gives it up — if he eats a bullet, then we’ll never figure out what he was up to.”
Ryan looked up at the towering building, then back to Hendricks. He didn’t say anything.
Personally, he thought that it was a mistake to assume anything about the man on the eighth
floor of this apartment complex, Congressional staffer or not.
“How did you get a line on Shakib?” Kealey asked.
Hendricks focused his attention on the man standing slightly behind Naomi Kharmai. Kealey
was of medium height, with black hair on the long side, a lean, muscular build, and dark gray
eyes that were somewhat unnerving in their intensity.
More than a decade earlier, Luke Hendricks had served as an infantry squad leader in the 82nd
Airborne out of Fort Bragg. He had seen action in the Gulf, and had been awarded the Soldier’s
Medal for pulling two young privates out of a minefield close to the end of his tour. Hendricks
rarely talked about the experience, but he knew the difference between a soldier and someone
who had served in the military. He could recognize a soldier when he saw one.
“Obviously, we looked at nationality first. It made sense to check out anybody affiliated with
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Iran working on the Hill. That only took us so far before someone came up with the idea to look
at travel plans. Shakib vacationed annually in Valencia. After a day or two, he’d charter a flight
to Bucharest under a different name, and then on to Tehran. It was a low-risk strategy with
minimal contact, suggesting the possibility that he was a sleeper. Who knows what else he’s given
up over the years? A lot of heads are going to roll when the whole thing goes public.”
After Hendricks stated the obvious, he paused for a moment. “He knows we’re out here. If we
were completely off track, then he would have given it up a long time ago. This is the guy.”
“And you couldn’t keep this quiet?” Naomi asked.
“I didn’t leak it, if that’s what you’re suggesting. A lot of people had access to this information,”
he responded angrily.
“Not us,” she muttered.
High above the commotion, Michael Shakib was kneeling motionless on a prayer mat facing
east. His head was bowed in supplication facing Mecca, a place he had not visited, nor would
ever visit, although the hajj was specifically required by the fifth pillar of his faith.
Shakib’s features were distinctly Arabic, which was not surprising as he had been born in Qom
before his parents emigrated to California in 1979, despite the immense difficulties associated
with leaving the country after the Revolution. All his life he had been exposed to the prejudice
and animosity felt toward Islam by his adopted homeland, but had never once considered
leaving the faith. He was painfully aware that his appearance alone inspired distrust in the faces
of the people he passed each day. This particular prejudice was largely imagined, however, for
Michael Shakib was not an unattractive man.
The sharp green eyes flecked with brown were his most noticeable characteristic, framed by
perfect olive skin. Thick black hair was set off by his straight white teeth, a feature most
uncommon in the poverty-stricken areas of Iran from which he had risen into the world.
In reflective moments, Shakib could concede that he had been bestowed certain benefits denied
to many of his peers. He was grateful for these advantages, yet despised them at the same time.
What had given him the right to be so successful, to enjoy the wealth and privilege usually
accorded to only the most elite of America’s youth? On a warm, still night in Barbados four
years earlier, he had met someone who would change his path in life, who would give him
purpose. It had not been a chance encounter, but that fact had never been revealed to Michael
Shakib. Until that first meeting, he had survived on his instincts and innate intelligence alone. It
had been a useless existence. Despite his undeniable success, Michael had welcomed the
opportunity to further such a grand cause, and was now prepared to make his greatest
contribution.
He was not disappointed.
“They don’t know what they’re walking into,” Ryan said quietly. It was not his nature to press his
opinion, although his every instinct was humming at the moment.
Only Kharmai heard, and turned to face him. “What do you mean?”
“Who do you think called them?” Ryan asked, waving at the reporters. As the wheels turned
rapidly in her mind, Ryan pulled Hendricks to one side.
“Listen, I have no authority to back this up… It’s just a suggestion, but I think you ought to
expand the perimeter as far as you can. I know you can’t get rid of the reporters, but that might
give you a little breathing room. Also, you might want to have someone check these cars, verify
the owners,” he said. He noticed the other man’s questioning look. “I didn’t spend my whole
career in Washington.”
Luke nodded in agreement and understanding, then moved off to speak with the chief of the
D.C. Metro PD. Kealey was grateful that Hendricks was open to suggestion, and could see that
his first instincts about the man were correct. After several minutes had passed, he noticed
agents checking vehicles and calling in license plate numbers. Ryan felt a tug at his arm.
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“What did you say to Luke?” Naomi asked, brushing a stray lock of jet-black hair away from her
eyes. Looking down at her, Ryan studied her face for the first time. She wasn’t quite beautiful,
but there was something undeniably attractive about her. Certainly, the bright green eyes and
flawless caramel-colored skin would set her apart in any crowd. He took in the perfectly
groomed hair and eyebrows, her expensive clothes, and could tell that she put a lot of effort into
her appearance.
And she hadn’t backed down from Hendricks either. He liked a woman who could stand up for
herself. He angrily shook the intruding thoughts from his mind, telling himself to stay focused.
Naomi had asked him a question, and he had to scramble to recall it.
“Just to have his people check the cars. He listens… That’s a good quality in an SAC. How do
you know him?”
“We’ve worked together before,” was her tart reply. She did not offer further insight.
Ryan could see the corner of her mouth turned up in a bemused smirk. He hoped that she hadn’t
misinterpreted his look. His life was already complicated enough as it was.
The venetian blinds in his apartment were closed, denying access to the prying eyes of the snipers
located on the rooftops across the street. Shakib moved slowly, almost gracefully, through the
drafty rooms, past the luxurious furnishings and other trinkets acquired over the course of a
lifetime. None of it mattered to him.
On the other end of his expansive living room, a flat-screen Sony television was mounted on the
wall. Behind the glass, CNN was running silent images of the Kennedy-Warren apartment
complex. He was pleased to note the mobile command unit set up in the courtyard below, the
agents swarming around it like bees around a hive.
After the plans for the assassination of Senator Levy had been examined and confirmed, the
American had brought many materials to Shakib’s three-bedroom apartment overlooking
Cleveland Park. When he had described to his visitor the expensive restoration of the building
and the fact that it had been recently named a National Historic Landmark, the man had smiled
and nodded, clearly pleased by the news. The American had demanded solitude while he poured
over blueprints and floor plans. Michael went out for sandwiches and coffee while his guest
walked through the rooms examining the walls, ceiling, and door frames. A great deal of time
had been spent on the balcony, as the man inspected the intricate ironwork combined with
cement emplacements that kept the heavy structure secured to the building.
After many hours, his visitor had settled on a single pillar, 4 feet in diameter tucked halfway into
a wall. Although he had previously despised the oversized intrusion into his living space, Shakib
listened while his guest explained the importance of this single load-bearing structure, how it
supported the three floors above him. He had listened while the man described the properties of
the heavy marble and stone used in the construction of the building, and the quantity of
SEMTEX H that would be necessary to cut through such material.
Shakib had appreciated the patient explanation, and absorbed the information attentively with
few interruptions. Although the American understood nothing of Islam, his technical expertise
accorded him some measure of respect. Shakib admired diligence in one’s chosen profession. In
the end, the months of preparation had come down to this one moment.
It was time.
Eight floors down, the reporters were angrily berating the police officers pushing them farther
down the street. The nasty edge to the elevated voices carried high above the crowd, adding to
the collective tension. New barriers were erected and more men stationed behind them. Luke
Hendricks was holding a cell phone in each hand, barking orders into each as lesser agents
hovered around him, vying for his attention.
Ryan and Naomi had been pushed aside by the agents milling around the command vehicle, so
that they were now on the perimeter, almost as far away from the action as the buzzing
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reporters. This was moving too fast. Kealey wouldn’t breathe easy again until Shakib was on the
ground in handcuffs, and everybody was clear of the area. Instinctively, he began looking around
for potential cover, his gaze settling on the heavy transport van located just a few feet away. Far
above his position, a sniper from the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team spoke into his headset.
“All ground units, this is Sierra Three. The doors to the balcony are open, over.”
On the ground, eyes shot skyward in unison. Hendricks lifted a radio to his mouth, walking away
from the crowd of people surrounding him. “Sierra Three, this is Command. Do you have a
shot?”
“That’s affirmative, over.”
“Okay… Okay, sit tight. We need to—”
“Hold on,” came the sudden interruption. “Command, he’s got something in his hand. I can’t
identify—”
Luke briefly wondered what it could be as various scenarios raced through his mind. When he
hit upon the worst possibility, he was shouting into the radio, “Sierra Three, take the shot, I say
again, take the shot now!”
Special Agent Mark Silverstein peered through the Leupold Vari-X scope mounted to his
custom-made Remington 700P LTR rifle. The cold wind whipping across the top of the
building scraped at his nerves, but he had already adjusted his sights accordingly. There was
nothing more he could do, except to put his faith in his training. At such a short distance, he
elected for a head shot, and was surprised to see the target smiling in his direction as he eased
back on the trigger.
As the .308 round violently exited the back of Michael Shakib’s head in a pink cloud, the spasm
caused by his sudden death caused his right hand to squeeze tight around the electric detonator
it contained. It could have gone either way, but the fist was squeezed tightly… The circuit that
his visitor had carefully constructed less than two weeks earlier was finally completed.
Before Hendricks even issued the order to fire, Ryan Kealey was already pushing his way
through the crowd of agents and police officers who were staring at the top of the building. He
was dragging Naomi behind him and screaming at Hendricks to evacuate the area, and then at
the crowd: “GET DOWN, GET DOWN!” Even as the words left his mouth, he knew that they
wouldn’t make a difference. He pulled Naomi toward the transport van, his eyes locked onto the
open rear doors of the vehicle.
Far above, a brilliant white light erupted from the side of the building, immediately followed by
an ear-splitting crack as the cutting charge ripped the pillar in half. Before the loudest part of the
explosion reached them, the crowd below was momentarily blinded by the initial flash.
Fortunately, many were spared the sight of the eastern face of the building collapsing out toward
them.
Assistant Special Agent in Charge Luke Hendricks had been distracted by the figure racing
through the crowd. His vision was not obscured, and so he was able to watch in disbelief as
death rained down from above. Falling awkwardly to the ground, he pressed his face into the
freezing asphalt, covered his head with his hands, and opened his mouth to scream.
The thunderous roar of the explosion echoed in Kealey’s ears as he threw Naomi into a corner
of the armored vehicle and covered her body with his. Her muffled screams vibrated through
his chest as thousands of pounds of cement, marble, and iron from the building’s fa?ade crashed
down onto Connecticut Avenue. He could hear no other sound of human life, only the deafening
sound of the world falling down around them. A sudden impact crushed the opposite end of the
vehicle, flipping the van onto its side like a toy. He felt something sharp tear into his face as the
Page 29
walls caved in, the wheels ripped from the axles, the polycarbonate glass crumpling in the
windshield and passenger doors. Then the noise was gone and everything went black.
CHAPTER 8
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Connecticut Avenue was a scene of devastation this morning as an explosion tore apart the
eastern face of the Kennedy-Warren residential complex. Although the building was evacuated
prior to the explosion, officials fear that the death toll will continue to climb as many people at
the scene are still unaccounted for. The explosion appears to be terrorist related, and is thought
to have originated in the eighth-floor apartment of Michael Shakib, the man who allegedly
provided information that led to the assassination of Senator Daniel Levy, the chairman of the
Senate Armed Services Committee, here in Washington almost two weeks ago. We’ll have more
updates on the way. I’m Susan Watkins, for CNN.”
Katie Donovan hurried past the disbelieving crowd gathered round the television in Terminal A
of Dulles International, barely taking the time to glance at the ruined building on the screen.
United Airlines Flight 213 had just landed after leaving Bangor less than ninety minutes earlier.
She had gripped the armrests tightly the entire flight, struggling to maintain the self-control that
had been gradually slipping away since she first heard about the bombing earlier that morning. A
