The Enemy Within (29 page)

At about 11:20 A.M. Halovic looked up from the classified ads. Men and women in business attire were flowing past him, some talking, some laughing. The man at the table took their names and checked them off on a list. According to the schedule the Bosnian had memorised, the luncheon would begin at 11:30, with Steele’s speech and a question-and-answer session slated to begin at noon. The Bosnian buried his head in the paper again, waiting.

At 11:40 the man at the table counted up the names, nodded to himself, and turned the table so that it was tight up against the side of the entrance to the dining room. He left, and a few minutes later, a young woman walked up and placed several stacks of paper on the table. Copies of Steele’s oration, Halovic realized. The reverend evidently wanted to make sure his words were remembered and widely aired. Well, the Bosnian thought coldly, he could be sure of that.

He pushed off the wall and strolled back inside the dining room. Every chair around every table was filled, and the buzz of conversation and the clatter and clink of glasses and silverware were startlingly loud. He knelt, checked his
VCR
, and saw that all the junction boxes and the camera responded to a test signal. Good.

With a polite nod to the other cameramen closest to him, Halovic stepped up onto the media platform and manned his own minicam. He peered into the small viewfinder and swept the lens over the section of head table to the right of the speaker’s podium. Four men and two women sat there, but none of them were Steele. He panned left. Ah, there.

The Reverend Walter Steele was a tall black man in his late forties. His hair, though still untouched by gray, had receded slightly from his temples. He was dressed in a well tailored, dark grey suit, and a dazzling black, red, and green tie. As if the colorful tie were not bold enough, he had a piece of orange-striped kente cloth draped over his shoulders.

Halovic waited patiently, intent on the scene in front of him. Steele chatted with those closest to him all older, distinguished-looking men. The Bosnian recognized one as a senior member of the Congressional Black Caucus. Another headed the Washington bureau of one of America’s leading television networks.

He glanced down. His watch showed 12:04 P.M. One of the men at the head table pushed away his wineglass, stood up, and made his way to the microphones. The room quieted.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re honored this afternoon to have as our speaker the Reverend Walter Steele. He is a man whose many accomplishments are so well known that…”

Taking care not to disturb the camera, Halovic stepped back off the platform and walked quietly over to his
VCR
. The technicians and cameramen around him spoke in hushed tones now, respectful of the speaker but intent on their own business. He pressed a button on the
VCR
and saw a new row of green lights appear. The junction boxes were armed.

Satisfied, Halovic returned to the camera just as Steele stood up and took his place behind the podium. He peered through the viewfinder again. The image was a little off center, but the Bosnian ignored the picture.

Instead, he pressed the record and the focus buttons simultaneously. A flashing red dot appeared on the viewfinder image. A thin, ugly smile crossed his face and then vanished without a trace.

Without pausing, Halovic turned, stepped off the platform, and walked briskly out into the lobby. Ignoring the elevator, he took the stairwell down. As he trotted down the stairs, he stripped off the green windbreaker and reversed it so that it was a more sedate and less memorable blue. The blackframe glasses went into a spare pocket. He would dispose of both later and in a safer place.

He was outside and crossing Thirteenth Street on his way to the Metro Center station when the National Press Club vaporized in a searing sea of fire and shrapnel.

Each of the junction boxes Halovic had so carefully placed contained two pounds of plastic explosive and hundreds of small nails. The
VCR
, larger still, held five pounds of explosive. All were linked to a five-minute digital timer accurate to the milk-second. When the timer counted down to zero, the six separate bombs went off in one simultaneous, shattering blast.

Those few who survived said it was as if the air itself had exploded.

Driven by each explosion, fragments sleeted through the crowded dining room at thousands of feet per second, splintering tables, smashing glass and china, and ripping flesh apart. Dozens of men and women were killed instantly. Dozens more were maimed almost beyond recognition.

Caught by the bomb planted less than a foot from his stomach, the Reverend Walter Steele one of the most powerful and prominent black leaders in the United States was literally torn apart. His mangled remains were later identified only by dental records.

The members and guests seated closest to the speaker’s podium and the central aisle were wiped off the earth in the blink of an eye. Only a few, those furthest away, near the walls or corners of the dining room, survived.

They would later recount seeing the center of the room erupt in flame, feeling their lungs fill with choking smoke, and hearing the anguished screams of those who were dying. With shaking voices, they would describe it as a frozen moment of utter terror, of unimaginable horror.

Falls Church, Virginia Helen Gray shifted sleepily under the bedspread, curling up closer to Peter Thorn. Her right hand toyed with the curly hairs on his chest.

She felt his lips brush against her forehead and smiled in lazy contentment.

“You keep doing that with your fingers, lady, and you’ll have to take the dire consequences,” she heard him say in a mock-serious tone.

Helen’s smile widened and she opened her eyes. “Oh, good.” She rolled over on top of him.

She was on leave and Peter had taken the day off work at the Pentagon to spend some time with her. But their plans to tour a museum or two and eat lunch in the city had fallen prey to deeper, more passionate needs. And every hour she spent in his company helped her push away the dark memories of the carnage at Temple Emet.

Her cell phone rang.

“Damn it,” she growled. “Not now!”

Peter chuckled. “Go ahead and answer it, Agent Gray. I’ll stay right here. I promise.”

She poked a finger into his chest. “You’d better, Colonel Thorn. Don’t forget, I’m an officer of the law.” Then she slid out from under the covers and pulled her phone out from the tangle of clothing on his bedroom floor. “Gray.”

“Helen, this is Lang.” The
HRT
commander sounded strangely shaken. “I hate to disturb you, but I’m afraid your leave’s been canceled. I need you to meet me at Hoover
ASAP
.” “What’s up?” she demanded.

“Turn on
CNN
.”

Helen turned toward the television at the foot of Peter’s bed. Reacting to the sudden tension in her voice, he was already up and getting dressed. He saw her urgent gesture and switched the set on.

She gasped as the first pictures filled the screen. Fire trucks and ambulances crowded a city street near the center of Washington, D.C., surrounding a blast-shattered building. A dark haze hung over the site smoke from the still-burning structure.

‘
-recap what we know so far, at ten minutes after twelve this afternoon, a huge explosion ripped through the National Press Club during a speech by the Reverend Walter Steele, one of the country’s foremost civil rights leaders and a rumored candidate for the presidency. Unconfirmed reports from the scene indicate that Steele and as many as two hundred others were killed in the blast. Among those known to be attending the luncheon were several congressmen and high-ranking administration officials.” The
CNN
announcer’s voice wavered. “As well as some of the world’s top reporters, including several who work for this network.”

A poor-quality still photo of an American flag emblazoned with a swastika replaced the chaotic street scene. “Police sources have reported that, shortly after the blast, calls were received by the two major D.C. area newspapers claiming responsibility for the attack in the name of the New Aryan Order, a little-known, extreme right-wing group. The callers have been quoted as demanding that ‘the white race in America begin a war of purification.’ ”

The
CNN
anchorwoman appeared on camera, still clearly shaken. “We will bring you the latest information on this tragedy as it arrives…”

Thorn snapped the television off and Helen turned back to the phone. Lang was still waiting on the line for her. “Jesus Christ, John.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty bad.” The
HRT
commander fell silent for a few seconds. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. “How long will it take you to get to D.C., Helen?”

“Forty-five minutes,” she replied, already sorting out her clothes from the pile on the floor.

“Good. The Director is putting together a special task force to investigate this bombing, and I’m putting you and your section on it.”

Helen nodded. The evidence was that this was a terrorist attack. If they could pinpoint the people responsible, whoever headed the task force would need an
HRT
force under his immediate command to round them up. “Who’s in charge? Not McDowell, I hope.”

The ghost of a smile sounded in Lang’s reply. “No, not McDowell. They’re flying Mike Flynn in from San Francisco.”

Flynn. The name tugged at Helen’s memory. “The guy who investigated the Golden Gate Bridge bomb attack?” “That’s him,” Lang said. “He’ll be here by seven. I want you here to meet him and the rest of the task force. I’ll brief you on the other details in person.”

“Understood.” Helen hit the disconnect button and started throwing on clothes with reckless haste. She could sort out her appearance in one of the women’s washrooms at the Hoover Building later. The most important thing was to get on the road before the highways clogged up for the afternoon rush hour.

Her last sight of Peter Thorn as she hurried out of his town house was his frustrated face. He’d spent his career preparing to hit terrorists overseas and now all the action had shifted to the U.S. out of his jurisdiction and out of his control.

NOVEMBER
6

Outside the National Press Club, Washington, D.C.

Under a dismal, overcast November sky, throngs of onlookers, reporters, and camera crews pressed against the police barricades deployed to maintain a security zone around the bomb-gutted National Press Office building. The FBI-led task force charged with investigating the bombing had sealed an area a full city block wide around the crime scene.

Helen Gray stopped short of the police line, taking a good hard look at the organised pandemonium gripping the area just two blocks from the White House. Parked squad cars, ambulances, fire engines, and official vehicles belonging to nearly a dozen different federal and District of Columbia governmental agencies jammed almost every square foot of Fourteenth Street. Hard-faced D.C. police officers, wearing rain gear against the impending storm, manned the barricades, checking identity cards before allowing anyone in or out of the secure zone. (jars and trucks were backed up noseto-tail for blocks in every direction.

The entire downtown was in gridlock, generated by the bomb-related street closures and by the tidal surge of the morbidly curious who were flocking to the site. To avoid the worst of it, Helen had walked from her temporary office at the Hoover Building instead of trying to drive the relatively short distance. This was her first visit to evaluate the evidence accumulated in the first few hours of the investigation. She’d stayed away until now to allow the technical experts some room to work. But from the number of vehicles parked outside the press club, she was one of only a handful of people in official Washington who had been able to resist the temptation to play backseat driver.

“You still think this is a good idea?” Peter Thorn said quietly into her right ear, eyeing the crowded street in front of them. “I’ve an idea that your bosses might not welcome another busybody poking his nose into their business just now.”

Helen turned toward him. Like her, he was in civilian clothes instead of uniform. With the media already deep in a feeding frenzy over the press club bombing, neither saw any point in attracting attention to themselves. She shook her head decisively. “You’re a recognised expert on terrorist tactics and weapons, Peter. I’d hardly call somebody with your experience a busybody.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t. But I’d say you’re biased.” He smiled tightly.

“Truth is, this is way off my patch and you know it.”

Helen shrugged. “So? Last time I looked, the Bureau didn’t have a monopoly on brainpower. You might see something our people have missed. And if you don’t, there’s still no harm done.”

Privately, she was less certain about the wisdom of her actions. She’d invited Peter to come along on her own initiative without permission from Special Agent Flynn. Some of her reasoning was soundly professional. But she couldn’t deny that many of her reasons were more personal. And by involving an outsider in an
FBI
investigation, she risked a reprimand if Flynn officially objected to his presence despite the kudos she’d earned by smashing the Temple Emet attack. She looked inward for a moment, again considering whether or not she was willing to accept a black mark on her near-perfect record for his sake.

The answer was yes.

She still remembered that look of anguished frustration on Peter’s face when they first heard the news about the bombing. Standing idle on the sidelines in the aftermath of the deadliest terrorist attack in U.S. history would have been more than he could bear. Besides, Helen admitted to herself, she treasured every moment spent in his company. Being completely separated from him for the long days and nights her work on the task force would probably require might have been more than she could bear. If involving him meant breaking every single one of her precepts about keeping her work and personal lives separate, so be it.