The Black List (37 page)

“I’ll get it out at once. We’ve got officers canvassing the neighborhood now. If we’re lucky, we’ll find someone who saw something.”

Their luck changed an hour later. McNiel phoned Griffin with the intel. “We have a video siting of him at a convenience store a couple blocks from the apartments. The police have already been by and are following it up. But I want you two over there to see if there’s anything they might have overlooked.”

“We’re on it.”

Apparently the clerk
had seen the news report on TV of the suspected terrorist but hadn’t made a connection until the police walked in with the new bulletin and a clothing description. “It was the Giants logo on his sweatshirt that caught my eye,” the clerk told Griffin. “You could just make it out in the vee of his coat? So first thing I said was, ‘You from California?’ And he’s like, not hearing me, and then some customers came in to pay for gas. Next thing I know, he’s gone.”

“Can you run the video for us?” Griffin asked.

“Sure.”

He took them in the back office, brought it up on the computer monitor, pointing to the screen as a man matching Yusuf’s description entered the store with a heavily weighted backpack on his shoulder. He walked to the back, took a bottle of water from the refrigerated cooler, then strode up to the counter, where he had to wait while another customer paid for a purchase. They saw the moment where the clerk tried to engage him in conversation.

As stated, he seemed not to be listening, his attention apparently fixed on a small-screen television mounted on the wall behind the cash register. Several customers walked in and up to the counter, and then suddenly he turned to leave, pausing near a rack at the door. It looked as if he picked something up, but his back was to the camera and they couldn’t see.

“What’s on that rack?” Griffin asked.

“Tourist stuff. Maps and postcards.”

Sydney asked for a copy of the video, and waited while the clerk made one for her. In the meantime, Griffin retraced Yusuf’s path through the store, trying to see what he saw.

The main body of the store yielded nothing, and he returned to the counter, stood there, eyed the TV and the commercial currently playing, advertising toothpaste. He didn’t see anything else of interest, then moved to the rack where the maps and postcards were displayed. There were at least a dozen various photos of Washington, D.C., landmarks but nothing that stood out. Besides, a terrorist would have a hard time getting to any of the monuments or museums with that backpack.

The maps, however, seemed a more likely prospect. Especially for someone who knew where he wanted to go but didn’t know how to get there.

But where was it he wanted to go?

The billion-dollar question.

Griffin went back over the video in his mind, a thought forming as he walked the route again, past the refrigerator. This time, like Yusuf, he grabbed a bottle, walked up to the counter to pay. There had been a customer in front of Yusuf, and Griffin recalled from the video that Yusuf had turned his attention to the TV while he waited . . .

And then left without his water.

Something on TV caught his attention, made him forget his purchase.

Griffin returned to the back office. “Play the video again.”

The clerk ran it a second time.

Yusuf walking in, grabbing the water, counter, waiting, TV . . .

“Stop it there.”

He leaned forward, tried to see what was on the television but couldn’t quite make it out. “Do you remember what channel was playing?” he asked the clerk.

“The same one that’s on now. The afternoon news show. Channel 3.”

Sydney took out her phone. “I’ll find out what was airing.”

“I can tell you,” the clerk said. “They were showing that party at that new power hot spot, according to the newscaster.”

“What party?” Griffin asked.

“At that rooftop restaurant that just opened up near the White House? Invitation only for the grand opening, so they’re covering all the celebrities and politicians who are there. Like anybody even cares. C’mon. It’s Washington, right?”

Griffin thought of one person who might care. “Is the DVD finished?”

The clerk ejected it from the computer and handed it over.

In the car, Sydney said, “Definite confirmation from the news station. They have cameras in the restaurant as we speak.”

“Call McNiel and Pearson. They need to notify the White House and Secret Service. Tell them we’re on our way.”

“Oh my God. Scotty’s there.”

“You’re sure?”

“Definitely. He asked me to go with him.”

63

Yusuf stood across the
street, looking up at the top of the hotel he’d seen on the news. The restaurant was ten stories up, and as soon as he’d heard them mentioning the guests, the political leaders and movie stars, he knew that was exactly where he needed to be.

It no longer mattered that their original target, the Metro subway, was probably now crawling with police all on the lookout for him.

This was by far a better choice.

There were already news cameras, which meant the world would see the explosion live. His name would be remembered, and he almost wished he would be around to see the news footage that would flood the airwaves.

He crossed the street toward the hotel, noticing people at the glass doors, checking the IDs of everyone who entered. The news reporter had said it was an invitation only event, the hotel and restaurant closed to the public.

Yusuf continued past the front, then on around the block until he came to the rear of the hotel. There was a truck backed up to a loading dock, and two men were unloading boxes from it. One man wore blue coveralls, the other a white uniform, the sort a restaurant worker might wear.

Yusuf walked closer, saying, “I’m supposed to start working here today. Is this where I enter?”

The man in white nodded toward a door near the dock that stood propped open with a brick. “Through there.”

He entered, wandering down a long hallway, not sure where to go when he reached the end that branched off in a tee. A man stepped around the corner, then stopped short on seeing him. “Are you the busboy the temp agency sent over?”

He had no idea what a busboy or temp agency was. “Yes.”

“I needed five. Not one.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “Better hurry on up, then. They need you.”

Yusuf nodded, and when the man raised his brows, as though expecting some sort of action, Yusuf started past him.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

Yusuf stopped, his heart starting to thud.

“Gotta have a uniform. This way,” the man said, leading him in the opposite direction, then stopping by a door. He opened it, pointing to stacks of white shirts and pants. “Find your size, get dressed, and then take the service elevator up.”

“Service elevator?”

“Right over there.” He pointed down the hall. “Tenth floor. When you get up there, take a left to the kitchen. They’ll show you what to do.”

64

Pick up, Scotty, pick up . . .

Sydney received Scotty’s voice mail, again, and disconnected.

Griffin was driving hell-bent toward the hotel. He glanced over at her. “Maybe Scotty decided not to go.”

“Oh, trust me. This is right up his alley,” she said, trying his number again, this time unblocking hers so he could see it on the screen. “No way would he miss it.”

He answered, and she heard music and talking in the background. “Scotty, thank God.”

“Sydney? I can barely hear you. What’s wrong?”

“Are you at that party? The rooftop thing?”

“What? Yes. I told you I was going.”

“I’m on my way there. The terrorist they’re looking for—”

“Hold on. Can’t hear a word,” he said loudly. A few moments later, the music greatly muted, the voices not as loud, he came back on, saying, “You’re coming here?”

“Yes, I—”

“You told me you didn’t want to go. I brought Amanda.”

“For God’s sake, Scotty, will you shut up for a second? I’m talking about the terrorist. We think he may be on his way to your location with a dirty bomb.”

“. . . Here? Why?”

“He saw it on the news. With all the coverage, it’s a very convenient high-profile target. One he actually has a chance of getting into.”

“Security’s pretty tight. He can’t get in without an invitation.”

“Let’s hope not. But he had an hour head start. He could already be there.”

“Has someone called Secret Service?”

“Yes.”

“How long until you’re here?”

“We’re just a couple minutes away.”

Scotty and the
head of hotel security were waiting for them when they pulled up in front of the hotel. Griffin double-parked, and Sydney grabbed the folder with photos of Yusuf as she got out.

“How sure are you about this?” Scotty asked Sydney.

“We’re not sure about anything yet, but are you willing to take a chance?”

“Me? No. I already sent Amanda home in a cab. But there are about a half-dozen senators upstairs who are going to be very upset if you yank the rug out from under their feet for a false alarm.”

“Have you told them?”

“You obviously haven’t been up there yet. They wouldn’t be able to hear me if I shouted it from a loudspeaker. It’s over capacity as it is.”

Griffin was watching the front entrance of the hotel, and she asked, “What are you thinking?”

“That he wouldn’t have come in this way.” Griffin turned to the security head; Mason, according to his name tag. “If you were trying to sneak in, how would you do it?”

“The only possible way is the back. We’ve got deliveries going all day, stocking up for the week’s grand opening events once it opens to the public. There’s a security guard out there who’s supposed to be checking every person who comes in.”

“How many people in the hotel?”

“In the rooms? None. The renovation’s not finished yet. And the construction workers have the day off so there wouldn’t be any noise during the party. The only people in the building are staff on the first floor and the top floor in the restaurant. They can’t even access the other floors unless they use the stairs.”

“Okay,” Griffin said. “Scotty, I could use your help in clearing the building.”

“I’m in.”

“Syd?”

“I’ll go with Mason to see if anyone matching that description came through.”

Griffin and Scotty briefed the hotel manager, then headed in the opposite direction to the main elevator. Sydney left with Mason through the lobby.

“This way,” Mason said, leading her down a hall, the dark carpet soaking up most of the light. Eventually they reached another door, which he opened, allowing her to enter first. The passage continued, but unlike the area they’d just left, the floor here was an industrial off-white linoleum, reflecting the fluorescent lighting overhead. They continued on, made a right turn, and eventually came to the loading dock, where a security guard stood watch as a truck backed down the ramp and a worker guided the driver.

When the guard noticed Mason, he stood a bit straighter.

Sydney opened her folder, showing him Yusuf’s photo, and Mason asked, “Have you seen anyone who looks like him?”

The guard shook his head, but then called out, “Hey, Zeke. C’mere a sec.”

The man held up his hand, indicating the truck driver should stop, and he walked over. “Yeah?”

Sydney showed him the photo. “Have you seen him?”

“He one of the temp workers?”

She looked at Mason, who said, “We hired extra workers from an agency to cover the party.” To Zeke, he said, “You saw someone who looked like him?”

“Boy . . . We had, what? Maybe five or six come through. But he reminds me of the last one.”

“How long ago was that?” Sydney asked.

“Fifteen, twenty minutes, I guess.”

Mason then instructed Zeke to turn away the driver and shut down the deliveries. The security guard was told that no one goes in, only out. “Tell all employees to meet in front of the Treasury Building. We’re clearing the premises.”

“For what?” Zeke asked.

Mason looked to Sydney for an answer, and she said, “Gas leak. Danger of explosion.” Far less panic that way. She hoped.

Zeke, however, didn’t seem to be buying the explanation. At least not all of it. “Why the photo? I mean, he have something to do with it?”

“We’re not sure,” was all she said. “But if you see him, call 911.”

He nodded, undoubtedly making his own assumptions, and left to inform the truck driver of the delay, while she and Mason returned inside. “Where would he have gone if he was pretending to be a worker?” she asked.

“He’d need a uniform. Down here.” Mason led her back through the hallway into what appeared to be a large linen supply room, where uniforms and towels were folded on shelves. “He would have changed in the men’s locker room, however.” That was two doors down, and he knocked on the door before opening it for her. She placed her hand on her gun, moving from the edge of the door only after she could see inside. It was simply a large room with lockers around the perimeter.

Several didn’t have locks, and she started opening them. The fourth one contained khaki pants, a black leather jacket and, on top of them, a Giants sweatshirt. She closed the door quickly. “This room needs to be secured. It could be contaminated.”

They backed out. “Now what?”

“Now we go upstairs and get everyone the hell out of here.”

Mason’s hand shook as he turned the key in the lock. The threat hadn’t been real until then, and she figured that confronting a terrorist with a dirty bomb was not something he’d ever anticipated running into in the hotel security business.

“What’s the fastest way to the rooftop?” Sydney asked.

“The service elevator. It’s probably how he got to the kitchen from here.”

He led her to it, then hit the button. When it opened, several men and women—kitchen workers, judging from the food stains on their white uniforms—stepped off, and Sydney looked at each face, but didn’t see her suspect. No fear, only confusion, and she took that as a good sign. One woman saw Mason, telling him, “We were told we had to leave the building. What’s going on?”