4
Falcone had reached the door of the restroom at the end of the corridor when he heard a booming thump, thump, thump. The sound reverberated throughout the vast atrium, momentarily stunning Falcone. Instinctively, he crouched and turned toward the sound.
Only a second passed, but Falcone’s thoughts seemed to be swimming in molasses. Then a rush of adrenaline cleared his mind.
Jesus Christ! He knew that sound. He had heard it a thousand times before.
He saw the backs of the two men as they emerged from Davidson’s office, leaving the door open. One man carried an M16 with a folding stock, now unfolded. Falcone had carried an M16 as a U.S. Army Ranger in Vietnam. For years he had struggled to suppress the smell of rot and death and the nightmares that haunted him.
Now, the memory of a shadowy village flared for an instant. The M16 originally had a magazine that held only twenty rounds but quickly got amped up to thirty bullets that at point-blank range ripped through a body, inflicting horrendous wounds. The gunman had enough bullets to wipe out the tenth floor even if he did not carry extra magazines.
Davidson’s open door blocked the men’s view of Falcone as he ran down the corridor toward them. Time seemed to stop, as it did at moments like this back in the jungle. He was planning as he ran, the way he did in an ambush. At six feet tall and a solid 190 pounds, Falcone coolly assessed his chances against the gunman. I can take him, grab the gun, and hope the other guy is unarmed or slow on the draw.
The two men took a couple of strides toward the elevators and stopped. The people sitting on the couch were motionless, frozen by shock or fear. Ellen ducked behind her desk, pulling her phone console with her. Before she could press a button, the gunman raised the gun and fired. Bullets etched a bloody line across the young woman and the elderly man.
The gunman turned toward Ellen, his back to Falcone. The other man pressed the express elevator’s button, holding the door open for the gunman. He spotted Falcone, whipped out a handgun, and fired four shots in rapid succession at Falcone, who dropped to the floor, shielded by a planter. The bullets shattered the glass wall behind Falcone’s head.
Falcone sprang up, cursing, “You sons of bitches!”
Rushing the gunman, Falcone hit him low and drove him to the floor. As he went down, the gunman fired a burst, shattering Ellen’s glass cubicle. Falcone landed on him, pressing his knees into the gunman’s back. Falcone seized a handful of black hair, jerked back the gunman’s head, and smashed it down, bloodying the parquet floor.
The other man fled into the open elevator and disappeared.
The M16 was on the floor, under the gunman and pointed toward Ellen’s shattered cubicle. He pulled the trigger, spraying the lower panel of the desk with an arc of bullets. Ellen screamed.
Falcone let go of the hair and grasped the trigger finger, bending it until it was dislocated and stuck up at an odd angle.
Screaming in pain, the gunman rose to a crouch with Falcone still on his back. Ellen crawled out from her splintered desk, her white blouse turned scarlet, her face bloodied.
“Hold on, Ellen,” Falcone said, feeling her right hand go limp.
At that instant, the shooter, still holding his gun, stood and spun toward Falcone. Deprived of his trigger finger, the gunman hesitated long enough for Falcone to stand. Falcone clutched the hot barrel, burning his hand. Ignoring the pain, Falcone twisted the gun and shoved the gunman against the waist-high glass partition that encircled the atrium. He drove the stock against the gunman’s jaw so hard that his body lifted off the floor, teetered on the thin partition, and then plunged over.
For several minutes Falcone stood, looking down at the man’s body, holding the gun, ready to kill the next one … and the next one. You never know how many there are. You kill one, then another.…
5
During the agonizingly slow descent, Ahmed Kurpanov braced for whatever was on the other side of the elevator doors. He had the bag containing the laptop slung over his left shoulder. His right hand was in the pocket of his zipped-up leather car coat, his index finger on the trigger guard of the Glock.
The door opened to a lobby overflowing with panicky men and women rushing out of the building. Kurpanov stood at the open door, paralyzed by the sight of Dukka Sadulayev’s body. His cousin lay near the deserted reception desk, where they had checked in less than fifteen minutes before. It will be so easy, Dukka said. So easy.
Dukka was still alive in Kurpanov’s mind even when he saw him there, lying on his back, eyes open, face bloodied. Then Kurpanov’s eyes brought reality: His blood. All that blood. He is dead.
Most people stepped around the body, but Kurpanov saw a fleeing man step on the outstretched left arm of his big cousin.
“Dukka! Dukka!” Kurpanov said softly, tears welling in his black eyes. In a sudden spasm of hate and revenge, his hand tightened on his weapon and he thought of killing that man and as many others as he could before joining Dukka in martyrdom. But the spasm ended as quickly as it came, and Kurpanov, hand out of his pocket, chose escape by blending into the crowd. “Peace be upon you. Mercy of Allah and his blessings,” he whispered in Chechen as he walked past Dukka’s body.
Two DC police officers, guns drawn, shoved their way into the lobby. “Tenth floor! Tenth floor!” someone shouted. One of the officers pushed Kurpanov aside and grabbed at the closing elevator doors.
Outside on the sidewalk, the crowd spread in all directions. Kurpanov stood for a moment looking at the spot where the car was supposed to be. He could hear the distant scream of sirens. I am naked as in a dream, he thought, searching through the memorized words of the Qur’an for solace—“O people! I have seen the enemy’s army with my own eyes, and I am the naked warner; so protect yourselves!” And then his mind plunged deeper into hatred and fear. That idiot of a Russian driver. He drove off.
6
The elevator doors opened and two police officers stepped out, guns drawn. Falcone, crouching, turned, the M16 aimed at them.
One officer pointed his gun at Falcone, while the second one aimed his weapon high and fired, bringing down a rain of glass from the atrium’s ceiling. “Drop the gun!” he yelled. “Drop the goddamn gun!”
Falcone, still locked in Vietnam, placed the gun on the floor, raised his hands, and shouted, “American! American!”
“Stand up,” one of the officers said. “Slow. No fast moves.” He turned away and with his free hand switched on the radio attached to a shirt epaulet. His voice calm, he said, “Ten thirty-three. Ten thirty-three. Responded to 911 shooting report, 676 Eighth Street Northwest. Multiple shootings. Tenth floor. Looks like three or more dead. Ambulance and tactical backup urgently requested.”
“Okay. Lower your hands,” the other officer said, still holding his gun aimed at Falcone. “Take out your wallet and show me ID.”
Falcone slowly reached into a back pocket, pulled out a wallet, and took out a Sullivan & Ford business card. “I work here,” he said, handing over the card.
“What the hell were you doing holding a weapon?”
“I took it from a shooter. He’s down there,” Falcone said, pointing toward the atrium.
“The body in the lobby,” the other officer said, lowering his weapon. “What the hell happened here?” he asked.
“There were two men,” Falcone answered. “I … The one down there is dead, I guess. The other shooter took the elevator.”
The officer switched on his radio again “One shooter believed dead. Other shooter left the scene. Armed and dangerous. Here is a description of him.” He held the microphone up to Falcone’s face.
“About five foot ten,” Falcone began. “Trim. Early twenties. Black hair, dark eyes. No facial hair. Looks … looks foreign. Darkish complexion. Almost Arab-looking or Asian. Somewhere in between. Sort of triangular face. Khaki slacks, blue shirt, no tie. Wearing zippered black car coat—down to his knees. The gun he fired, it looked like a nine-millimeter Glock. And he was carrying something�
�—Falcone paused, recalling what he had seen only a few minutes before—“on his shoulder. It looked like the kind of case you might carry a computer or an iPad in. Maybe that’s what he was carrying his gun in. I don’t know.”
The officer took back the microphone and asked Falcone, “Anyone wounded?”
“No wounded. Five known dead, including the gunman. I’m sure there’s another one in that office,” Falcone answered, nodding toward the open door of Harold Davidson’s office.
Looking around, the second officer asked, “Security camera?”
“No,” Falcone said. “None in the lobby. None in the building.”
“That’s odd.”
“Not for a law firm. Some people who come here don’t like their pictures taken.”
The first officer spoke into the microphone again. “Tech office. Start getting security camera images in the area around the building. Urgent.”
He turned to the other officer. “Check for another body,” he said, pointing to the open door.
Turning back to Falcone, he said, “That hand of yours looks pretty bad. You should try to have someone take care of it.”
7
Through the earpiece of a smartphone Ahmed Kurpanov suddenly heard a torrent of Russian words, beginning with repeated “eto piz.” “Yes, Viktor, things are fucked up. But speak English.”
All three had agreed that on this job they would all speak English so that Viktor could practice and the three of them would not stand out. For Dukka Sadulayev and Kurpanov, who had lived most of their lives in America, the language switch was no problem. For Viktor, the driver of the team, English was still a work in progress. He had studied English by watching GoodFellas over and over. Joe Pesci was his favorite foulmouthed mobster.
“No parking,” he said. “When you goes—left—car, a fucking bitch cop came, said ‘no parking’ and made me move. Now I try circle around on these fucking streets with numbers and letters for names. Many cop cars all over. Keep walking, turn right at corners. I find you two.”
“One. Only one,” Kurpanov said, speaking into his phone. With his phone to his lips, he looked just like several people standing outside the Sullivan & Ford Building and talking into their cells. “Dukka … Dukka is gone. Dead. Some guy jumped him from behind, shoved him over. Ten floors down.”
As he spoke, two more police cars pulled up and officers sprinted toward the entrance.
“Shit! Sorry, sorry, Ahmed,” Viktor said in a deep-voiced staccato. “Fuckups, fuckups killed him. Worst job we had ever. Keep walking, turning right. I listen to cop radio. Many, many cop calls. They say on radio look for young man. Black hair. In a black leather coat carrying something.”
“Yeah, it’s all fucked up, Viktor. Everything fucked up,” Kurpanov said, melding into the crowd fleeing the building.
“Get rid of that fuckin’ bag and coat,” Viktor said. “Keep turning right at corners. I find you.”
Kurpanov pocketed the smartphone and continued walking down H Street, his thoughts crowded with anger.
Dukka didn’t have enough time to plan right for this job. What was so damn important that we had to rush? Dukka always had a plan B for every operation. But there was no plan B for this one! Dukka said it would be simple. No need for a backup. Just drive from New York, kill a weird black guy, and grab his laptop. Why didn’t we do it at the airport? So simple. But this other black guy shows up and Dukka says we have to wait. Get more instructions.
What the fuck was so important about one little laptop? Build a bomb with it? Find out the names of all the members of Congress who were screwing their girls or boys? Why couldn’t it have waited another day? Dukka dead, killed by that fucker who jumped him. I should have killed that prick, should have stayed.
What will Uncle Khasan say? And Basayev? He punishes workers who make mistakes.
Who’s in charge now? That asshole Viktor? Can he get us back to New York?
Sirens, flashing lights. Kurpanov felt the panic building in him, flowing over reason, making his hands shake. Dukka, Dukka. He would know what to do. Dukka would tell me don’t run. So Kurpanov continued walking, trying to make himself invisible.
At the next intersection, Kurpanov turned right and saw an alley with a Dumpster in it. He ducked into the alley and put the bag containing the laptop and his Glock in a tight space behind the Dumpster. He hesitated before doffing the coat. From Uncle Khasan. Worth seven hundred dollars, he said. He didn’t exactly buy it. Still … his gift. Kurpanov neatly folded the coat before placing it on top of the bag.
He did not know that the Dumpster was under frequent surveillance—not by the police but by guests of the city’s largest homeless shelter, a many-windowed, three-story building that overlooked the alley.
8
Six minutes after the first two officers responded to the numerous 911 calls, others began to appear, their cars parked at odd angles in front of the building. Then three detectives, who had been on a nearby robbery case, ran in. Another car parked and a captain stepped out to take command, issuing orders that rapidly turned the entrance panic scene into a crime scene marked off by yellow tapes and stanchions that were being unloaded from a police truck. Down the street, fifty yards from the entrance, police stopped television trucks, which lined up, beginning to form a media site that was drawing reporters and photographers behind stanchions.
Two ambulances backed up across the sidewalk in front of the entrance, doors open, lights flashing. They were followed by two black armored vehicles that disgorged a dozen SWAT officers in black helmets and bulky black uniforms covering body armor. The captain, standing at the reception desk, made the elevators part of the crime scene, sent one SWAT unit directly to the tenth floor on the express elevator, and ordered uniformed officers to take over the public elevator and begin a floor-by-floor, office-by-office search of the building for other victims or other shooters.
Assistant Chief Louise Mosley, two stars on the shoulders of her uniform, arrived and strode into the lobby. She was shorter than her driver but wiry and quick-moving, leading him by a couple of paces. “Put a lockdown on all traffic for ten blocks around the building,” she told the captain. “A checkpoint at every intersection. As soon as each floor is cleared, get those officers out on the street looking for the guy in the black coat. Keep the building sealed until you hear otherwise. Get the press office to send out an armed-and-dangerous bulletin about the shooting. I want a major warning. The shooters might be going after lawyers all over town. I’m heading for the tenth floor.”
When she stepped out of the elevator, Mosley paused to look at the bodies and spoke quietly to her driver: “Stand by here until the crime-scene guys and medical examiner get here. We need IDs on these victims as soon as possible. When the techs finish doing their thing, get these bodies out of here so people we talk to aren’t spooked.”
“What about the guy on the lobby floor?” the driver asked. He had turned his back on the bodies; his face was ashen.
“I have a hunch he’s not local. Tell the ME that the body down there is high-priority. We need the full perp exam on him. Photos, prints, DNA, powder-presence test. With the other guy on the loose we have to move quick, treat this as a crime in progress.”
The sergeant nodded and looked as if he was about to throw up.
Mosley softened her voice, saying, “This your first mass homicide, Mike?”
“Not exactly, ma’am. I was first on the scene for those three kids in Anacostia a couple of months ago,” he replied. He had seen many—too many—bodies. Nearly all of them Young Black Males, as they were tabulated on the crime reports—kids lying in their blood, sprawled on the sidewalk, in a go-go club’s parking lot, in a bus-stop shelter. And all of them across the Anacostia River, the other Washington.
“Those kids, that was the usual Anacostia drug deal gone wrong,” Mosley said.
“Yeah,” the driver said. “This one is all-white … well, mostly white … and downtown. And it looks like it’s
going to be complicated. Very complicated.”
9
Falcone and the two officers who had first encountered him were now joined by a SWAT officer. The M16 was still on the floor in front of Falcone. A few partners had ventured out of their offices around the atrium. Mosley stepped to the middle of the corridor and, shouting across the atrium, said, “I am Assistant Chief Louise Mosley of the Metropolitan Police Department. This is an active crime scene. A shooter is still at large. Please return to your offices. You will be asked for statements. Thank you.”
Mosley pointed to one of the officers and said, “Update me.” He briskly repeated Falcone’s account of the shootings.
“Where’s the other body?” Mosley asked.
Falcone led Mosley to Harold Davidson’s office. They stood for a moment on the threshold. The office was well lit and eerily neat. What was left of Davidson was behind his glass-and-chrome desk, his face blasted away. Three .223-caliber bullets had tumbled through his skull and then into the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, shattering it. Blood, flesh, and bones covered the portly man’s white shirt, maroon tie, and red suspenders.
Molsey, a handkerchief in her right hand, closed the door. “Nobody ought to see this who doesn’t need to,” she said. She looked into Falcone’s face. “Glad to have a witness who’s still alive.”
They walked back to the elevator. Pointing to the weapon on the floor, she asked, “That’s the shooter’s gun?”
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