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
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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 of 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.
After all, if he was going to be unproductive, he would at least be comfortable in the meantime.
Soon he was coming back up the street, warmer in the leather jacket that still bore the tears and
scuff marks from the Kennedy-Warren, and ready to begin what was sure to be a long and
pointless search.
Jared Howson didn’t have the benefit of a jacket over his uniform, and had been cold ever since
his shift had started nearly two hours earlier. He would have welcomed the relative, and certainly
heated, comfort of the 1st District Station on 4th, but knew it could have been worse. After all,
he only had this one street to worry about, and it wasn’t hard work. Simply look at the car, call
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in the license plate, do a quick visual scan, and move on to the next one. That was all the
information he’d been given, but Howson had been on the force long enough to realize that the
extra security had something to do with the presidential boating trip and the terrorist attacks
that had rocked the city less than a month earlier. He had been as outraged as any American
over what had taken place, and even more so than most because he was a guardian of law in this
particular city, and those bastards thought they could come here and blow up innocent people…
Just thinking about it always got to him, and he had to shake off the rising anger as he finished
with a blue Toyota and moved on to the next vehicle. It was a large commercial van, and exactly
the kind of thing he had been told to look for. A Ford Econoline, he could see, with Virginia
plates and a dented exterior that had seen more than its fair share of fender benders. He was
about to call in the tag number when he realized that the passenger door was open, and a man
was retrieving something from inside the van.
“Excuse me, sir. Sir…?”
The man looked up, a notebook in his hand, wearing a big, friendly smile beneath the heavy
beard. “Yes?”
Howson caught the accent right off the bat. “Is this your vehicle?”
“Yes, it is mine.”
Howson studied him carefully. In his pocket he had the same sheet of paper that had been
distributed to the Secret Service agents at the marina, and he had taken the time to look at it
back in the station. This man didn’t really resemble any of the superimposed photographs,
although the general shape of the face was about right…
But that was true for at least 30 percent of the population, and the hair was all wrong. On top of
that, the subject’s eyes were reportedly a vivid shade of green, and Howson was staring into flat
brown eyes the color of oak. Not to mention the fact that the man was clearly French.
Still, just to be safe: “Do you have some identification, sir?”
The man hurried to comply, pulling his passport out of his heavy coat. “Of course, of course.
Right here, monsieur.”
Howson accepted the burgundy booklet and peered at the cover: Communauté Européenne,
and beneath that, République Fran?aise. Inside, all the requisite information for one Claude
Bidault and what appeared to be a U.S. entry stamp, although he wasn’t exactly sure what that
was supposed to look like. Howson had never left the country, nor had he ever suffered from a
burning desire to do so.
Satisfied, he handed the passport back to the man, who didn’t seem at all bothered by the
officer’s inquiries.
“What is all this… activity? This is not usual, yes?”
“Actually, sir, your president is in town to meet with ours. I’m surprised you haven’t heard
about it.”
“Ah…” The man beamed as though suddenly recalling that little fact, but the light of epiphany
never reached his eyes. “That is correct. A big meeting, n’est-ce pas?”
The young police officer had to smile in response. “Yes, that’s right.” He moved closer to the
van, taking the time to look through the back windows. Electrical equipment. A lot of it.
“You’re an electrician, sir?”
The man nodded enthusiastically. “Oui. I am with the big project on M Street. There is a new
restaurant they are building there. Work is not so easy to find in Paris, you know. So I come here
to work, and send the money back to my sister. She looks after my little ones.”
“Your wife?”
Howson watched a look of pain cross the man’s grizzled features. “She… How do you say?
Passed away? When giving birth to my girl, my little Mirabelle. Four years ago next week.”
“Oh.” Howson could have kicked himself. Better to shut your mouth now, a little voice told
him, before you do any more damage. “Well, sir, thanks for your time. You have a good
afternoon, okay?”
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The smile reappeared. “Merci, monsieur. Et vous aussi.”
The police officer watched as the man closed the passenger-side door, then walked back toward
the stairs leading up to the hotel’s main entrance. Howson hadn’t seen him emerge in the first
place, but now he looked up at the building’s facade and frowned. The Marriott in this part of
town was at least 180 dollars a night. Why would a construction company, even for a major
project, pay that kind of money to put up an independent contractor? It didn’t make any sense,
and the thought lingered on the edge of his mind as he resumed his task.
The concern remained, though it was soon overshadowed by what seemed like a distant memory
of a heated building and a full pot of hot coffee. The convergence of these two trains of thought
left little room for anything else, and Howson failed to realize that he had not called in the plates
on the Frenchman’s Econoline van.
She had never bothered asking Harrison for one of his agents, instead settling for the use of one
of the vehicles in the staging area. As a result, Naomi Kharmai, midlevel analyst in the CIA’s
Counterterrorism Center, had no more authority in northern Virginia than that of a private
citizen.
She was in the restroom of a gas station directly opposite Milbery Realty. Looking in the mirror,
she saw a woman who might have just emerged from a car wreck, except that she would have
looked much better had that been the case. Her borrowed blue cargo pants were torn and dirty
from lying in the field for hours on end, and the pullover was noticeably singed in several places.
Her hair was matted and dirty, and the clothes she wore were thoroughly damp with melted
snow. Her nose was totally stuffed up because she had a cold coming on, but she guessed that
she probably didn’t smell that great either.
Worst of all were her eyes. They reflected what she had recently seen, made her look scared
when she needed to be confident and assertive, at least for the next few hours. Then she would
be free to have her breakdown, which she was actually beginning to look forward to. After
several minutes of scrubbing and adjusting, she emerged from the restroom looking just
marginally better. She purchased two large cups of coffee from the attendant and tried to avoid
his curious gaze.
She left the car where it was and crossed the street, simultaneously glancing at her watch. It was
almost 11:30, much later than she would have liked for this conversation to occur, but tracking
down Lindsay Hargrove had proven to be an incredibly time-consuming task. Naomi had finally
managed to get hold of Hargrove’s sister in Clarksburg, West Virginia, where Lindsay had
apparently been staying for the week. She was now heading back to Virginia, and unfortunately
didn’t carry a cell phone. The sister had informed Naomi, however, that Lindsay fully intended
to stop by the office on her way home.
And that was why she was here. The woman she wanted to talk to was a long shot for additional
information, but better than nothing at all. Hargrove, whose name had been on the Missing
Persons Report faxed to the TTIC, had seemed like a better bet than the realtor’s husband, who
wouldn’t have had any reason to meet his wife’s clients. Hargrove, on the other hand, had been
