Inside Threat (29 page)

Saifullah placed a hand on Lawrence's shoulder and encouraged him back off the screen.

“At 1300 hours eastern time, a live feed will be going up through the Internet. Attached to this disc, you have found written the link to this feed. I want all the network and cable news channels to have access to this link so that the people of America may watch our message live. If anything is done to interrupt that link, there will be consequences. I trust I make myself clear on that point.

“Also on that piece of paper is a number for a cell phone. I will expect a call from you five minutes after the live feed has concluded, but not before. Again, I trust I make myself clear.”

As Alavi watched, the old imam's eyes hardened.

“Please understand that we are all prepared to die, and we fully expect to meet Allah before this is all over. It is up to you to decide how many will come with us. I pray for the sake of the hostages that you make the right choices.”

Thursday, September 15, 11:15 a.m. EDT

Washington, DC

“How close are we?” demanded Secretary of Homeland Security Stanley Porter. He was standing at a Formica table bolted to the floor of an FBI command center truck parked on an asphalt loop just seventy yards from the front entrance to the National Cathedral. Crowded around the table two and three deep were the head of the Secret Service, Craig LeBlanc; FBI Director Edward Castillo; MPDC Chief Jim Sprecker; and several seconds, vices, and unders. But even with all these high-powered individuals present, all rarely seen at an active crime scene, the man to whom he was directing the question was Scott Ross.

“We're green in ten,” Scott answered.

“Can you ensure the safety of the hostages?” Castillo asked.

“Of course he can't, you idiot,” answered the always-abrasive LeBlanc. “You got twenty-four psychos with automatic weapons and a few hundred hostages. Use your brain!”

“Listen, if you're going to get personal with this—” Castillo charged back.

“Gentlemen,” Porter interrupted, “if you two are going to bicker through this meeting, I'm going to throw both of you out. This is my show; you're here at my discretion. Got it?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to Scott. “Can you estimate casualties?”

“I really can't, sir. Our only daylight option is to go in hard and fast. But they'll see us coming. It could very well be a bloodbath.”

“Can we chopper down and go through the stained glass windows?” Porter said, using his fingers on a cathedral schematic to demonstrate his proposal.

“That's part of the plan. However, our problem is that you've got a huge mass of people down here,” Scott said slapping his long palm down on the middle of the sanctuary. “You'll be showering everyone with large shards of glass. And with all the firing going on, ops'll have an extremely difficult time sorting out the
hajjis
from the hostages.”

“I'd prefer we used the term
perpetrators
,” Castillo interjected.

“Oh, grow up,” LeBlanc countered.

“I need to say that I don't feel comfortable with this,” Sprecker said. “They've got to have a purpose to this other than just killing everyone outright. Otherwise, they would have done it when they first went in.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Scott agreed. “The very fact that they are separating them into groups indicates a larger scenario.”

“And one of those groups is full of senators and congressmen,” said LeBlanc. “Now I'm willing to bet that they aren't separating them out so they can say, ‘Sorry, didn't expect they'd be here,' and release them. Like I said before, I've got specific orders from the president himself to make sure no harm comes to any member of that congressional delegation.”

“At least not to anyone of his party,” said a voice from the third row of onlookers.

“Who said that?” Porter said, slamming his fist down on the table.

After a moment, a hand went up. It was an FBI assistant-vice-undersomething. “Sorry, sir, just some misplaced levity.”

“You want to know what's misplaced? You,” Porter hissed. “Get out of here before I bust you down to investigating dollar-store shoplifting. In fact, everyone get out, except for the techs, you, you, and you,” he said, pointing to Castillo, Sprecker, and LeBlanc. Scott didn't move from the table either.

“Listen, you can't—” A look from Porter stopped Castillo's protest dead.

“That should take care of the levity,” Porter said. “Right now everything's theoretical anyway until the president and his joint staff give us a thumbs-up.”

“Just what are we authorized to do, if I may ask?” Sprecker said.

“Prepare and monitor. Right now the president is looking for information he can act on. I'm betting right now one or more of his joint chiefs are wanting us to fly over and bomb the crap out of Iran. The others probably have their own countries they want taken out. Fact is, the president can't authorize anything until he knows who these bozos are and what they want.”

“If they take this place out,” LeBlanc said angrily, “I say we level Mecca. Then we can take out Medina just for good measure.”

“Brilliant,” Porter said sarcastically. “Apparently you're not too keen on holding on to your job. Hopefully we can all pretend we didn't just hear—”

“Someone's coming out,” called a voice from the front part of the truck. While they all hurried to gather around a small surveillance screen, Scott took the opportunity to bolt out of the truck and toward to the front line of police vehicles.

As he ran, he pressed a button on his earpiece. “ID?”

Evie answered, “It looks like it's the little girl who read the paper during the service—probably a granddaughter or great-granddaughter.”

Just then, a girl of no more than eight wearing a little black dress that flared out with ruffles at the bottom appeared on the top step. She looked terrified and kept turning around to the front door. Hesitantly, she took one step down and then another.

“Skeet, go get her,” Scott said into his earpiece. Skeeter was lying behind a low wall twenty yards from the entrance. Gilly Posada was lying next to him, and across the main path to the cathedral behind a matching low wall were Matt Logan and Carlos Guitiérrez. The rest of the CTD ops team—Kim Li, Steve Kasay, and Ted Hummel—were another ten yards back among the trees.

As soon as the words were said, Skeeter leaped up and ran across the open cement. The girl screamed when she spotted him and tried to turn back, but the big man swept her up in his arms and sprinted her to safety.

“Li, take Skeeter's place,” Scott ordered as he ran to intercept Skeeter. He reached him just after he passed through the line of cars. Already, there was a crowd pushing in around Skeeter.

Scott shouldered his way through and heard Skeeter's deep bass saying, “Shhh, shhh, it's all right, sweetheart. Skeeter's got you now. Shhh.”

The girl was no longer screaming. Instead she had her arms wrapped tightly around Skeeter's thick neck and was sobbing into his shoulder.

“She's got something taped to her back under her dress,” Skeeter whispered to Scott. “It's hard and square.”

“Everybody get back,” Scott ordered. “She may be hot!”

The thought that this little girl might be carrying an explosive device sent most people running. Yet there were still quite a few who remained behind. One of them was a sweet-faced woman in an MCPD uniform.

“My name's Aynalem Kelemua,” she said to Scott in a wonderfully sing-song African accent. “If you're going to be exploring this girl for explosives, you're probably going to want a woman nearby.”

Scott smiled at her. “Beautiful. Thanks.”

Looking at the rest of the people who had stayed close, he said, “I appreciate your heart, but you gotta move it back. Everybody back twenty yards, now!” Reluctantly, they obeyed.

“Her name's Grace,” Skeeter said.

Scott nodded. “Hi, Grace. I'm Scott, you already know Skeeter, and this is Officer Kelemua,” he said, reading her name off her tag. He knew she had told him her full name, but it had just gone in one ear and out the other.

“Do you know what they put on your back, Sweetie?”

Grace shook her head, still keeping her face buried in Skeeter's neck.

“Can you look at me, Grace?”

Again she shook her head. Scott looked to Skeeter.

“It's okay, honey. Scott's a really good friend of mine. He's really nice, and kind of funny looking, too.”

This caused Grace to take a tentative sideways glance. Scott smiled and gave a little wave. Slowly, she turned and faced him.

“That's great, Grace. You are so brave. Now, I have something very important to ask you. Okay?”

Grace nodded.

“Did the bad guys say anything to you when they put this whatever-it-is on your back?”

Grace nodded again.

“Can you tell me what they said?”

“They said to give this to the person in charge. Are you the person in charge?”

“I am, sweetie. You did a very good job finding me.”

She nodded again, then sniffed deeply. Scott used his end of his sleeve to wipe her eyes and her nose.

“They're really, really bad people, Mr. Scott. They hurt Uncle Denny and Aunt Lisa really bad.” Then, dropping her voice to a whisper, she said, “I think maybe they're died.”

“Oh, Grace, I'm so sorry,” he said, as he gently placed his hand on her back. He sized up the attachment, then said to Kelemua, “I think we're good. By the feel of it, I'm betting it's a disc.”

“Grace, sweetheart, is it okay if I get this little thingy off your back?” Kelemua asked.

The tears started fresh now. “Is it going to hurt?”

“I'll be very careful. I promise.” Kelemua slowly reached under the girl's dress and ran her hand up her back. “How old are you, Grace?”

“Seven,” Grace said through snuffs.

“I thought so. I have a nephew who's seven. His name's Jesse.”

Scott watched the officer's hand working under the girl's dress. “It's definitely a plastic CD or DVD case,” she said to Scott. Then turning back to Grace, she asked, “Do you like school?”

Grace nodded, then stiffened. It looked like Kelemua was picking at a corner of the tape.

“What's your teacher's name?”

“Mrs. Carr—OWWWW!” Kelemua had pulled hard at the tape. She pulled one more time and her hand came out from under the girl's dress. It was holding a DVD case with a disc inside. Covering the case were three long strips of silver duct tape.

“I'm so sorry, Grace,” Officer Kelemua said. “It's all over now.”

Scott took the disc and said, “We gotta go, Skeet. Grace, I am so proud of you. You were so brave.”

But Grace wasn't listening. She was holding on tightly to Skeeter's neck.

“I have to go now, Gracie,” Skeeter said softly. “Miss Aynalem will take care of you. She's a wonderful friend of mine too.”

“I don't want you to go, Skeeter.”

“I know, sweetie. But I have to. I've got to go get your mommy and daddy.”

Grace leaned back and, through her tears, looked Skeeter straight in the eye. “Are you really going to get Mommy and Daddy?”

“I am.”

“Do you promise?”

Skeeter kissed her forehead and said, “I promise.”

Grace let go of Skeeter's neck and reached for Officer Kelemua. As soon as she did, Scott and Skeeter ran off toward the command truck.

When they arrived, the same gang of muckety-mucks was there waiting for them. Scott passed the disc to a tech, who slid it into a player.

They watched the message from Saifullah four times through. By the time the last cycle was complete, Scott knew three things. First, there was no way they were going through with the rescue attempt. Second, these guys were crazier and smarter than he had feared. And third, by the looks of what these psychos were laying out, he and the rest of the good guys were in for a long haul.