The Operative

by Andrew Britton

  Running down Colwriter123’s post-event timeline, Siegel examined the replies to his tweets from other users. Each of these showed the respondent’s username after the @ symbol, enabling Siegel to click on his or her profile and see whether it offered anything of interest. Like criminals returning to the scene of a crime, terrorists were known to follow reactions to their sociopathic activities.

  The tone of the responses ran the predictable gamut, ranging from deeply concerned to callously idiotic, but Siegel didn’t immediately see anything useful in them. Then he noticed repeated tweets from someone with the username AlDearborn. A relative, possibly the young man’s mother. The posts looked like direct communications with the kid from someone who was trying to help him, which was more than enough to grab Siegel’s eye on its own. But the most recent post made him stare at the screen with acute fascination, a long, low whistle escaping his lips.

  “You got something?” Karl asked.

  “Maybe.”

  She was too involved in her own research to look over. Siegel read the tweet again. It had been sent just two minutes ago, according to the timeline, and it read:

  Leave yr phone somewhere w/vol LOUD. In 5 min. it will ring, DO NOT answer. #BaltimoreConventionCenter // Stand by.

  Siegel hastily clicked on the user’s account profile. It belonged to Baltimore psychologist Allison Dearborn—and she was CIA. But what was the purpose of those instructions she gave him about his phone? The hashtagged term had popped out at him, too. Baltimore Convention Center. Ms. Dearborn had clearly wanted her tweet to attract the attention of someone other than Colwriter123. Someone a CIA employee must have hoped would be monitoring Internet traffic for messages from the center.

  Someone like himself.

  He was not about to sit around guessing, nor did he intend to just flag the tweets and kick them upstairs. These looked much too critical.

  “Clare, hold the fort. I’ll be back,” Siegel said, springing from his seat.

  Karl looked at him inquisitively. “What is it?”

  Siegel didn’t answer. He was already hustling up the aisle, feeling like a ticking clock thundercloud had just appeared over his little boat on the pond... .

  Word reached Max Carlson in a circuitous fashion, which was unbecoming for the secretary of Homeland Security.

  With his cell phone deposited in the small lead-lined cabinet outside the woodshed—which was what Carlson and other old-timers called the Situation Room—he’d been out of touch with the Office of Operations Coordination’s acting director, Joseard Levy, who had oversight of the NOC and was responsible for keeping Carlson in the loop. Under most circumstances, Levy would have left Carlson a routine voice message. For a higher priority communication, Levy would have routed a call to the Situation Room, where a watch officer would have informed Carlson of its receipt; if the secretary felt the message warranted an immediate callback, he would excuse himself from the presidential huddle and return the call from one of the encrypted privacy phones that sat in soundproofed booths outside the conference room. But the information that had come out of the NOC was of such crucial importance that DHS protocol required it be conveyed directly to the president himself in the event that Carlson wasn’t immediately available.

  That was precisely what occurred, even though Levy was always kept informed of Carlson’s whereabouts and had known he might be found not 10 feet apart from the president inside the Situation Room. So when a watch officer called to inform Brenneman that OOC director Levy was on the phone with urgent news, Carlson couldn’t have realized it was coming from his own department, least of all Joseard Levy, his right-hand man.

  The call lasted less than a half minute, during which time the president said nothing other than “Yes?” when he picked up and “Thank you” when he put down the receiver. Then he briefed the others. The Homeland Security chief hadn’t viewed it as a personal slight; ego had nothing to do with this. It just felt odd to have the commander in chief tell him what his own people had learned: that within the last five minutes instructions were sent to one of the hostages, Colin Dearborn, a student at the University of Virginia, from an account belonging to his aunt Allison Dearborn.

  To his credit, Brenneman turned first to Carlson to ask his opinion. The Homeland Security chief quickly put his personal feelings aside to digest the latest development and advise the president.

  “The five minutes would have just expired,” Carlson said. He was already busy accessing the file with the tweets of Colwriter123. “Joe, any changes in the grid?”

  The SIOC chief was looking off camera. “Checking,” he said, drawing out the word. “Thermal imaging shows movement in one of the rooms. It’s in two-twenty-four.”

  CIA director Andrews had brought up Kealey’s RAP sheet—his Retirement Assessment Profile. Though Kealey’s sessions with Allison Dearborn were confidential, psychotherapists were required to file a brief analysis on all retiring personnel with high-level security clearance or a history of “personal enforcement”—a polite way of saying they’d killed someone on the job. The RAP was a series of twenty-five questions with boxes marked VERY LIKELY, LIKELY, and NOT LIKELY. The RAP sheet was designed to flag agents who had a history of money problems or would miss the excitement of government-sanctioned murder. For these people, personal issues such as divorce, unemployment in the civilian sector, or dissatisfaction with political issues could drive them to sell information to foreign operatives or commit violent acts.

  Kealey had scored extremely low on the “selling information” likelihood, just 2 percent, and very high on the “likelihood of violence”. If he happened to come upon a situation like the current one, the formula said there was a 90 percent chance he would not only become involved but would find a way, in Dearborn’s own words, to “finesse the scenario toward his strengths.”

  Finesse was not a word Andrews would apply to Kealey. He had once described the agent as the nuke they’d fire at an asteroid rushing toward earth. But Kealey also knew Julie Harper, knew where she was. Andrews had no doubt that her safety was in his mental heads-up display, and there was no one Andrews would rather have on-site than him.

  “Mr. President,” Andrews said, “Kealey would know we’re monitoring chatter on the SocNets—”

  “I think we all got that part,” Shirley Choate interrupted. “He was your guy. What’s his game?”

  The National Intelligence head was the former Detroit chief of police. Her aggressive tactics had brought peace to the impoverished city and an impatient muscularity to the president’s team. While they all respected her judgment and out-of-the-box thinking, her style did not make her any friends.

  Jon Harper—who hadn’t needed the RAP sheet to put him in the mind of Ryan Kealey—swiveled toward her.

  “He was my guy, actually,” Harper said. “And he doesn’t play games.”

  Expecting the question from someone, Harper had pulled up Kealey’s service record. He sent it to her. Had Choate done more than glance at it, she would have seen how Kealey was fast-tracked to U.S. Army major in eight years, made captain a chestful of medals later, led an A-team in Bosnia, and became a Company man at thirty years old. He spent the next three years with the Special Activities Division, putting out wildfires in places no one else could get to, in ways no one else had even considered.

  “What he’s going to do,” Harper went on, “is draw the hostage takers’ attention to the phone—which is obviously taking place as we speak.” He regarded the president. “Sir ... whatever turf wars may be going on outside the center, and they surely are, we need to cut through that and get him support ASAP.”

  The president turned to the wall monitor. “Mr. Ferrara, where are your men?”

  “Preparing to go in,” the FBI officer replied.

  “No, get them in that building now,” he ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Joe, Kealey is armed and he will probably be firing,” Andrews added, his eyes on the 90 percent number. “Tell
them not to shoot him.”

  CHAPTER 9

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  Kealey glanced at his chronograph wristwatch. It was nearly time. The five minutes were up. Hopefully, Colin had done as his aunt had instructed. Kealey had built in a minute after that to execute his own section of the plan.

  Down in the exhibition hall, guns had sporadically resumed their raging outbursts amid the cries of the wounded and panic-stricken.

  He turned to Allison, who was still crouched with him in the walkway. Her eyes looked glazed.

  “You with me?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Okay. Once we’re out of here, run straight across the mezzanine to those conference rooms. It shouldn’t take us more than fifteen seconds—half a minute, tops.”

  Allison looked at him. “That’s going to leave me a moving target, Ryan.”

  Kealey regarded her steadfastly. “No, it isn’t.” He shrugged a shoulder, slipped off one of the MP5Ks he’d taken from a fallen gunman. He tugged open its folding stock. “You see how I’m holding this?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Once the stock’s extended, it locks into place. If you have to fire, brace it against yourself, like so.” He demonstrated, pushing the stock against his upper arm. ”Keep one hand around the grip, the other around the foregrip. Your fingers should be rigid, but don’t squeeze. It’ll help prevent the gun from jerking.”

  She nodded slowly as he gave the weapon to her. She held it as he’d shown. “Is this right?”

  “Yeah,” Kealey said, his eyes intent.

  He was thinking that Allison appeared to be in good shape, certainly strong enough to handle the weapon. Other than with the M60 machine gun, he’d never found kickback to be a major consideration, and even that hadn’t been too bad. She would have no chance to get used to the weapon’s feel and was apt to miss a lot. The advantage of an assault weapon was that it would give her more opportunities of not missing than a pistol.

  “You’ve got a full magazine,” he went on. “That’s thirty rounds. The selector’s set for three-round bursts. If you have to fire, pull the trigger with your fingertip. Don’t wrap your finger around it like you’re scratching. You want to maintain a light touch, and you want to keep the weapon as steady as possible.”

  Allison nodded again. She had already slipped the MP5K’s strap over her shoulder, in a practiced motion that made it seem like a handbag. Now she was looking over the gun with what appeared to be rapt revulsion. It was a strange expression.

  “Guess I should have taken some firearms training,” she said.

  “You can start tomorrow,” Kealey said. He was checking the dial of his watch again. The second hand had just crossed the one-minute mark. “Last thing, Allison. When we move, bend as low as you can. In any case, keep your head down. That’s coming out of the walkway and on the mezzanine. Got it?”

  Allison nodded. She looked down at the phone, which she held in her left hand. Even knowing that both the cell and his watch were set by radio transmitter, Kealey had made sure they were in time-standard sync. Every moment would be crucial.

  He started counting down at a whisper. “Five, four, three, two ...”

  At the zero mark Allison touched her finger to Colin’s one-touch call listing, raised the phone to her ear, and listened for the first ring. Then she dropped the phone into her purse, the connection with her nephew left open.

  They sprang to their feet, Kealey sidling his MP5K with his right hand and gripping Allison’s forearm with the other as they launched themselves onto the mezzanine and went racing over the wide-open hell of the exhibition hall.

  Colin Dearborn had scuttled to his right, still crouching, and thrust his phone deep in the pot of an artificial silk Ruscus tree. It was the nearest of the four trees that lined the wall. Then he scuttled back, putting as much distance between himself and the ceramic container as possible. He froze as soon as the guard at the door turned back to look across the room. It was a routine pass, nothing suspicious in the set of the man’s head, shoulders, or weapon.

  No one had moved for as long as they had been here, not even when Colin made his little crab move. Most of the people were either sobbing or praying, aware of nothing but their own immediate space and the disposition of the guards at the door.

  The first power chords of “London Calling” by the Clash chopped rhythmically from his cell phone, the bass line sliding into them as their volume swelled and the vocals broke through on a heavy, crashing downbeat:

  London calling to the faraway towns,

  Now that war is declared—and battle come down ...

  His assault weapon snapping upward in his hands, the guard inside the room vaulted from the door toward the mass of prisoners huddled toward the back of the room. There was a surprised, befuddled expression on his face. His gaze darted across the sea of mostly bowed heads, swept over them, settled on the tree even as the door flew wide open and a second masked killer came charging in from the hallway.

  The music went on for thirty seconds before it cut off and his aunt’s incoming call was transferred to voice mail. By then the masked guards had pushed through the group and were pulling up the fake Spanish moss in the pots, flinging it madly across the room. It took them just seconds to find the phone—not long, but long enough he hoped. Kealey certainly couldn’t have expected more. He had to know Colin’s options were limited.

  Now that he thought of it, though, Colin realized it was more than just the few seconds he’d bought. It was the time it took for the guards to come through the crowd, find the phone, look at it, and start to try and figure out who it belonged to. During that entire time, he, Colin, had taken four eyeballs off the corridor to help enable whatever Kealey was planning.

  His heart was pounding hard. Sweat rolled down his pants legs. Each instant seemed stretched—not taut but loose, drooping, like Silly Putty—as he wondered if this ... no, this ... no this was going to be the last second of his life.

  The first guard whipped around and held the cell phone aloft to show it to the gathered hostages.

  “To who this belong?” he shouted in broken English. “Who?”

  His stomach a band of tension, Colin remained squatting in fearful silence. His brain ticked off the added seconds he was buying Kealey.

  “Who?” repeated the masked man. Gripping the phone hard, waving it in the air, shaking it furiously in the air. “Tell me!”

  If anyone had a suspicion, they were too afraid to voice it. Or maybe it was courage, a last act of defiance. Colin didn’t know.

  Jesus, he thought. You’re writing tweets in your head.

  With a gruff oath, the other guard said something to the man with the phone. It was in a language Colin did not understand. He didn’t have to. He knew what they were doing. The men were to his right. Colin rolled his head slowly in that direction.

  They were pressing buttons on the phone. The men might not be able to read the tweets or figure out real names from Twitter accounts, but there was one language he knew they would understand.

  They were going through his photos. Colin estimated there were two dozen pictures of him stored in the album, shots in which he was posing with a smile, which might as well be a giant bull’s-eye.

  More seconds were passing. Each one was a small triumph for Colin, but he knew they were running out. He pulled in a breath, hoping it would settle him, but he was beyond any semblance of calm. His legs were shaking, barely able to support him. He shifted to his knees. The men were so intent on the phone, they didn’t notice. He looked at the door, wondered what his chances were of getting there, over and around his fellow hostages, before the guards could fire. The likelihood was probably real small, but he knew he did not want to die here, doing nothing except perspiring into his Nikes.

  He was wondering how much longer he could hold himself together when he heard the commotion, a sudden uproar in the corridor. The noise was like fresh air blowing into the room. He heard a radio
crackle on one of the men, heard the masked men move, saw them step on hands and bags on their way to the door, bringing their guns around with them.

  It was only as the shooting started that he realized he still hadn’t exhaled.

  Kealey saw the stairs leading to the third floor as they emerged from the walkway. They were straight ahead. He ran with his shoulders rolled forward, his chin tucked into his chest, and his legs working like pistons, the way he’d once run through simulated cross fire on the training courses at Fort Bragg; the way he’d run through the war-blasted streets of Kosovo, loaded down with weapons and 150 pounds of combat gear, dodging sniper rounds from windows, rooftops, and doorways as he moved from one position to another; the way he’d run to avoid getting cut to ribbons or blown out of existence in burning deserts, steamy jungles, and urban hellholes around the bloody, violent world.

  His hand still clutching Allison’s forearm, she kept her head low alongside him, a quick study, and it was a good thing, too. This was a natural kill zone, open, without concealment, but he’d had no time to spell out the risks, nor seen any upside to it. It was in or out, and she would not want to leave without trying to help her nephew.

  Anyway, what would he have told her? Just keep moving so you weren’t a large, exposed target—survival could be that basic in a fight no matter how alert you were, how effective your weapons, how thorough your training.

  Incredibly, most of the interior systems seemed to be on in this section of the building, the air-conditioning cycling to make it breathable in here, the large metal halides overhead merging with the brightness from whatever late-day sunlight was still pouring through the glass walls and ceiling. That made sense: whatever backup electrical system the facility had, this would be an area from whence the most people were leaving or, in an emergency, where the most would naturally congregate.