by Mark Gilleo
An Orange line train pulled into the station and Syed pretended to read his paper, looking past the headlines of the business section. He peered over the heads of most of the commuters, thankful for his advantage in height. Passengers on the Orange line train were shoulder-to-shoulder, standing room only. Faces pressed against the glass as the train left the platform and Syed casually looked in each direction for Jameel and Omar. Then he waited for the next train.
Above him, a Red line train pulled into the station and another rush of people pushed down the escalator to the lower platform. Farooq, now cleanly shaven, stepped from the middle car and walked to the wall of the upper platform. He positioned his bags according to Ariana’s direction, as Syed had done twenty yards below.
A young couple stood from their seats and Syed sat down on the end of the large slab concrete bench next to his bags. He turned the page in his newspaper and checked his watch. It was 8:27 as the next Orange line train pulled into the station. Syed looked over his shoulder as the train arrived on the platform, brakes squealing slightly. With another surge of bodies, Jameel stepped from the train, the straps from the backpack over his shoulders, a duffle bag in his hands. Syed couldn’t see Omar, but knew where there was one brother, there was another. He stood from his seat and peered up at the upper platform. He could see Farooq from the shoulders up.
There was nothing to do but smile at the upcoming carnage, and wait. Three minutes.
Karim drove and Ariana opened her laptop with her Verizon wireless network card and checked the progress of her soldiers. Four blips appeared on the screen, all of them transposed over a Google Map image of the Metro Center area. She could see the office buildings and the roads, as well as an outline of the underground passages and tracks of Metro Center.
“Syed and Farooq are positioned and the Orange Team is just arriving.” She checked her watch. “Right on schedule.” She reached for the cell phone and turned it on. “Keep driving. South on the GW Parkway.”
Chapter 60
Detective Wallace took a hard right onto Constitution Avenue and gunned it. The big eight cylinder growled as the pistons were fed a heavy dose of gas. Clark was pushed back in his seat and grabbed for the handle over the door as Detective Wallace swerved into oncoming traffic. The car zoomed past the Department of Commerce and the White House, the morning traffic blasting their horns as Wallace weaved his car through the automobile slalom.
At the E street ramp the car rolled hard and the tires screeched. Near the stoplight at the mouth of the Rock Creek Parkway Detective Wallace pushed on the brakes.
“Last chance to get out.”
Clark tightened his seatbelt. Wallace nodded.
“This is the unofficial way to get things done.”
Detective Wallace hit the gas and the black unmarked patrol car jumped the curb and headed across the grass between Rock Creek Parkway and the Four Seasons hotel. Wallace fought to steer the car as it bounced in the uneven field, the engine roaring, the Thompson Boat Center passing by in a blur on the left. Clark braced himself as the car raced towards a chain-link fence in the distance.
“Slow down, slow down, slow down,” Clark said frantically, followed by “too fast, too fast, too fast.”
Detective Wallace took his foot off the accelerator and yelled “hang on,” as Clark chimed in with “Ohhhh shit.”
The car cut through the chain link fence, dug through a patch of gravel, and smashed into the large green electronic box with a shower of sparks. The airbags in the car exploded from their designated locations and Detective Wallace and Clark slammed into the impact-reducing devices. The four foot high electronic box tipped to forty-five degrees but didn’t fall.
Detective Wallace took inventory of himself and muttered through the aftermath of the collision. “You all right?”
“Jesus,” Clark said, the deflating air bag gathering in his lap. He rubbed his nose and shook his head to clear the cobwebs.
“Are you ok?” Detective Wallace repeated.
“I think so.”
“Good.” Detective Wallace threw the car into reverse. Gravel and dirt flying beneath the tires, he backed the car up fifty yards, flattened a piece of fence that had been dislodged by the original impact, and hit the gas again. With the second impact the green box fell, wires torn from their moorings.
Wallace backed the car up again and cut the ignition. Clark stumbled out of the cruiser first.
Detective Wallace exited the car and stepped towards his handiwork to admire the destruction. “Mobile phone exchange,” Detective Wallace said aloud. “Originally only Verizon had service to the Metro underground. Now, all the major carriers are routed through this transfer terminal.”
“Well, I think that took care of it,” Clark said. “How did you know where this was?”
“Had a homicide near this spot two summers ago. Rich woman from the Watergate across the way. Never solved that one. The location stuck in my memory, as most things do when you are a detective.”
“Does the car still drive?”
Detective Wallace turned, looked at the car, and kicked at the grill. The front bumper dropped to the ground. He peered under the engine block. Multiple streams of liquid sizzled as they dripped down through the heated engine.
“I need to get back to my house,” Clark said.
“Why your house?”
“I need to get something.”
“Taxi,” Wallace said as he started jogging towards the intersection of K Street and Rock Creek Parkway, over the tire tracks he just left.
Clark followed Wallace up the hill, the police cruiser now smoking behind them. The detective, oversized waist bouncing and arthritic knees creaking, pulled out his phone and called his part-time partner with an update. Nguyen answered the phone on the first ring.
“I got your message. You’re still alive, I take it.”
“Barely. You may hear about this on the news.”
“Sounds familiar. Try to keep my name out of it this time.”
“I need you to call Metro and have the system emptied. All trains going through Metro Center. We have five terrorists in or approaching Metro Center with explosives and ricin. Middle-Eastern men. Three are dressed as business men with suitcases. Two are students with large backpacks. One of the suspects is six foot three. Thirty years old. Dressed in a suit. Pulling a suitcase on wheels. Shoot first, ask questions later. Hunt down the captain or we are going to have a fucking mess on our hands. Tell the captain if I am wrong, he can have my badge. Call Metro police, call the station directly. Whatever you have to do. I tried to take out cell service to the Metro tunnels, but there may be a back-up trigger.”
“I also need a bio-hazard unit sent to the address I left on your phone earlier. 9345 Georgia Ave. Warehouse C. Tell them there is also ricin at that location and an injured intelligence agent. Use extreme caution.”
Detective Wallace raised his free hand and a cab driver pulled over. He flashed his badge and the cabbie raised his hands as if he were being held-up.
“Put your hands down,” Wallace said through the closed window.
The cabbie let out a sigh of relief and Wallace walked around to the driver’s side of the car and opened the door. “Out. Your car is being commandeered.”
The cabbie started to protest and Wallace gave him the official don’t-fuck-with-the-police expression. The cabbie got out of the car. Detective Wallace looked at the cab number on the roof and then back at the driver.
“You can pick it up later at police headquarters.”
Clark apologized and jumped in the passenger seat.
Nguyen was listening to the proceedings over the still-connected phone and repeated Wallace’s name several times before the detective answered.
“Where are you going?” Nguyen asked.
“Arlington.”
“You don’t have jurisdiction in Arlington.”
“I do today.”
“Get on the phone and tell D.C. and Arlington County tha
t there is a cab being driven by an officer on a police emergency. Don’t approach. Make it a BOLO with a request for assistance.”
“Cab number?” Nguyen asked.
“4631.”
Clark corrected him. “4361.”
“Correction, cab number 4361.”
“Got it.”
“Reach me on my cell. My cruiser is parked near Rock Creek and K Street. No radio.”
“Roger that.”
“Now Nguyen. Now.”
Ariana smiled as she closed her cell phone. “It is done.”
Karim muttered a prayer under his breath.
“Get into the right lane,” Ariana said. “The exit is up ahead.”
Chapter 61
Farooq tried not to stare at the slow moving pair of Metro police officers entering Metro Center near the main security booth. He had ridden the Metro enough to know the routines; to see what was routine. His professional assessment was exactly that — a routine patrol. The officers, well-carved individuals with former military written all over their demeanors, took in the environment as they walked. Their heads swiveled slowly from left to right, eyeing the tracks, the waiting passengers, the group of youths who should have been in school. As the officers passed Farooq on the upper platform, Farooq smiled and nodded. The officer closest to him flashed a brief professional grin and returned his focus forward. It wasn’t until one of the police officer’s radio crackled that Farooq’s eyes dropped back down to his newspaper. He checked his watch and started to sweat.
On the intersecting platform below, Syed pulled the sleeve on his suit and also checked the time. They had been waiting for five minutes, far too long in his military opinion. Operations were precise. Or at least they started precisely and then quickly disintegrated into mayhem. The platform was crowded. Jameel was thirty yards away, his back facing Syed, his backpack on, his duffle bag in his hand. Syed strained to spot Omar whose backpack poked in and out of sight through the moving commuters.
The sudden wail of an alarm sent people scrambling to cover their ears. Syed’s eyes darted up, then left to right as blue and orange trains arrived from opposite directions. People rushed for the exits as panic echoed off the walls. Syed looked up at the platform above and saw a half dozen officers reporting to the scene with their guns pulled. A moment later, the two officers who had just passed Farooq had returned, their guns drawn on the young man with the backpack. Farooq’s hands went up a second before his legs were kicked out beneath him and the bottom of a boot landed on his neck, pressing him to the floor.
The alarm wailed, a strong blast followed by a lull and then another wave. “Shit,” Syed said aloud. In a well-trained motion, Syed pulled his Beretta from the small of his back. He stepped behind the concrete platform bench, aimed at the larger of his two suitcases, and pulled the trigger.
The explosion ripped through the suitcase and the six people rushing past it. Dust thrust out in all directions, a wave of death canvassing the middle portion of the cavernous tube-like structure of the Metro station, engulfing the upper platform as it made its way outwards.
Syed coughed and tried to catch his breath. He squinted through the aftermath and the temporary silence. Syed’s ears trickled blood. His head rang. His hair, face, and suit were covered in a fine white powder. The bench he had taken cover behind was painted with bits of clothes and flesh. Syed shook his head and checked his weapon, balancing himself as he stood amidst the hysteria. He pushed his way through the stunned crowd, the alarm a memory those near the explosion were no longer able to hear. Police officers from the platform above fought their way down the escalators, guns drawn, their commands mixing with the alarm and the unintelligible Metro emergency message. From twenty yards, his aim above the crowd, Syed dropped the first two officers as their torsos appeared, feet first, on the downward escalator. Syed staggered down the platform and spotted the outline of Jameel with his backpack and duffel bag. The young man was frozen, his body rigid, his eyes shut as he waited for his bag to explode. Syed raised his gun, exhaled, and pulled the trigger. Jameel fell to the platform, his duffle bag rolling over the edge onto the tracks. His backpack was still intact, facing away from Syed. The former soldier scanned the madness and continued down the platform, his mind blocking out the rush of bodies that surrounded him. He stepped to the other side of Jameel’s twitching body and started to unload his magazine into the large backpack from point blank range.
He didn’t hear the warning before the shot from the police issue handgun tore through his skull.
Chapter 62
So what was the red ribbon the CIA guy had?”
“It’s the flag off a radio remote control. One that my father used to fly when I was a kid. It had the same frequency number written on it. I would recognize it anywhere. The flag’s color alone actually tells you the frequency range for that device, but my father was very particular. Overly cautious in some regards.”
“Why does this woman need a radio control? What about Metro Center and using a cell phone signal as a detonator?”
“Maybe that was plan A. Or maybe that was plan B. But the more I think about it, she may have finally slipped up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she may know a lot about explosives and poison and rockets and propulsion systems. But my guess is she doesn’t know shit about model airplanes. Or at least that’s what I’m hoping for.”
Wallace’s phone rang. “Wallace here.”
“This is Nguyen. An explosion has been reported in Metro Center.”
“Fuck,” Wallace yelled.
“What?” Clark asked.
“An explosion.”
“Shit.”
“Keep me updated,” Wallace yelled into the phone. His request was met with silence. He looked at the phone and the Call Failed message appeared on the screen.
A prolonged moment of silence engulfed the car.
“Get me home,” Clark said.
Clark dug through two standing metal cabinets and ran his eyes along the shelf on the far wall of the hobby room in the basement. He breathed heavily as his hands quickly felt up the nooks and crannies of the room. In a space beneath the stairs Clark’s fingers danced over a dust-covered shoebox. He pulled the box through a cobweb and opened the top. “Fucking A,” he said to himself in a whisper.
Organized neatly in the box were ten stacks of cash, each wrapped with a thin rubber band. Clark plucked the stack off the top and ran his thumb across the edge of the money, listening to each bill snap as it flipped by. He repeated the action, this time looking at the corner of the bills in motion. Fifties and hundreds. Enough for a year at school, he thought. Maybe even two with room and board. He put the money back, shut the lid, and replaced the shoebox on the shelf. One problem at a time.
Clark yanked his head from beneath the stairs and continued his frantic search. He tore open three cardboard boxes stored near the hot water heater, then spotted the large clear plastic container in the corner. Oh Dad, let this be the one, he said to himself as he grabbed the black controller from the plastic box. He snagged a 9.6-volt battery pack off a stack on the shelf in the corner and ran upstairs.
Clark came out of the house and jogged across the front yard to the cab. He flopped into the passenger seat.
“You got what you need?”
“Right here.”
“Where to?” Wallace asked.
Clark paused to think. “Reagan National.”
“Why?”
“Common sense … and a few other things.”
“You want to share?”
“Start driving.”
The taxi laid a thick trail of rubber on the street as Detective Wallace pushed the accelerator to the floor.
“Here’s what I’m thinking. One, Ariana’s daughter told me she liked to watch airplanes. Strange for the daughter of a housewife who never traveled. Two, if Ariana already attacked Metro and is looking for another target, a plane is the easiest. Three, it’s what I would d
o.”
Wallace opened his cell phone and tried to dial the precinct with one hand. The call froze in silent limbo. He tried again, this time with 9-1-1. Another call failed message.
The detective turned towards Clark. “Can you get through to 9-1-1 on your phone? I got nothing here.”
Clark pulled his phone from his pocket and tried 9-1-1. “Nothing. The call was dropped.”
“You know what that means.”
“The news is out on the explosion in the Metro and now everyone in DC is trying to use the phone.”
“Exactly.”
“You don’t have a radio?” Clark asked.
“Yeah, it’s attached to the dash in the cruiser.”
“A lot of good that does us.”
“You know what else this means?” Wallace asked.
“It’s up to you and me”
“Until further notice.”
“Well then I hope I am right.” Clark took the small rectangular box with thumb controls and raised the antenna.
“So what do you do with that remote control?”
“This is an old Proline 1100.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“The name and model number is written on it. Anyhow, this particular controller in my hands had a long life in the world of model airplanes. But there is something special about this one that Ariana probably doesn’t know.”
“It tracks terrorists?”
“No. It’s part of a buddy system. This is the master control. The one Ariana has, the one with the matching red ribbon in the warehouse, is a slave control.”
“Meaning?”
“If we get close enough, I can switch off her transmitter and she will never know. I would be in control of her device, whatever that device is.”