“Maybe it’s an odd question, but I value your opinion. Anyway, give me a call back. Thanks.”
Snowe was angry with herself after she ended the call. That wasn’t the real question. She knew how Katz would react, which was negatively. At his core, he was selfish and self-centered. It would be inconvenient for him to include a child in his life, particularly a child who was not his own. She didn’t need confirmation from Stone about that. The real question was whether she was crossing a line if she sought temporary custody.
**
MID-MORNING, the train slowed along the tracks that ran through Crystal City. That was the deal. Slow to a crawl for 60 seconds. Then pick up steam and continue across the Potomac River into the District of Columbia.
Money had already been wired to the train conductor’s bank account. He hadn’t asked any questions and Spates hadn’t provided any details. The inference was that Spates was unloading something, maybe drugs or illegals, or even guns, but there had been no suggestion that Spates was onboarding explosives to detonate in Southwest D.C.
The train idled for more than a minute. The conductor smiled to himself. “Take all the time you need, brother,” he said softly in the rumbling engine room. If Spates believed money would buy the conductor’s silence, he was sadly mistaken. The first thing the conductor did after receiving a communication from Spates was contact his local police department in Hanover County, outside of Richmond. He wasn’t going to risk his livelihood for a measly 10 grand. Screw that, he concluded.
While the train idled, Levin Wallace ran between two cars and with difficulty hoisted himself up on the metal joints between them. He wished he had practiced beforehand. Everything seemed much larger and higher than he had imagined it. This was scary.
A bright orange backpack hung from his back. His instructions were simple: secure the backpack to the rail car and get off the train before it started moving. And make sure the backpack is secured to a car adjoining one of the white cylindrical containers with large red letters reading HAZMAT and FLAMMABLE MATERIAL.
Stone, Katz, and two members of the counterterrorism team watched with binoculars from a nearby high-rise building. “It’s unfolding just as planned,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” said one of the team members. “Something will go wrong. It always does. It’s Murphy’s Law.”
Wallace began ascending the ladder along the side of a boxcar. Because he was nervous and scared, it took him longer than expected. Just at the moment when he reached the top, the train lurched forward. Wallace struggled to slip off the backpack and complete his task. The train picked up speed. In his haste, Wallace pivoted wildly. His trouser leg was caught. “Shit!” he hollered. Now the train moved faster. Wallace bent down to free his trouser. Instead, he lost his balance and rocked backward, hit his head on the car, and fell. Wallace was perilously perched between two cars. The train whistle blew. Now it was moving at full steam.
“Spates’ guy didn’t clear the train,” said one of Stone’s officers. They watched as the train proceeded. Wallace was clinging helplessly to the car and attempting to get back on his feet.
“They’ll stop the train on the trestle to blow the explosives,” Stone said. She turned away from the window. “Let’s go.”
A short distance away, Spates watched in dismay. Wallace was proving to be as useless as Morley. With Wallace stuck on the train, bad things were bound to happen. Spates didn’t want to be around to see it happen. If only he’d gotten a better return on his initial investment, he thought as he raced to his car.
One Year Ago
THE REAL ESTATE MARKET had risen dramatically over the past decade. Ironically, the pandemic was beginning to look as though it was a blessing for real estate as well. But Spates was disappointed with his profit margin. He had put everything he had in real estate along the railroad lines near the U.S. Capitol. He had suffered through one real estate bubble and, while he had a tidy profit in store if he sold now, he wanted more. A lot more.
He had waited for a terrorist attack in the city. He was patient. But it never materialized. He was briefly hopeful after the siege on the U.S. Capitol. But that was quickly contained and security in the area had even increased. Perhaps he had to fabricate an attack himself to realize the return he would reap under the Terrorism Risk Insurance Act.
In fact, the only thing that had materialized was the novel coronavirus. He had been to a wedding in Columbia, South Carolina, in mid-March. He came down with COVID-19 probably because someone at the reception was asymptomatic. Fortunately, he recovered without getting critically ill. For a while, though, he thought he might be a goner. And during that time he thought about his lost opportunity.
He remembered the comment by one of his colleagues when they were writing the bill.
He sat on his bed overlooking the railroad tracks paralleling 14th Street. He got up and walked down to the circle at Maryland Avenue SW. The Wharf was shut down and the city was eerily quiet. As he walked, he had a crazy thought.
What if I actually do it? What if I stage a terrorist act? Nothing to injure anyone, just something strong enough to cause some property damage. Like arson, except with a twist. Right here, on this track, near the Capitol.
Maybe it wasn’t so crazy, he thought. After all, he had crossed the line before and never suffered any adverse consequences. Sure, he thought, this was a lot bolder than anything he had ever done, but, in the end, if you got away with the small stuff you could get away with anything.
Too many close encounters without consequences emboldened him. He stuffed prohibited earmarks into bills; nobody noticed. He paid kickbacks for favors; no one alerted the authorities. He blackmailed regulators into doing his bidding at the expense of exposing their peccadillos on social media. He crossed the line repeatedly. In fact, he did it with such abandon that by now he probably lived permanently on the other side of the line.
Lines were territorial, Spates thought as he walked along the waterfront. They existed so they wouldn’t be crossed. Some were about sex and others dealt with drugs or alcohol. Some were transactional, while others concerned societal boundaries.
Get close to the line — well, that was expected. Call it curiosity. Cross the line once or twice, that was sort of expected too. Call it experimentation. But cross the line repeatedly, you’re looking for trouble. Cross it repeatedly and get away with it, and you’re writing a death sentence for yourself.
He knew he should have stopped taking risks long ago, but he couldn’t, not now, not after he’d succeeded so many times. Deep inside he knew his number would be up one day. It felt that way to him now.
As he recovered from the infection and got back to work, he vowed never to remain idle again. Cardiac and neurological damage and symptoms lingered, however. He had to take action. Who knew? The next pandemic might take him down for good.
**
THE TRAIN chugged along the tracks. Within a few minutes, it approached the trestle across the Potomac River. Once it was on the trestle, it stopped.
Instead of the explosion Spates expected, all was quiet. The materials that Spates arranged to purchase over the dark web were bogus. In fact, they had been provided by the feds. The stuff looked authentic — particularly to an amateur like Spates — but they were duds. At no time had anyone been at risk in connection with Spates’ ill-fated plot.
Within a few moments, three helicopters appeared upriver, heading toward the trestle that ran parallel to the 14th Street Bridge. The tip of each blade of each chopper formed a vortex, and those blades struck the vortices created by the previous blades, echoing over the river.
A passenger in a car on the 14th Street Bridge heard a boom. It might have come from the helicopters, or maybe there was a fender bender in another lane of traffic or a firecracker lit and thrown along the riverbank. The passenger posted on social media that he might have heard a bomb. That post was translated to read that a bomb might have exploded on the 14th Street Bridge. Within a few minutes,
a message went viral that a bomb was heard exploding over the river.
People were understandably nervous. The January insurrection had shocked the nation. Domestic terrorism was foremost on everyone’s mind. The breach of the Capitol building, a symbol of the United States and democracy, had created an indelible image in everyone’s mind, similar to the collapse of the World Trade Center towers nearly 20 years before.
BREAKING NEWS
There are unconfirmed reports that a bomb has exploded on or near the 14th Street Bridge.
A freight train is stopped along the trestle paralleling the bridge. Commuter traffic across the bridge has been reduced to a crawl in either direction. Metro rail service from the Pentagon to L’Enfant Plaza has been temporarily halted while officials determine if there is any risk to passengers.
Automobile passengers heading across the bridge reported hearing the explosion at approximately 9:45 a.m. A stream of steady traffic had been pouring into the city for Memorial Day weekend. Northbound traffic is now backed up to the Pentagon.
**
A MAN stood between two train cars. He had an orange backpack strapped on his back. His hands were flailing. His pant trousers were torn.
Helicopters hovered over the train. Their blades slapped the sky and created ripples on the water below. Automobile passengers in the parallel lanes of the 14th Street Bridge snapped photos. The pictures went viral, along with the warnings of a possible bombing.
The man on the train continued to teeter. People on the bridge placed bets on whether he would regain his balance or fall. After a few minutes of hilarious or horrifying drama — depending on whether those watching thought his predicament funny or frightful — he lost his balance and plunged into the water.
One of the helicopters swept over the spot where he disappeared into the river. Two divers jumped from the chopper. A flotation device sprung open as soon as they hit the water. The divers went under in an effort to retrieve the man.
Cars had come to a dead stop on the bridge. Drivers and passengers got out of their vehicles and hung over the bridge’s railings, watching and filming the attempted rescue. Some people took selfies of themselves with the helicopter, train, bridge, and water in the background.
BREAKING NEWS
The body of a man who fell into the Potomac River from a train stopped on a trestle parallel to the 14th Street Bridge was recovered this morning by the U.S. Park Police.
The man, who has not yet been identified, is alleged to have been part of a plot to detonate a bomb in Southwest D.C.
Police and antiterrorism personnel have confirmed that they have been monitoring the man’s movements since earlier this morning.
The plot to set off a bomb along the railroad tracks running near the U.S. Capitol was discovered several weeks ago, and those involved have been under surveillance, according to police sources.
No bomb has exploded, as was alleged earlier this morning. Police report that the bomb planted on the train was inert.
With the exception of the victim who fell from the trestle, there have been no injuries or casualties reported in connection with the incident.
**
MARIA PENA arrived early and sat in Farragut Square. There were dozens of people on the sidewalks, although not in the numbers traditionally welcomed to Washington for the Memorial Day weekend. People in masks alighted from the Farragut West Metro station and streamed to and from local hotels and restaurants. A food truck was setting up shop.
She heard that something had just happened along the Potomac River. She wondered if there was a connection to the operation in which she was involved. Although she was a considerable distance from the river, she thought she heard the faint sound of helicopters.
In her haste, Pena had forgotten her medication. She hadn’t eaten a complete breakfast either, settling for orange juice and a slice of toast instead of cereal and yogurt, her normal routine. Her mother always used to say that breakfast was the most important meal of the day.
Pena missed her mother terribly.
Twelve Years Ago
“WHAT’S WRONG?” Pena asked hesitantly. A day ago her mother had been ebullient. But today she looked drawn and haggard, her dark hair falling limply over her shoulders and her mouth turned down, as though fishhooks were pulling on either side of her pale lips.
“Your father’s been placed on leave,” her mother said. The words came out of her mouth, but there was no life to them. She was in a state of shock.
“Why?”
“Leave without pay,” her mother said, either avoiding the question or not hearing it.
In the days ahead, Maria Pena would learn her father had been reprimanded for pursuing a misconduct case too vigorously. The media used to call him a hero, a crime fighter, the Serpico of the South. But those lofty accolades turned to harsh criticisms. He was vilified for trying to destroy the reputation of a good cop. He was portrayed as the very person against whom he once raged.
It started with an article in The Chronicle. The article turned into a series. The reporter gained instant notoriety. He unearthed information about her father that bore no relation to the man who had raised her.
Pena didn’t believe it. Her father was her hero. But no one cared what she believed.
Overnight, her father was removed from his job. The energetic man who went to work each day with enthusiasm and dedicated his life to helping others now moped around the house. He became a pariah in his close-knit neighborhood. Friends shunned him. As a result, he rarely went outside.
Then her mother fell into a state of depression. But that was only the beginning of it. A month after her husband was placed on administrative leave without pay, she committed suicide.
**
PENA SAT on the bench trying to regain her composure. She reached for her flip phone to check the time. The phone was missing. She must have left it at home. She jumped up and asked a passer-by for the time. She learned she was five minutes late. Panicked, she quickly turned and started running. Startled, nearby pigeons took flight. One of them flew to the statue of Admiral Farragut in the center of the square and landed on his head, eyeing her suspiciously.
As she rushed to the hotel, Pena turned to see whether anyone was watching her. Everyone looked suspicious. They all appeared to be staring at her, like in those dreams where she ran down the hall without wearing any clothes. She hurried down the sidewalk and across the street. She entered the hotel gasping through her mask.
She turned to the left, facing the concierge’s desk. No, that was wrong! She was instructed to go directly to room 909. She turned to the right and stopped in front of the shiny gold elevator doors. The bell announcing the arrival of the elevator sounded and the doors opened. She dashed inside and punched 9. As the door was closing, a hand reached inside. The doors opened. A man entered. She glared at him. “Sorry,” he said. “I hope I didn’t alarm you.” He hit 8. Pena moved quickly to the back of the elevator, like a boxer retreating to the corner at the end of a particularly grueling round. The elevator stopped at 8. The man alighted from the elevator. As he left, he turned and stared at her, pressed against the mirrored paneling. What the hell is wrong with her, he thought.
The door closed and Pena issued a loud sigh.
**
SULEIMAN WAS not feeling the rapture. Colors were not vivid. Sounds were not crisp. His handler said it would happen and that he had to be strong in the moment. Mohammed Atta had not hesitated steering that commercial jet liner into the World Trade Center on 9/11, his handler said.
Yet there was something about his handler that he did not trust. It was nothing he could identify but it was there, like a foul odor or bitter taste. Deep inside it made him question the logic of what he was doing.
Now he felt only a nauseating fear. He tried to block it out. But it would not go away. It was like a stomachache after eating bad food.
He made his way to Room 909. When he entered, there was a woman seated on the edge of the bed. There w
ere two backpacks on the floor. He looked at the woman and then at the backpacks. Without saying anything, he crouched down and unzipped one of them.
The backpack was filled with books. Books! He checked the other pack and it also held books. There were cookbooks, self-help books, novels, and textbooks, all on random topics.
“What’s going on?” he asked the woman. “And who are you?”
Pena told Suleiman her name. She told him about the man she had befriended. She did not share certain details, like the fact she had slept with him.
Suleiman eyed her suspiciously as she spoke. She seemed a little off to him. But, he concluded, they were in this together so it was best for them to work together.
“I thought this was some kind of suicide mission,” he said. He was relieved to see the backpacks filled with books. But that didn’t really make a lot of sense to him.
“I honestly don’t know what this was supposed to be,” said Pena. “I always felt I was being duped. I didn’t feel as though he was being completely honest with me.”
Suleiman said he felt the same way.
“I sure didn’t want to harm anyone,” she continued. “For over a year, the protests have been peaceful. I view Lafayette Square and Black Lives Matter Plaza as sacred spaces. The last thing I wanted to do was defame them, you know?”
Suleiman knew. He agreed completely. This whole thing was a setup. Their emotions had been preyed upon. Yet, all that was inside of the backpacks were harmless books.
“So what do we do?” she asked.
“Well, since these backpacks contain only books, I don’t think there’s anything wrong if we carry out the operation as requested. What do you think?”
Both had questions and neither had answers. As a result, they decided to go through with the plan.
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