“You mean I can keep it?”
I drew an X on my chest. “Cross my heart, kiddo. If I can make sure it’s safe and won’t explode, you can keep it.”
I wanted to scream at him to take the damn thing off before it blew us all to smithereens, but I knew that would just freak him out and make him dig in his heels. Ever so slowly, his arms unfolded, and he shrugged out of the backpack and then the vest. Quickly, I carried it over to a sink where the light was better, and took the knife from its sheath. My hands were shaking so badly it took three tries to hook the point in the threads holding the lining. I carefully cut a few, and pulled the lining loose.
“Grandpa, stop! You’re ruining it!”
I clenched my jaw. “I have to get the bomb out first, Preston. We can sew it back up later.”
The bathroom door opened, kicking my heart into my throat. I slipped the knife in my pocket and kept my grip on it.
The teen guard stuck his head inside. “Everything all right in here?”
“Peachy,” I growled.
He looked dubious, but pulled his head back outside anyway.
Preston fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Grandpa, I really do have to go pee now.”
“That’s okay. You’re a big boy. You can pee in the urinal if you want.”
“That’s okay,” he said shuffling into a stall. “I’ll use the toilet.”
I turned back to the vest. As I’d thought, inside the vest’s lining lay several long, flat, inch-and-a-half thick bricks of putty-like material—C4, probably military grade since they were the same size as the M112 wrapped bricks the engineers used in Vietnam to blow the tunnels. It was no wonder the vest was heavy. Preston had been carrying nearly nine extra pounds of high explosive, if I remembered right. Stable stuff, but the sight of it made my pulse race faster, and sweat broke out on my brow unbidden.
Back in my day, devices and appliances operated electro-mechanically. In the tunnels, most of the booby traps were mechanical—trip wires that pulled grenade pins, that sort of thing. Everything these days operated digitally, using computer chips to issue commands. Fortunately, whoever devised this bomb went the simple route. I counted seven blocks of C4, two on each side in front, and three in back, each with a blasting cap stuck in the top end. Wires attached to the caps were routed to a single switch somewhere, probably triggered by a cell phone call.
Sweat now ran down my face and into my eyes, blinding me. I swiped at the stinging saltiness with the back of my sleeve, and started yanking the caps out of the bricks. I breathed a little easier once I’d removed them all, but not much. The caps were still wired to go off. I used the knife to cut the wires, pocketing all of the blasting caps.
The door opened again, and I almost jumped out of my skin this time. The same kid took half a step inside.
“What are you guys doing? We need to catch up with the rest of the group.”
“Okay, okay,” I muttered. “We’re coming.”
I stacked the bricks in the sink as the toilet flushed and Preston reappeared. I gave him the vest. He put it on. Only a small corner of lining material hung down below the bottom edge of the vest. He didn’t seem to notice. As he shrugged on the backpack, I grabbed the stack of C4 bricks in both hands and hid them behind a toilet as well as I could. I rinsed my hands and the two of us hurried out.
The others had gathered around the Declaration when we caught up. If I hadn’t been so distracted, the Rotunda would have filled me with awe. The large murals of the original signers of the Declaration and the Constitution overhead, the marble floor and pillars, the specially sealed, gold-plated cases holding the documents written so long ago, the domed ceiling itself rising high above, all conspired to leave me breathless. The group leader droned on about how the Declaration had come to be written, the various signatories, and so forth. I crouched next to Preston.
“We’re buddies, right?” I said in a low voice. He tore his eyes away from the display case to look at me and nodded. “I’d never lie to you, Preston. Joe is going to be angry that I took apart that bomb. He’ll come back. And when he does, he’ll try to kill us.”
His eyes grew as big as saucers. “What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to see if we can get out of here. If he catches us we’re going to fight. But in the meantime, I have an idea. Do you have some paper and a pencil in that backpack?”
“I have lots,” he said.
83
DK betrayed us. Rescue failed. Two dead. Hassan delivered to lockup. My cover is blown.
He stood next to the fountain across the street from the museum and seethed, white-hot anger burning like a gasoline fire, immolating him from the inside out. One hand hung at his side, the phone in his grip useless. He re-read the text message on the phone in his other hand. Joseph Darzi, the man the world had known for decades as al-Qadir, had never felt so impotent or so angry, not even when that ignorant, racist piece of white trash had murdered his father and broken his mother’s heart. Losing a son… His two boys had chosen their own paths, and he’d resigned himself to the likelihood that they would die violent deaths years ago. But to actually lose one… The magnitude of it shook and battered him with the force of a hurricane.
And the mission he’d planned so meticulously for more than the two long years that Hassan had been held in jail now failed. The mission to rescue Hassan from imprisonment apparently foiled, and Hassan delivered to the county jail for trial. The explosion he’d expected here—no, arranged—had not occurred. The panic, the confusion, the screams of the wounded and dying, the sirens of the first responders…none had materialized. For a moment, his brain could not comprehend it, could not process the thoughts and emotions that had overwhelmed him all at once. Instead of an intact building that people patiently waited to get inside, he should have seen a broken icon with smoke and shattered bodies pouring out. Instead of holding a worthless phone, he should have been using the two-way radio clipped to his utility belt to call in the others and signal them to fire their weapons on the survivors as well as the first responders to create more chaos, more death and suffering.
Slowly, he brought the anger under the control of an iron will as he pocketed his own phone, and used his mental capacity to think instead of wonder what went wrong. The old man. Of course. Amir had warned him that Keator was headed toward Washington. Al-Qadir had underestimated the man, had taken the intelligence he’d gathered at face value—strategically important because his son was the AUSA prosecuting Hassan, but tactically insignificant because he was a solitary old man, broken by the loss of self-esteem when he’d lost his auto factory job and then lost his wife. He should have known as soon as Abigail told him that Amir was dead. Amir had been bird-dogging the man, had been in charge of making sure that Keator made no waves, created no interference. But Keator had gotten smart, or very lucky.
It was Keator who had killed Amir. It must have been. And he was still inside the National Archives building with his grandson.
Al-Qadir threw the phone that was to have triggered the bomb on the pavement, and crushed it with the heel of his shoe. He took the walkie-talkie off his belt, and thumbed the mic. “Fayad, throw the switch in three minutes. On my mark: go. Everyone else, stand down but stay alert. I have a little situation to take care of. I’ll get back to you.”
With his vision narrowing to the point where nothing registered except the stone building directly in front of him, he stalked across the street, ignoring the blare of horns as cars swerved to avoid him.
84
“How’s your writing?” I said as Preston pulled a notepad and pencil from his pack.
“Grandpa! How do you think I won the contest?”
“Okay, here’s what I want you to write.” I laid it out for him, speaking slowly so he could keep up. The room felt warm to me, and underneath the windbreaker, my shirt stuck damply to my skin, making me feel like I needed another shower. I wondered if I gave off the kind of odor the boys
’ locker smelled like in high school. Another gift of aging—decreasing sense of smell.
Preston wrote fast. I scanned the finished note quickly, and didn’t bother pointing out misspellings. He followed my direction and took the folded note over to the security guard by the massive bronze gates at the entrance to the rotunda. After getting the guard’s attention and handing him the paper, he stood there until the guard started reading. Once the note had the guard’s attention, Preston ran back to me, dodging between the knots of people roped haphazardly around the large room.
“Great job,” I told him. He beamed. “Okay, we better get out of here. But I promise we’ll come back.”
“If we get away, right?” Preston said.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll be fine, kiddo. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
I steered him toward the elevator.
“Where are you going?” asked a familiar shrill voice.
I faced the group leader. “We’re leaving.”
“You can’t walk out with a child—”
“He’s my grandpa,” Preston said. “My real grandpa.”
While she was trying to come up with a response, we hurried away.
85
Roberts’s eyes never stopped moving, taking in every detail, every face, as she and Hunt jogged down the sidewalk to the Rotunda visitors’ entrance on Constitution Avenue. Nothing appeared out of place or out of character, but that was no excuse to let down their guard. She’d seen Hunt make more mistakes and misjudge more situations in the past forty-eight hours than he probably had in his entire career with the Bureau. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, exactly, but his head had been somewhere else for most of this operation, and she couldn’t count on his reaction time.
Fatigue was a factor, she knew. Hell, the entire team was tired, which was why Tamika, Duncan and Garrett had taken some time off. She’d take her turn when this was over. But fatigue might have had benefits as well. For whatever, reason, Hunt had been more receptive to her input in the past twelve hours than ever before. Whether due to exhaustion, fear of further failure, or a new perception of her, at least Hunt was listening to her now.
People waited in line at the entrance calmly, faces expectant and happy, conversations normal and cheerful for the most part. Roberts and Hunt excused themselves as they bypassed the line and squeaked sideways between the doorframe and waiting visitors. They badged the security guard at the first metal detector, and he waved them through to inspect their ID more closely.
“Anything unusual this morning?” Hunt said casually.
The guard shook his head as he handed back their ID. “Not really. The same old hordes of school kids. Something we should be worried about?”
“Don’t know yet,” Hunt said. “That’s what we’re here to find out. Keep your eyes open.”
“Always do,” the guard said cheerfully as the pair continued on past him.
Roberts couldn’t remember when she’d last been in the building, but it had definitely undergone a facelift since then. As she and Hunt walked through the small plaza she noted the changes, all impressive.
In the gallery beyond, Hunt pointed to the right. “Take that staircase. I’ll take the other one.”
Roberts nodded and peeled away from him. She headed straight for the stairs. On her way up, she encountered some boisterous kids running down the marble steps, laughing as they went. Like the guard said, nothing seemed amiss. But they’d been fooled too many times in the past two days to assume anything. She climbed quickly, but cautiously, eyes scanning the steps above her, ears alert to sounds in the staircase.
In the larger Rotunda gallery on the next floor she saw more of the same—lots of school-age kids, most in groups with a few darting here and there, and an elevated noise level from the constant loud chatter of all those voices. She slowed to a stroll as she moved through the crowds, again taking in the details. When she met Hunt at the gate to the Rotunda in the middle of the gallery, she was flummoxed. She wondered if she’d guessed wrong. He lifted an eyebrow; she shook her head. They turned in unison and walked into the Rotunda, scanning the crowd. She saw no sign of a young boy held against his will or of a terrorist intent on bringing America to its knees.
Hunt approached the guard near the gate.
“Special Agent Hunt, FBI,” he said, flashing his ID.
“Wow, you guys got here quick,” the guard said.
“What do you mean?” Roberts said, edging closer.
The guard pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “Kid handed me this a few minutes ago. I didn’t know what to do with it. Thought it must be a joke. Guess not.”
Hunt took the paper from the guard’s hand. Roberts read it over his elbow.
My name is Preston Keator. I was kidnaped by terorists. The leader Joe is dressed like a policeman with arows on his shirt. He has 5 6 men. They have blak cloths on. Except for Mr. Samara. And guns. BIG guns. My grandpa found me so we are leeving. Get help qwik.
Hunt jerked his head up and looked around wildly. “They’re here. And if they’re here, al-Qadir must be close. Why hasn’t anything happened? A bomb. Something.”
Roberts looked at him. “Keator. He messed up al-Qadir’s plans somehow. That’s not gonna go over well.”
Hunt glanced at the note in his hand again. “Get on the horn with the team. Let them know.”
Roberts turned to one side to speak into her comm unit. “All units, this is One. We’ve got a note from the boy. You’re looking for five cops in black gear. Could be USPP, D.C. Police… Don’t know, but likely armed with assault rifles. Do you copy?”
Through her earpiece, Roberts heard each pair of agents check in. She turned back to hear Hunt ask the guard, “See any cops in here this morning?”
The guard shook his head. Worry etched lines across his forehead. “Should I start evacuating these people?”
Suddenly, two sharp reports echoed distantly from somewhere in the building. The Rotunda grew silent as the crowds of students and other visitors looked around in confusion. Roberts pointed down when Hunt glanced at her. He nodded in agreement and turned to the room.
“Stay calm, everyone,” he called. “We’re with the FBI. We’d like you all to leave the building in an orderly fashion. The guard will direct you where to go.” He turned to the guard. “If there’s an exit to the outside on this floor, evacuate everyone that way. Don’t let anyone use the staircases or elevators.”
Roberts had already drifted out into the gallery, and when Hunt caught up she indicated that she would head down the way she’d come up. He jogged to the opposite staircase. She pushed through the door and took her service weapon out of its holster.
Suddenly, all the lights went out, leaving the floor in nearly complete darkness.
86
“Grandpa, look,” Preston said as the elevator descended. “It’s the Declaration of Independence.”
A facsimile of the document was etched into the shiny brass elevator doors. I smiled at his enthusiasm, hiding my concern. We weren’t out of the woods, yet.
With a soft chime, the elevator came to a gentle stop and the doors slid open. Preston started to skip out of the car, when I caught a glimpse of a cop uniform far down the gallery. I reached out and grabbed the top of Preston’s backpack and yanked him back inside, frantically stabbing at the elevator buttons with the other hand. The cop turned and our eyes met.
Joe.
Even at a distance, I could see etched on his face the hatred and rage I felt. The elevator doors slid toward each other in slow motion. Joe brought his hand up, filled with black metal, and fired twice. Someone screamed, and people ran in all directions. Remarkably, no one had gone down. The doors closed, and I sagged against the wall as the car moved, descending slowly. Preston had fallen when I’d pulled him back in, and he now rocked back and forth at my feet.
“Hey, are you okay?” I crouched down next to him. “Preston, look at me. Are you hurt?”
&nb
sp; He refused to respond, and I worried that he might not be reachable. He kept rocking. I didn’t know what to do. I’d seen Sally once try to pull him out of this kind of trance by hugging him and rocking with him. Her touch had sent him into a fit of rage, and he’d lashed out at her without realizing what he was doing. She’d sported a bruise for weeks.
Before I could decide what to try, the elevator again stopped with a gentle bump, but the doors didn’t open. Instead, the lights went out, pitching us into total darkness. I heard Preston’s soft breathing and the whisper of fabric brushing on fabric as he rocked. I smelled blood and my own sweat, and suddenly the four walls of the enclosed space pressed in on me, sending me back in time and halfway around the world to a tunnel in Cù Chi. Dank, fetid, stinking and pitch black, the confines of the tunnel in my imagination sent my heart rate soaring, constricted my chest, caused even my palms to sweat, and thrust a javelin of fear through my gut, paralyzing me.
Not again.
“Grandpa? Grandpa?” Preston’s small voice finally cut through the fear. He somehow found my hand in the dark and held on.
“So damn dark,” I muttered, trying to push away the memories and the claustrophobic panic. I could barely get a breath, and my heart felt as if it would burst.
“Dad says I don’t have to be afraid of the dark. Anyway, it’s okay. I have a flashlight.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it wasn’t the dark, it’s what hid in the dark that we had to be afraid of. But the fact that my sudden fear had brought him out of his own trance intrigued me, pulling me out of the past and back to the present. Doug and Sally had tiptoed around Preston’s condition for so long I didn’t know if either of them actually admitted how different he was. So I’d read up on what it might be so I wouldn’t screw up. Asperger’s, mild autism, whatever he had, he didn’t experience empathy the way most people did. Even now, he seemed more curious about my panic attack than worried.
Stolen Identity Page 34