by Stuart Woods
“We’d like you to know that those of you who have survived the initial training have all done well, and we are pleased with your performance. As a reward, you’ll have a pass to leave the installation tomorrow night, between the hours of six p.m. and twelve midnight. You must have checked in at the front gate by midnight, no exception. Failure to do so will result in appropriate action up to and including expulsion from the training program.
“There are other requirements: you are to travel in pairs or threes, and only with people from your training subgroup—Johns, Harrys, et cetera. Each of you will be given an envelope containing a valid driver’s license from one of the fifty states, two credit cards and one or two other forms of identification, along with a written legend. You will memorize the legend and use only that name, even among yourselves, while you are off the installation. Feel free to embroider your legend, but use only those facts that you can remember, in line with the training you have had. If any person on the outside shows too great an interest in your background, you are to report it to my office. When you return to the installation, you are to resume your normal form of address, by subgroup.
“Your movements are restricted to the county, and you will be given a map of the county. You are not to contact any person—even friends or family—during the time off the installation, or to make any phone calls, landline or cell. You may take a cell phone with you, but it is to be used only to contact the duty officer, whose number you will be given, or to call 911 in the event of an emergency. If you receive a call from the duty officer’s number, you may answer it or return the call immediately and follow explicitly any instructions you are given.
“If you should have an encounter with law enforcement, you are to stick to your legend, unless you are otherwise identified by fingerprints or your identity comes into question and you are unable to talk your way out of the situation. In that case, call the duty officer, and someone will deal with the situation.
“Finally, you are to conduct yourselves as responsible citizens. You are not to get drunk, commit traffic violations or otherwise break the law. Any questions?” He looked around the room. There were none. “Pick up your envelopes at the rear of the auditorium, and do not leave the installation until you have committed your legends to memory.”
The group left their seats and lined up to receive their envelopes. Holly took hers and repaired to her room. She ripped open the fat envelope and spread the contents on her bed. She found a wallet; maps of the county, of Virginia, and of the District of Columbia; a college transcript showing her to have graduated from Georgetown University with a B.A. in elementary education; and a typed, six-page document that was a detailed biography of one Helen Bransford.
She opened the wallet and found the promised driver’s license and credit cards, along with a voter’s registration card for Washington, D.C., and a laminated ID card identifying her as a teacher at a private school in D.C. She also found a Virginia license to carry a concealed weapon, giving an address in Floyd, Virginia, the home of Bransford’s parents. There was a map of D.C., with the address of Bransford’s apartment in Georgetown marked on it. Holly began reading the legend, memorizing items as she went. She read it three times, then recited all the relevant names aloud.
There was a knock on the door, and Harry Three opened the door. “Hi, you’ve got a car, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Can I go out with you tomorrow tonight? I’m without wheels.”
“Sure.”
The woman walked into the room and stuck out her hand. “I’m Lee Wan,” she said, spelling the last name. “I’m from New York. Chinatown, to be exact.”
“I’m Helen Bransford,” Holly said, shaking her hand.
“I hear there’s a hot spot down the road called Buster’s,” Lee said. “Want to try it?”
Holly shook her head. “I’ve been warned off the place,” she said. “Maybe you’d better ride with somebody else.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” Lee said. “Why don’t we try the Holiday Inn? I hear there’s a restaurant and a piano bar.”
“That sounds good,” Holly said. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot tomorrow night at seven?”
“Sounds great.”
Holly went back to her legend, going through it twice more.
SEVENTEEN
TEDDY FINISHED putting all his equipment away, then vacuumed the floor of his workshop. He was ready to go to work.
First, he spent an hour on the computer, hacking into the FBI’s counterintelligence files and locating the sources of various explosives in the New York City area. He was, in effect, working the Feds’ system backward: they would use these files to track down perpetrators in the event of a terrorist attack; he was using them to locate the explosives.
He found many sources for dynamite, mostly construction companies, but only four for plastic explosives, three of them military. Stealing from the military was too complicated for his current purposes, so Teddy zeroed in on the fourth source: the evidence depository of the New York field office of the FBI. This would be much simpler.
He hacked into the files of his old department at the CIA, which bore the innocuous name of technical services. From those files he downloaded templates for an FBI ID and for the Bureau’s stationery. He spent another hour building an ID; then he inserted the ID into the Bureau’s central files. He printed out several sheets of the stationery, taking care to get the watermark right.
Then he wrote a letter to the agent in charge of the New York field office. He made the letterhead the personal stationery of the new director of the FBI, Robert Kinney, then downloaded a copy of Kinney’s signature from the files and affixed it to the letter. As a final touch, he downloaded the template of a rubber approval stamp from the agent in charge’s office, stamped the letterhead and affixed a copy of the AIC’s signature to the space provided.
TWO HOURS LATER, Teddy entered the Federal Building in Foley Square and, following a plan from the Bureau’s files, made his way to the subbasement where the field office’s evidence room was located. He presented his ID to the clerk, who wiped the card through a reader that checked the bar code against the Bureau’s central files, then handed it back to him.
“What can I do for you, Special Agent Curry?” the clerk asked.
Teddy produced the letter from the director ordering the AIC to produce four pounds of C-4 explosive and a box of detonators from the evidence room, to be transported to D.C. as evidence in a trial. The letter was stamped and endorsed by the AIC.
“That’s a lot of that stuff to be carrying around,” the clerk said.
“Yeah, that’s why we’re doing it on a Saturday night,” Teddy replied. “We’ve got a secure van outside, and a King Air waiting at Teterboro to take it back and deliver it to the U.S. Attorney.”
The clerk disappeared through a door, and Teddy began casing the place for escape, if he needed to. The wait became interminable, and Teddy was starting to worry. Then the clerk appeared, carrying a cheap, leather catalogue case and set it on the counter. “There you are, Mr. Curry,” he said. “Four pounds of C-4, complete with detonators. Just get it out of the building before you let it explode.” He offered a clipboard. “Sign here, please.”
Teddy opened the case and checked the contents, then signed. Ten minutes later he was on a subway, headed uptown.
BACK IN HIS WORKSHOP, Teddy went back into the Agency’s files for information on the head of security, Ali Hakim, at the East Side townhouse. He located a fairly complete biography, which yielded the information that Hakim, like many Arabs, was nuts about horses. Excellent, he thought.
Teddy then opened the C-4 and began to knead two pounds of it into a shape, using a craft knife to define its lines until he had what he wanted. When he was satisfied, he sprayed the little sculpture with a gray fixative which both sealed in any detectable fumes from the explosive and caused it to look like stone.
He then built a hollow plinth and assembled the necessa
ry electronics, along with a detonator and a trip wire that could be fastened to a seam in the packaging. He also installed a receiver for a remote control.
Tired from his day’s work, Teddy stretched out on his bed, pulled a blanket over himself and got eight hours of untroubled sleep.
The following morning Teddy checked his assembly inside the plinth, fixed a lid to a bolt set into the sculpture and set the lid onto the plinth, screwing it into place. He took a moment to admire his handiwork, then he began packaging it in a tightly sealed wooden crate, taking care to booby-trap the lid. He addressed it to Ali Hakim and from the Agency’s files downloaded a stencil of the seal of the Royal House of Saud, which he affixed to the crate.
AFTER A GOOD LUNCH from a Chinese restaurant across the street, Teddy dressed in khaki trousers, a short-sleeved white button-down shirt and a bow tie; then he dug up a black baseball cap. The outfit looked nearly enough like a uniform. On the computer, he made and printed out a delivery log, then signed half a dozen of the blank spaces with fictitious names. He took the subway to 42nd Street, walked crosstown to the address of the townhouse and rang the bell.
Shortly, a tough-looking man in a black suit answered the door. “Yes?”
“Delivery for Mr.”—Teddy consulted his log—“Alley Hackim.”
“Do you mean Mr. Ali Hakim?” the man asked.
“Yeah, that must be it.” Teddy showed him the address on the crate, also displaying the royal seal on the lid.
The man’s eyes widened at the sight of the seal. “We don’t usually accept deliveries on a weekend,” he said.
“Okay, I’ll send it back,” Teddy said, turning to go.
“Wait!” the man yelled. “Does it have to be signed for by Mr. Hakim himself?”
“No, you can sign,” Teddy said.
The man stepped out onto the stoop, and Teddy gave him the clipboard. “Space number seven,” he said.
“What is the name of your delivery service?” the man asked.
“I’m from Eastern Freight Forwarders at Kennedy Airport,” Teddy replied. “This came in last night and cleared customs this morning. Have a nice day.”
“Wait, where is your delivery truck?”
“I took a cab,” Teddy said. “This was a high-priority delivery.” He gave a little wave and headed off toward the corner. Once there, he looked back. The stoop was empty.
ALI HAKIM WAS DOZING in front of a soccer match on television, when his phone rang. “Hello, Hakim here,” he said.
“Mr. Hakim, this is Osama, the security guard on duty at your office.”
“Yes? What’s happened?”
“Nothing, sir, but we’ve received a delivery addressed to you that bears the seal of the House of Saud.”
“Have you X-rayed it?”
“Yes, sir. It is a small statue of a horse.”
Hakim smiled. It must be from a friend of his in Saudi intelligence. “I’ll be right over,” he said.
Teddy waited patiently for forty-five minutes. He was about to leave when a black sedan pulled up in front of the townhouse and a man got out. Teddy checked the face against the photograph he had downloaded. Hakim himself. Teddy removed the remote control from his pocket, tapped in five minutes and activated it.
It took several minutes to get a cab, and he was about to cancel the code when a taxi finally appeared. “Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street,” he said to the driver. He could walk from there.
The cab pulled away and had driven for a couple of blocks when the detonator did its job.
“What the hell was that?” the cab driver asked.
Teddy looked back at the rising column of smoke and dust. “I don’t know,” he said, “but let’s get the hell out of here.”
The driver stomped on the accelerator.
EIGHTEEN
HOLLY AND LEE ARRIVED at the Holiday Inn at seven, had a drink at the half-empty bar, then went into the dining room for dinner.
Lee looked over the menu. “No Chinese noodles,” she said.
“Looks like the steak is a safe bet,” Holly replied.
“I’m game.”
They ordered dinner and another drink. “So, Lee,” Holly said, “what brings you to Virginia?”
“Oh, I drove down to see Monticello,” Lee said smoothly, “and it was too late to drive back to New York.”
“Where do you live in New York?”
“Mott Street, in Chinatown. My parents have a laundry and a restaurant there.”
“What do you do?”
“I keep books for my father and do the ordering for the restaurant. What about you? What do you do?”
“I teach second grade in D.C. I came down here to see my parents and thought I’d stay the night before driving back.”
“Where’d you go to school?”
“At Georgetown.”
The two women continued quizzing each other, running through their legends, until dinner arrived.
“Well, that’s enough of that,” Lee said. “Who are you, really?”
“I’m Harry One,” Holly said, “and you’re Harry Three.”
Lee grinned. “I thought I might trip you up.”
Holly grinned back. “Not as easily as that.”
They finished dinner and went back into the bar for a nightcap. Holly looked carefully at every face; she didn’t want to run into Whitey Thompson, off his usual beat. She felt for the gun at her waist, too.
“You carrying?” Lee whispered.
“It was suggested that I should,” Holly whispered back.
“You worried about running into the instructor guy?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to go to Buster’s?”
“Yes, it’s his regular hangout, I’m told.” Holly looked up at the TV over the bar, which was tuned to CNN. Somebody was reporting from a helicopter over New York. The camera panned from a shot of the UN to a nearby street, then zoomed in closer to reveal a large gap between two townhouses with a big pile of rubble at the bottom. “Excuse me,” she said to the bartender, “can you turn that up for a minute, please?”
“The explosion occurred late this afternoon,” the reporter was saying, “and no one has any idea if anyone was inside the house. Firemen can’t even start going through the rubble until the houses on either side of the site can be shored up. Although the police are refusing comment, we’ve heard from sources inside the department that the explosion is thought to be connected with the upcoming meeting of heads of state at the UN. We’ll keep you posted as details come in. Now back to the studio.”
“Thanks,” Holly said to the bartender. “You can turn it back down.”
“What do you suppose that was about?” Lee asked.
“I don’t know any more than you do,” Holly said. At that moment, her cell phone vibrated, and she pulled it from her belt. “Hello?”
“Harry One?”
“Yes.”
“Is Harry Three with you?”
“Yes.”
“Both of you return to base at once. Go to the main house for a meeting in the conference room. Got that?”
“Got it.” She hung up.
“What is it?” Lee asked.
Holly put some money on the bar and indicated for Lee to follow her outside. When they were halfway to the car, she said, “They want us back at the Farm right now for a meeting at the conference room in the main house.”
“You think this is some sort of drill?”
“Who knows?” Holly asked, but she was willing to bet it had something to do with the explosion in New York.
As she was getting into her car a shiny new pickup pulled into the parking lot, and a man got out. She didn’t recognize him immediately, but then she saw the bandage covering his nose. She breathed a sigh of relief as she left the lot and turned onto the highway.
ALL FIVE OF THE HARRY SUBGROUP were gathered around the conference table when Lance Cabot walked in. “Good evening,” he said. “I’m sorry to break into
your first night of liberty, but something has come up.” He flicked a remote control, and a TV in the room replayed the report that Holly had seen on CNN; then he turned off the TV and turned on a slide projector. A picture came up of the same block before the explosion.
“This is what the house looked like this afternoon,” he said, flicking to another photo. “We’ve had it under surveillance for a couple of weeks, because we learned that the house is owned by an Iranian millionaire with ties to Iranian and Saudi intelligence. We think that the house may have sheltered a terrorist team that was planning an attack during the heads-of-state conference at the UN, which starts tomorrow.
“In this series of photographs, you see what is apparently a uniformed messenger walk down the street carrying a parcel. He rings the bell, a guard comes to the door, signs for the package, and the messenger walks away.” He cut to a series of close-ups of the messenger. “He appears to be a middle-aged man of medium height and weight. As you can see, the bill of his baseball cap prevents us from getting a clear shot of his face. It’s almost as if he knows he is being photographed. He disappears around the corner and is gone. Fifty minutes later, the house goes up.” He switched to a photograph of the house collapsing on itself.
“It would seem that the explosion was larger than one that would have resulted from a bomb in a parcel the size of the one delivered. We speculate that a bomb in the package set off other explosive material already in the house, causing it to collapse.” He switched on the TV again. “Here is a statement made by the Iranian ambassador to the UN a few minutes ago, from the steps of their embassy.”
The ambassador read from a single sheet of paper in his hand. “The house in the block behind our embassy was used to house embassy employees,” he said. “We believe that the CIA is responsible for this act of terrorism, in which a number of embassy employees died.”