on forty. He noticed for the first time that fine lines were beginning to appear around his eyes,
but otherwise, he looked much the same as he had twenty years earlier. The subtle effects of
aging did not bother him in the least. Like all people blessed with perfect aesthetics, Vanderveen
had the luxury of indifference when it came to his own appearance.
Although his preference was to go clean-shaven, he had allowed his beard to grow untrimmed
for the past two weeks, and it had filled in considerably. The blond hair on his jaw was a sharp
contrast against his naturally tanned skin. His hair had been returned to its original gold with the
aid of a chemical shampoo. Dyeing his hair brown had been the only cosmetic change he had
made on his return to the States; in the first few weeks there was too much that had to be done,
too much that required his undivided attention for him to deal with the added burden of a
cumbersome disguise.
He had become Claude Bidault twice before: once to purchase the Econoline van, and the
second time to pick up his registration at the DMV in Richmond. Now it was time for a third
and final performance. First, he removed his purchases from the paper bag that rested at his
feet, placing them one by one on the counter. He had stopped at four shops during his trip into
the city, and had not purchased more than two items from any one store.
The hair coloring was of the semipermanent variety, easily washed out with warm water. He used
a small brush with rigid bristles to pull the black tint through his facial hair, and then a larger
brush for the rest. When the color had set, he scrutinized the photograph once more before
lifting the scissors and beginning to cut. Claude Bidault was a laborer, an independent contractor
who had come to America in search of work; it was not fitting that such a man would have an
expensive haircut. A struggling immigrant would likely trim his own hair, with unflattering
results.
When it was finished, his now black hair was still reasonably long, but the result was undeniably
atrocious. The job was done, though, and done well; between himself and the man in the
photograph, there was only one obvious discrepancy, easily rectified. When he put on the
brown-tinted clear-vision contact lenses, he looked up into the mirror and saw that Will
Vanderveen had disappeared without a trace.
The image would be completed by steel-toed boots and the careless dress of a man who spends
much of his workday on a building site. According to the passport, Claude Bidault weighed in at
just over 200 pounds. In actuality, Vanderveen weighed little more than 170, but was counting
on several layers of clothing to effectively hide that fact from view. A jacket over several layers
of long-sleeved shirts would not be an uncommon sight on the icy streets of Washington in late
November.
He frowned and stared down into the sink, trying hard to think of anything he might have
missed. He still had twenty-five pounds of SEMTEX H to dispose of; he would have to think of
a good use for that. Shakib’s document would accompany him into the city. It was a risk to
travel with it; an unnecessary risk, perhaps, but it might still serve a purpose. He was loath to
leave it behind. The leftover hair dye and other materials would be taken into the vast field
behind the barn, where they would be burned. The house was leased in the name of Timothy
Nichols, the same name he had used to acquire tags for the motorcycle. He would place that
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identification into the bag as well, to be destroyed behind the barn along with the other
materials. The license plate would be removed from the motorcycle and hurled deep into the
woods. Such precautions would buy him only a little time if the authorities tracked down the
name of Timothy Nichols, but a little time was better than none at all.
It was all he could think of, but there was no hurry. He had plotted his timeline carefully, and it
would pay to wait; the longer he was in the city, the greater the chance of discovery. Besides, he
still had plenty of work with which to fill the empty hours, and it wouldn’t hurt to catch a little
sleep, either. The bed downstairs would suit his needs perfectly.
Heading back out to the barn, Vanderveen carefully surveyed the few remaining contents of his
worktable. An idea was beginning to form in his mind. He selected several items and placed
them in the worn duffel bag that rested at his feet. Then, swinging the pack over his shoulder, he
climbed the gentle hill back up to the house.
He descended into the dark depths of his finished basement less than a minute later. The light,
hesitant to follow, touched the back of his head for a fleeting instant before giving way to pitch
black.
They had never gotten around to eating lunch, or even dinner, for that matter, settling instead
for their share of an endless urn of lukewarm coffee. Ryan was on his fifth cup and feeling the
effects. His stomach was churning acid, and his head was pounding from the dull roar that was
inevitable when 87 people were crammed into a room designed for 60. The building was
overheated and poorly ventilated, which didn’t help matters at all, and the harsh fluorescent
lights overhead neatly concealed the fact that midnight was rapidly approaching. The cold winds
whipping over the rocky shore of Cape Elizabeth would have come as a welcome relief from the
stifling heat of the watch center, but he pushed the thought from his mind when another image
intruded on the picturesque scene.
He couldn’t think about her now, no matter how badly he wanted to. There was just too much
to be done, and they were running out of time. The president and his guests were scheduled to
board the USS Sequoia in less than ten hours.
He rubbed his temples and tried to focus on the blurred text in front of him. After a few
minutes, he realized that he hadn’t read a single word. Shaking his head in frustration, he looked
over to see if Kharmai was faring any better.
She was hovering over one of the many fax machines, a phone pressed between her cheek and
shoulder as she fumbled with the buttons. Ryan watched with vague amusement as she swore
and smacked the machine with the palm of her hand.
When he stood up and walked over, she held out a sheet of paper without pausing in her
conversation: “Yes, as soon as possible… That’s right, I need everything for the last three
months, including photocopies of the driver’s licenses if you have them… What do you mean,
‘It’s too late’? I don’t care what time it is, call him at home if you have to…”
As she was talking, Ryan quickly scanned over the proffered document. When he got down to
‘missing person’s occupation,’ his eyes opened a little bit wider.
Naomi hung up the phone a moment later. Ryan looked into her face and saw that her bright
green eyes were sparkling.
“A realtor, huh?” he said. “That’s interesting.”
“It gets better,” she said. “Nicole Milbery specializes in farm properties. Her office is in
Ashland. That’s Hanover County, right in between Richmond and Washington. It’s the perfect
place for him… Ryan, do you know how to fix this bloody stupid machine?”
He couldn’t help but smile at the way she said it. He examined the unit and punched some
buttons to clear out the backlog. “Who were you talking to?”
“The night duty officer at the VSP’s Hanover office. He’s going to call the investigating officer
at home right now. As soon as he finds him, we’ll get some more details.”
“Don’t get too excited,” he warned. “It could be nothing.”
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Naomi wasn’t going to be deterred that easily. “It could be everything.”
The sergeant on desk duty in Hanover returned the call ten minutes later. Naomi snatched up the
phone and listened intently while Ryan looked on, rooted in place by a strange mixture of
anticipation and apprehension. For some reason, he knew they were finally on to something.
She pulled the receiver away from her mouth. “Milbery leased a property less than three weeks
ago. Just under a hundred acres, three miles east of I-95.” She turned her attention back to the
telephone. “Did he leave a — okay, he did. That’s great, I need you to fax that over to me. What
was the name again?”
Ryan started to say something but she waved him away. “Okay, that’s fine. Thanks for your help,
Sergeant. Can you make your captain available? We’re going to need to talk to him if this adds
up to anything… Okay, thanks.”
She hung up and turned to face him. “Timothy Nichols. Does that name mean anything to you?”
He thought for a minute, pushed the names out and together again, mixed up the letters, turned
them around. When it came to him, the rest of the room seemed to fall away. “It’s him.”
“What?” She looked up, startled. “How do you know?”
“Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols, Naomi. He always was an arrogant bastard.”
She went pale as she realized what he was saying. “Oh my God.”
As if on cue, the fax machine started up and produced a single piece of paper. Although the
driver’s license was not blown up to magnify the features, and the face itself was blurred by
copying distortion, Ryan knew exactly who he was staring at when he lifted the sheet to the light.
“That’s Will Vanderveen,” he said.
CHAPTER 31
TYSON’S CORNER, VIRGINIA
Patrick Landrieu stood at the head of the table and surveyed the people sitting on either side of
the polished wooden surface. Despite the fact that he was the ranking person in the room, he
knew better than to try to assert his authority over the group that he currently faced. The
combination of their egos and ambition easily overruled his titular superiority, and he was well
aware that they would crush him in an instant if they felt it to be in their best interest.
Landrieu was a round little man with a prominent nose, sparse gray hair, and cheeks flushed pink
from the heart medication that he took twice a day, or at least whenever his secretary reminded
him. The fact that he made a habit of working sixteen-hour days was reflected in his shabby
appearance. His career, however, had never suffered from his slight physical stature. He had
begun his government service as a terrorism analyst nearly twenty-three years earlier, and his rise
through the ranks had been remarkable. He had served as chief of staff to the director of Central
Intelligence, and then most recently as deputy executive director before being appointed by the
DCI to his current position.
As he looked out over the sea of faces, he saw that they were appraising him in turn. Perhaps
more than a few were wondering how much longer Landrieu’s reign could possibly last. He was
already coming under heavy fire for the intelligence failures that had led to the most recent
disastrous events in Washington, as well as for the lack of success in capturing the man believed
responsible for both terrorist attacks.
Aside from Landrieu, there were seven other people in the room. Seated immediately to his
right was Deputy Director Emily Susskind of the FBI. Next to Susskind was Assistant Director
Joshua McCabe of the Secret Service and its advance team leader, Jodie Rivers.
Also present was Colonel Stephen Plesse, the superintendent of the Virginia State Police. Plesse
had arrived by helicopter from the VSP Administrative Headquarters in Richmond less than ten
minutes earlier. He was in full uniform despite the early hour, and his face was still red from the
harsh winter wind that had cropped up in the past few hours and was now singing around the
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building.
The three remaining people in the room were seated to the left of Plesse. They were Jonathan
Harper, Ryan Kealey, and Naomi Kharmai.
“Well,” Landrieu said, “you’ve all been made aware of the purpose of this meeting. I suggest we
get right down to it. We have very little time to waste.”
“Do we have any guess as to how much time, exactly, sir?” Rivers asked. She had no desire to be
at this meeting, figuring that her rightful place was back on the waterfront finalizing the security
arrangements. Even if she had wanted to, there was no way she could spare the resources for
anything they might have had in mind.
The director looked around the room, his eyes settling on Jonathan Harper. “Does anyone have
an answer for that?”
“The timetable depends on what kind of weapon he’s planning to use, and that comes down to
what kind of vehicle he’s driving,” Harper said. “Obviously, he’ll need a bigger window if he’s
trying to bring a bomb into the city. I don’t believe we’ve come up with anything solid on that
yet. Emily?”
Susskind looked up from her coffee and debated for a second, her slender fingers dancing on
the rim of her cup. “The only vehicle registered by Timothy Nichols in the state of Virginia is a
four-year-old Honda motorcycle. Unfortunately, that doesn’t really mean anything; he could
have acquired another vehicle under a different name, or maybe he’s stolen one — there’s just no
way of knowing.
“There’s something else we need to consider, though. Once we had his alias, the link between
Vanderveen and Theresa Barzan was quickly established. We still don’t know her real identity,
but we do know that, using that name on her Saudi passport, she wired him almost 35,000
dollars over the past several weeks. The funds were routed through the Caymans and the Cook
Islands, which made it very difficult to trace. That’s not enough money for a payoff, but it is
enough to purchase a lot of expensive equipment.” She paused and cleared her throat gently.
“The kind of equipment he would need to construct and conceal a large explosive device.”
A grim silence ensued as the people around the table considered this news. It was Jonathan
Harper’s measured words that finally shattered the calm.
“There’s a chance he went back to the source, despite the increased security that was put in place
after the Kennedy-Warren bombing. Has this information been checked against the records in
Norfolk?”
“I have people working on that right now,” Susskind responded. “We haven’t been able to get in
contact with the director of operations or the terminal manager. The highest we could get was an
assistant supervisor of the container division, and that particular individual is not exactly the
picture of cooperation.”
It was the superintendent’s sonorous voice that rang out in response. “I might be able to help
