot. Four patrolmen jumped out, went toward the crowd that had gathered around the scene, and began herding the on-lookers away from the demolished unit.

  With crowd control begun, one of them, Braxton guessed the officer in charge, went over to the paramedics. They spoke for a minute or two, then the woman paramedic pointed to where Braxton had been found. She glanced around, trying to find her lost patient. Finally shrugging her shoulders at the officer, she returned her attention to the patient at his feet. The officer said something into a microphone at his shoulder, and headed into the remains of the room.

  There was nothing more he could do here. He hated to leave Susan, but the police would question him and it wouldn’t take long before he was identified.

  The paramedics could help her more than he could.

  What he had to do was find who had done this to them: Robert Greystone.

  Braxton slipped back around the ambulance, squatted behind a large elm in the woods behind the motel, and watched as the search played out.

  * * *

  The police gave up at 3:00 a.m. After the last cop had left, he limped out to the street. He had two missions: determine Susan’s condition, and find Robert Greystone.

  Susan had been certain the cops would have CERT’s phone lines monitored, so she had made him take the car and call Flanagan from a pay phone. He had finally found one at an all-night Fast-Freddie’s convenience store a mile away. After the call he had decided to split the distance. The Camaro was parked a half-mile away behind a Readi-Clean dry cleaners. It only took him a few minutes to get there.

  He went back to the Fast-Freddie’s, borrowed a real paper phonebook and started dialing. Three calls later he found her.

  “Fairfax Hospital.”

  “This is Adam Goddard. My sister Susan was brought in earlier tonight. Could you please tell me her condition?”

  “You’re Ms. Goddard’s brother?”

  “Uh, yes, and I’m calling from Boston. Could you please help me?”

  “Well, I guess so . . . Oh, I’m sorry. Your sister is in critical condition. She’s in intensive care.”

  “How is she? Is she conscious?”

  “I really don’t have that information, sir. Would you like to speak with one of the nurses?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  A few seconds later a new voice came on the line. “ICU. Nurse Wald.”

  “This is Adam Goddard. I’m trying to get some information on my sister, Susan Goddard.”

  “Goddard. Yes. I’m afraid she is in critical condition, Mr. Goddard.”

  “Has she regained consciousness?”

  “No. I’m sorry. You may want to come to see her as soon as you can, sir.”

  My God. She can’t die! “How is she doing? Is there anything more you can tell me?”

  “She is critical, Mr. Goddard. That’s all I can say. There are some police here. Perhaps you’d like to speak with one of them?”

  “No! Thank you.” He quickly hung up.

  She was critical but still alive. How could he have let this happen to her? Fowler had been right. He should never have gotten her so involved.

  He returned to the phone book to find Greystone. This job was easier, the executive was listed at the top of a
page. His destination determined, Braxton ripped the page out the book, stuffed it in his pants’ pocket, and went back to the counter. He bought two extra-large bottles of Coke, a shriveled hot dog, and a Fairfax County street map. It was going to be a long night.

  Greystone lived on Cutter’s Lane in McLean, Virginia. The house was on a dead-end, set back from the road in a wooded section of the exclusive community. He stopped the car along the side of the cul-de-sac and peered down the driveway. The house was a vague outline at the end of the winding asphalt path. Only a single lantern shining at the front door broke the ominous darkness of the property. Braxton shrugged off the fear and tried to relax. All he could do now was wait.

  A bright light flashed across his eyes and he jerked up, hitting his head on the frame of the door. At first he thought he was back in the motel room, buried under the debris of the explosion, but quickly realized he was outside Greystone’s home. The pain came from muscles cramped from his unnatural position in the front seat.

  He had been awakened by the morning sun’s reflection off a long stretch limousine that had just turned into Greystone’s driveway.

  Braxton rolled his shoulders to loosen the knots from the uncomfortable night and checked his watch. It was 7:30. He had slept through the night! He feared the executive could have already left, but the appearance of the limo suggested otherwise. He waited impatiently, rapping his fingers on the top of the wheel, hoping to get a glimpse of the car’s passenger as it left the development.

  Through the sparse spring foliage of the trees he saw a figure leave the house and get into the car. From the swagger he knew it was Greystone. He waited until the limo had turned off the cul-de-sac, then started the car and took a careful position behind his quarry.

  They headed out the Dulles Access Highway to Reston and Theater headquarters. Braxton considered trying to get inside and take Greystone there, but realized he would never get past the security guards in his disheveled condition. As he debated his next step, the executive emerged and climbed back into the limo. When it pulled onto the highway, Braxton was right behind.

  The limo went east on the Access Highway, passing the Beltway, and joining I-66 toward the city. They crossed the Roosevelt Bridge and carefully navigated through D.C.’s morning congestion. Braxton had managed to keep a couple of cars between himself and the limo while they were on the expressways, but the morning traffic made such subtlety impossible. He finally gave up the effort at covert surveillance and just tried to stay as close as he could.

  At 9:05 the driver dropped Greystone off in front of the Capitol steps and drove the long white vehicle to the waiting area off D Street by Columbus Circle. Braxton double parked in front of Union Station and bought a copy of the morning’s Post at a kiosk. The “Today in Congress”section showed that Potterfield was bringing his Promoting Freedom and Democracy Bill before the full Senate. Greystone must be attending.

  It was only 9:15. There was no telling how long Greystone would stay, but he wouldn’t have come all this way for only a few minutes.

  Time for some special errands.

  Braxton jumped back in the car and headed out of the city on Rt. 50. Stopping at a small strip mall, he found another payphone and called the hospital. Susan was still unconscious and they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give him any more information. The day nurse was pleasant but kept putting him on hold. He finally decided he wasn’t going to get any help and abruptly hung up.

  Next, he went into the K-Mart for a few special supplies.

  Then he was ready to return to D.C.

  Chapter 70

  Capitol Hill, Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday, 10:30 a.m.

  BRAXTON DROVE INTO the limousine parking area. His hands were shaking, an unfortunate result of the abundance of caffeine he had put into his body over the past twelve hours. As he readied himself for the imminent confrontation, he realized even this affliction would work to his advantage.

  The chauffeurs were gathered around one limo’s hood, playing cards and biding their time before being called back to duty by their self-important masters. He drove slowly past them, wondering which would be his target, then continued down the next row, locating Greystone’s limousine at the end of the row.

  He pulled out onto 2nd Street, and found a space down about a block. He was as ready as he would ever be. There hadn’t been much he had needed for the disguise; his clothes were still ragged and torn from the explosion. K-Mart had supplied a long wool women’s coat that he had turned inside out, and a very unfashionable purple felt hat he pulled low over his forehead. A pair of scuffed sneakers replaced his leather brogans. They better fit his disguise and would come in handy if anything went wrong.

  His other purchases were stuffed into a worn nylon backpack sitting on the seat next to him. The pack had stood up admirably to his accelerated aging process: he had driven over it four times in the mall parking lot. He finally reached into the glove compartment, pulled out his revolver that Susan had retrieved from the Cherokee, and dropped it into the bag.

  Braxton shuffled slowly down 2nd Street keeping his head down, and occasionally checking on the location of the drivers. The efforts to hide his face were quite unnecessary; citizens on the street did their best to avoid his path and his look. It was clear they wanted nothing to do with the shoddy, homeless man walking the streets of their capital. Braxton went his way alone and unbothered.

  The vagrant made his way into the parking lot, stopping on the passenger side of a long white limousine. He pulled a piece of crumpled newspaper from the trash basket next to the car, and meticulously smoothed it out on the windshield of the limousine. His motions were slow and careful, as if this was a ritual he performed at only the most holy times. After the paper had been flattened, he folded it twice and set it back down on the hood of the vehicle. Then he leaned over the car as far as he could, cleared his throat with a loud cough, and spit a large dollop of saliva in the middle of the windshield. Taking the carefully folded newspaper, he spread the slimy liquid over the glass.

  He rubbed the windshield for about a minute, then repeated the rite. This time one of the drivers noticed him.

  “Hey ‘Rico,” a short, balding man said, “who’s that messin’ with yo’ car?”

  “Shit,” a taller, black-haired driver replied. “Stinkin’ tramp’s screwin’ with my limo. My boss’ll have my ass if anything happens. Be right back.” Santana threw his cards on the hood and headed for the end of the aisle.

  “Need any help, ‘Rico?” a burly black chauffeur called to him.

  “Nah. I can handle some crappy little bozo.”

  Santana walked about halfway to the car and yelled. “Get the shit away from my car, man!”

  Braxton ignored the order and continued carefully smearing his spittle over the windshield.

  Santana ran to the limo, grabbed the tramp, and shoved him back along the polished doors. “I said get the hell outta here, stupid.”

  “I clean your car real pretty,” Braxton slurred.

  “The hell you’ll touch this car. Look what you did to my windshield! How am I gonna get this crap off?” Santana grabbed the newspaper and tried to remove the slimy fluid.

  “I got good stuff to clean. I’ll clean it up good.” Braxton reached into his backpack.

  “Go to hell you bastard. Just get the . . .” Santana stopped abruptly when he felt the barrel of the revolver in his stomach. He looked down at the weapon and into the cold eyes of the tramp.

  “Just keep your mouth shut,” Braxton ordered. “We’re going to take a little ride and you’re driving. I’ve got no beef with you but I’ve already killed two people this week and you’re next if you mess with me. Get into the car, this side!” He motioned for the driver to open the passenger’s front door.

  The chauffeur took another look at the hate in Braxton’s eyes, then mouthed a silent prayer, opened the door, and slid across the seat to a position behind the wheel. Braxton followed him in and told him to star
t driving.

  * * *

  “What happened to ‘Rico?” the balding chauffeur asked as he watched the limousine leave the parking area.

  “He musta had to get the damn car washed,” the big black man replied. “Stinkin’ bums are a pain in the ass.”

  * * *

  They circled the Mall and drove down South Capitol Street. Braxton had a rough plan in mind but was completely lacking in the details. He had no experience in coercing people with guns, but he wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of stopping Greystone. He would just have to rely on his instincts.

  As they approached the waterfront, Braxton saw what he had been searching for. He motioned with the revolver and Santana turned at K Street, eventually stopping in front of the burned-out shell of a warehouse. The relic was a reminder of more prosperous commercial times in the District, before law and politics became the economic imperatives. Braxton pulled Santana out of the car and shoved him through a battered, charred doorway.

  “Hey, man,” Santana pleaded. “I don’t know nothin’. I got kids, a family. Don’t kill me.”

  “Do as you’re told and you’ll have a great story to tell. Take off your clothes.”

  “Please, Señor. I don’t do no funny stuff.”

  “Oh, Jesus. I just want your uniform. Now strip!”

  Santana stripped to his briefs and handed Braxton the clothes.

  “Face down on the ground,” Braxton ordered.

  “It’s dirty down here, man. What I’ve got to do that for? I won’t try anything.”

  “The ground.” Braxton yelled. He punctuated the order by poking the chauffeur in the ribs with the revolver. “Now!”

  Santana kneeled to the ground, wiped away some loose wood scraps and rocks, and flattened onto his stomach. Braxton pulled a long plastic cable tie from one of the pockets of the oversized coat. He moved over the prone body and yanked back on Santana’s arms. The driver let out a squeal.