Extreme Measures (31 page)

R
APP, Kennedy, O’Brien, and Ridley went up to Hart 216 and ensconced themselves in one of the secure conference rooms, so they could have some privacy and take advantage of the phones. Rapp’s club sandwich and fries lay half eaten in a Styrofoam container. He was up and moving. His jacket was hung over one of the empty chairs and he had his arms crossed while he slowly walked from one end of the conference room to the other. O’Brien and Ridley paid him no attention. They were used to the fact that the man seemed to be in perpetual motion, and they were too interested in finishing their own lunch. Kennedy, however, was watching him with her sad, thoughtful eyes. She’d already closed the lid on her salad and pushed it aside.

She took a sip of Diet Coke and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Rapp scratched his hand with his left hand. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“You said things went well,” Kennedy said reassuringly.

“They did. I’m not talking about that stuff… I’m worried about what’s going on out there.” Rapp waved his hand toward the walls.

Kennedy smiled. He had never been comfortable in this role of bureaucrat. Not that he wasn’t good at it – he was. He was just infinitely better in the field, left to his own devices and judgment. His true talent was wasted in these meeting rooms, but she’d needed him to make a statement. She could have said everything he’d said, and the majority of the senators would have dismissed it out of hand. But Rapp was something different. A dirty, muddy, and bloody soldier returning from the front lines to report to the generals that the situation was quite different than it appeared from the safety of the rear. Rapp was a man of action who had bled for, and done great things for, his country. Few, if any, knew the specifics of what he’d done, but the rumors were enough for them to give great weight to his words. There would be a few like Lonsdale, however, who so despised what he stood for that they would never listen. But the majority would be sensible, for in the end, they were politicians, and the one thing they could be counted on doing was to act in their own self-interest.

“Just a few more hours this afternoon and then hopefully we can move forward with their support.”

“I’m not worried about that,” said Rapp in a grave voice. “I’m worried about this damn third cell. According to the Brits, D-day was set for next week.”

O’Brien and Ridley stopped talking and looked at Rapp. They knew if he was concerned, they should be concerned. “Mitch, we don’t even know if this third cell is for real, and if they do exist, there was a good chance they were scared off after the other two failed to report in.”

Kennedy watched Rapp and could tell there was something else on his mind that he wasn’t saying. “What’s wrong?”

Rapp looked at the two men and then Kennedy. “I talked to Nash right before lunch. He says one of his guys has missed his last two check-ins.”

“Which guy?”

“It sounds like Chris Johnson.”

“What check-in? We pulled the damn plug on the whole thing.” O’Brien said with anger. “It was supposed to be shut down.”

“Don’t go all HQ on me, Chuck,” Rapp shot back with every bit as much anger. “We’ve all been in the field before. We all know what it’s like to bust your ass on something for months and then have HQ hit you over the head with some asinine order.”

“This is different, Mitch,” a red-faced O’Brien said. “There was way too much heat coming down on us.”

“And none of us were there.” Rapp said, pointing at the table. “I don’t know what in the hell Johnson told him that convinced him to leave him on the job, but I’m not going to get all pissed off about one of our guys putting his nuts on the line. I trained Nash. I taught him to be aggressive, just like you two were when you were running around in Europe, Charlie, and when you were working your magic in the Middle East, Rob. So if you want to be pissed at someone… take it out on me.”

Ridley held up his hands and said, “I think it’s safe to say Nash had a good reason for leaving Johnson in place.”

“It’s not his call,” O’Brien said. “If he has something, he comes to us, and we make the decision.”

“Bullshit!” Rapp said while frowning at O’Brien. “You gonna tell me when you were slinking around East Berlin you never made a couple frickin’ on-the-fly decisions and never told your boss?”

“Gentlemen,” Kennedy said without looking at any of them, “do any of you know Mike Nash to be a reckless man?”

One by one they all shook their heads.

“Good,” she said, “then we should all calm down and think about what this might mean.”

The secure phone in the middle of the table started ringing. Ridley reached out and grabbed it. “Hello.” He listened for a second and then gave Rapp the handset. “It’s Nash.”

Rapp grabbed the phone. “What’s up?”

“It’s not good.” Nash’s voice sounded heavy.

“Let’s hear it.”

“I’m almost certain Johnson is in the morgue. I gave a friend his profile and he just called me to report that a body fitting his description was found at four this morning, in the trunk of a burning car.”

“Shit.”

“And there’s one other thing, Mitch. I think he was tortured. The body was missing three toes from the right foot. The coroner said they were not removed by a surgeon.”

Rapp felt his guts turn and he told himself,
not now
. “You have all of his reports, right?”

“Yeah.”

“He had six good suspects, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Get out to NCTC as fast as you can and you get those six dumped into the system and kicked to the top of the watch list. You get any heat from anyone, you tell them the order comes directly from Irene. If they still piss and moan about the protocols, you tell them to put them on the list first and then call me.

“What about a source? They’re going to want a source.”

“Tell them I got it from my counterpart at Mossad and call me with confirmation as soon as it happens. I gotta run.” Rapp hung up the phone and looked at Kennedy. “Johnson’s in the morgue, missing three toes. We have to open this thing up. You have to tell the president and you have to get the National Security Council together.”

“And tell them what?” O’Brien asked. “That contrary to everything we’ve been saying, we actually did send an undercover operative into a mosque and now he’s dead? We’ll all be thrown in jail.”

Rapp grabbed his suit coat and started for the door. “I don’t give a shit what you tell him. Blame it all on me, tell him the Israelis tipped us off. Think something up. The bottom line is, if Johnson is in the morgue, those fuckers are in this city.”

As Rapp reached the door, Kennedy asked, “Where are you going?”

“I’m sure they’re long gone, but I’m going to over to that mosque to see what I can find out.”

“Not by yourself, you’re not.”

“Irene, trust me. They have more to fear than I do.”

Kennedy watched him leave and looked at Ridley. “Go with him,” she ordered. “And make sure he doesn’t kill anyone… unless he absolutely has to.”

Ridley jumped up and chased after Rapp. Kennedy picked up the phone and punched in the secure number for the White House Situation Room. When the watch officer answered on the other end, she identified herself and said, “We have a situation. I need to speak to the president.”

K
ARIM was dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and blue and gray striped tie. His well-oiled pistol was holstered on his right hip and a radio was clipped to his left hip. A small flesh-colored cord coiled its way past his shirt collar and around and into his ear. An American flag pin was proudly displayed on his lapel. He stood ramrod straight and inspected his men from left to right as if they were on a parade ground. In a manner of speaking, they were. On his far left, Farid stood in front of a blue Ford Fusion. He was dressed almost exactly the same as Karim, minus the earpiece. The car had forged U.S. government plates. No one had an easy job today, but Farid would be the first to move into position. If he failed, it could have a cascading effect on the operation. Next in line were three identical white Chevy vans. Each vehicle had FedEx emblazoned in purple and orange on the side. In front of the vehicles stood three men, each wearing the uniform of a FedEx driver. The cargo pockets on the right side of their pants had been modified to holster their pistols with the silencers attached.

On the far right, two men stood at parade rest in full SWAT gear. Parked behind them was a big black Suburban, also with forged government plates. The windows were heavily tinted and there were LED emergency lights mounted on the grille as well as the back window. Karim was filled with pride over the well-disciplined, transformed men before him. He stepped forward and approached Fazul, one of the Moroccans who was in a FedEx uniform.

Karim extended his hand palm-up and said, “Your sidearm.”

The man did exactly as he had been taught. Using only one hand, he reached into the cargo pocket, retrieved his gun, and held it out with the silencer pointing down for inspection.

Taking the weapon, Karim turned it over in his hands and admired the well-oiled slide. After a few more seconds, he handed the weapon back and continued down the line. He did the same thing with each man, and then returned to the center of the formation, where Hakim was waiting. He smiled at his old friend and turned to address the men.

“We are poised to strike a mighty blow. You have trained hard for many months, and we are at the end of a great and glorious journey.” He gazed from one man to the next, and slowly a sly grin spread across his face. “But before we rush off to paradise, we will have some fun.”

The men laughed and shared looks of confident agreement.

“Does anyone have any questions?” Karim asked, secretly hoping there were none. They had been over each part of the plan in such detail that there should be no room left for interpretation or doubt. The assignments had been choreographed down to the minute. Maps had been studied over and over. Metro schedules had been checked and rechecked. The routes were all programmed into GPS devices, so that no one would get lost and they would all arrive at their targets within minutes, if not seconds.

Farid took one large step forward and came to attention with his eyes front and center. “Sir,” he said in a crisp voice. “I would like to say, on behalf of the men, that it has been an honor serving under your command.”

Karim looked over at perfect Farid. His fellow Saudi. He was the only one of the group who showed signs of possible greatness. It was a shame that he would have to die with the others. “It has been my privilege,” Karim announced, “to lead you men. Allah looks down on each of you with favor. They will talk about this day for centuries. They will revere our courage, admire our skill, and celebrate our victory. Now is the time. We have been on the defensive for many years. Today is the day that we strike at the heart of our enemy for all of Islam.”

Karim looked at his watch and then turned back to Farid. With a curt nod he said, “It is time.” Looking over his shoulder at Hakim, he said, “Open the door.” Ten seconds later Karim watched the blue sedan roll past a black Lincoln Town Car and out into the sunlight. He marked the time on his watch. They were exactly on schedule. Now the important part was pacing. He wanted everyone to arrive as close to 12:30 as possible. Sending the vehicles all out at once would mean that the ones with the closest targets would have to park and wait, and that would only create an opportunity for something to go wrong.

Two minutes later he ordered the first of the FedEx vans to depart, and then he ordered the rest of the men into their vehicles. Karim climbed into the front seat of the Lincoln, and Hakim got behind the wheel.

“Your man has assured you?” Karim asked skeptically.

“Yes. He said it is not a problem.” Hakim pointed at the dashboard clock and said, “At precisely twelve twenty-three Eastern Standard Time, the entire traffic surveillance system will crash.”

“Did you make sure that it will only be the cameras? If the signals go down as well, we will never get out of the city.”

“He assured me,” Hakim said, tired of having to repeat himself. “Besides, that is why the Suburban will wait for us, just in case.”

“And everything is fine with Ahmed?” Karim asked anxiously.

Hakim sighed. Early in the morning, right before the sun came up, he had dropped the sniper off near their second target so he could observe things and provide intelligence for the assault. “Yes, he is fine. I spoke with him not more than thirty minutes ago.”

“Good.” Karim studied his watch and then pointed toward the open door. “It is time to go.”

Hakim started the car and put it in drive. The other three vehicles followed closely as they wound their way through the run-down industrial park. After crossing the Anacostia River, three of the vehicles turned onto Kentucky Avenue, while one of the FedEx vans stayed on Pennsylvania Avenue. Karim ticked off the landmarks. He’d seen photos of each of them but this was the first time in person. As they reached Stanton Park, Karim felt his heart begin to pound.

Farid’s voice crackled over Karim’s earpiece. “This is Bill. I am clear. Do you copy?”

Karim pulled back his suit coat and turned his radio to the transmit mode. “I copy you, Bill. Good luck.”

The Lincoln turned onto C Street off of Stanton Park. The FedEx van followed, but the Suburban continued on to Massachusetts Avenue, where it turned north. Karim could see the U.S. Capitol looming just a few blocks away, and then it disappeared as the road dropped down and their view was blocked by the immense Senate Office buildings. At 1st Avenue, Karim felt as if his heart would leap out of his chest at any moment. Hakim whistled some song he did not recognize. It bothered him that his friend could be so calm at a time like this. They turned right and were headed north, their target only a block away. Karim glanced to the right and smiled at the sight of the blue sedan that Farid had parked in the lot only minutes earlier.

At 1st and D Street Hakim took a right and pulled over, leaving enough room for the FedEx van to nose in behind them. Karim looked up just as the clock changed from 12:27 to 12:28. He looked at his own watch and confirmed that they were now only seconds away.

“This is Joe. I am clear.”

Karim sighed and said, “I copy you, Joe. Good luck.”

Hakim drummed his fingers on the wheel and said, “Two down… one to go.”

It came just seconds later. “This is Thomas. I am clear.”

“I copy you, Thomas. Good luck.” Karim wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and tried to take a deep breath. He was not used to feeling such nerves and wrote it off to the importance of the situation.

“Are you ready?” Hakim asked.

“Yes,” Karim said.

The Lincoln began rolling once again with the FedEx van right on its bumper. A half a block later the Lincoln stopped in front of a green awning. Printed in white letters were two words:
The Monocle.
Almost directly behind the Lincoln, the FedEx van took a right turn into the parking lot. Forty feet later, the van stopped almost at the midpoint of the building. Karim could not see the parking lot, but he knew what was going on. He exited the car and opened the back door. As he was reaching in to grab a briefcase, he received confirmation from the van’s driver that he too was clear. Karim gripped the briefcase and, without saying a word to Hakim, closed the door.

He entered the restaurant and took a quick glance at the packed dining room on the right. The maitre d’ greeted him. Karim gave him a forced smile and turned into the bar area, which ran along the left side of the building. He couldn’t have been more pleased that he had to thread his way through a packed crowd. As he worked his way down the bar, it became less crowded. Near the end, he set his briefcase down on the floor and continued toward the bathrooms. He passed a waiter in the narrow hallway and flattened his back to the wall and then continued right out the back door. He held his hands over his eyes as if he was screening them from the sun.

Steadily he picked up the pace, heading straight south. He threaded his way through a couple of parked cars on his left and turned east.
Only fifty more feet
, he told himself. Karim was sweating now. He reached into his pocket and grabbed the remote detonator. He flipped off the safety. A few seconds after that, he faintly heard his watch beeping. It was 12:30. He wanted to break into a sprint, but he fought the instinct to panic.

“Just a few more steps,” he said out loud this time. When he reached the rear of the next building, which dwarfed the relatively small restaurant he’d just left, he gave Allah a quick thanks and flipped the switch on the detonator.