When he reached the second floor, J. J. yanked the door open and plunged into the hallway. Secret Service agents stood near the entry doors to the meeting room. A line of metal carts holding food, glasses, pitchers, and other items necessary to serve an up-class meal to world leaders and their spouses lined one wall.
He started for the doors when a smallish Hispanic Secret Service agent stepped in his way and raised his service weapon until he had drawn a bead on J. J.’s head. J. J. put on the brakes, stopping just a few feet from the agent.
“I’m on your side.”
“Stand back—”
Mitchell’s voice came from near J. J.’s ear. “Ease up, Danny. He’s with me.”
The agent lowered his weapon.
“What have we got?”
“We’ve got the lockout in place,” Agent Danny said. “Everyone inside knows something has happened but has remained calm. I’m assuming something happened outside.”
“Something is going to happen inside if you don’t let me in there,” J. J. snapped.
Danny looked at Mitchell.
“Give me a rundown, J. J.,” Mitchell said. “Make it the Reader’s Digest version.”
“The woman I pointed out to you. She’s a suicide bomber.”
“How can you know that?”
Moyer stepped between J. J. and Mitchell. “Maybe we could have this chat later. We may be out of time as it is.”
J. J. watched Mitchell weigh the situation. “I’m the demo guy. I’m the guy you need to disarm the bomb.”
“If she’s a suicide bomber, then—”
“Make a decision, Agent.” Moyer barked out the command. “This isn’t practice. Two bombs have already gone off. We don’t have time for a conversation.”
Mitchell straightened. “Let’s go.”
J. J. inhaled so deeply his lungs hurt, then let out the air. Two seconds later he walked into a room that could be ablaze any moment.
DELARAM FINGERED THE BUTTON on the trigger inside the pocket of her maternity dress.
Push it.
Her eyes darted around the room. People, nervous about the lockdown, whispered insistently. Security personnel stood by the doors.
Push it.
The push-button activator felt heavy. She ran her thumb over the button. A simple movement would end it all. Just push the little green button down and it would be over. She’d never know what happened. The explosion would tear through her body, burning every inch of her inside and out. Bits of her bone would become shrapnel, but she would feel nothing.
Just press it. Do it now.
Delaram tried to muster the strength to complete the act. Fire and metal would spread through the whole room. The ocean-side windows would be shattered by the force of the concussion. Those standing near the windows might be carried along with the glass.
Push it, Delaram. Push it. Push it for your mother. Push it for your father. Just press the button and be done with the nightmare.
The image of her battered parents—her brutalized father resting his head in her mother’s lap—played on her mind in vivid colors. She stopped seeing the others in the room. Tears began to flow.
“Hello.”
Delaram raised her eyes. Before her stood a man about her age, dressed in black. He had a friendly smile and kind eyes.
“Do you speak English?”
Delaram applied a slight pressure to the button.
“My name is J. J.” He touched his chest, then motioned to her.
“You don’t want to be here.”
“I’m guessing you don’t either.”
“I have to do this.” Her voice sounded robotic, even to her own ears.
“I can help.”
“No one can help. I have to do this. I have to do this now. Then it will all be over.”
“I know what you’re here to do.”
“They left me here to do this alone. He left. He made me do this, then left.”
“That’s the way those animals are. Let me help you.”
“It’s too late.”
“It’s never too late. You left your fingernails for us.”
Delaram wasn’t sure she heard correctly. “You . . .”
“We found them at the villa outside of Rome. You were there, weren’t you? You left them because you thought someone like me would find them.”
She shook her head. “It’s too late. If I don’t do this, he will.”
THE WOMAN’S BLEAK WORDS chilled J. J. to the marrow. “Who?”
“I don’t know who he is. They call him Abasi. That’s all I know . . . I have to do this.”
“No you don’t.” J. J. lowered his tone. “I told you my name is J. J. What’s yours?”
He heard rustling behind him.
“No one move!” Delaram’s voice echoed off the walls.
J. J. looked over his shoulder. Mitchell and two other agents stood there, guns pointed at the woman’s head. “Boss, I need working room here.”
“Back off, Agent Baker,” Moyer said.
Mitchell glared at him. “You don’t call the shots here.”
“I know that, but you’re not helping. Take a step back.”
J. J. watched as Mitchell and his crew withdrew one step. He looked into the woman’s eyes and saw fear and surrender. “If I’m going to die, I’d at least like to know who I’m dying with.”
“Delaram.”
“Delaram. It’s time we put an end to this. I can help. Will you let me? I know—”
“You know nothing!”
J. J. raised a hand. “I’m sorry. I’m just scared . . . scared like you.”
“They have my parents. If I don’t do this, they will kill them.”
J. J.’s heart stuttered. A person would do almost anything to save a loved one. “I figured it was something like that. I can tell you’re not a zealot.”
“I don’t believe in anything.”
“I think you do. You’ve hesitated. You’ve hesitated because you believe there is a difference between right and wrong.”
“I’m going to die anyway.”
“I’m not going to leave you, Delaram, even if that means I die with you.”
She lowered her head. “Nothing matters.”
J. J. spoke softly. “You matter, Delaram. These people matter. I know you’re in a horrible situation. Let me help.”
“You can’t. There is nothing you can do. Even if you shoot me, the bomb goes off.”
J. J. didn’t like the sound of that. “Delaram, look at me.” She kept her eyes down. J. J. raised his voice. “Delaram, I said look at me.” She did. “Look in my eyes. Do you think I’m lying to you?”
She shook her head.
“I’m going to help you, and you’re going to let me. Understood?” She didn’t respond. “The first thing we’re going to do is empty the room.”
“If I don’t kill them, my parents will be killed. I don’t care what happens to me—”
“But you do care what happens to these people. Let me help.”
Tears cascaded down her face. J. J. turned to Moyer. “Clear the room, Boss.”
Moyer studied Delaram. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, J. J.”
“We can’t wait any longer. I believe her when she says someone else could set off the bomb. We have very few choices.” He turned back to Delaram. “I will stay with you. I will try to disarm the bomb.”
“My parents . . .” She began to sob.
“I can’t imagine how hard this is for you, but I know you will do what is right, even if it means the worst for your parents.”
Delaram gave a slight nod.
“Do it, Boss. Take the team with you.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to disarm the thing.”
“And if you can’t?”
“Then I can’t, but I’ll be getting off easy. You’re the one who’ll have to tell Tess.”
Moyer’s gaze said volumes. “Agent Baker. Clear the room.”
As the dignitaries filed from the room in silence, J. J. took a step closer to Delaram. “You’ve done the right thing.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Tell me about the bomb.”
MOYER BACKED INTO THE corridor to make room for the crowd to exit. He bumped into someone. At his shoulder stood Zinsser, behind him Rich, Pete, and Jose.
“We felt the rumble,” Rich said before Moyer had a chance to ask. “Figured something might be up.”
“How did you know to come here?”
Rich shrugged. “Simple. We followed the Secret Service agents.”
Moyer was glad to have them there. “Here’s the skinny. Two explosions outside, one about a mile distant, one in the middle of several thousand protesters . . .”
“Don’t tell me—” Pete started.
“Yeah, one woman inside packing enough explosive to blow out a good size chunk of this floor.”
“J. J.?”
Moyer looked at Zinsser. Did he sound worried? “He got the girl’s confidence. He’s going to try to disarm the bomb.” Moyer explained about the remote detonator.
“Why not just pop her and beat feet out of here?” Rich asked.
“A dead woman can’t give us answers. Besides, she said that even if we shoot her, the bomb goes off.”
Zinsser took a step toward the door. “I need to get in there.”
“No you don’t.” Moyer’s tone stopped Zinsser cold. “I’m ordering you guys out.”
Zinsser squared off. “Look, Boss, if there’s a remote detonator, then a radio is involved. That makes it in my bailiwick—mine or Pete’s. Look at him. Does he look in any condition to do this?”
Moyer stepped to the side to look at Pete. Before he could turn, Zinsser pushed past him and walked into the room.
CHAPTER 27
ALDO GRONCHI CROUCHED ON the hot asphalt as hundreds of pairs of feet landed near him. Screams choked the air. Several people tripped over him as they stampeded past. Beneath him, sheltered between his legs and arms, lay an eight-year-old, red-haired girl, who screamed in terror—the same scorching terror he felt.
Pain raced up his leg as a bulky man stepped on his right ankle, then crashed down next to him. A second later the man was on his feet, swearing in Italian, and running with the pack.
“Stay still, little one. Stay still.” Could she even hear him? His ears rang from the sound of the explosion. He tried to force the images of flying body parts from his mind.
When he received word that more protesters than expected had shown up and they were moving closer to the barricades, Aldo had gone to take charge of the operation. Fifteen minutes after he arrived, he felt the ground rumble and heard a distant explosion. The second explosion was much louder and much closer.
The crowd reacted by running from the sound, the heat, and the bloody carnage, overrunning the barricades and the men who manned them. To Aldo it seemed as if he had been swept up in a wave, not of water, but of human flesh. Before he could issue an order, he went down. The little girl tumbled near him. He’d been a cop too long to wonder why anyone would be so stupid as to bring a child to a place like this. Someone tripped over her and landed hard on the macadam. Aldo scrambled to the girl, intending to pick her up, but the crowd thickened and rising proved impossible. He did the only thing he could: cover her with his body. Sheltering her made him a target—a larger obstacle to the fleeing crowd.
For several long minutes Aldo was certain the crowd would trample him into the street, leaving a dead and flattened version of himself. Aldo’s mind told him the human stampede lasted only a few minutes, but it felt like days had passed.
“Are you hurt, Capitano?”
A young officer helped him to his feet. Aldo picked up the girl, who continued to wail. Placing a hand on her head, he pulled her close. “I don’t think so.” He looked at the officer and could tell the man had taken a beating. His uniform was torn in several places and covered with dirt. “You?”
“I’m fine, sir.”
Aldo guessed he was lying, being brave for his commander. “Take the girl.” The man did.
Turning slowly, Aldo took in the scene. It looked like a battlefield. Wounded people lay on the grass, the sidewalks, and in the streets. As he walked past the wounded, he pulled the radio from his belt. He didn’t want to walk this direction but knew he had too.
Broken bodies gave way to burned and dismembered ones.
Aldo paused long enough to vomit.
“WE SHOULD CLOSE THE gate.”
Lorenzo stared at the Naples police officer. The man was right. They had just received a report that a large crowd was headed their way. He glanced at the open maw that led to the hotel’s underground parking, then hesitated.
“Sir?”
The flower van emerged, driving slowly, and pulled up the ramp.
“Of course. Close the security gate.”
The officer raced to the opening while Lorenzo opened the barricade to let the van pass. He refused to look inside.
In the distance the ululations of fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars rose skyward along with a tall column of black smoke.
Lorenzo looked up at the tall hotel. “Any moment . . .” He drew his handgun and placed the muzzle next to his right temple.
He thought of his daughter—then pulled the trigger.
“ARE CHRISTIANS SUPPOSED TO do that?”
J. J. looked up and saw Zinsser approaching, then returned his attention to the zipper that ran down the front of Delaram’s maternity dress.
“You shouldn’t be here. It’s unhealthy in this room.”
“So I hear.” Zinsser stepped closer. “I figured you could use some help.”
J. J. gently pulled the zipper down until it reached its stop. “You figured wrong. I’m the demolition guy.”
“Getting a little territorial, aren’t you? I’m the electronics guru.”
“If this goes south, pal, you’re going to be more goo than guru. I can handle this.”
Zinsser stepped behind Delaram and pulled the dress free of her shoulders. He let it drop to the floor. “By the way, who am I undressing?”
“My name is Delaram.” Her voice shook.
“Nice to meet you, Delaram.” Zinsser didn’t offer his name. He stepped around to face her. J. J. had taken a step back. “Is that what I think it is?”
“It’s a good thing Agent Baker didn’t get his way.”
“I take it he wanted to . . .”
“Shoot me in the head?” Delaram said. “I wish he had.”
“If he had,” J. J. said, “we’d all be dead.” It took all the courage he could muster to step forward. Delaram stood straight and unmoving, dressed only in her underwear, the dress she had been wearing puddled at her feet. “I’ll disable the radio receiver first.”
“Sounds good,” Zinsser said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Leave. I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Forget it.” Zinsser pointed at the round vest strapped to Delaram. “What do you see?”
“We don’t have time for questions. Abasi could be about to push the button.”
“Who?”
“Someone Delaram mentioned.” J. J. reached for the radio.
“Hang on a sec. See the wires that run up the shoulder strap?”
J. J. looked up. “I missed that. Tamper mechanism?”
“I don’t think so. They’re attached to the motion detector.”
“Is that true, Delaram?”
“I don’t know. They made me practice putting on the vest, but this time they did things I couldn’t see. They put a bag over my head.”
“I can’t wait any longer. Take off, Zinsser, I may not get this right.”
Zinsser ignored him.
Delaram began to shake, then sway.
Zinsser slipped behind her and wrapped his arms around her. “Get busy, Colt. She’s going to pass out.”
J. J. laid a hand on the receiver. Duct tape held it in place. J. J. removed the tap
e and gently pulled the receiver away. Two insulated copper wires ran from the back and into the bulging vest. “The great thing about plastic explosive is how pliable it is.” J. J. bit his lower lip, grabbed the wires, and yanked.
“We still alive, J. J.?” Zinsser asked.
“So far . . .”
Delaram’s knees gave way and her head rolled to the side. Zinsser grunted. “Put some speed on, J. J.”
J. J. didn’t waste time with words; he turned his attention to the gray box he had determined was the motion detector. Zinsser bent under the dead weight of the woman.
“It looks simple. All I have to do is keep it level as I—” J. J. removed the tape that held the device in place. He saw a small glass tube filled with a yellow bubble, like a carpenter’s level. The bubble was for the user’s information during installation. The real sensors would be electronic—probably a mercury switch.
“You praying, J. J.?”
“Haven’t stopped.”
“Good. God’s more likely to listen to you than me.”
J. J. gently pulled the device away with one hand. Unlike the radio receiver, this device had two long, pointed metal pins protruding from the back. The pins had been pressed into the explosives.
“So far so good.”
“Maybe for you. Can I set her down?”
“No. I don’t trust the designer.” He unbuckled the straps that held the vest to Delaram’s form. “Okay. Let me hold her and you unbuckle the back of the vest.”
J. J. placed a hand on each of Delaram’s arms and squeezed. It was an awkward position and Delaram’s dead weight made her as heavy as a large sack of rocks. It was his turn to grunt.
Zinsser had the vest unbuckled in seconds and slipped it forward, then let it drop. Together they lowered the unconscious woman to the floor. J. J. returned to the vest and checked for any source of ignition he might have missed.
“Can I start breathing again?”
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