Marcus couldn’t remember a time he had seen his mother so happy. The moment he’d pulled the Corvette into the driveway just after nine o’clock the previous evening and shut down the engine, she’d come bursting out the front door and embraced him with kisses and tears. As they’d climbed onto the porch, he had smelled the lasagna she had baked for him. He’d quickly set down his luggage and washed his hands in the little restroom off the living room and joined her in the kitchen, where they’d had dinner together, just the two of them, with a bottle of cabernet and so many stories to tell.
His older sisters, Marta and Nicole, and their husbands and children had not yet arrived. They’d be coming Thursday morning. It would be the first time they celebrated Thanksgiving together in years, and Marcus was eager to catch up with them and watch movies together and play with his nieces, all of whom were growing so quickly. Yet he could see in his mother’s eyes how much she needed time with him alone. The prodigal son had finally come home.
As Marcus came down the stairs and into the kitchen, he found his mother, clad in a smudged apron, already cooking up a storm.
“Wow, that’s quite a production,” Marcus said as he looked over all the pies and squash and stuffing that were in various stages of preparation as his mother was busy dressing not one turkey but two.
“Why, you’re up early—I was sure you’d be in bed till noon, at least,” she replied. “You sleep okay?”
He couldn’t bear to lie to her. Instead, he simply went over and gave her a hug and a kiss on the top of her head.
“I’m good, Mom, thanks.”
“Want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
“I’d love some,” he said, opening a cabinet, grabbing a mug with the logo of the U.S. Marines emblazoned on it, and pouring himself the first of what he was sure would be many, many cups that day. “So how can I help you today, Mom? I’m all yours.”
He could tell the question caught her completely off guard. It wasn’t a sentence she’d heard from her son before. But before she could answer, the phone on the wall rang.
“Would you get that, honey?” Marjorie said. “My hands are all messy. It’s probably Esther Kline. She wants to drop off some new toys for Nicole’s kids.”
Marcus took another sip of coffee, then set down the mug, crossed the kitchen, and picked up the receiver.
“Domino’s Pizza, may I take your order?” he quipped, throwing in a lame British accent for no particular reason at all.
As his mother shot him a glance of mock disapproval, Marcus was shocked to find that the voice at the other end of the line was not that of Esther Kline, nor any of his mother’s other friends. It was Pete Hwang, calling from Washington.
“Marcus, you need to get back here—now.”
“Why, what are you talking about?”
“Haven’t you heard what’s going on in London?”
“I just woke up.”
“Well, pack up and get to the airport. We just got hit again.”
Marcus hung up the phone, went immediately to the family room, turned on the television, and found CNN.
“What is it, Marcus?” his mother asked. “What’s the matter?”
The moment she followed him into the room and saw the images on the screen, she knew. They both did.
“You need to go,” she said.
Marcus turned and looked at her, unsure if she’d just asked a question or was taking a shot at him. He tried to steel himself for the conversation he’d been dreading. He certainly had not intended it to happen so soon, and definitely not like this.
“Listen, Mom,” he began. “I know that you—”
But she cut him off. “They need you,” she said. “Go pack, and I’ll get your clothes out of the dryer.”
“But . . .”
She stepped closer to him and put her finger over his lips. “Marcus, when I look in your eyes, I see your father,” she said softly. “He was a warrior, and so are you. Is that calling easy on a wife or a mom, to say so many good-byes, to see your man go into danger, not knowing if you’ll ever see him again? No. It’s not. But that’s what you were born for. That’s why God made you. That’s why he wired you like he did. To take risks—crazy risks. Not for yourself. But to protect people. Me. Your family. Your country. I know it’s not easy on you either. Because sometimes you can’t always protect the people you love. But never think for one minute that I don’t love you or support you 1,000 percent. Because I do. Your father had his calling. You have yours. And you’re good at it. Really good. That’s why they need you. So go—do what you have to do without any fear or hesitation—and God be with you. I’m so proud of you.”
Then she kissed him on the cheek, wiped a strand of hair from his eyes, and held him one last time.
54
THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.
By sundown, Marcus was back in Washington.
Upon landing at Reagan National, he took a cab directly to the White House, a last-minute request of Director Stephens. Having no time to go home to change, Marcus found himself standing at attention in the Situation Room wearing not a suit and tie but ripped blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a North Face fleece. The president, who had begun the morning speaking at a fund-raising breakfast in Los Angeles, had landed back at Joint Base Andrews less than an hour ago. His motorcade had just pulled onto the White House grounds moments earlier, and he now rushed into the room for his first formal briefing.
Around the table were Stephens, an ashen-faced Secretary of State Meg Whitney, Defense Secretary Cal Foster, and Bill McDermott, who was now serving as the acting national security advisor. The VP was on Air Force Two, returning from meetings in Brazil. The secretary of Homeland Security was also on a plane, coming back to D.C. from a visit to the Texas border. The FBI director was on a plane bound for London.
“Where are we?” Clarke said after asking everyone to sit.
Stephens nodded to McDermott, who pressed several buttons on the console before him, lowering the lights and turning on the large flat-screen monitor on the far wall. Displayed were pictures of each of the Americans killed in London.
“So far, we have eight Americans dead,” he explained. “In addition to General Barry Evans and Dr. Susan Davis, six American journalists were killed in the blast.”
Marcus stared at the faces, his fists clenched and jaw tight. Then he lowered his head in the darkness and said a silent prayer for their families and friends. After a full minute, Stephens called for the next slide.
“Twenty-three British citizens were also killed,” the CIA director continued as more victims’ faces were projected on the screen. “They included two police officers, but mostly they were journalists and photographers. Next slide. In addition, nine others died in the blast, a combination of reporters, producers, and cameramen, mostly from European countries.”
“Injuries?” Clarke asked.
“Next slide,” said Stephens. “Yes, sir, they were extensive. Another thirty-one people—Americans, Brits, and others—were injured, some quite severely. At the moment, at least six lives are hanging by a thread. We may not know for several more hours if they are going to make it.”
“I don’t see any DSS agents among the dead,” said the president.
“That’s true, sir. Not a single DSS agent was killed, but Agents Geoff Stone and Kailea Curtis were cut up pretty badly by flying glass and shrapnel.”
“I don’t understand,” Clarke said. “How did Stone and Curtis survive if Evans and Davis didn’t?”
“Protocol,” interjected Defense Secretary Foster.
“I’m sorry?” Clarke asked.
“The Brits don’t permit bodyguards to stand close to their protectees when they come down Downing Street,” Foster explained. “It’s partly tradition and partly optics. They want photos of principals entering Number 10 on their own, not with aides and certainly not surrounded by agents. It’s been that way forever. I’ve seen it dozens of times myself.”
“Could Barry and Susan have survived if their agents had been closer?”
“No, sir. They would all have been killed instantly.”
“So where exactly were Agents Stone and Curtis standing?”
“Next slide,” said Stephens.
On-screen now was a diagram of the site. The DCI used a laser pointer to show where the front door to Number 10 was and where the motorcade had stopped.
“The agents were at least twenty yards from Evans and Davis. Stone and Curtis were standing behind their vehicles, holding open the doors, when the explosion occurred. Other agents were still in their vehicles.”
“That’s what saved their lives?” Clarke asked.
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“How long will they be in the hospital?”
Stephens turned to the secretary of state. “Meg, do you have that?”
“At least till this weekend, Mr. President,” Whitney replied. “I spoke to each of the agents a few hours ago, beginning with Stone and Curtis. They’re all doing quite well physically. Emotionally, of course, it’s hitting them pretty hard.”
“I imagine so,” Clarke said. “Get me their numbers, Meg. I’d like to call them all myself.”
“That would mean a lot to them, sir. We’ll do that right away.”
“Good, now talk to me about suspects. Do we have any?”
“No, sir,” said Stephens.
“Has anyone claimed responsibility?”
“No, not yet.”
“No one?” Clarke asked, incredulous. “Again?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“Then tell me we have some solid leads. I mean, how did they get the bomb past security to begin with?”
“Well, sir, the problem is the scene is a complete mess. The bomb went off in the press pool. It was so powerful, we don’t have a single body intact. To be honest, we have absolutely no idea how the attack was executed. Neither do the Brits.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I can explain it to you, or I can show you the video that MI5 sent us.”
“The video, of course.”
“Are you sure, Mr. President? It’s worse than anything I’ve ever seen before.”
“Show me,” Clarke said, looking Stephens in the eye. “I want to see exactly what these bastards have done to our people.”
55
The acting NSA hit a button and the video began to play.
But McDermott could not watch. He had already seen the video twice.
The first images—all full-color—and accompanying sound track were hardly troubling. A chyron in the top right corner of the screen indicated this portion of video was courtesy of a Sky News feed to its satellite track.
The American motorcade arrives. DSS agents open the doors of the lead sedan. Evans and Davis emerge. The two walk unescorted up Downing Street, smiling at the media but refusing to answer any of the questions shouted by the press corps. As they approach the front door to Number 10, they stop, continue smiling. Suddenly a man yells, “Allahu akbar!”—“God is great” in Arabic—and then the video feed is cut.
The next portion of video was in black-and-white and silent. The chyron in the top right corner indicated that these images were from one of the British government surveillance cameras. McDermott winced as he heard the room gasp. In his mind’s eye, he could see the images running in slow motion as an explosion erupted from the center of the press pool. There was a brilliant burst of light, and the lens of the surveillance camera cracked. Still, for about ten seconds one could see the devastation. No longer were Evans and Davis visible. No longer were any members of the media visible. Fires raged and thick black smoke billowed to the sky.
The scene cut to the angle of a dashcam in one of the vehicles in the American motorcade. This feed ran in slow motion. Very slow. And this time, the room was completely silent as they watched Evans and Davis vaporize, frame by frame.
Only then did McDermott reopen his eyes, though he still didn’t look at the screen. There was no way he could watch his boss and one of his closest friends obliterated for the third time in one day. He did, however, want to watch the president’s reaction as he watched the next set of images.
Video footage taken by an MI5 crime scene investigative team began to play, without any audio. Buckets of blood and small bits of body parts were everywhere. Occasionally a scorched shoe with part of a foot was visible or an individual finger wearing a wedding ring. Not once, however, could one find a head or a face or discernible limbs. This was worse than any moment McDermott had ever experienced in combat or any horror movie he had ever seen. Tears were streaming down Whitney’s face, but to her credit she continued to watch. Foster watched stone-faced. Stephens, though he had already seen it four times, watched it again even more carefully this time, looking for clues he might have missed before. Clarke was white as a ghost. For the entire four minutes and twenty-seven seconds, he just stared at the flickering screen, at once mesmerized and horrified by the images that were unfolding.
Finally the nightmare was over. McDermott hit the Stop button and turned off the monitor, then brought the lights back up. For several minutes no one said a word. Then Whitney, wiping her eyes with a cloth handkerchief she’d taken from her pocketbook, asked the president if it would be all right if they said a prayer. Clarke nodded and asked Cal Foster, an elder in his Presbyterian church, if he would lead them. When he agreed, they all bowed their heads and closed their eyes.
“Amen. Thank you, Cal,” Clarke said when they were finished.
Then he turned back to the director of Central Intelligence. “So clearly this was a suicide bomber—but you still haven’t told me how they got the bomb past the Brits’ security.”
“Honestly, Mr. President, that’s what has us all baffled,” Stephens replied. “Every member of the press corps went through a standard security screening process, no less professional than what happens here at the White House every day. The Brits certainly would have spotted a vest filled with explosives.”
“Could the bomb have been concealed in one of the TV cameras?” Foster asked. “That’s how a team of al Qaeda operatives killed Commander Ahmed Massoud on September 9, 2001, just two days before the attacks on us, Mr. President. Massoud was a powerful Afghan warlord. He was vehemently opposed to the rule of the Taliban. Osama bin Laden decided to take him out, to complicate what he knew would be an American retaliation for what was coming. So he sent three jihadists to pose as a TV news crew, and boom, no more Massoud.”
“All true, but highly improbable in this case,” Stephens said. “Every piece of equipment brought by the media was run through X-ray scanners, bomb sniffers, and hand checks, just like we do here. I don’t see any possible way the Brits missed a thing, much less a bomb large enough to do that much damage.”
“What about a drone?” Whitney asked.
“No, not possible,” Stephens answered. “The Brits have a very sophisticated antidrone system they bought from the Israelis years ago. Believe me, they’re watching for this stuff, all of it. I spoke to the head of MI5 twice today, as well as to the head of MI6. They have absolutely no idea how someone pulled this off or who could have done it. And that’s what’s freaking out everyone in my office right now, because if these terrorists have figured out how to blindside the Brits, who’s to say they couldn’t do it to us?”
Once again, it was quiet for a while. Then Secretary Whitney spoke up.
“Mr. President, clearly Richard and his team and the FBI are going to do everything in their power to hunt down those responsible for these attacks and bring them to justice,” she began. “But right now, what we in this room really need to discuss is your trip to Jerusalem.”
“No,” said the president. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Sir,” said Whitney, “I know that you have very strong feelings about this, but—”
Clarke, however, cut her off. “I’m not going, Meg.”
She looked stun
ned. They all were stunned.
“I’ve seen enough,” the president said quietly. “There’s no way I’m going to let the terrorists win. I’m still going to give the speech and lay out the plan, but I’m not going to put any more Americans in harm’s way to do it. I’ll give the speech here, in the Oval Office. But for now, I’ve got more pressing matters. If you’ll all excuse me, I need to go call more grieving spouses and then address the nation.”
56
GHAT, LIBYA—27 NOVEMBER
“I’m afraid I have bad news,” Hamdi Yaşar said.
Abu Nakba, sitting out on the veranda and enjoying a beautiful desert morning, looked up from his breakfast of coffee and boiled eggs.
“Yesterday I told you that President Clarke was planning to announce his peace plan on the Haram al-Sharif. I wish now I had brought you this intelligence the moment it arrived in my hands,” Yaşar continued. “But I was so focused on the operation in London that I set it aside.”
“What is the problem?”
“We have been too successful.”
“How so?”
“Because London went so well, the American president has been frightened off. I received another message from Mashrawi early this morning. He’s just learned that the president has quietly canceled his trip to Jerusalem and will instead give his speech from the White House. I fear I have failed you, my father, just when victory was within our grasp.”
Abu Nakba took the younger man’s hand and looked back out across the desert. “You have not failed, my son. Stop believing the lies of Satan. A week ago, this opportunity did not exist. And then it did. And now it doesn’t. Does this stop the will of Allah? By no means. He has a plan. We just have to wait for it to reveal itself.”
The Jerusalem Assassin Page 17