Roaches Run

by John Wasowicz

  **

  MANN KNEW what he had to do to persuade the boss. “My source is a woman named Wilson,” he explained. “She works for Landry. She showed me documents about him soliciting people to do some shady shit. I reviewed the information with Sherry Stone. She believes the documents are legit. The NTAS also took the story seriously enough to issue an elevated warning. So I’m confident that I’m on solid ground.”

  She still looked unconvinced. He realized now why she rushed to the office. It wasn’t to be where the action was, but to see whether he had his head on straight.

  “It’s solid,” he reiterated.

  “Okay. Just please be careful,” she said. “If you have any second thoughts, hold the story. We can’t afford any mistakes.” She tapped her fingers on his desk. It reminded him of the scene in All the President’s Men when Jason Robards portrayed The Post’s legendary editor Ben Bradlee. “Don’t go off the rails again,” she cautioned.

  Mann smiled. “I’ll stick to the facts, wherever they lead,” he promised.

  **

  THE SCENE could only be described as surreal. An acrid odor of explosives filled the air around Farragut Square. Emergency vehicles rushed between stopped traffic to the scene of the bombing. People alighted from Metro stations throughout the city and ran onto the sidewalk.

  Pedestrians massed on the sidewalks and pushed into the streets, sealing the spaces between cars like grout between tiles. People inside buildings ran outside to escape a potential explosion. People outside rushed indoors to avoid being a sitting target.

  All the while, everyone made an effort to avoid congregating too closely with one another, a reflexive action that had become ingrained because of the coronavirus.

  No one knew what was next. Some believed the worst was over. Others suspected the worst was still to come. That sentiment extended throughout the city, including in the area around Lafayette Square and Black Lives Matter Plaza.

  **

  MARIA PENA WAS LOST. The park was supposed to be at this intersection. She looked for a statue. There should be one at each corner of the park. In the center there should be a statue of Andrew Jackson on a horse. But from where she was standing, she could see no statues. She felt disoriented.

  She surveyed the pedestrians and tried to divine who was headed to the park, but it was impossible because people were running in all directions. She followed a woman with a large picnic basket, then changed course when she saw a man with a bundle of flowers under his arm. He ended up going into a residential building. She felt like she was walking in circles.

  Suddenly a man yelled, “There’s an H-Pack backpack!” He extended his arm and index finger at her as though he was holding a rifle. “She’s got one of the bombs!” People scurried in every direction. They tripped over one another in the stampede. Couples separated. Parents hollered the names of their children. For an instant, pandemonium prevailed.

  Pena began running. Her mask slipped off her face and fell to the ground.

  “Stop!” A uniformed officer stood in a firing stance, her service revolver held at shoulder height. Pena pivoted. Everything was spinning. The street seemed splintered like a kaleidoscope. She dropped the backpack. People gasped. Some averted their eyes and covered their faces, fearing the worst. Pena thrust out her arms and walked into the intersection.

  “Stop!” The policewoman now had one eye on the discarded backpack and the other on the crazy woman walking down the middle of the street doing her best Frankenstein imitation. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  **

  BONITA WALLACE was scared. Early this morning, her husband said something about going to Crystal City and catching a train. She did not pay much attention to him at the time. Now he was on the news, identified as the victim of a fall from a bridge into the Potomac River. Even though he had told her to leave the backpack alone, Bonita grabbed it and fled the house. The money was safer with her than in the apartment. Someone would break in and steal it. She’d already been robbed once this year.

  Clutching the backpack, she took a bus to the Green Line. She missed her stop at L’Enfant Plaza, thinking the transfer must be at Metro Center. Having little familiarity with the Metro system, Bonita wandered about aimlessly. She tried to orient herself. Maybe she could walk to Crystal City, she thought. She sought directions from passers-by. But her English was poor and everyone was rushing. She headed in the direction of Lafayette Square.

  Seeing the backpack, people avoided her. Then they started pointing at her and running.

  A security officer appeared. He was one of Landry’s goons. Shoot first, ask questions later. Wallace did not match the description of the woman he’d been told would come to the park but she was wearing the ubiquitous orange H-Pack backpack.

  “Hold it right there!”

  She removed the backpack and held it in front of her like a child grasping a teddy bear. Her eyes opened wide. “No!” she cried.

  “Put the backpack on the ground! Do it now!”

  She panicked and ran toward him. He fired five shots in rapid succession, hitting her face and upper torso. Her body jerked backwards and the backpack flew out of her arms.

  **

  “STOP!” the policewoman hollered again at Maria Pena. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  A hand suddenly reached out and grabbed Pena, blocking the line of fire for the officer, who stood with her firearm pointed at the couple. Pena felt comforted and secure. She looked at the hand and then the face in front of her. “Papa,” she cried. “What are you doing here?” Fernando Pena embraced his daughter, tears streaming down his face. The policewoman darted toward the backpack and motioned for people to move away from it. A siren blared. The street cleared. People huddled on the sidewalks.

  More police arrived. The crosswalk was cordoned off with plastic cones and yellow police tape. Sirens grew louder and louder. A large police van appeared. The bomb squad alighted, dressed in armor. An explosives detection canine trotted out, also wearing a vest.

  Pena and her father were hustled to the sidewalk. The members of the bomb squad approached cautiously, unsure of what they had been summoned to investigate. The canine sniffed the backpack but gave no signal. Eventually, the backpack was opened, revealing its threat: books.

  More sirens echoed through the canyon of downtown office and apartment buildings. Wooden barricades were assembled along the curb to establish a perimeter. Crowd control directed people to move briskly. Everyone complied. The policewoman walked over to Pena to question her.

  “What are you doing?” asked her father. “She’s done nothing wrong. All she was doing was walking down the street with a backpack full of books.”

  Police walkie-talkies crackled.

  “Man at Union Station with H-Pack backpack.”

  “Three suspects with H-Pack backpacks detained at Smithsonian.”

  “Unattended H-Pack backpack found at Dupont Circle.”

  “Woman stopped at Gallery Place with H-Pack backpack.”

  Suddenly, there were dozens of Maria Penas all over town.

  **

  AHMED SULEIMAN approached Lafayette Square.

  “Don’t move!” hollered a policeman. “Do not take one more step or I’ll fire and ask questions later,” the officer warned.

  Suleiman stopped. He dropped the backpack. He held up his hands. With the mask around the lower half of his face, he looked like a bank robber. Out of the corner of his eye, Suleiman spied Uncle Trey. What the hell is he doing here? Suleiman asked himself. Carr made no effort to interfere with the officer, standing passively on the side and hoping for the best.

  The officer radioed for assistance. “I have a suspect in Lafayette Square,” he said. The radio crackled as the dispatcher responded.

  “They’re books,” Suleiman spoke to the officer. “All I got is books.”

  “Under control,” the officer said, his firearm trained on Suleiman. “Backup unit and a bomb squad requested.”

  “Did you hear
me? I said, all I got are books. I don’t even know why you’re stopping me. I didn’t do anything wrong.” Carr took a step forward. It appeared as though everything was going to be cool. If only Ahmed would stop mouthing off at the cop.

  BREAKING NEWS

  This is a developing story

  Tom Mann, City Editor © The Chronicle

  Thirty minutes have passed since an explosion inside a landmark hotel rocked the nation’s capital.

  The threat level remains elevated but it has not been raised to imminent.

  The absence of any additional bombings, along with the threat level remaining at an elevated level and a strong police presence throughout the city, has led to speculation that the crisis may have abated.

  “Nobody’s expecting another bomb to explode,” said one law enforcement officer, who requested anonymity as this is a developing terrorist-related incident. “Right now everyone’s efforts are focused on hunting down Phil Landry.”

  Police believe that Landry, director of security operations for homeland security, is behind the mayhem that has engulfed the city.

  Landry reportedly left at least one incendiary device at the GreyStone Hotel late last night, according to sources. The sources also said that Landry had recruited three people to carry backpacks filled with bombs to Lafayette Square. One bomb detonated before it was picked up by anyone.

  No one was injured in the hotel explosion.

  Police and antiterrorism experts believe that the individuals enlisted by Landry rejected his plan at the last minute. The names of those individuals are unknown, as are their current whereabouts.

  “Those people probably ran away as fast as they could once they realized what was happening,” one law enforcement official speculated on the condition of anonymity.

  Dozens of people carrying H-Pack backpacks, the type believed to have been used by Landry’s recruits, were stopped and searched. They carried just about everything but bombs: lunches, cosmetics, and electronics. At least two individuals had backpacks loaded with books. “Bookworms,” one official said in describing them.

  At the same time Landry was orchestrating the Lafayette Square bombings, a plot was underway to explode a bomb on a train traveling across the railroad bridge that parallels the 14th Street Bridge over the Potomac River, according to law enforcement officials.

  Police acknowledge they had advance knowledge of the train plot and were monitoring the situation in the days leading up to this morning’s explosion.

  Police also acknowledge they learned of Landry’s plan last night, following up on a tip from an anonymous source.

  In addition to searching for Landry, police are seeking Hugh Spates, a Washington-based lobbyist and developer, in connection with the foiled train bombing.

  Spates is also being sought in connection with the murder of Danny Morley, whose body was recovered early Saturday morning at an underpass along Route 1 and Four Mile Run at the Arlington-Alexandria line.

  Police have said that they believe there is a link between the shooting and the train plot.

  While police do not acknowledge that Landry and Spates were working together, there is growing speculation that the two men are co-conspirators in an overlapping criminal enterprise to terrorize the capital during the Memorial Day weekend.

  “It makes sense when you think about it,” said one veteran officer. “One guy wants to make money and the other wants to advance his career. They’re both greedy (expletive) intent on enriching themselves at the public’s expense.”

  **

  MANN TOOK a chance with the story. He reverted to his old self. He had promised himself and his editor that he would avoid repeating his previous mistakes. Yet here he was, writing a quasi-fictional account of what was happening in the city. But he believed he was right. And he still sought retribution against Landry. The unnamed sources were fictitious. The idea that the two events were connected was speculation. The same was true about connecting Landry to the explosion at the hotel. It was all conjecture. In fact, the only real quote was that there was no existential threat to the city. Ironically, the veracity of that statement was the only one he questioned.

  **

  WHILE THE terrorist alert level remained elevated, an unexpected orderliness settled over the streets of Washington. Behavioral experts predict that, in an emergency, people come together and help one another. Whether it’s a car running off the road into a stream, a twister touching down in a residential community, or a communicable disease threatening the health and well-being of an entire population, people pull together to get one another out of harm’s way.

  Online reporters and radio broadcasters reminded listeners that static pools of people constituted soft targets. So people kept moving, navigating streets like water coursing along a riverbed.

  “Keep it moving,” advised traffic controllers dressed in orange vests. Their composure at intersections reminded people of the orderly mayhem when exiting a stadium after a championship game. We got this, people seemed to be saying without actually uttering a word. Order replaced chaos. Pedestrians stopped at intersections when the lights turned red, and then proceeded on green. No one pushed. No one jaywalked. Cars crawled along, bumper to bumper, unimpeded by the pedestrians. Bikes and scooters weaved in and out of traffic but avoided the throngs that controlled the sidewalks.

  The orderliness resembled a wave at a stadium event, except people weren’t jumping up and waving their hands. They just moved in tandem. A mantra took hold: Stay cool, calm, and collected. We’re going to get through this thing together.

  It helped that everyone was wired and that the crowds were sparse compared to most previous Memorial Day weekends. People with earplugs listened to nonstop updates on local radio stations WTOP and WAMU. Others read newsfeeds from The Chronicle, The Post, Politico, Bloomberg, and other news sources. Everyone was connected to one another. News alerts continued to spread across airwaves. The basic facts were the same. A train was stopped on a trestle over the river.

  The explosion at the hotel was a one-off. Nothing else happened in the past two hours. Each passing moment heightened the sense of safety and security. Breathing returned to normal. The pace of the crowd slowed. Someone stopped and gave a traffic controller a bottle of water.

  As an air of confidence ringed the city, the mayor held a press conference. It wasn’t just any press conference. It was held in front of the Metro Center subway station, a symbolic ground zero. District and regional law enforcement officers surrounded the podium. They weren’t wearing masks or vests. If they weren’t afraid, there was no reason for anyone else to be alarmed.

  “While we remain vigilant, and while the terrorist alert warning remains elevated, we are confident that the danger has passed and that no one need fear any additional terrorist-related incidents,” said the mayor. Minutes before she spoke, the mayor held a conference call with the commanders of antiterrorist groups throughout the metropolitan area, including Stone, who had arrived in D.C. an hour earlier. The mayor received confirmation that the chances of another incident were nil.

  Based on the group’s consensus, the mayor decided to allow public events to resume. The hockey game was back on. Colorful kites started flying on the Washington Monument grounds. And motorcycles rumbled through the city from Arlington Cemetery to the Vietnam War Memorial.

  Two conspicuous loose ends remained for law enforcement. One was finding Hugh Spates. The other was locating and arresting Phil Landry.

  Chapter Eight: Afternoon

  CALLERS SPOTTED Landry at a bagel shop in Bethesda, a car lot in Fredericksburg, and a bus stop in upper Northwest. Every lead was investigated, however far-fetched it appeared and despite the fact that many sightings were of a person wearing a mask. Sooner or later, one of those leads was going to pay off.

  Someone reported seeing Landry enter a white van parked at Roaches Run. An Arlington cruiser with two uniforms pulled into the parking lot at the waterfowl sanctuary. A minute later, a U.S. Park Pol
ice cruiser joined them. The officers got out of their vehicles and surveyed the area. Sure enough, there was a van in the far corner of the parking area, and a sedan parked near it. No passengers were visible. A check of the license plates confirmed that both vehicles were registered to Landry.

  Neither the Arlington cops nor the Park Police officer approached the van for fear it was booby-trapped. Assuming Landry was inside, and given this morning’s bombing, it was logical to assume the van might be wired with explosives. Something about this one felt right to them. The Park Police officer requested backup. Over the next 30 minutes, an armada of law enforcement vehicles arrived. People in vehicles parked in the area were told to leave. Wooden barricades and orange cones sealed the entrance and exit. Reagan National was notified; private charter flights that flew over Roaches Run were diverted from the runway at the north end of the airport and provided with alternative landing schedules.

  Then an army of media trucks with communications towers pulled into the parking lot at Gravelly Point. This was getting serious. Everyone could feel it.

  **

  KATZ AND STONE had started the day together. After leaving Crystal City, they went to Gravelly Point to observe the train on the bridge. Following the explosion at the GreyStone Hotel, a chopper landed at Gravelly Point and took Stone into the District. She was finishing the meeting with the mayor when Landry was reported to have been spotted at Roaches Run.

  In the meantime, Katz called Santana, who picked him up at Gravelly Point and took him to the U.S. Attorney’s office in the Eisenhower Valley. When Katz heard the news about Landry being spotted at Roaches Run, he recalled Landry’s inquiry the previous day about placing a two-person crew at the wildfowl sanctuary to observe the train. Now he understood why.