Maybe his mother was right. Maybe he should have joined the Peace Corps after graduation after all. Instead he went to a war zone.
In the end, 9/11 had informed his entire career. After standing so helplessly on the sidelines, he was never satisfied to sit back and wait for the story to happen; he needed to be there when it did. Three years in Iraq as a war correspondent, dodging bullets and IEDs, had temporarily taken the urge out of him as he had watched friends—both military and reporter alike—lose their lives during the conflict. But after a handful of years back home, his inability to be complacent was once again rearing its ugly head. Too much time watching ridiculous Hollywood A-listers and NFL thugs made him question the purpose of much of the media.
He took a gulp of the bitter, black coffee at his elbow—cold, as it so often was—and brought up his mail for a quick scan of his inbox on the very remote chance someone had answered one of the hundreds of e-mails he’d sent out since yesterday. It was always 97.8 percent junk, but every once in a while there was a diamond in the rough.
His gaze went flat at the top message prompting the latest alert: SecureDrop message for C. McCord. Not a returned e-mail.
He repressed a sigh. He understood the concept of the Washington Post’s SecureDrop service—a completely secure and private means for the public to communicate anonymously with reporters and staff. But it brought out all the crazies, every one of them aspiring to be the next Deep Throat, or more often than not simply complaining about a neighbor who partied too late or some new municipal regulation they opposed.
Setting his teeth, he logged in to the SecureDrop system and opened the anonymous message.
His blood froze as he scanned the message, his eyes moving faster and faster. He made himself stop, turning his head away to stare out the door of his cubicle across the aisle at Glen, one of the sports writers, pecking at his keyboard with two fingers.
You may never deal with something more important than this, McCord told himself. Slow down and get your bearings. He turned back to his monitor, reading the message a second time.
Mr. McCord,
Your employers get it all wrong, sir, when they said the bomb on the National Mall was terrorists work.
Thats just the first grenaid lobbed at a tyranical government by a man whose been crushed too long under its jackboot heal. Im sorry some kids got hurt, but there parents only learn how they hurt others when they lose there own precious brats. I atatched a photo to let you know I know of what I speak. If your interested, talk to me.
Sincerely,
~ Just One Angry David taking down his first Goliath
McCord didn’t know why, but the bomber was talking to him personally. His gaze fixed on the final line of the message and a chill ran down his spine. “His first Goliath.” Not the words of a man who felt his mission was complete, but the words of a man who is just beginning his reign of terror.
“I atatched a photo.” McCord opened the JPG file attached to the message.
For a moment he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. It was an aerial view of a building showing a flat gray roof with several protruding structures. Centered below the camera was a rectangular void, a fuzzy grid pattern far beneath disappearing into the gloom of shadows at the edges.
Like a poleaxe to the gut, McCord realized he was looking at the Whitten Building from above—the drone hovered over the courtyard skylight, only seconds before dropping into the sheltered space and detonating the bomb it carried, killing people in the surrounding offices and maiming children in the atrium below. He imagined people at the windows, looking up from their desks and daily grinds to see a drone hovering at eye level, not realizing they were staring into their own mortality. Just before the blinding blast. Then nothing ever again.
The pointer he slid over the printer icon shook slightly as he printed the message and the photo. His hand froze, suspended, over his printer momentarily. Not indecisive, just knowing everything would change the moment he touched that printout.
This was his chance to help. To make a difference, because the war zone had come home.
He snatched the papers off the printer with a sweaty hand, sprang from his desk chair, and sprinted down the line of newsroom cubicles.
McCord didn’t even take the time to knock on the door, but wrenched it open and took two steps inside before stopping dead. His boss and editor, Martin Sykes, froze with his Washington Capitals mug halfway to his mouth, his eyes narrowing on the open doorway. “In a meeting, McCord.” He ended the growl with a head tip toward the leggy blonde in the chair opposite his desk.
“So I see. Sorry. This can’t wait.” When Sykes’s eyes slitted further, McCord extended the printout. “The bomber contacted me.”
Narrowed eyes shot wide. “The Whitten Building?”
“Yes.”
Sykes shot out a hand, his fingers reaching. “Julie, we’ll have to continue this later.” He snatched the papers and didn’t even look up when the door shut behind the woman. She was already forgotten.
McCord paced to the window to look out across K Street at the sunbathed footpaths and fountain in Franklin Square. Behind him, Sykes was absolutely silent as he read; McCord swore he wasn’t even breathing.
Sykes finally broke the silence. “He’s going to do it again.”
McCord turned from the brilliant daylight, back into the gloom of the darkened office and the message contained there that seemed to increase that darkness. “I know. There’s no doubt it’s him. The picture proves it’s legit.”
“Unless it’s just some schmuck looking to co-opt attention by using a satellite overview of the building with Google Maps.”
“I thought of that already. He couldn’t do it with that level of clarity. Whatever took that picture was close enough for excellent detail. Look closely, you can see right into the courtyard.”
Sykes leaned into the picture, staring intently. Without taking his eyes from it, he opened one of his side drawers and rummaged through it with one hand, only glancing over quickly when he didn’t immediately find what he wanted. He pulled out a magnifying glass and held it over the photo, studying it intently. “Shit.”
“What?”
Sykes handed him both photo and glass. “Look at the windows.”
McCord held the magnifying glass over the photo, focusing in on the windows, scanning along the row. His stomach rolled when he saw it—the form of a person, standing at the glass, looking up into the sky above the courtyard. He echoed his editor’s curse.
“Yeah. I bet that person didn’t make it.”
“Not that close to the blast, and in front of a pane of glass.” McCord put the photo and magnifying glass down on Sykes’s desk, pushing them away, needing some distance from the horror that remained trapped in his mind anyway. “We can’t assume that other papers got this message as well. We need to contact the FBI and pass it along.”
“Of course we do. Doesn’t mean we have to like it though.”
“You think they won’t let us publish it?”
“There’s always that chance.”
“But we’re acting in good faith bringing it to them.”
“True, but if they feel releasing it will compromise their case, they’ll slap a gag order on us so hard it’ll make your head spin.”
“Unless broadcasting this message helps them.”
Sykes leaned back in his desk chair, steepling his hands and tapping his fingers together as he considered McCord over them. “Like the Unabomber in ninety-five.”
“Right. The New York Times received his manifesto stating that the killings would stop once it was published. And what does the FBI do? Agree to publish it in case anyone recognizes the views and the writing style in the manifesto.”
“We publish it along with the Times and what do you know? The guy’s own brother identifies him from the writing and turns him in to the FBI. All we need to do is remind them of that and it falls back to us.” Sykes drilled an index finger at McCord. “Good think
ing.”
“Just trying to steer it back to us with as little hassle as possible. We know we have to take it to the FBI, but do we need to clear this with the brass?”
“It’s simply a technicality, but imagine the hell to pay if we didn’t. Remember, they like to think they’re in charge, even when they aren’t. As far as getting to the FBI quickly, I have a contact who will make sure this goes right to the director. We’ll have his full attention because this has to be top priority for them today.”
“After seeing this letter, they won’t be pursuing any other cases for a while.” McCord picked up the printed message and scanned it again. “Why do you think he sent the letter anyway? Besides being a pissed-off son of a bitch, which we already know.”
“No one really knows but the bomber, but after years of working with people and covering stories, I can guess. Call it editor’s intuition. His reaction is overkill and does nothing but build evidence against him, so it indicates some real control issues. Now, assuming he’s only sent it to the Post . . .” A few short mouse clicks and McCord was looking at his own article. Sykes tapped the picture that accompanied the story. “Everyone else had the bare basics along with a distance shot of the Whitten after the bombing and a stock photo from better times. We also had the girl and her dog.”
Over Sykes’s shoulder, McCord considered the woman. Hunched over her dog, her face hidden except for one soot-covered cheek, her dark hair tumbled over her shoulder to drape over her dog’s side. She looked young. Exhausted. Heartbroken. Even at this distance, she seemed diminished by the experience. “We gave the rescue efforts and the surviving victims a face.”
“We also took the attention off whoever did this. Right now, everyone and their uncle is thinking Islamic extremists for this. Including us, because it was proposed as a possibility in your article. But it was a sideline, just a brief thought with no substantiation.” Sykes picked up the letter, scanned it again. “This sounds homegrown to me. Not a single ‘Allhu Akbar’ to be seen. It’s more like a single unhappy guy who’s going to make everyone pay, not some group of jihadists looking to destroy all nonbelievers. If so, everyone is looking at the wrong suspects right now. Far worse, as far as he’s concerned, the public is only looking at the victims and this girl as the face of the rescue effort.”
“The FBI needs this ASAP. They need to refocus their suspect profile before he feels he has to make his point again.”
“Yes, they do.” Sykes picked up his phone and stabbed out a number from memory. “Pauline, I need Allan right away. No, it can’t wait.” He covered the mouthpiece with one hand and looked up at McCord. “Drop whatever else you’re doing today. I want you to follow this angle only. I want you to take it to the FBI personally.” He whipped his hand away from the mouthpiece. “Al, it’s Martin. We have a situation.”
Chapter 6
Consensus Methods: A type of mathematical strategy developed to combine the knowledge and experience of multiple people to define probable search areas.
Wednesday, April 12, 1:54 PM
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, DC
Meg took her usual seat in the conference room beside Brian, Hawk settling at her feet in the long aisle that stretched across the room.
Brian gave her a nod of greeting. “You guys okay?” His gaze cut down to Hawk as he contentedly flopped down beside Lacey and the dogs exchanged friendly sniffs. “You worked a long shift yesterday.”
“Like you didn’t,” Meg replied. “Lacey’s good?”
He gave her a dirty look. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
She flashed him a grin. “You’re always fine. I never worry about you.” She reached down and ran a hand over Lacey’s luxurious brown fur. “It’s our girl here I worry about. You know she tends to push herself too hard.”
“All heart, my girl.” Brian gave Lacey two thumping pats on the ribs that had the dog’s tail whipping cheerfully against his legs. “She was a little dehydrated by the time we finally knocked off, but it was nothing that some extra TLC and a solid night’s rest couldn’t cure.” He slid Meg a sideways glance, keeping his voice low. “Speaking of pushing too hard, did . . . uh . . . did you see today’s Post?”
“I went out of my way to avoid all forms of news this morning. I saw enough yesterday; I don’t need reporters rehashing it for me.”
“Well, you might want to see this.” He picked up the newspaper sitting on the empty seat next to him, unfolded it, and handed it to her. “Page two.”
She stared at him quizzically, her stomach clenching at the tone in his voice that warned of something she wouldn’t like. She took the paper, her gaze skimming over the front page above the fold and a picture of the Whitten Building, surrounded by emergency vehicles and spewing black smoke. She snapped the paper open to page two and froze.
Because she’d taken her helmet off before collapsing on the bench, the photo showed an unmistakable likeness of her and Hawk huddled together in front of the Freer Gallery. Embarrassment crawled through her like lava, the heat of it burning her face. It was a private moment of weakness, displayed for the entire world to see. She closed the paper, groaned, and dropped her forehead into her hand. “I hate reporters. . . .”
Brian slid the paper out from between her lax fingers. “Knew you wouldn’t like it. If it makes you feel any better, you’re not named, but instead are described as a member of the FBI’s K-9 team.”
Her head snapped up. “Who else could it be? It’s clearly not any of the guys. And there’s not enough blond hair and gorgeous curves for that to be Lauren—”
Brian drew back a few inches at her sharp tone. “Hey, that’s enough. You have curves.”
She fixed him with a flat look from under her eyebrows. “Like you’d notice.”
“Just because I’m happily married”—he raised his left hand, wiggling his fingers so the light glinted off the plain gold band he wore—“to the most gorgeous man in DC doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the female form.” He let his gaze run over her with an exaggerated assessing gleam. “And, honey, yours is fine.”
One eyebrow cocked in disbelief. “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you? You had me up until ‘honey.’ ”
Brian laughed and relaxed back in his seat with an easy grace. “I thought that might be pushing it. But seriously, I knew you’d rather hear it from me than see it on TV.”
“It’s on the news?” Her voice rose, the words ending on a guttural groan.
“I caught it on the morning report before I even opened the paper.” When her eyes shot daggers at him, Brian patted her hand. “Don’t stress about it.”
“Don’t stress?” Meg dropped her head into her hands. “It makes me look weak,” she mumbled through her fingers.
“It does not.” The anger in Brian’s voice caught her off guard, and she looked up into green eyes snapping with temper. “It makes you look human. You held in there when you needed to, ignoring the horror while you did what was necessary. How you deal off-site and off the clock with the stress and grief is up to you. And there are no wrong ways. Personally, I went home and split a bottle of red wine with Ryan and got comfortably tipsy.” He tapped the paper sharply with an index finger. “What I don’t like is this was a private moment and someone intruded on it.”
Her arms dropped to dangle loosely from the armrest as if too exhausted for any more effort. “I’m afraid to see the caption.”
“Actually, it’s not bad. Heroic, exhausted rescue worker and her heroic, exhausted dog yada yada. Hawk couldn’t have been a better ambassador for us, though. No mistaking the FBI vest.”
“That’s not going to make the bomber happy. This kind of guy wants the attention on him. Not on the vics, not on the rescuers, and not on a dog. So what’s he going to do to get our attention back?”
“I’m sure the Powers That Be have seen this and are already wondering the same thing. If this briefing ever starts, they might even tell us.”
Meg
scanned the room. While they’d been talking the room had rapidly filled and now there were very few empty chairs.
She glanced back at Brian. “Have we heard anything from Greg yet?” Greg Patrick was the ex-army explosives expert who’d given up working with bombs to train and handle dogs that could find the tiniest trace of them.
“Not as far as I know. He and Ryder are over at the Whitten Building with Cheryl and Auria, but I don’t think they’ve had enough time to report anything yet.”
Meg glanced quickly at her watch. Two o’clock. “You’re right. It’s too early. They couldn’t even get in until this morning when the rescue operation shut down. Sifting for bomb fragments in all that debris is going to take some serious time.”
“Even when they find the fragments, there’ll be all the residue testing, and you know they’ll try for prints,” Brian said. “It’s unlikely, but they might pick something up. But serious time either way.”
The side door opened again and Lauren and Rocco jogged through, followed by the last stragglers.
“Hey.” Lauren dropped into the chair on the other side of Meg. “Thought I’d be late, but it looks like Director Clarkson isn’t here yet.”
Brian leaned around Meg. “You think Clarkson is going to show up?”
“I’d be surprised if he didn’t. You watch, but with the secretary of Agriculture in the hospital, I bet the president is looking for answers and he’s going to go straight for Clarkson. Which means Clarkson will be coming straight for us.”
As if on cue, a door opened near the front of the briefing room and a tall man with neatly cut dark hair, wearing a navy suit, entered the room. He didn’t call for order, but his very presence settled the buzz of conversation into an attentive hush as he moved directly to the podium. “Thank you all for attending on short notice. I know some of you have been called in from out of town and some have been working all night. We’ll try to keep this as succinct and to the point as possible.
Lone Wolf Page 5