Memorial Day Part 28

"I know. I feel the same way, but let me show you." McMahon briefly left the room and returned with a map of Virginia. He laid it out on the table and said, "Here's Richmond and here's D.C. The traffic stop occurred over here on the northeast side of town. The State Patrol says they had all the major roads already covered when the call went out. They checked the traffic cameras on ninety-five and two-ninety-five and came up with nothing. That means they didn't get on the interstate, which is by far the quickest way to travel the hundred miles between here and there."

The FBI man tapped the four points of the compa.s.s around Richmond and said, "Everything was covered. This is one of the busiest traffic weekends of the year. People headed to the beach, people headed to the mountains, people headed up to D.C. for the memorial dedication. The roads are packed."

"I know. I was just out there."

"Well, there's something else that we didn't hear right away, but it went out over the police net. This Ford pickup was pulling a trailer. The head of the State Patrol tells me there's no way his people or the locals would miss something like that."

"Trailer?" Rapp repeated in a concerned tone.

"I know*I know what you're thinking. What's in the trailer? Paul and I have already talked about it."

"Has he heard back from the Russians?"

"They're at the test site and beginning their search."

Rapp stood and let out a long exasperated exhale. He studied the map. He thought about the trailer. "What if these a.s.sholes have another bomb?"

"We don't have any intelligence that would point to that. You know it yourself. You guys didn't find a thing in Pakistan that would point to a second bomb."

Rapp knew he was right, but he had to a.s.sume these guys weren't driving around in a pickup with a covered trailer for nothing. "How can the State Police be so sure they aren't already in Washington?"

"They had a plane patrolling ninety-five and Highway One when the call went out. They had a helicopter over Richmond within fifteen minutes, and they had over one hundred cops, deputies, and troopers on patrol between just D.C. and Richmond alone. They think these guys are holed up somewhere, and I happen to agree with them."

"Or they switched vehicles."

"Or we could have a jumpy deputy who got himself run over, and has no idea what he's talking about."

Rapp studied the map, and then glanced up at McMahon. "Then why'd you call me back here and ruin my vacation?"

"Because I don't believe in coincidences, and I think before the night's over I'm going to need you to do some things that*well let's just say*I can't."

"You mind telling me what they are?"

"Not yet, but you'll know soon enough."

"Have you kicked this up to the White House yet?"

McMahon shook his head. "I brought Brian up to speed on it, but that's it." McMahon was referring to his boss, FBI Director Roach.

Rapp looked surprised.

"Listen*I've got every cop in the five-state area looking for these clowns. Telling them," McMahon pointed to the ceiling, "means that I'll have to drop everything I'm doing and run over to the White House and brief the entire d.a.m.n cabinet, and then the next thing you know the Department of Homeland Security will be trying to run the show, and we'll all be tripping over each other."

Rapp nodded in agreement. "So what's your plan?"

"The tape of the traffic stop is on its way up here right now. I want to review it, and I want to talk to this deputy when he wakes up. Other than that I want to stay out of the way of the locals and let them run these guys down."

"And would you mind explaining to me again why I missed my flight?"

"I told you already. Trust me, if we don't find these guys pretty quick, your talents are going to be very much needed."

Sixty-Nine.

VIRGINIA.

Mrs. Hansen's first name was Julia. It turned out she was the mother of four kids, all of whom now lived in other parts of the country. Mr. Hansen's first name was Tom, and by the time he arrived home the vehicles had been stashed and they were waiting for him. The cab was parked in his spot in the garage and a riding lawn mower and several bikes and trikes were moved to make room for the pickup truck. The trailer was left outside on the far side of the detached three car garage.

It had been fairly easy to subdue Tom Hansen. He was after all seventy years old, and not accustomed to having to defend his home. This was civilization, not some remote frontier outpost back in the 1900s. He had driven down the hill in his big Cadillac, returning from the local hardware store where he'd gone off in search of a bolt to repair a loose section of the dock. Tom Hansen was a fastidious man, and with several of the grandkids coming tomorrow, he wanted things just right.

They got him when he opened his garage door, during that moment when he stared in perplexity, wondering why in the h.e.l.l someone had parked a cab in his spot. They appeared quickly, one man on each side of his big Cadillac. The doors were yanked open, and he was pulled from the vehicle before he could do anything to defend himself. They handled him roughly, one man on each arm, dragging him toward the house and warning him to keep his mouth shut.

By the time they reached the front door, Tom Hansen was in cardiac arrest. He'd suffered his first heart attack at the age of fifty-two. Too many cigarettes and too much fatty food, his doctor had told him. He quit the smoking, but didn't give up the unhealthy diet completely. Eight years after that he underwent an angioplasty, and just recently he'd been told by his cardiologist that it was time to consider bypa.s.s surgery while he was still young enough to recover fully. That was never going to happen.

They dropped him on the floor of the kitchen at the feet of his bound-and-gagged wife of forty-six years. Tom Hansen looked up at her, clutching his chest, a bewildered expression on his face. Behind her, on the refrigerator, he could see the photos of their grandchildren, nine adorable faces, the center of their universe. Not his or hers, but theirs. They were a couple, a team who shared everything, especially a devoted and unyielding love for their children and grandchildren.

Julia Hansen struggled against her bonds frantically, but could not break free. She knew it was his heart. She had been subtly trying to help him for years, cooking healthier, engineering long walks together, giving him disapproving looks when he lit up those d.a.m.n cigars with their two boys. Now she saw the agony on his face and knew that he would not make it. When the color began to drain from his face, as if his very life was being sucked from him, she began to weep.

Al-Yamani watched this with the detachment and moral clarity of a true believer. He'd had seen plenty of people die during his life, and compared to what he'd witnessed on the battlefield this was mild.

It was five in the evening, and according to the woman, she and her now-deceased husband weren't expecting any visitors until one of their children was to arrive from Philadelphia with her husband and kids in the morning. Al-Yamani wanted to know the details. How many and when?

There would be five of them and they were to arrive around ten in the morning. Al-Yamani had been in the kitchen and listened to the answering machine when the daughter had called to check in. The daughter's message confirmed the woman's story. She ended by saying there was no need to call back, and that they'd see them in the morning. So good was their recent turn of luck that it was as clear as always to al-Yamani that Allah himself was guiding their mission.

They left the old man on the floor in front of his wife and went into the living room. Al-Yamani looked at the scientist and asked, "How long will it take you to get the bomb ready?"

Zubair had already taken the packages out of the back of the trunk and examined both the fire set and the explosives charges that he had crafted during his brief, surrept.i.tious stay in Iran. "Everything looks good. It should take no more than two hours to have everything a.s.sembled and ready for transport again."

"Can you do this by yourself?"

"No." Zubair shook his head nervously.

"Of course not." Al-Yamani could recognize a coward when he saw one. The Pakistani didn't want to expose himself to the poison. He looked to Hasan and Khaled. "Is the boat ready?"

"Yes," answered Hasan. "It is fully ga.s.sed and in good working order."

"Good. Grab a blanket off one of the beds upstairs and use it to wrap up the old man, then go out to the garage and help Imtaz with the a.s.sembly of the weapon. We'll leave as soon as it is dark and dump the old man's body in the river."

The three men left, leaving al-Yamani and Mohammed alone. Mohammed looked at his old friend and said, "Mustafa, what are you up to?"

Despite the dull pain coursing through every vein in his body, al-Yamani smiled. "We are about to strike a glorious blow for Islam, Mohammed. A glorious blow."

In Mohammed's wildest dreams, he would have never guessed that his friend possessed the destructive power of a nuclear bomb. "Who are you going to kill?"

"The president," al-Yamani said proudly. "The president, himself."

Seventy.

All four TV stations in Richmond led the evening news with the story, as well as two of D.C.'s network affiliates. There was a manhunt under way, and very few things got the viewing audience as fired up as a good old-fashioned manhunt. Reporters and camera people were at the hospital, where the fallen officer was recovering from brain surgery; they were at the scene of the crime; and they were at the Hanover County Sheriff's Department.

During the six-o'clock broadcast Sheriff Randal McGowan released the video of the hit-and-run that had been captured by the camera mounted on the deputy's dashboard. So startling and violent was the collision that it was virtually guaranteed to be picked up by every station from Charlotte to Baltimore come the eleven-o'clock news. Sheriff McGowan told the reporters that they were looking for a green-and-white Metro Taxi Cab, most probably driven by a Mohammed Ansari, a resident of Richmond. A photograph of Ansari was released, as well as a brief description of a second vehicle that had left the scene of the crime. Sheriff McGowan made it very clear that the second vehicle, a green-and-tan Ford F-150 pickup pulling a trailer, was only wanted for questioning in relation to leaving the scene of the crime.

Skip McMahon had been adamant about the last part. He'd been in close contact with Sheriff McGowan and the special agent in charge of the FBI's Richmond office for the last several hours. The roadblocks set up by local law enforcement had yet to turn up a lead, and there was major pressure to go to the media for help. The big break was the tape of the traffic stop.

The license plate wasn't caught, but the cab company was identified. After some quick checking, the dispatcher for the company confirmed that they had one cab that had been AWOL for the better part of three hours. When McMahon and his team heard that the driver's name was Mohammed Ansari, the pucker factor doubled. A quick check of the CIA's counterterrorism database proved even more ominous. According to their records Ansari had immigrated to America from Afghanistan in the late eighties with the help of the Agency. He had been interviewed post 9/11 by the CIA and asked about his relationship with none other than Mustafa al-Yamani. At the time, he went on the record to say he loved America and was embarra.s.sed by al-Qaeda.

Somehow, Rapp doubted the veracity of that statement. The facts were beginning to add up. A deputy stops a truck, thinks he recognizes Zubair, who they know was recruited by al-Yamani, and suddenly the deputy gets run over by a cab driven by a guy who fought alongside al-Yamani twenty years ago in Afghanistan. There was no way it was a coincidence.

They were starting to fear the worst when Reimer's counterpart in Russia called with some good news. He and his team had just conducted a thorough search of the area where the atomic demolition munitions were tested. Only one of the four holes where failed tests had occurred had been compromised. The Russians were apologetic, but at the same time confident that the Americans had intercepted the only missing piece of nuclear material. In addition, an FBI WMD team out of the Richmond office did a cursory inspection of Ansari's home and his locker at the cab company and came up with no hint of radiation.

What was in the trailer then? Both Reimer and McMahon argued that it was most likely an improvised bomb, made out of fertilizer and fuel. In the counterterrorism business they called it a poor man's bomb, the modern-day and much larger version of a Molotov c.o.c.ktail A dirty bomb was a possibility, but more difficult to pull off and hence more remote. The consensus was that al-Qaeda was trying to carry out an attack despite the setback in Charleston. A strategy was decided on by McMahon and Rapp and they both consulted their bosses before proceeding with it.

Spooking Zubair and al-Yamani by letting them know they were onto them was a bad idea. It might cause them to prematurely detonate the weapon, or change targets, or simply abort and disappear. Rapp was adamantly opposed to running the risk of alerting them, so it was decided that the best way to advance the investigation without tipping their hand was to make Ansari and his cab the focus of the search.

Not long after the story aired on the six o'clock news the Hanover Sheriff's department received two phone calls. The first one was from a man who was out walking his dog near Tunstall at the time in question. He reported that he specifically remembered a green-and-white Metro Cab pa.s.sing him heading east, and that it was going very fast. That was why he remembered it. When he was pressed about the Ford pickup with a trailer, he couldn't be sure, but he did seem to remember a second vehicle. The man sounded old, his voice was a little shaky, so the deputy who took that call didn't have a lot of faith in the lead until he fielded another call a few minutes later. It was from a woman near Plum Point, and she was very specific.

This woman had walked to the end of her driveway to pick up the mail. She knew the exact time, because she went out to get the mail at the same hour every day. She was standing at the end of her driveway when both the cab and the truck came racing around the bend. The deputy asked her if she was sure, and she said she was because she remembered thinking two things. The first was,What in the heck was a Metro Cab doing way out by Plum Point and the second wasWhat was her seventeen-year-old son doing chasing it. It turned out her son also drove a green-and-tan Ford F-150 pickup truck. As further proof of her sharp mental faculties she told the deputy that she and her son had watched the six o'clock news together. After the story on the hit-and-run aired, her son commented that that must have been why he'd been pulled over twice this afternoon.

McMahon himself called the woman, a Mrs. Molly Stark, and spoke to her. After hearing Mrs. Stark tell her story, McMahon asked to speak to her son. Two minutes on the phone with her and one with the boy was enough to convince him. Like most career law enforcement types he didn't need a polygraph to tell him if someone was lying, just a few well-phrased questions and a discerning ear.

When McMahon announced this new development, there was a collective sigh of relief at CT Watch. The terrorists had fled east and south, away from D.C. Upon further discussion with the Virginia State Police they learned that Interstate 64 between Richmond and Norfolk had been fully covered during and after the hit-and-run. With the Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries providing a natural roadblock to the east it was now quite a bit easier to narrow the search. It was starting to look more and more like they had pulled off somewhere, and were indeed holed up.

The FBI's Hostage Rescue Team was on alert status down in Quantico, no doubt p.i.s.sed off that their Memorial Day weekend was being delayed, but that's what they were paid for. With their helicopter transports they were only thirty minutes away from the area. Rapp took the opportunity to point out that SEAL Team Six was even closer, down in Little Creek, Virginia. This comment would have been vigorously challenged by the other FBI special agents present if it had been uttered by anyone other than Rapp. American soil was the FBI's territory, not the military's. It was that simple.

As they stood staring at the map of Virginia, McMahon decided to turn up the heat. He told one of his deputies to draw up a press release. He wanted the new information on the last sightings to be included, and he wanted it to state that the suspect or suspects were to be considered armed and dangerous. As the woman left, McMahon told her to send it to every news outlet between D.C. and Virginia Beach.

Seventy-One.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Rapp slipped away to consult with Kennedy. She had left town around four with her son and mother to spend the weekend at a house they'd rented on the beach in Ocean City, Maryland. They were only a few doors down from her cousin, who had a whole flock of kids for Tommy to play with. Kennedy never showed it, but Rapp knew she was stressed. They'd been planning this trip for a year. Kennedy's cousin had invited them to stay at her house, but that was impractical. She had a security detail, broad-shouldered men with big appet.i.tes and big guns, who needed to be housed and fed.

Kennedy had tried to get Rapp to leave for Wisconsin by saying that she could delay her trip and keep an eye on the recent developments down in Richmond. Rapp's thoughts immediately turned to her son Tommy. The kid had suffered more than his fair share of disappointments in life. His mother worked sixty hours a week minimum, and his father lived on the opposite coast. He had been talking about this trip for months. In his typical rough fashion Rapp pointed all this out to Kennedy, and in turn she became uncharacteristically defensive. Eventually, though, she saw Rapp's point and left with her son, mother, and security detail.

Rapp had spoken to her about an hour and a half ago just after her small motorcade had crossed the Bay Bridge. Now one of her bodyguards answered her secure phone, and a minute later Kennedy was on the line.

"How's Tommy?" Rapp asked.

"Great. Couldn't be more excited. He's running around down on the beach with the other kids looking for wood to build a bonfire."

Rapp could tell by her voice that she was relaxing. "Good. Make sure you tell him I said h.e.l.lo."

"I will. What's up?" she asked.

Rapp brought her up to speed on the manhunt, and told her about Reimer's conversation with his Russian counterpart. Both pieces of news seemed to give her some comfort. They were the first bits of good news she'd received since finding out the CIA had helped Mohammed Ansari immigrate to the United States. Once that little tidbit was made public, she would be beaten over the head with it even thought she'd only been a junior-level case officer at the time.

Throughout the afternoon one thing had given Kennedy great concern. Tonight was the state dinner honoring the Big Three of WWII: America, Great Britain, and Russia. It would be the perfect time to launch an attack. The only thing that prevented her from calling the president was that he was already up at Camp David with the British prime minister playing golf. At that location they were not a target. She agreed with Rapp that it was best to stay out of the way of the FBI and the locals. As a precaution, though, she stayed in close contact with Jack Warch, the special agent in charge of the president's Secret Service detail.

She knew that now the president was at this moment returning to the White House aboard Marine One with the British prime minister. They were apparently running late for their own state dinner. None of this was a surprise to Warch, since the president had turned tardiness into a habit recently. The Russian president was also running late, having been delayed by some unusually strong headwinds on the way over. He had just made it to the Russian Emba.s.sy and wasn't expected to arrive at the White House until nearly 9:00, an hour and a half late. Additionally, Kennedy had spoken directly to Reimer, and he guaranteed her that based on the material they found in Charleston, the sensors in and around the capital would have alerted them to any nuclear weapon being smuggled into the city.

Rapp had just finished giving her the details of the manhunt when she asked, "What's your gut telling you, Mitch?"

"I think they're holed up somewhere. We're talking about five Middle Eastern-looking men in a part of the country where there's a ton of retired military*if they'd stolen a vehicle we would've heard about it."

"That's if someone saw them."

"That's the other thing. You've been down there. It's not far from the Farm." Rapp was referring to Camp Perry where the CIA trained all of their new recruits. "There's a lot of woods. A lot of dirt roads and trails where someone could disappear."

"And you still think the locals can handle this?" she asked.

"They're our best option right now, but if we find the vehicles abandoned in the woods I'd like to bring in the SEALs and track them."

"Well," she said thinking about the repercussions, "you know how that'll go over."

"I've already had one go around about it, but you and I know it's not even close. HRT is really good in a controlled environment, but not that used to running patrols in the woods."

"I agree. We'll cross that bridge when and if we have to. In the meantime keep me posted on any new developments."

"I will."

Kennedy disconnected the line and stood there in the kitchen staring out through the big double sliding-gla.s.s doors at the deck and the water beyond. Somewhere down on the beach she could hear the laughing and yelling of her son and her cousin's children. She wished that just once she could get away from it all. Shut it off, and live like a normal person. The head of her security detail was standing in the hallway by the kitchen watching her.