Extreme Measures

by Vince Flynn

  “Not going to let that happen,” Nash said to himself as he pounded it out.

  He was on call to go up to the Hill and testify. Kennedy had made it clear there was no way she would allow him to testify in an open hearing. If the Judiciary Committee closed it, they could compel him, but not if it was open. He hadn’t a clue as to how that whole mess was going to turn out, but Rapp seemed extremely confident that it would be fine. For the rest of the run he put together a mental list of things he needed to get done. Some were mundane, like the call he had to make to personnel about the auto-deposit they kept fucking up on one of his overseas operatives, and others were a little more tricky. Like explaining to Rapp and Ridley that he’d allowed Chris Johnson to stay in the field. Rapp probably wouldn’t give a shit but Ridley was likely to pop a bolt.

  When he got back to the house, Maggie was in the kitchen feeding Charlie the gourmet baby food that made his poops smell so bad. He kissed the head of fine blond hair first and then the head of thick black hair.

  “Good morning,” he said as he walked to the sink for a glass of water.

  “Morning,” she replied, without any warmth.

  “How’d you sleep?”

  “Like crap. How about you?”

  “Surprisingly well.” Nash reached for the hand towel to wipe the sweat from his face.

  As Maggie slid a spoonful of food into Charlie’s mouth, she said, “You’d better not be using one of my dish towels to wipe your sweaty face.”

  Nash looked at the back of his wife’s head and wondered how she’d known. He set the towel down and walked around the island. Charlie looked up at him with a gummy smile and a blob of something green at the corner of his mouth. Nash looked at him wildly and mouthed the word Charlie had been so fond of the day before. Charlie’s little feet started dancing and he blurted it out. Maggie groaned and put her head down on the table, defeated by a one-year-old.

  “Nice work, honey,” Nash said as he left the room and headed upstairs for a shower.

  Thirty minutes later he was back downstairs, cleanly shaven and dressed in the gray three-button Joseph Abboud suit his wife had got him for his birthday. Nash sat down at the computer in the office and logged on to his personal e-mail account. There were nine new e-mails since he’d checked it last night. He quickly scanned the From column for Johnson’s name. He frowned that there were none. Nash walked over to the bookcase and grabbed his work BlackBerry. He quickly scrolled through thirty-four messages and again came up empty.

  Nash felt his stress begin to build as he racked his brain to come up with a reason why Johnson would have disregarded the new protocols. He could think of no good reason and a lot of bad ones. Nash knelt down and opened the cupboard door, revealing a safe. He put his thumb on the reader and then opened the safe and retrieved a Motorola phone. Once the unit was powered up, he called Johnson’s apartment. After eight rings, the answering machine came on and he hung up. He then tried his mobile number and again ended up listening to his voice-mail greeting.

  The first pinprick of a headache started in his left temple. Nash put his hand up to his head and pressed down. “Not today, please. Not today.”

  “You all right?”

  Nash looked up and saw his wife in the doorway dressed for work. “Yeah, everything is fine.”

  She looked as if she knew he was full of shit but also knew he more than likely couldn’t talk about it. “Rosy just called. She’s having car trouble, so she’s jumping on the bus. Can you hang out with Charlie until she gets here? I would, but I have a really important client breakfast.”

  A small kernel of apprehension pushed its way into Nash’s thoughts. This was one of those moments in a marriage where something relatively small could blow up into something really big. Nobody liked being wrong, and Maggie had blown it with Rory. And then in her typical stubborn way she’d dug in her heels, and now instead of apologizing for her behavior and putting it behind them, she was throwing out this test. Show me that I’m more important than your job. Show me that you still love me.

  She was hurting in her own very real way from what had happened with Rory. She probably wasn’t feeling like the best mother at the moment. Nash thought quickly about how he could make it work. He’d brought Charlie into work before; the problem would be getting him back to the house and then getting downtown for the hearing that was scheduled to start at 9:30. He realized they would never start on time because half the senators would be late, so he said, “Yeah…I can take him into the office with me, and then drop him back off before I go downtown for the hearing.”

  Maggie’s tense expression melted away and a hint of a smile, not a happy one, but a relieved one, formed on her lips. “Great,” she said. “I’ll get him ready.”

  CHAPTER 55

  ANACOSTIA RIVER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE warehouse looked like something out of an Eastern European country before the fall of the Iron Curtain. More than half of the glass panes were missing from the skylights, and the roof itself was missing small sections. The corrugated metal walls were rusted, dented, and even peeled back in a few spots. Animal droppings dotted the oily concrete and rotted pallets; shredded tires and garbage littered a space approximately half the size of a football field. None of it, however, could cast a pall over Karim’s mood.

  Aabad had returned just before sunrise with the three men who had helped him, just as Karim had ordered. The body of the spy had been stuffed into the trunk of a stolen car, driven to an abandoned lot, and the entire vehicle set ablaze. Karim thanked all of them for their devotion, and then as the first rays of the morning sun began to poke through the dirty and broken windows, he asked them to stay and pray. All thirteen men faced Mecca and knelt on the dirty floor. Karim’s men were not bothered by the filth. They had long ago learned to shut out such things. Aabad and his men, though, were obviously bothered. For a full thirty minutes they prayed, and when they were done, Karim hugged each man and thanked him for his sacrifice, even the three men whom Aabad had brought along.

  He asked to have a word alone with Aabad’s men and led them back toward the door where they had entered. Karim spoke to them for a few minutes, and then without any consultation or warning, he drew his silenced 9mm Glock and shot each of the three helpers in the head.

  Hakim was thunderstruck by the brutality of his friend. He looked around to see if the others shared his reaction, but all he saw were seven men acting as if nothing had happened. Karim had turned them into compassionless robots. Only Aabad was bothered by what had just occurred, but Hakim knew he was too feeble to protest.

  Karim came to them across the open space, carrying with him the smell of gunpowder. He smiled and shook his head in a solemn fashion and said, “That was an unfortunate necessity.”

  Hakim had had enough. “Why?” he blurted out in a confrontational tone.

  “Because,” Karim said taken aback, “they had seen our faces.”

  “And what does that matter?”

  “The CIA will come looking for their agent. We can hardly afford to leave any loose ends.”

  “Loose ends,” Hakim said, as he pointed at the bodies. “Is that what we call believers now?”

  Karim would not allow his upbeat mood to be diminished. “Come now, Hakim, we have discussed this many times. Many have martyred themselves…millions of our brothers…but American Muslims have given nothing. Those three men have martyred themselves and they will be rewarded by Allah. They are on their way to paradise as we speak.”

  They did not martyr themselves, Hakim thought. You martyred them, or more to the point, killed them. He did not say it, for fear of his own life. He looked at his friend’s placid, almost euphoric face and finally realized just how much he had changed over the last year.

  “Come now,” Karim said. “We have much to do. I have decided to move our plan up by two days.”

  This got everyone’s attention. Karim’s men were too well disciplined to question their commander, but Aabad was not. �
�Today?” he asked in an unsteady voice.

  “Yes, today,” Karim said proudly.

  “But I am not ready,” Aabad said with his hands fluttering. “My office needs to be gone through…my apartment…there are final things I must do.”

  “It is out of our hands. The CIA will come looking for their man, and we cannot wait for that. Once they have discovered what has happened, they will raise alarms and our job will become extremely difficult.”

  “But my plane ticket…I am not to leave until tomorrow. What am I going to do?” Aabad was beside himself.

  Karim put a fatherly hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Do not worry. I will take care of you. I want you to go to your apartment right now. Get only what you need. One bag,” he cautioned him, “and come right back here.”

  “But…” Aabad started to say.

  Karim covered his mouth. “Do not argue. This is a direct order. You must do exactly as I tell you. Now go and be fast.” Karim released him.

  With great irritation, Hakim wondered why Karim didn’t simply shoot the imbecile like he shot everyone else. Instead he watched Aabad anxiously hurry toward the door, looking back every few steps. When he stopped at the door, Karim urged him on by repeating his instructions one more time.

  “Now,” Karim said to Hakim as he put a gentle hand on his shoulder, “as you can see, my men are ready. Their martyr vests are all but done.”

  The men had spent much of morning breaking the C-4 into smaller blocks and pressing ball bearings into the malleable explosive and then placing the blocks in vests that they would put on, and if everything went according to plan, die in.

  “Are you sure,” Hakim asked with great concern, “about moving things up?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid by rushing we will make a mistake. A mistake that will cost us.”

  “No,” Karim shook his head. “My men are ready. This is the right decision. Waiting is risky. This…this is seizing an opportunity.”

  “What about the traffic cameras?”

  “I was hoping you could call your man.”

  “Right now?” Hakim asked as he computed the time difference between the Netherlands and Washington.

  “Yes.”

  “I can try,” Hakim said without much confidence. This had been arranged months in advance.

  “You will succeed, my friend. You have always succeeded. That is why, despite your lack of faith, I have allowed you to be part of this great battle.”

  “And if he can’t crash the system?”

  “We will proceed with or without him. Is my message ready?”

  He was referring to the prerecorded message that would be launched across the World Wide Web. A message that proclaimed Karim to be the Lion of al-Qaeda. When Zawahiri saw it, he was likely to have a heart attack. “Your message is ready. He should have no problem releasing it.”

  “Good.”

  “If he cannot crash the system”—Hakim leaned in so none of the others could hear—“you and I need to leave the city this afternoon.”

  “Check with your man first,” Karim said casually. “Allah is on our side. I am confident you will come through for me once more. I have not come all this way to complete half the mission. We will succeed, or we will all die. Am I clear?”

  “So you have changed your mind?” Hakim asked quietly.

  “I have given myself up to my destiny. If Allah wants me to survive, I will survive.”

  What about me? Hakim wanted to ask, but he could see that his friend’s conversion to religious fanatic was finally complete. Hakim had seen the look in the eyes of far too many men in Afghanistan. Men that would stand up under withering American fire, convinced Allah would shroud them in protection. As Hakim looked into the wide, believing eyes of his friend he began for the first time to question why he was involved in this. His participation had been purely logistical. He would help get them into the country. He was to obtain separate financing, and to recruit the hackers that could help them crash the thousands of cameras that monitored the streets of Washington. And lastly he was to get himself and Karim back out of the country. All of this talk of Allah and destiny was suddenly beginning to sound like a suicide mission.

  CHAPTER 56

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  NASH hit the key fob, and the side door of the minivan popped out and rolled back on its own. He sat just behind the two front seats in the middle and then dumped King Charlie into his plush car seat. After wrestling with all the different straps, buckles, and clips, he started the van and began backing out of the driveway with his little, cursing one-year-old yapping it up in the backseat. The National Counterterrorism Center was less than five miles away. Nash had time for one, maybe two phone calls at the most. He thought of calling Rapp or Ridley, but there was no sense in alarming them at this point. They had enough on their minds. There was one obvious choice, and it was Scott Coleman. Nash called him and passed along Johnson’s address and the construction site where he was currently working. Coleman was read in on the program, so Nash did not have to explain to him what was going on. Coleman told him he’d have some answers within the hour.

  At the security checkpoint for the NCTC the guard jokingly asked to see Charlie’s badge. Nash laughed along with the middle-age guard even though he wasn’t in much of a joking mood. After he was cleared and Charlie was given his visitor’s badge, Nash pulled into his spot in the underground garage and freed Charlie from his restraints. With the diaper bag on one arm and Charlie in the other, Nash took the elevator up to the sixth floor and into the bullpen. This was Charlie’s third trip to the National Counterterrorism Center and he’d been out to Langley at least as many times. Usually on Saturday mornings, so he could give Maggie a chance to sleep in.

  By the time Nash reached his assistant’s desk she was on her feet with arms out.

  “Come here, Charlie.”

  Nash handed him over and set the diaper bag down on the side chair. He looked up at the wall of TV screens and asked, “Anything new this morning?”

  Jessica had worked for Nash for three years. She also helped out with two other Langley guys assigned to the NCTC. “That Coast Guard chopper that went down yesterday…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Last night the divers recovered all four crew members. Preliminary report says they all drowned.” She took her finger and rubbed the wattle under Charlie’s chin. “They went back down first thing this morning and found seven bullet holes. Four of them appeared to have pierced the engine compartment. The FBI has a team headed down to verify, but the divers say they were fifty-caliber rounds. Armor-piercing.”

  “And they think it was a drug shipment?”

  “Yep, but there’s only one problem.” Jessica pointed across the floor at a cluster of desks and said, “Alberto from DEA says they rarely shoot at our birds, and he’s never heard of them doing it so close to shore.”

  Nash wondered if the cargo was more than drugs. “Let me know what the FBI finds out.” He looked over at the corner office and asked, “Is Mr. Crabby Pants in?”

  “Yep,” Jessica replied as she gave Charlie a little tickle under the arm. “You’d better leave the kid with me.”

  “He’s in that bad a mood?”

  “No worse than usual.”

  “That’s all right,” Nash said. “I’ll use him as a shield.” He took Charlie back and said, “One more thing. Call the dean of students at Sidwell and find out when he’s meeting with my wife.”

  Jessica frowned. “Shouldn’t I just call Maggie?”

  “No…in fact, tell them you’re checking on her behalf.”

  “What’s going on?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Rory beat up some kid…it’s a complicated story, but the short version is that the little spoiled shit had it coming.”

  Jessica was a mother of two young boys. She understood the program. “Was it on school property?”

  “Yes.”

  “And knowing Sidwell, I’m sure the
y have a zero tolerance policy.”

  “That’s right. And if I know my wife, she’s going to go in there today and kiss some major ass and make this thing go away.”

  “And you’re not invited?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “I’m on it.” She said as she sat and reached for her phone. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  Nash walked over and knocked on Harris’s door. A loud voice told whoever was there to go away. Nash knocked again and then grinned as he heard a slew of curses erupt from the other side.

  As the door started to open, Harris could be heard growling, “What kind of dumb mother…” The last word got stuck in his mouth as soon as he saw the smiling little towhead in Nash’s arms.

  “I need to have a word with you,” Nash said in a grim voice.

  Harris took a step back and motioned for them to come in. As soon as he closed the door, his entire demeanor changed. He rubbed his hands together and then reached out for Charlie, who willingly lunged forward. Harris held him tight and kissed his big pudgy cheeks. “Oh…Sheila is going to be jealous when I tell her you stopped by the office.”

  Nash smiled. Sheila was Harris’s wife, who leapt at the chance to watch Charlie any chance she got. The show Nash and Harris had put on for everybody in the office on Monday had been prearranged. The two worked very hard behind the scenes to share information, and Nash thought it would be best if Harris let everyone in the office believe he was furious over the story in the Post, when in fact he had known about the basics of the operation from the beginning.

  Harris saw Charlie looking at his desk, so he sat down in his chair and said, “I don’t let anyone touch my desk, but you, little buddy, you can touch anything you want. Go ahead.” After a moment he looked up at Nash and said, “What’s wrong? I can see by the way you’re standing there like you need an enema that you’re not having such a good morning.”

  “I’ve got a problem.”