A few feet away, Nick saw a man lying motionless in the street, his head tilted to one side, his eyes open, lifeless. “Someone else is taking care of Jerry,” he said. “I’m going to take care of you.”
As he opened the first aid kit, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Nick jerked his head around, expecting to see the frenzied businessman. Instead, he found a young man with dark, penetrating eyes. The face was youthful but the expression grave.
“Do you need help?” the young man asked in a commanding tone.
The newcomer had a green duffel marked with a white cross slung under his arm. Despite his obvious youth, he showed no signs of shock or dismay. Nick had to assume from his calm that he had seen combat, or at least worked in a trauma center.
“No,” Nick replied. “I’ve got this one.” He pointed toward the epicenter, deeper into the carnage. “Keep moving that way, there are more, lots more.”
—
An hour later, Nick sat on the tailgate of an FBI Emergency Response Vehicle, cold, exhausted, and covered in blood. His first aid kit was spent, the bag lying somewhere in the snow. He had laid all of his blankets over victims or folded them under their heads, along with his leather jacket and sweatshirt. Now he wore nothing to guard against the deepening cold but his undershirt and blue jeans.
Washington’s army of professional responders had taken over. The severely wounded had been evacuated, and the rest of the living were being treated on site. The dead lay where they had fallen, surrounded by agents poking them with gloved hands and taking pictures. Dignity always took a backseat to investigation. The businessman who had tried to take Nick’s first aid kit sat on the back bumper of a police car, berating the paramedic who was trying to wrap his head.
When the wounded were taken care of, Nick had turned his attention to the FBI’s on-scene commander. He had offered to help with the initial investigation, but the FBI man had tersely directed him to the sidelines. “Get out of the way. You’re obstructing our work here.”
As he sat there, shivering but too numb to do anything about it, Nick’s phone chimed. He checked the screen. He expected to see a text from Katy, asking if he was all right. Instead, he found a black text box with ivory lettering, framed in walnut brown. It came from a chess program that he hardly ever used, one of those game apps that found a random opponent for you if you asked it to. Nick had not. The message in the box sent a chill down his already frozen spine. TheEmissary has initiated a game. Do you want to play?
CHAPTER 4
Nick Baron.”
A tall black woman with short bobbed hair, dressed in a formfitting gray suit, offered a cold smile and a curt wave from the center of the FBI’s crowded Intelligence Coordination Center. Agent Celine Jameson, CJ to Nick, was the head of DC’s Joint Terrorism Task Force. She signaled her confused subordinate to back off and allow their bedraggled visitor into the room.
The flustered young agent at Nick’s side had given him a lift from the attack site over to the FBI’s DC Field Office. Nick did not ask for the lift—he was offered a narrow choice by the on-scene commander: hitch a ride to the field office with the rookie and get a cab home from there, or be shoved into the back of a patrol car and be driven six hundred yards to the nearest Metropolitan Police holding cell. Either way, his time at ground zero was over.
Nick had willingly ducked into the back of the black SUV, but that was the extent of his compliance. Instead of catching a cab from the field office as ordered, he had followed the rookie into the building.
The young man had paused halfway through the glass double doors. “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t come through here.”
Nick had pushed past him without a word, striding up to the lobby security desk and pressing his Defense Intelligence Agency badge up against the bulletproof glass. Then, at the guard’s nod, he drew the Beretta from his waistband.
At the sight of the weapon, the young agent lurched backward, fumbling for his own gun and shouting, “Drop it! Now!”
Again, Nick ignored him. He calmly slid the barrel of his Beretta into a small black cylinder protruding from the security desk. “Oh,” he said as he removed the clip and cleared the chamber, “you didn’t know I was packing?” He glanced over his shoulder and gave the kid a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. I probably should have advised you that I was armed before I got into your vehicle.” He paused long enough to tuck the weapon away again, his thin smile dropping into a stern frown as he turned to face the kid. “Or maybe you should have asked.” A loud buzzer punctuated the jibe and the Lexan door to the elevators clicked open.
The kid moved to follow Nick through, but the door slammed closed before he reached it. He rattled it angrily, glaring at the security guard.
The guard glared right back at him. “Identification, please.” He glanced down at the gun still in the rookie’s hand. “And you’d better clear that weapon, mister.”
The rookie had reappeared a few minutes later, panting at the top of the stairs as Nick stepped off the elevator. From there he clung to Nick’s heels all the way to the ICC, protesting loudly, but CJ’s dismissive signal served as a final blow. He gave an exasperated shrug and shrank back into the hall as Nick stepped into the room.
On most days, the ICC was a big, eerily empty space with several rows of unoccupied desks. Today it was packed. Scores of people hustled about, representing the FBI, the Secret Service, and a myriad of other agencies and subagencies that never worked well together. Nick stutter-stepped through the crowd, squeezing between desk chairs and forcing the occupants to scoot forward. He earned a number of frustrated scowls. He also earned a few concerned looks. In a brief fit of pity, the on-scene commander had given him an FBI sweatshirt, but the collar of his bloody undershirt still showed at the neck.
CJ stood slightly elevated above the rest of the ICC on a command platform at the center of the room. Behind her were two freestanding boards. One was a touch-screen smartboard with a pair of digital windows showing an aerial photo of the blast site and a live news feed with the sound muted. The other board was clear acrylic with handwritten lists of evidence and a spidery diagram of the agencies that were running down each piece.
“I didn’t know the DIA was doing domestic response and cleanup these days,” said CJ, glancing pointedly at the badge clipped to the collar of Nick’s sweatshirt as he stepped up onto the platform. She smiled as she said it. CJ knew full well that despite his badge, Nick did not work for the Defense Intelligence Agency. She was one of the few outsiders with the clearance to work with Nick’s Triple Seven Chase squadron—the last Tier One special mission unit still unspoiled by Wikipedia.
“I was on-site when it happened, CJ,” said Nick, ignoring her joke and shaking her outstretched hand.
“So I’ve heard. The on-scene commander called to complain about a Captain America type hanging around ground zero, barking orders at our people. I figured it was you, so I told him to send you here with the next returning gopher. I also told him to make sure the gopher got you a cab”—she raised her eyebrows—“but I think you know that.” She gave him a sly smile. “The OSC told me you offered him a helping hand.”
Nick didn’t laugh at her joke. “I told him where to find one, anyway. A severed hand landed on my Jeep.” He frowned at the agent. “It was the bomber’s hand, CJ. Your OSC was looking for remains of a vehicle-borne IED, but the source was just one guy with a vest. I saw him standing up there. I saw him raise his hands to Allah just before the explosion tossed my car and ripped the face off Health and Human Services.”
He turned to the aerial photograph on the smartboard. “I understand his confusion,” he said, using his finger to draw a white arc on the picture where the debris and the bloodstains began to thin out. “This radius is too big for your average vest made from homemade explosives and tenpenny nails.” He drew a line from the epicenter to the arc and tapped it. A distance readout appeared. “F
orty meters. That’s your fifty-percent kill zone. I’ve seen car bombs that didn’t have half that reach.”
“You’re saying our bomber used commercial-grade explosives,” said CJ. “You’re saying he was connected.”
“I am. And another thing, the casualties were mostly blast injuries. I don’t think there was any shrapnel in the vest itself. It looks like the bomber left it out to make room for more explosives.”
CJ shrugged. “Maybe he wanted a bigger boom. You know, Iraq-style shock and awe.”
“No way. Even the amateurs know to use shrapnel for the gore effect. That’s how insurgents do shock and awe. They don’t trade shrapnel for explosives unless they want to bring down a building or blow through a wall.”
“So to sum up,” said CJ, folding her arms, “you barged into my command center all beat up and bloody just to tell me that this was a suicide vest, that the bomber used the good stuff, and that he made some unconventional choices when it came to shrapnel?”
Nick nodded. “Yeah.”
CJ’s frown darkened and she turned toward her board. “We already know all of that.” Despite the rebuke, she circled Nick’s drawing with her finger, double-tapping the screen to take a snapshot that automatically dropped into a folder marked EVIDENCE. “My OSC might not be your biggest fan,” she said as she worked, “but he did confirm that the source was a vest instead of a vehicle. His team also tested some residue from the hand you found.” She turned back to face him. “You’re right about the explosives. The bomber used commercial Semtex. Easy enough to get ahold of. Doesn’t necessarily mean he’s part of a cell.”
“Anybody claim the hit yet?”
“Nothing credible. Right now, the evidence points to a lone nutcase, another loyal reader of Inspire.” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “Unless there’s something more you’re not sharing. Was there a reason you happened to be at the scene?”
Nick hesitated, considering the oddly timed chess invitation. His subconscious told him that it could not be separated from the attack, but he refused to accept the resulting conclusion. If the chess invitation and the suicide bombing were connected, then the attack was personal. The implication, the responsibility for all that carnage, was too terrible to acknowledge. “No. I was off duty, just coming from the train station on a personal errand.”
CJ nodded. “Then go home. Kiss that beautiful wife of yours and tuck the baby into bed.” She looked him up and down, wrinkling her brow. “I’m sure your family is worried sick about you. Call me in a few days when things settle down and we’ll do lunch. Until then, I don’t want to see you, hear from you, or even hear about you.” She guided him toward the edge of her platform. “You’re not the only game in town, Nick. Let the rest of us do our part.”
—
Nick did not make it home in time to tuck Luke into bed as CJ suggested. The sun had set long before he reached his house in Chapel Point, Maryland, south of DC. Katy understood. She was not happy with his long absence or his refugee appearance, but she understood. After suffering through a home invasion and a subsequent kidnapping by Chinese operatives the year before, she had been read-in to Nick’s unique line of work. She knew why he stayed at the scene of the bombing.
Nick’s father did not.
“What makes you so important that you had to abandon your family in the middle of a terrorist attack?”
“I didn’t abandon them. I left them in your care.”
“I was wounded.” Nick’s father raised a hand to touch a wide bandage on the side of his face.
There were also bandages on his neck and his forearm. Nick shuddered to think what all that flying glass would have done to his son if his dad hadn’t been there. He was grateful, but he was too busy defending himself to say it. “That’s funny,” he argued, “because I distinctly remember you telling me that you were fine. You just got a few scratches, Dad. People closer to the blast were dying.”
“I have training too, you know. Or did you forget that I spent thirty years in the reserves? I was flying jets before you could spell the word. You could have left me there and focused on your wife and child. At least I would have known when to quit and come home.”
Nick clenched his fists and took a breath. “Dad, I . . .” But he couldn’t frame the words.
“You what? You had to putter around the aftermath like an amateur detective, bothering the FBI? You don’t have the right to do that just because you’re military, Nick. A good officer knows to stick to his own job. You’re a technical adviser, a pilot flying a desk, not a supersleuth.”
Nick did not dare glance over at Katy, who was likely becoming dizzy with the awkwardness of the confrontation. His wife did not know every classified detail, but she knew enough. When his boss finally let him confide in her, she had become his lifeline. Over the last year she had kept him from drowning in the memory of a friend bleeding out in his arms.
Katy was dragged into her clearance by circumstance; she was not made for it. She had no poker face. If Nick met her eyes now, her expression would spill it all. His dad would suspect that they were hiding something and start to dig. The retired colonel would emerge from beneath the archaeology professor and interrogate them both until he got to the truth, the same way he used to get to the truth when Nick came home late after curfew. Nick could withstand drugs and torture, but he couldn’t withstand the man who used to change his diapers.
Nick shut down the argument the only way he could. “You’re right, Dad. Of course. I’m sorry.” All their arguments ended like that, no matter the topic. It was the natural order of things—father over son. They shared a tepid hug. The professor retired to the guest room.
Katy moved into the kitchen and Nick closed himself in his office to check in with his boss, an Army colonel. The old man was at work as he suspected, monitoring the aftermath of the attack. To Nick’s frustration, the colonel sounded just like his dad. “Stick to your own job and let the FBI handle it. Let this one go. This is a simple case of wrong place, wrong time.”
“Yes, sir,” Nick replied, but an insistent voice in the back of his head told him that the colonel was wrong.
CHAPTER 5
Syria
Latakia Military Storage Facility
Footsteps in the hallway—the distinctive clop of boots on polished concrete.
Kateb set his heels on the desktop, leaning precariously back in the rolling chair and placing his hands behind his head. He gave a carefully choreographed indifferent nod to the guard as he passed.
The guard knew little of Kateb, a lowly second-assistant security clerk, but Kateb knew everything about him—Azzam Safri, identification number 5975. Azzam’s information was the key to Kateb’s financial freedom.
The guard paused long enough to snort derisively at the clerk’s lazy pose and then continued on his beat. Kateb resisted the urge to sit forward again. He counted the echoing footsteps as they faded down the hallway, five . . . ten . . . fifteen . . . When the count reached forty-three, he stood up, started the timer on his wristwatch, and quietly peeked out into the hall. Azzam had disappeared around the corner. His normal routine would not bring him back this way for another seven minutes, give or take.
Kateb grabbed a leather satchel from under his desk and hurried down the hall in the opposite direction, the soft rubber soles of his sneakers hardly making a sound. Fifty seconds later, he stood in front of a black door protected by a keycard lock. He passed a blank white card over the sensor and entered the code he had created for it.
Nothing happened.
Kateb cursed his sweaty palms and rubbed the card dry on his shirt, glancing over his shoulder at the empty hall. On his second attempt AZZAM SAFRI passed across the digital screen in green block letters, followed by ACCESS GRANTED. He could have accessed the door with his own card, but his supervisor might notice the entry log and ask him why a second-assistant security clerk had cau
se to enter the giant storage locker. Azzam, on the other hand, routinely accessed the room as part of his guard duties. No one would notice an additional entry on his account, not even Azzam.
Beyond the door, a short alcove gave way to a large warehouse. The air was cold and dry, the temperature and humidity tightly regulated by an isolated environmental-control system. Kateb descended a short flight of corrugated steel steps to a floor lined with row after row of barrels stacked eight feet high, all made of a roughly polished alloy and all marked with red and yellow warning labels.
The American president’s infamous “red line” statement had created this giant cache. In exchange for a small extension of Syria’s current missile-acquisition contract, the Russians had readily agreed to allow Assad to retain a portion of his chemical and biological weapons. Unfortunately, the UN inspectors were not so malleable. Weapons from all over Syria were brought here to be concealed from prying eyes. Speed and secrecy were paramount, and cataloging was less than efficient. That inefficiency would make Kateb’s fortune. He checked his watch. Five minutes and eleven seconds remaining. He had to keep moving.
He jogged down the center aisle and turned at the third side lane, trying to remember the digital schematic. He hadn’t dared print it out. After making a wrong turn and then backtracking through the maze, he finally found his way to a stock of smaller canisters, set on industrial shelves. These bore yellow-and-black biohazard warning labels. Kateb was tempted to hold his breath in their presence, but he shook off his fears and shoved one into his satchel, rearranging the others to cover the telltale gap.
By the time Azzam passed by the security office again, Kateb was back at his desk, reclining in his chair with his feet propped up as if he had not moved at all. This time, the guard did not so much as glance into the room. Had he done so, he might have noticed the sweat glistening on Kateb’s brow.
As soon as Azzam’s footsteps faded, Kateb unlocked his computer and deleted the duplicate keycard from the system. He breathed a sigh of relief. The leather satchel at his feet that usually carried his coffee thermos now held a titanium canister of the same size. The hard part was over. There were no metal detectors or X-ray machines to pass through on the way out of the facility. Kateb could walk out the front door as if it were the end of any other nightshift. After that, he had a little vacation planned—a very profitable one.
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