The president intervened. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists. Period.” The wolves shook their heads and grumbled.
Cassie was undeterred. “But they didn’t go public. A smart move on their part. They’ve left the door open.”
“How so?” the president asked.
Cassie felt her face flushing. “As you said, sir, there’s no way that the USA would ever publicly capitulate to blackmailers’ demands. We all agree on that point. The floodgates would open. But in the Seattle case, whoever did this created a situation where we can meet their demands without the public connecting our actions to their threat. Just as importantly, their demand asks for something that’s positive rather than negative. They don’t want us to give them money to buy weapons or release a bunch of thugs and murderers from jail. They want the U.S. to take an unprecedented step in the global war on poverty, an action that would enhance our international reputation and actually diminish the anti-American attitude fostering terrorism around the world.”
Cassie could feel Osborne, Matthews, Stryder, and Tierney looking at her in horror. Bad enough that there was a woman involved in the investigation at this senior level, but she was such a raging and unrepentant liberal. A tree-hugging, cappuccino-sucking bleeding heart. No doubt they were wishing she could be more like the secretary of state: Stein was as conservative and hawkish as they were, maybe even more so. An honorary member of the old boys’ club.
The president smiled. “Interesting perspective. We’ve got less than two days to make that decision and, as I said, we will consider all available options. Back to you, Billy Joe.”
“I’ve issued a worldwide alert instructing our people to contact and question international sources for information about the attack. The FBI’s counterterrorism unit should do the same. We’ll pull together a list of names of possible groups who may have been involved and check where key individuals were most recently located.”
“Have any specific terrorist groups claimed responsibility?”
“Not yet. The emails are signed ‘endpovertynow.’ You’ve put your finger on a troubling anomaly, because usually these Islamic fundamentalists aren’t shy about taking credit. And they never ask for anything like this.”
“Do we know anything about endpovertynow?”
“We have zero on them. There’s no organization in our surveillance database using that phrase as a name or slogan. Internet searches are coming up empty. It’s probably just a front. Agents are investigating an international group called Make Poverty History, but at this point we have no reason to believe they are involved.”
Cassie bit her tongue. These buffoons were obsessed with Islamic terrorists. Sure, it was one explanation. But to go tearing down that path and write off all other possibilities was poor judgment. Her dad had been a policeman in Tampa Bay. Nothing fancy, just a patrolman who never got promoted because he was a bit of a hothead. But he taught her that good investigators worked methodically building up evidence, not fitting the evidence to preconceived notions.
“All right. Is that it?” The president stood up. “At the risk of stating the obvious, if there’s any kind of news, good or bad, I need to hear about it immediately. I’m flying to Seattle this evening after my address so I can be on the ground there tomorrow. Can I give anyone a lift?”
What the hell, Cassie thought. Why not? “I was planning to fly to Seattle tonight, sir. With my executive assistant.”
“Good. Be at the Andrews Air Force Base by nine-thirty p.m. We leave at ten sharp.”
Chapter 19
The overnight ethiopian airline flight from London to Addis Ababa departed three hours late and carried no liquid refreshments, just salty, thirst-inducing peanuts. It was as though the airline was providing passengers with a sneak preview of the chaos and dysfunction that awaited them.
Every time he passed through airport security or customs on his journey, Michael wondered if he would be pulled aside. Every time he saw someone in a police or military uniform, he felt as though they were staring at him, planning his arrest. Every time he saw a TV or computer screen, he feared seeing his face prominently displayed above a Most Wanted sign.
Now that he was in African airspace, the adrenaline and paranoia began to dissipate. Part of him remained in a state of suspended animation, unwilling or unable to process the magnitude of what he’d done or the risks he now faced. Part of him was filled with electric anticipation about whether the U.S. government would accede to his request and finance a Marshall Plan to combat poverty in sub-Saharan Africa. He tried not to dwell on his relationship with Maria. Going back to Africa was probably the last straw. He also began to contemplate what would happen if he was caught. He’d been so obsessed with carrying out the action that he spent little time considering this possibility. His missionary fervor had suppressed thoughts about being hunted down, arrested, and imprisoned. What if he hadn’t done the right thing after all?
He thought of all the amateurish clues he’d left behind. His Google searches on terrorist topics and toxic substances. The emails sent from London. The Mexican cleaner at the hospital. Tire tracks at the Chester Morse Reservoir. The bicycle in his garage, with an incriminating map of the watershed tucked away in a pannier. Yet Michael couldn’t imagine any series of investigative steps that would lead the authorities to him, especially in less than two days. And he would know soon if the whole effort had been worthwhile or a quixotic, self-destructive disaster.
While waiting for his final flight to Goma, Michael found an internet terminal in the airport bar. He ordered a Coke, paid for it with American dollars, and received change in Ethiopian birr. He fed some coins into the machine and typed cnn.com. It took forever for the page to load, and none of the photographs or graphics worked.
The text was in microscopic print. The lead story on CNN was about a small earthquake in the Ring of Fire near Indonesia. But near the top of the CNN homepage, the headline read “Seattle Water Poisoned.” He clicked on it, holding his breath.
Seattle, WA. Authorities suspect terrorists are behind the contamination of the Chester Morse Reservoir, Seattle’s drinking water supply, with a toxic chemical called perchloroethylene. Although medical experts believe that exposure to the water will not cause short-term health effects, area hospitals have been inundated with citizens complaining about stomach pain, headaches, and difficulty breathing. There are no reported deaths at this point.
Stores have already run out of bottled water and isolated violent incidents have occurred. A Joint Terrorism Task Force led by the FBI is investigating the attack. The president will address the nation later this evening, and a source at the White House indicated that the president will likely upgrade the Department of Homeland Security’s threat status to Code Red, suggesting that more attacks are anticipated.
A senior source inside the White House would not specify a particular terrorist organization but acknowledged that radical Islamic groups and domestic ecoterrorists were at the top of the suspect list.
Counterterrorism experts point toward foreign responsibility for the attack. The focus of terrorist attacks up until now has been on the East Coast, and the prevailing theory is that by striking the West Coast, terrorists seek to ensure that all Americans taste fear. According to Dr. Jay Martin, of the think tank U.S. Center for Terrorist Information, circumstantial evidence suggests that ISIS or one of the other large, decentralized Islamic organizations with sleeper cells throughout the U.S. is the likely culprit.
Michael stood up, stunned. The CNN story finally broke through his fog. He was a wanted man, a suspected terrorist. What on Earth had he done?
Michael wandered around the airport. By sheer luck he was passing the departure gate when a crackling, fuzzy announcement indicated that his flight was ready for boarding. He walked out onto the tarmac to the plane.
The paint was flaking from the fuselage and although the plane was traveling between Et
hiopia and the Congo, the faded logo on the tail still said Air Zaire, using a name abandoned years ago by both the airline and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. It didn’t foster confidence in the level of repair of the rest of the aircraft. An elderly African man waiting in line in the suffocating heat poked a bony elbow into Michael’s ribs.
“Air Zaire,” he rasped. “Air peut-être.” Air Maybe. “C’est la seule chose au Congo qui ne vole jamais.” He convulsed with laughter while Michael tried to translate the joke. The Google Translate app on his phone helped him figure out that it was a play on the verb “voler,” meaning both to steal and to fly. The airline was the only thing in the Congo that didn’t steal or fly.
Michael walked up the rickety steps, folded his lanky frame through the doorway, walked hunched down the center aisle, and squeezed into the window seat of an empty row, knees pressed into the seat ahead of him. Other passengers jammed themselves into the ramshackle seats, and some who didn’t get to the plane fast enough were sent back into the terminal to await the next flight. A man in mechanic’s overalls climbed the steps onto the plane and ducked into the cockpit. He fiddled with the instruments then started the engines, producing a sound similar to that of an old Volkswagen van in need of a tune-up. Moments later, the mechanic guided the small plane toward the runway. Nobody else on board showed the slightest indication of concern as the plane rattled and shook its way into the air. Michael tried to clear his mind and focus on the landscapes below—green hills juxtaposed with ochre soil.
They landed in Goma in the middle of a sweltering afternoon. As he wandered out of the airport, a familiar honk startled him. It was the same Toyota Land Cruiser. The driver, never again to be Laurent, introduced himself as Issama Masuaku, one of three drivers at the Goma medical clinic. He helped Michael load his bike and backpack into the back of the vehicle. Then Michael climbed into the passenger seat and his thoughts shifted to Anna. She had recovered from her physical injuries and was working at a hospital in Copenhagen now, having told Michael in an email that she would never return to Africa. As the vehicle began thumping along Goma’s battered roads, he wondered if coming back was a mistake.
Chapter 20
Bart and Charlie were sitting in Sara’s Coffee Shop, as usual. The poisoning of the water supply was the talk of the town. Theories about who did it, and why, were rampant, flourishing like mold and mushrooms in the damp climate. Charlie razzed Gracie about the coffee. “Are you sure it’s safe to drink?”
“My coffee’s the least of your problems,” she shot back.
“Probably safer than most of the swill you pour down your gullet.” Bart howled at his own wit, although the laughter quickly morphed into a body-rattling cough.
“You okay? Sounds like you’re about to cough up a lung.”
Bart still couldn’t speak, but he waved his hand in a way that said “No big deal.” Then he managed to whisper “Caught.” Cough. “A goddamn.” Cough. “Cold.”
“At least you caught something,” Charlie replied.
“Fellas. Can you keep it down? The president is about to begin.” Sara, the septuagenarian owner, ran the café with an iron fist. She turned up the volume on the TV mounted above the red Formica counter.
Seated behind his desk in the Oval Office, the president looked straight into the camera but did not smile.
“Fellow Americans, it is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that our great nation is once again the target of a terrorist attack. The Chester Morse Reservoir, Seattle’s main water supply, has been contaminated with a chemical substance called perchloroethylene, or PCE for short. Although this is listed as a toxic chemical, the country’s leading medical authorities at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta have assured me that it will not cause negative health effects for residents who drink it, because the chemical is too diluted.
“Dr. Elaine Carswell of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology said that if you put a teaspoon full of rum into an Olympic-sized swimming pool full of Coke, you’d have a higher concentration of rum than the concentration of this chemical in Seattle’s water supply. So your tap water continues to be safe to drink.” Now the president smiled, showing his even, white teeth, thousands of dollars well spent.
“However, as a nation we must exercise caution. I am going to place America on a Code Red state of alert for the next seven days, in light of the possibility, however remote, that there could be more attacks. Americans returning home from abroad can expect delays at airports and border crossings. We will also be stepping up inspections and patrols along the Canadian and Mexican borders and at all ports. I regret the stress and inconvenience this state of affairs may cause to honest, hard-working individuals and their families, but our national security is of paramount importance.
“These are difficult times for our great nation, but we will remain strong and we will get even stronger through our experiences. Adversity builds character. We will not rest until we’ve brought the perpetrators of this terrorist attack to justice. Federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies are cooperating in an intense investigation. The United States is fortunate to have the world’s finest criminal investigators. Every lead is being pursued. Every resource necessary is being provided. If we have to go to the ends of the Earth and back we will. We will not tire, we will not quit, we will not fail. We will capture the evil criminals who attack our health, our security, and our great American quality of life.
“I’m also announcing tonight that the State Department will pay $50 million for information leading to the arrest or conviction of those responsible for these reprehensible crimes, through our Rewards for Justice Program. If you believe that you have valuable or useful information, please contact your local law enforcement agency immediately.
“You can be confident that I am doing everything in my power not only to catch the terrorists who walk in our midst but also to ensure that these people never strike again. I’m on my way to Seattle tonight to support the fine people there. Good evening and God bless America.”
After the president’s address went off the air, the rewards information scrolled across the screens.
* * *
Bart looked at Charlie, wide-eyed, after the president’s speech.
“Smoke break,” Charlie said, nodding toward the door.
They headed out onto the deck where smoking was allowed and nobody could hear them.
“You saw that guy. You know, down at the reservoir. Fifty million George Washingtons. Holy mackerel. We could hit the jackpot here!” Bart could barely contain his excitement.
“Whoa now. Slow down. First of all, I just saw some guy in a bike helmet and shorts. I didn’t see any ragheads or terrorists.”
“Jumpin’ Jesus, Charlie. Have ya ever seen a spy movie? They wear disguises, so nobody will suspect them. These terrorists musta dressed up like cyclists.”
“If we report it then we’re in trouble too. We were trespassing in the reservoir.”
“Do we look like terrorists for God’s sake? We could pay all the fines they give us for trespassing and illegal fishing and still have $49 million and change left over.”
Charlie looked down at his feet. “I just need to think about the best approach, that’s all.”
“Well, hurry up and think. Some other clowns might grab the reward while we sit around scratching our butts!”
“Let’s go over to Gators and grab a beer.” Charlie needed a shot of liquid courage.
“Now you’re talking. A brewski or twoski to celebrate.”
It was only a four-minute drive over to Gators, a rundown sports bar on 84th. The Boston Celtics were playing the Portland Trail Blazers on the big screen, and about a dozen fans in varying states of intoxication were cheering the teams on. By the sound of it, Portland was on fire. Bart and Charlie sat at the back, where they could still see the television but hear each other without shouting.
“What would you do with your half?” Bart asked.
“I’d get a big fishing boat, tricked out with sonar and all that computer stuff, get a mail-order bride and a box full of Viagra, head for Mexico, load the boat with Corona, limes, Cuban cigars, nacho chips, and salsa. Eat, drink, fish, and fuck every sunny day till I die. How about you?”
“I dunno. Never thought about bein’ rich before. Get the truck fixed up, I guess. Maybe get some new hip waders and a big new TV—one of those fancy flat ones you can hang on the wall.”
“Jayzus, Bart! Don’t blow the whole wad all at once, going on a spending spree like that! You crazy mallard.”
“Maybe we should talk to an attorney.”
“An attorney? That’d be pissing money down the drain. They’d figure out some way to swindle us outta the dough. Nope. Your gut instinct was right. Let’s get on the phone.”
Bart downed the rest of his beer and released a savage burp. “Yes! Easy Street here we come.”
There was a decrepit payphone in the back near the bathrooms. Charlie dialed the number he’d written down on the back of a napkin back at the coffee shop.
“U.S. Rewards. How can I help you?” The voice was female, calm, and soothing.
“I think I saw the guy who poisoned Seattle’s water.”
“All right, could I get your name please?”
“Charlie Boykins.”
“Thanks. Please go ahead with your information.”
“I saw a guy at the Chester Morse Reservoir on Saturday. He was down at the shore of the reservoir near the Iron Horse Trail across from Meadow Mountain, puttin’ something in the water. It was pretty early in the morning.”
“What did he look like?”
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