by J. B. Turner
“Good points. But why Crystal City?”
Murphy cleared his throat. “I think he’s being real cute. Perhaps he wanted to flush out any tail as he passed the Pentagon Metro.”
“Definite possibility. This would mean that there might be someone else with him. The purpose being to have a wing man.”
“In case Scott Caan is taken down. That would make perfect sense.”
Meyerstein looked around at her team. She could see the focus and resolve on each and every one. “OK, people, get the word out.” She turned and pointed to the image of Caan on the screen. “This man must not get on a train under any circumstances. He has to be apprehended, taken down, whatever it takes.”
THIRTY-THREE
Reznick was sitting in the back of a Suburban with three Feds heading for Crystal City Mall, tapping his foot the whole way, his mind racing. He was wired after discreetly popping the last two Dexedrine pills he had hidden in the seam of his collar. He sat in silence, not wishing to engage the Feds in small talk or any talk. He scanned the Glock 22s that they were packing and felt envious. He felt naked without a gun.
He had been allowed onto the team and had been briefed. He was going to be an “eyes and ears” guy on the ground. It felt good to be involved, even in a peripheral capacity. He had the before and after images of Caan imprinted on his brain. The plethora of small cosmetic changes had radically changed his face. It was bizarre. His face looked more swollen despite looking younger. But both pictures still showed the same cold, dark eyes.
The more he thought of Caan the more he could feel his training kick in. He was in the zone.
They parked alongside other government vehicles next to the entrance of a suite of administration offices within the Crystal City mall. Then they headed through some doors to an elevator where they were met by two armed Metro cops who took them to an arcade-level conference room.
Meyerstein was already there as were three other Fed teams. It would be four groups of four. She looked around at the group for a few moments before she spoke, quietly exerting her will over the guys on the ground. She exuded gravitas just by the way she scanned the group. Her gaze stopped at Reznick for a brief moment before she went round the rest of the team. “OK, this is what we’ve got. The Crystal City shops span nine blocks. In effect, it’s a network of tunnels and walkways. There are numerous exits and entrances. It’s like a warren. But that’s just the arcade. There are shops and offices on the higher floors. Three teams will concentrate on the arcade level and in and around the station and one team will work the upper floors. OK, first thing’s first. I want the Red team assigned to the platform with me, and that includes you, Jon, OK?”
“You got it,” Reznick said.
“Service frequency just now will be every three minutes. They come thick and fast and platforms get crowded.”
Everyone nodded.
“Any train to the Pentagon goes from this side of the platform. This is the Blue Line. The electronic boards on the platform show when a train is heading for Largo Town Center Metro. Each train will have six carriages and can cope with up to twelve hundred people. That’s a helluva lot of people. Keep alert. You know what you’ve got to do. We have the Blue team and Green team heading down the mall from the far side. The White team’s gonna do a walk-through sweep of the upper levels. Red team, spread out on the platform, no bunching up. This is a big, big area. But if we squeeze from both sides, we will get him. It’s just a matter of time. Any questions?”
Everyone shook their head.
“OK,” Meyerstein said, “Let’s do this right. Stay sharp.”
They were each given up-to-date color pictures, and reminded that the facial recognition computer team were scanning the platform and the mall for the first sign of the guy and any update would be sent to their earpiece.
As the teams filtered out to the lower level platform and into the mall, some taking elevators for the higher floors, Meyerstein pulled Reznick aside. “OK Jon, here’s how it’s going to work. You will follow my direct orders or Roy Stamper’s. I’ve put my neck on the line for you, do you understand?”
Reznick nodded.
“You will respect my authority. If this gets out, your involvement will be denied. You don’t exist as far as we’re concerned. Do you understand?”
“Is this a shoot to kill op?”
“It is. But not for you, Jon. Your job will simply be as an extra pair of eyes and ears.”
Reznick nodded again but said nothing. He wanted a gun bad. But he was just glad to be involved at any level, on the ground.
“Look, we don’t know for sure, but there may be a wingman. And before you ask, we don’t have an ID on him. There might not be one. We don’t know for sure. But you need to be alive to that possibility. Do you understand?”
“Absolutely.”
“You will stay on the platform. Your job is to assist any requests from agents on that platform. It’s the last line of defence. We must assume this is the day and this is not a dry run. He must not get on a train. Instructions will go to and from the operations center at FBI HQ to us on the ground.”
Reznick nodded.
“Remember your earpiece and microphone. Everything you say will be fed back to HQ. Bear that in mind.”
Meyerstein led the way as the Red team – including Reznick – followed. He saw the way she commanded the utmost respect among all the agents. She was in control of her side of the operation. But she carried herself in a most feminine way, no easy feat in such a macho world.
They took the stairs down to the track level and fanned out along the busy platform. The curved roof was like a concrete honeycomb. Diffused lighting came from recessed lights. On the platform, around fifty or sixty people milled around.
He scanned looking for the image that had been printed out in the back of the SUV and was now scorched into his brain.
Reznick knew the drill. He kept a neutral expression and began to mingle with the rest of the passengers. Occasionally he glanced at his watch or the electronic destination board.
The voice of Stamper could be heard in his earpiece. “OK, guys,” he said. “The cameras are trained on you. Nice and easy, Jeff, cover the entrance, lean against the wall. Excellent. Jon, you’re right in amongst the throng, just stay there. Scratch your head if you heard that, Jon.”
Reznick duly scratched his head.
“Good.”
Reznick knew what to look for. He had been specifically trained by Israeli counterintelligence in the early 1990s to identify suspicious behaviour in mass transit situations. But as this planned attack seemed to be at an advanced stage, the prep work would have been done. The note taking, photographs, working in groups, would have all been completed weeks ago, maybe months. But this was imminent.
What he was looking for were demeanour indicators. Nervous tendencies. The physiological dimension. Perspiration, fidgeting, repeatedly touching the face, continuously scanning the area, exaggerated yawning, pacing. Then he had to consider indicators of deception. Fast eye blink rate, sweating, stammering, clearing the throat excessively and avoiding eye contact.
He knew that nervous tendencies tended to increase in close proximity to police or security of any sort. But there were other signs.
The bulky, inappropriate clothing in spring or summer, perhaps to hide semtex or in this case, biomaterial, could be a sign. A stiff, robotic walk was another. Some of the Islamic fanatics he’d had to deal with were high. They were in the last moments of their lives, out of their minds. They knew they would soon die.
The stress would show. Breathing sped up, perhaps even hyperventilating. Another sign was staring. Those on a suicide mission were focused on a target and stared straight ahead. Some said it was tunnel vision. But the closer to an attack, the more of a likelihood that the terrorist would suddenly change appearance – as Caan had already done – to fool cameras and surveillance teams.
Reznick was on the look out for the brown satchel Caan had walk
ed out of the Grand Hyatt with. But he also knew that it would be easy to switch that to another bag or holdall.
“Panhandler at three o’clock, Jeff.” Stamper’s voice was strident, almost aggressive.
Reznick stole a glance at a dishevelled old black guy rummaging on the ground inside a filthy paper bag. Almost immediately two burly Metro cops approached the panhandler and got him to his feet.
“OK, stand easy, guys,” Stamper said.
They hustled the guy away from the platform as they watched and waited. The seconds became minutes and the minutes dragged. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, more and more people joined the platform. Reznick felt himself getting pressed up against other people.
The rumble of an approaching train got people jostling for position, before the doors opened. A tannoy announcement echoed around the enclosed cavernous space. Reznick scanned the faces all around him. Some people seemed more stressed than others. But that was natural in a hectic Metro, packed with men, women and children, each using up each other’s oxygen, getting in their space.
Most of the passengers averted their eyes. It was a common and understandable reaction in an urban American city. Actually, he’d found the same reaction in any big city in the world. London, New York, always the same. People not wishing to engage with fellow human beings, not knowing or caring who they were. For all they cared the guy in their midst was a diseased non-person. He had to be avoided.
“Young, maybe Hispanic looking guy, brown satchel, looking suspicious, nearing the platform,” Stamper said in the earpiece. “Actually, perhaps Middle Eastern, hard to say.”
Reznick turned and saw a guy with an olive complexion and sharp goatee beard, reddened eyes darting from side to side. The guy didn’t get on the train; he just looked from side to side. Occasionally, his head was nodding as if in time to music. His eyes were still darting from side to side. Something was making him agitated.
Maybe drugs? Maybe something to hide? Maybe just a guy with mental health problems who hung around public transport systems.
Reznick was within five yards of the young man. He could almost smell the sweat beading on his brow. Suddenly the young man turned and looked straight at Reznick.
“What you looking at, huh?”
Stamper whispered, “Jon, he’s gotta knife. I repeat, he’s gotta knife. Back pocket right. I can see it.”
Reznick pressed his earpiece tight into his ear and wondered if the young man was a diversion or just a dumb low life encountered every day on metros and buses across America.
“Stay away from me,” the young man said and pulled out a knife.
Reznick said nothing, not moving to inflame the man.
“What the fuck do you want? I ain’t got no fight with you, man. I don’t want any trouble. Just back the fuck up, man.”
Reznick showed his palms.
“I don’t know who you are, but just back the fuck up. You a cop?”
Reznick shook his head.
“I just want to catch a train, OK?”
Reznick said nothing.
He sniffed hard and waved the knife around. “You better back the fuck up or you’ll be sorry, do you hear me?”
A couple of Metro cops approached the man from behind, their guns drawn, as they edged closer.
“Put it down,” one of the cops shouted.
The kid began shaking as he stared at Reznick.
“Put it down!” the cop shouted again.
The kid stared wild-eyed at Reznick as he moved the knife from hand to hand. He suddenly lunged forward at Reznick who sidestepped the knife. The cops jumped on the kid as he fell on to the platform, dropping the knife. Then they grabbed the kid’s arm and twisted it behind his back tight, before they cuffed him and led him off the platform.
Reznick mingled back in with the crowd who looked on as the screaming kid was led away.
A few moments later, Stamper came through the earpiece. “Goddamn immigration letters. The kid’s an illegal.”
The platform incident only heightened the tension. Reznick scanned the handful of passengers still boarding the train. He noticed Meyerstein twenty feet away deep in a cell phone conversation. A moment later, she put away her phone and approached him.
“You OK?” she asked.
“I’m fine. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Something’s bugging you. I can tell.”
Meyerstein stared at him long and hard. “It’s all in hand.”
“It’s not all in hand. We haven’t had a sniff of Caan or any accomplice. We’ve got face recognition software scanning all the cameras. What the fuck?”
Meyerstein sighed waiting for some passengers to walk on by her. “We’ve got a problem. Six of the cameras in and around this station and mall are either out of action or being repaired.”
“So, we’ve lost him?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think he’s still here. If he had headed out onto the street, there are numerous cameras that would have detected him. But they haven’t. I think he knows the cameras are out of action. He is still here. I know it. And he is waiting for the right moment.”
Reznick nodded but said nothing. He knew the pressure she would be under from the FBI Director. Her eyes were hooded and sad. But he also noted the tightness around the mouth showing her determined character.
Meyerstein’s cell phone rang. She looked at the caller display and turned her back to Reznick. “Talk to me, Freddie. This better be good.” She nodded her head a few times. “Who knows about this?” Then she nodded again. “Let Roy know and the command center. Top priority, do you hear me?”
She ended the call and stood, shaking her head, her back still to Reznick.
“What is it?” Reznick asked.
Meyerstein turned and faced him. “We may have a handle on who’s behind this.”
“Who?”
“Get back to work, Jon.”
“Who the hell is behind this?”
She held his gaze for a fleeting moment. Then she turned and walked away, headed out of the station with two Feds in tow.
THIRTY-FOUR
Lt Col Scott Caan was chewing a codeine tablet to numb the pain of all the Botox and collagen injected into his face as he headed along one of the climate-controlled underground walkways on the periphery of the Crystal City shopping arcade. His quilted navy jacket was zipped up to the collar as he gripped the brown satchel tight. He headed along more zigzagging subterranean passageways past fashionable boutiques, a modern art gallery, hair salons, gift shops and a plethora of restaurants among the one hundred and thirty businesses in the underground mall. The air was heavy with the smell of pizza and fries.
He couldn’t abide the ersatz 1970s architecture. It was like America. Soulless, empty, a monolithic creature.
A group of uniformed military with ID badges walked by, easygoing smiles, on their break from their Pentagon desk or some other subset of government.
Caan avoided eye contact as he walked on. Up ahead he saw the huge white clock outside Starbucks. But instead of stopping for a double espresso and granola bar like he sometimes did back at his local coffee shop in Frederick, he took an elevator to the eleventh floor. He stepped out of the elevator and walked past Ruth’s Steakhouse and on for another fifty yards until he got to a suite of offices. He swiped a card and went in, the door locking softly behind him.
Caan looked around. Beige Axminster carpets throughout, rudimentary office furniture, no pictures on the wall. No computers, files or anything. It was the first time he’d visited the inside of the office. He had scouted out the mall and acquainted himself with the shops and the layout. But they didn’t want him to go near the office in case it blew the whole operation.
They were concerned that the one-year lease could be traced to a fake travel agency in Grand Cayman. The cover was in place for a reason.
He pulled down the blinds. A few moments later, his cel
l phone rang.
“The GPS says you’ve arrived,” an unfamiliar man’s voice said.
“This very minute.”
“How do you feel?”
“I feel focussed. Fresh. I’m ready.”
“We know you are. But no doubt you will be looking forward to your well-deserved vacation.”
Caan felt his stomach knot. He had been given the go ahead with the operation. Well-deserved vacation.
“We’re sure it will be most memorable. Is there anything you still require?”
Caan sighed. “I have everything I need.” He felt a lump in his throat. “I’ll send you a postcard.”
“That would be great. Take care. See you soon.”
The call ended.
Caan went to the bathroom, stripped off his clothes, removed the blond wig and took out the blue-coloured contact lenses, dropping them on the floor. He scrubbed his face clean and dried it with a small towel. Then he unpacked the fresh clothes from his bag. He pulled on the grey Abercrombie & Fitch sweatshirt, faded jeans, old Nike sneakers, and carefully placed the new brown tortoiseshell-framed glasses on the bridge of his broken nose. He reapplied some cover cream over his face and neck, concealing the redness from the Botox injections, but also lightening his skin tone. Then he brushed back his short, newly dyed brown hair.
Caan closed his eyes for a few moments to compose himself, taking long, deep breaths. He’d been practicing breathing exercises for months, inducing the calm-like state that he needed. He felt sharper and more assured than ever.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
The man staring back at him in the mirror looked a complete stranger. That was good. That was very good. He thought he looked like his father had when he had arrived in America as a young man and wondered what his father would make of what he was about to do.