Before she could press it, the carnage disappeared and in its place the United States seal appeared on the screen. The audio signal returned. A calm, sonorous voice announced that a state of grave national emergency existed. All citizens within the Washington metropolitan area were directed to remain at home and off the city streets. Those citizens who were at work were told to go home and stay home until further notice. Then a caption began crawling across the screen, indicating that all highways, major thoroughfares, bridges, airports, and Metro trains into the city were closed and that only outbound traffic would be allowed to move within the city.
A human face from the Federal Emergency Management Agency appeared on the screen and a news bulletin of sorts was issued. It stated only that there had been a terrorist attack on the inauguration proceedings, that there were many casualties, that all lines of communication within the city were being shut down, and that military Defense Condition One was being set within the continental United States. Then the government seal reappeared, along with the tape loop about everyone being requested to remain at home. The message along the bottom of the screen requested that emergency medical personnel report to their respective hospitals throughout the city, and that they should make sure they were carrying proper identification, as anyone attempting to evade or interfere with police were liable to be shot on sight. Then a pause, and a new message began unfolding at the bottom of the screen. It stated simply that the president and the vice president were unharmed and moving to a safe, undisclosed location.
Connie felt her pulse racing. No mention of which president, old or new. Or what kind of attack had been mounted. But surely it had been a pretty huge deal, based on those grainy, slightly out-of-focus pictures she’d seen before somebody had gotten to the camera. She knew that most federal government offices would have been shut down because of the inauguration, but there were still a lot of nongovernmental people downtown, including the thousands of families who would have begun mustering along Constitution Avenue to see the parade later that afternoon. She suddenly felt glad to be sitting at home in bed, despite how she’d ended up here. And then she remembered that Secret Service agent telling her about a possible terrorist plot.
Good God! Had he been talking about this?
Then it hit her—what it was that she needed to tell someone. Jake, or the Secret Service. What her would-be killer had said in the bathroom as he was stabbing her in the back. She grabbed for the telephone, only to discover that it didn’t work. All communications sealed. She looked across the room for her purse and cell phone, but that system would be shut down, too.
She felt a cold chill ripple through her. If she was right about this, the bastard who had just executed the unspeakable crime she’d seen on the television was coming right here.
“But I will need your house,” he’d said.
Heismann had made it all the way down to the bridges area and was actually driving down the ramp when a policeman stepped out in the road with his hand up. In a split second, Heismann saw the police car. There was no partner, no other police cars. He made a decision to run smack into the man, knocking him sideways into the grass. Heismann got the minivan stopped fifty feet past the bottom of the down ramp and quickly backed up, his right front wheel protesting as it rubbed against the smashed-in grille. The policeman, a black man in his late forties or early fifties, was sprawled on the grass embankment, his cap, one shoe, and his flashlight lying nearby.
Heismann jumped out and ran over to the man. The policeman was still breathing, but there was a trickle of blood coming out of his mouth and his right knee was bent at an odd angle. Heismann looked around, but there was still no one in sight, so he got back in the minivan, drove to where he’d parked the Suburban, and changed vehicles. He then drove back to the ramp, put the Suburban’s emergency lights on, got out, and opened up the back doors.
He dropped the second seat and then went over to the injured policeman. He threw the flashlight and the shoe into some bushes and then hauled him into the back of the Suburban. He knew he was probably doing some more damage, but the man was still unconscious, and he would serve his purposes, dead or alive. Once he had him secured in the back, he fished out the policeman’s handcuffs and cuffed his hands across his belly. He removed the officer’s gun and stuffed it under the driver’s side of the front seat. He retrieved the officer’s cap and put it on his chest. Then he took off his raincoat, folded it into a rolled pillow, and put it under the officer’s head. He covered the man’s supine form with his own suit coat and then got back into the driver’s seat. He drove under the bridge and stopped to take stock.
He’d tried to find news of the attack on Capitol Hill on the minivan’s radio, but all the stations were off the air. He finally found something calling itself the civil defense station on the AM band. It was announcing that a state of emergency existed in the national capital area and that martial law was being imposed. All citizens were directed to go home and stay there. This message was in the form of a continuous tape loop.
He examined his face in the mirror, wiped a few more traces of makeup off, and centered his hat. He then drove east one block before turning down Seventh Street, SW, and heading for the Washington Navy Yard on the Anacostia River. From there, he turned back west and drove all the way to Maine Avenue, going right past the spot where he’d parked the Suburban. All he could see of the Capitol was that cloud of grayish smoke and a host of twinkling blue and red strobe lights. He had been passed by several police cars and three ambulances, all headed back toward the Capitol precincts.
He pulled over for a moment and fished out his city map. He’d already seen blue lights on the other side of the river, so he knew that within minutes they would be locking down all the bridges over the Potomac. His only option was to drive back into town from the river. The injured policeman was going to be his passport through any roadblocks, as long as he made enough noise and could convince the officers posted there that he was rushing to get their comrade to a hospital, preferably one in the city’s northwest quadrant, in the direction of the nurse’s house. He quickly consulted his city map and saw that Georgetown University Hospital would be a plausible destination. He heard sirens up on the bridge above him, emergency vehicles headed across the bridge toward Virginia. No more time for thinking; he must move, and fast.
He drove out from under the bridge, did a U-turn, and drove back toward the Jefferson Memorial and the Tidal Basin. He turned on his high beams, buttoned the rest of his shirt, and straightened his clip-on tie. The policeman gave a low groan as they roared down the narrow road surrounding the Tidal Basin, but then he went silent. Heismann ran into the first roadblock as soon as he turned out onto Twenty-third Street and headed up toward Constitution Avenue. He got the pensioner’s identification out of the briefcase, snapped on his seat belt, put on dark glasses, and drove right at the cluster of police cars blocking the intersection, laying on the horn.
He screeched to a stop with the nose of the Suburban pointed between two police cars wedged in the middle of the intersection. There was traffic on Constitution, but it was creeping as a crowd of police went from car to car, looking inside each one. He lowered his window and the back window on the left side as three cops came running over, hands on their gun butts.
“Secret Service,” he yelled, flipping open the pensioner’s wallet, waving his ID at them, and pointing with his thumb into the back. “Georgetown Hospital. Let me through!”
All three cops tried to stick their heads into the back window at the same time, but then they backed out, swearing, and one, a sergeant, yelled for another cop to open the roadblock. The sergeant came up to the driver’s window, staring at the mask of smeared blood, soot, and grime on Heismann’s shirt collar.
“How bad?”
Heismann shrugged and then shook his head.
“Shit! Shit!” the sergeant exclaimed, and then waved him through as one of the blocking cop cars backed out, creating a space. Heismann hit the gas an
d roared right through it and up Twenty-third Street. He saw a constellation of emergency lights to his right, on the major avenues, and Army helicopters circling the downtown area. The pall of smoke farther down Constitution seemed to have thickened. He drove at high speed on the nearly empty street, passing some more roadblocks, which were placed across the intersecting streets. The police were making cursory checks of vehicles, but they seemed mostly interested in getting the downtown streets cleared out. At Washington Circle, he headed west toward the Whitehurst Freeway and Georgetown. Once on the freeway, he went a quarter of a mile and then cut off onto the stub connection, which became Wisconsin Avenue. From there, he had a clear shot into northwest Washington and his safe haven. He turned off the emergency lights and his headlights and slowed down to normal in-town speed.
He passed several more emergency vehicles headed into town, but there were no more roadblocks. He tried the radio again, but there was still nothing but that annoying tape, with the rest of the stations reduced to a hiss of static. He had expected much more traffic, but with the federal holiday, the lanes headed out of town had been practically empty, as were the sidewalks. Then finally, halfway up Wisconsin Avenue, he ran into a traffic jam as he caught up with the general exodus. Everyone who’d been home watching the inauguration, which was probably everyone in the city who had a television, was staying put.
He began looking for a parking lot on a side street, anywhere that he could get off the main avenue for an hour or so while the traffic sorted itself out and the streets opened up again. Ideally, he would approach the nurse’s house at dusk. The sky was becoming increasingly overcast, which meant that darkness would come early.
All good omens, he thought. Very good omens. He wondered if the pensioner had gotten out. If he had, and he was the man Heismann thought he was, darling Mutaib was in for some interesting times.
Swamp closed his eyes and sat back against the smelly rear seat of the police cruiser, giving in to the waves of pain that were sallying back and forth through his body. Getting much too old for this shit, he thought with a sigh. Outside, there was a growing crowd of local cops and federal agents, with everyone seemingly trying to talk on a radio at the same time. A fire engine had come down the alley and parked immediately in front of the police car where Swamp sat in splendid isolation. Firemen in full gear gave him interested looks as they trotted past, unrolling a fire hose. The duplex was fully engaged now, with both sides burning fiercely. The firemen in the alley appeared to have given up on the duplex and were playing hoses on adjacent roofs to keep the fire from spreading. He could barely hear the rumble of the fire engine’s pumps. He thought about asking for the cuffs to be removed, but right now he was exhausted and he hurt in more places than he could count. And he was heartsick about what that goddamned Arab had managed to do.
A mortar. The original artillery. The ancient Chinese had used them. Right up there with catapults. Perfect for a surprise attack. He’d seen those glaring white blooms on the screen before the picture had been obliterated by all the smoke, the camera being knocked this way and that. I was right all along, he thought ruefully. All except for those minor details, such as the date and the target. But would Hallory and company have paid any more attention if he had keyed the thing to the inauguration instead of to the address to the joint session? He doubted it. Still, he wondered what more he could have done. Or should have done. He knew he should never have opened that damned garage door. What in the hell had that bastard been doing in the garage?
He felt a rush of air as the rear door was unlocked. With difficulty, he opened his eyes, which were still sticky from the duct tape. Some smoke blew into the backseat of the car, and he could actually feel the heat from the house fire. A federal agent he didn’t recognize was saying something, but Swamp could only shake his head. Then a police lieutenant appeared with cuff keys, shouldered him forward in the seat, and undid the plastic bracelets. Swamp gestured for a pen and paper, and the agent produced a notebook and a ball-point.
“Can’t hear,” Swamp wrote, then showed it to the agent. The man took the pen and notebook. “Was this where the attack came from?” The agent scribbled.
Swamp nodded.
“What were you doing here?” the man wrote, and then passed back the notebook and pen.
“Chasing the bad guy,” Swamp wrote. “Got caught instead. He used a mortar.”
“We know,” the man said, and Swamp read his lips. Then a hand appeared on the agent’s shoulder and he stepped back. To Swamp’s immense surprise, Lucy took the agent’s place in the doorway.
“Come with me,” she said, stepping back to let him get out of the car. He still couldn’t hear her, but her meaning was obvious. Based on their hostile expressions, there were still lots of cops around who thought Swamp was the bad guy. They were milling around with drawn weapons and patently itchy trigger fingers. The roof of the duplex caved in with a great shower of sparks, making everyone flinch.
Swamp followed Lucy as they squeezed around the fire engine to a black Crown Vic bristling with antennas and emergency lights. A large man in Secret Service tactical gear was in the driver’s seat, and Lucy indicated for Swamp to get in the back while she got in the front. The driver, who had a beefy red face to match his red hair, began backing the car down the entire length of the alley before Swamp even had a chance to close the door. Lucy turned around to look at him.
“You look like shit,” she said, and once again, Swamp could read her lips. He shrugged and instantly regretted it. “Can’t hear,” he announced, barely able to recognize his own voice. Lucy nodded and then turned around to put on her seat belt.
“How bad is it up there? And where we going?” Swamp asked, but she didn’t answer. The driver reached the end of the alley and backed straight out into the street, causing two cop cars to slam on their brakes, veer sideways, and lay on their horns. The driver, still stopped in the middle of the street, turned around to glare at Swamp and then reached into his jacket and produced his .357 Sig. “You shut the fuck up,” the man said, pointing the weapon right at Swamp’s face. Swamp still couldn’t actually hear him, but that message was abundantly clear. Lucy tapped the man’s arm and told him to put it away. Swamp sat back and fumbled for his own seat belt as the furious driver put his weapon down on the front seat and then began wrenching the car around. He flipped on his brights and took off down the street, scattering cops, firemen, and curious civilians alike.
They drove quickly up toward First Street and the Capitol grounds. The driver had to slow down and then stop when he got to First, as there was a solid phalanx of federal agents and vehicles blocking the way. A nebulous cloud of grayish smoke still rose from behind the Capitol, but Swamp couldn’t see anything in front of them except wall-to-wall blue lights. He did notice that the District cops were all outside the federal perimeter. He wanted to get an answer to his questions from Lucy, but, mindful of the enraged driver and that .357 on the front seat, he kept quiet. Lucy got out and went to confer with a small crowd of agents inside the perimeter, and there was another round of radio talk. The big man up front glared at Swamp again, this time via the mirror.
Swamp was suddenly grateful that he’d left those CIA credentials back in his apartment. That Arab banker would have taken them when he escaped, and Swamp had a strong feeling he was going to need them later today. Lucy came back to the car, got in, and said something to the driver that Swamp couldn’t hear. The driver nodded, gave Swamp another glare via the mirror, turned the car around, and drove down toward Independence Avenue.
They negotiated another six roadblocks before getting clear of Capitol Hill and abreast of the Mall. Swamp turned around to look back up at the west portico, where there were dozens of blue and red strobe lights blinking through the lingering smoke. He thought he saw several small white mounds out on the grass at the base of the portico steps, but then the National Arboretum buildings blocked his view. Lucy was talking on an encrypted radio as they drove down the river s
ide of the Mall. Whatever pedestrians were still out on the mall were being herded toward the Metro station by District police. Something popped in Swamp’s right ear and suddenly he could hear what Lucy was saying.
“—in custody.” She paused to listen. “Yes, sir, he was definitely in the house.” Another pause. “Yes, sir. Right away.” She put the radio in her purse, loosened her shoulder belt, and turned around to look at Swamp, who decided to give no sign that he could hear again. Before she could speak, Swamp saw a moving blur to their left as they entered an intersection, and then the driver swerved and hit the brakes hard enough to throw Lucy sideways against the right side of the windshield. The car then got slammed on the left side, spinning out in a blur of noise and screeching tires. Swamp, who was still belted in, struggled to keep upright by grabbing the top of Lucy’s headrest, but he could no longer see her. The car tilted onto its right-hand wheels, banged back down onto the pavement, and then lurched to a stop with the engine still running and the smell of radiator fluid filling the air.
Swamp unbuckled his belt as the driver wrestled his way out of the car and hurried around to the right front door. He wrenched it open and pulled Lucy out from between the seat and the dashboard. The side of her face was bloody from a cut on her forehead, and she looked dazed. Swamp tried the right rear door, but it was jammed. The left rear door was already partially open, so he got out and came around to look at the front of the Crown Vic. The left front fender was bashed in, as was the left rear wheel well. The grille and radiator assembly were protruding out of the front of the car. He moved back to the side of the car, crunching through glass and plastic on the pavement. A green trickle of radiator fluid was leaking out onto the street. The other car, a District police car, also a Crown Vic, was fifty yards away, out on the Mall lawn, having come to a standstill at the end of two muddy ruts. A dazed-looking cop was getting out, talking on his radio. Steam rose from the front of his wrecked cruiser.
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