Collateral Damage

by P A Duncan

  She sat at her desk, eyes on the denuded cork board and “seeing” the pictures she’d once pinned on it. She saw John Carroll, as solid as if he stood here. At some point, she’d pinned a map of the United States and used push pins to show every place she knew Carroll had been since his birth.

  A life reduced to colorful pins and gaping holes in the layout.

  She didn’t know him as well as she thought. He’d never been near where she lived. Or had he? Had he come to a gun show here? Visited an Army buddy here? Gone to a militia meeting?

  Where the fuck are you today?

  Mai looked for a pattern among the pins, wanted a huge, fucking arrow to point to where he would deliver a multi-ton bomb.

  John Carroll liked guns, science fiction, his country, and Siobhan Dochartaigh. He was smart, witty, paranoid, misled.

  Too simplistic. He’d shown himself to be far more complex. That was her cardinal error. She’d underestimated a man who should have been an easy recruit. She used him to hide her ambivalent feelings about her work.

  No, her marriage.

  Even simpler. She didn’t like it when things didn’t go her way. The mission had never been cut and dried, and how many would pay with their lives for her overconfidence?

  Stop the self-indulgence, she told herself. She had seventy-two hours left to figure this out. Impossibility was unacceptable.

  Normality lay beyond the office door. All she had to do was open it. But the dry bar was here, where several bottles of Jameson remained. Here, inside her world of mad bombers and reactionary patriots, was her work, and work had defined her for more than half her life.

  An easy choice.

  She turned back to the computer and accessed The Directorate’s secure network. She selected all John Carroll’s voice mail messages and set them to play on a continuous loop. She began to read, yet again, every bit of intel she’d gathered. Propped on her desk was her only remaining photo of Carroll. Yes, she’d lied to Alexei about archiving everything. Taken where she’d first seen Carroll, at Killeen, seated on the bonnet of his car, empty eyes staring at her. His voice over the sound system made it seem he was in the room with her, as if he stood at her shoulder and said, “It’s all here, Siobhan. You’re missing it.”

  “Missing what?”

  “You know what. You’ll figure it out. I gave you plenty of clues.”

  And now she was talking to herself. A new fifth of Jameson would put a stop to that. She went to the dry bar, unable to miss the outside world beyond the office windows. A beautiful spring day.

  Unimportant. She broke the seal on the bottle of whiskey and looked at the computer.

  From the beginning. Again.

  32

  Worse Remains Behind

  Somewhere

  April 18, 1995

  With a soldier’s eye, Carroll checked the approaches to where he’d parked the truck. He hoped no one would be off-roading or fishing in the park on a damp, drizzly day like this. If someone came by, he had an excuse ready. The Army had transferred him out west. His wife had gone ahead with the kids, and he was following with their household goods. He had no money for a hotel, so he’d pulled in here to sleep in the truck. He’d rehearsed that, to be convincing.

  The possibility of a park ranger stopping by bothered him. He didn’t want to shoot a cop. He’d yes-sir and no-sir the cop and move on to the secondary location Prophet had selected.

  If the cop insisted on looking in the back of the truck…

  No, he wouldn’t think about that.

  At the sound of an approaching vehicle, he slipped behind the truck for cover. A late model sedan. Carroll looked at his watch. Oh-six-hundred. Had to be Prophet.

  When Prophet emerged from the car, Carroll left his hiding place.

  “Despite that God-awful yellow color, it’s hard to see from the road,” Prophet said. “I don’t see Parker or Duval.”

  “You know Jerry helped on Sunday. Duval’s wife hasn’t had her baby. Before you get all angry, I’ll take care of it afterward. We don’t need him. You said we’d have subject matter experts.”

  “I’m not surprised your spineless friends backed out. Yes, consultants are coming. With luck, they’ll do all the work. Nothing against you, J.T. Your research has been meticulous, but having someone who’s done this before build it is important.”

  “That sets my mind at ease.”

  “You don’t get to be any less committed.”

  “Prophet, you don’t need to worry about that.”

  “You’ve got to be committed enough to manually detonate. I need to know you can do that.”

  “I’ve had nightmares about that, but I’ll see it through.”

  Carroll prayed Prophet’s consultants would do their job. If Carroll didn’t survive, Prophet would slaughter Jerry and Lamar’s families. He couldn’t let that happen.

  “Yahweh made a good choice in you,” Prophet said.

  Carroll heard Siobhan in his head: “If this is so fecking important, why doesn’t he do it himself?”

  No doubts or distractions today. The long road to the appointed place and time was almost at an end. After, he’d focus on Siobhan.

  Another vehicle approached, and Carroll again hid behind the cargo section. The vehicle stopped close to the truck, and Carroll heard whispering. Something about the voices troubled him. He crept toward the front of the truck and peered between the cab and the cargo section. He saw a small pickup. Prophet and two men in fishing garb talked. The two men spoke Arabic, and Prophet responded in the same language. Carroll recognized the language, even knew a few words, from his time in the Gulf.

  For a moment, he thought the dead Iraqis were here in the flesh.

  How could Prophet speak Arabic so well?

  Carroll remembered one of the many hate-filled sermons he’d heard when he’d spent time at Patriot City. Prophet had been a prisoner during the Gulf War. Again, Siobhan’s voice filled his head. “What if he’s fooling you, lad? What if this isn’t about patriotism at all? What if the Iraqis made him theirs?”

  Movement toward the rear of the truck drew Carroll’s attention. He came around the truck to meet them. The two Arabs barely glanced at Carroll, opened the sliding door, and climbed inside.

  “These guys are okay?” Carroll whispered to Prophet.

  “I don’t like working with them, maybe more than you. Remember, I was a prisoner of the Iraqi army, but we need their expertise.”

  “Ah, lad, he’s leading you on,” Siobhan said. He shook his head.

  “What?” Prophet said.

  “Nothing. Eager to get on with it.”

  After finishing their inspection, the two men hopped down from the truck. The taller one looked at Prophet. “The supplies are adequate,” he said, his English good. “We should have no problem with construction.” The shorter man said something in Arabic to his companion, and the tall man smiled. “My friend wants to know your plan of action. Please don’t be insulted. He’s planned many successful operations in Israel, Lebanon, and Chechnya.”

  “Of course,” Prophet said. “My associate here has done most of the on-site planning.”

  Carroll blinked. The tall man’s face disconcerted him. “Uh, yeah. Are you familiar with the building?”

  “Yes! An excellent choice.”

  “My father’s choice,” Prophet said.

  “The building has a parking area on the east side,” Carroll said, “for delivery trucks. The drivers have to exit to go to the guard station and check in. So parking and exiting the truck won’t be an issue. That side is where the ATF, IRS, and FBI offices are located.”

  The tall man translated for his companion. The shorter man said something, and both men looked at Carroll with admiration.

  “Allahu ackbar, you’re going to be a martyr,” the tall one said.

  “No offense, but hell no. I’m going to park, light the fuse, and get the hell out of there.”

  The tall man’s smile became a sneer as he t
ranslated for the other. “That’s too bad my friend says. Paradise has many virgins.”

  “I’m more interested in women here on earth.”

  The two men exchanged another look, disapproval this time.

  “Ah, yes. You said fuse. You should have a primary and a backup. You have more than enough detonator cord to run the fuses from the truck into the cab.”

  “They’ll be seen.”

  The tall man’s smile was indulgent. “You thread the detonator cord through clear, plastic tubing to protect it from road debris, moisture, etc. You spray-paint the tubing to match the truck’s color.”

  “I don’t have plastic tubing or spray paint.”

  “We brought everything. As I said, my friend has planned many successful operations.”

  “How do you get the fuses into the cab?”

  “We drill holes in the front of the cargo section and the back of the cab. We brought the tools for that as well. Two fuses—five minutes and two minutes.”

  Carroll’s mouth went dry. “What if they both go out?”

  The question stunned the tall man, who spoke to his companion. The tall man translated his answer.

  “My friend says, Allah be praised, this has never happened for a device he’s constructed. How will you be getting away?”

  “I have a car in place.”

  The man spoke to his companion again, whose eyes widened in astonishment. His hands flailed about as he spoke, and the tall man had to calm him.

  The shorter man jogged to the pickup and returned with a map. He unfolded it to the target’s location. The tall man said to Carroll, “Please show us where your car is.”

  Carroll took the map, oriented himself, and pointed. “Here.”

  “What if the authorities tow it?”

  “I left a note with an excuse to explain why it’s there. It’s out of the way, not blocking anything. No reason for anyone to tow it.”

  “My friend says it’s too close. One operation, the person could not escape when the explosion damaged the getaway car.”

  “No, it’s good. There’s a building between it and where the truck will be.”

  “Yes, but in an explosion like this, much debris rises into the air. What goes up, inshallah, must come down. Debris could go over this building and fall on your vehicle.”

  “Well, no time to move it now. I’ll have to take the chance.”

  The shorter man spoke again, calm this time, his friend nodding. “My friend and I can be in place before you arrive,” the tall man said. “Do you have a spare car key?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “We’ll move it to a safer location.”

  The shorter man studied the map and pointed to another spot.

  Carroll would have to hustle more to get there before the blow, but he saw plenty of buildings on the route. Protection. He dug his key ring from his pocket and worked the spare key free.

  “After you move it, leave the key under the driver side mat. Lock the doors manually.”

  “Of course. Describe the car.”

  Carroll did so, and after another translation, the shorter man nodded. Anticipation made John Carroll’s hands quiver. “All right. Let’s get this done.”

  “Do you have a change of clothes?” the tall man asked.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “This is, of course, messy, which means incriminating. We’ll take your clothes, the empty fertilizer bags, any leftover supplies, and dispose of them. Nothing is on you or with you as evidence. We also brought gloves, allergy masks, ear plugs. If, Allah forbid, you are captured and they swab your hands or inside your nose or ears, nothing will suggest a bomb.”

  “You seem to have thought of everything,” Carroll said.

  The tall man laid his hand over his heart. “It’s our honor.”

  During the discussion, Prophet had wandered away to lean against his car. Again, Siobhan’s voice sounded in Carroll’s head: “He’s so fecking relaxed, but, then, lad, he won’t be around when the whole thing goes arseways, will he?”

  Carroll’s stomach had been upset for days and clenched in a cramp, but he ignored it. “Okay, I say again. Let’s do this.”

  “God is great,” Prophet said.

  “Allahu ackbar!” both Arabs said.

  Carroll tasted vomit at the back of his throat and swallowed. He donned the gloves, mask, and ear plugs the tall Arab gave him, climbed into the rear of the Ryder truck, and opened bags of fertilizer.

  33

  Distractions

  Mount Vernon, Virginia

  April 18, 1995

  Alexei settled his suit jacket onto his shoulders, shot his cuffs, and checked his appearance. Good fit, as always. He was ready; now to get Mai moving.

  She sat in her underwear on the bedroom sofa, staring out the windows at the flowing Potomac. A bottle of Jameson and a glass were within reach, as they’d been for the past month.

  Alexei had indulged her search for John Carroll’s elusive target, but that was at an end. Were he a praying man, he would ask for Carroll to overdose on meth or eat his own gun, and tomorrow would be any other day.

  This morning, as Alexei headed for the office to remove Mai, she’d emerged, looking like a wraith. She’d slept most of the day in their bed, and he’d avoided her until it was time to remind her of their obligation to Natalia and the play Natalia was desperate to see. Enough of his Russian upbringing remained to allow him to accept whatever might happen tomorrow as fate. The control had been in Mai’s hands in a motel in Kingman four months ago, and she’d thrown it away for sentimentality.

  He walked to stand in front of her, blocking her view. Her eyes, glassy from the whiskey, met his, and he spoke before she could give voice to the challenge he saw in them.

  “I like that outfit,” he said, “but I doubt they’ll let us in the Kennedy Center. The play is at twenty-thirty. Dinner reservations are at nineteen hundred. It’s now seventeen forty-five. I’m ready, the teenaged terror is ready, and we’re waiting for you.”

  Still holding his eyes, Mai took her glass of whiskey and drained it. She went to the dressing room, where her floor-length dress awaited. Alexei followed and stood in the doorway as a reminder. Mai took the blue-gray, crepe dress with a beaded bodice from the hanger and unzipped it.

  “I’ll suggest again you two go without me,” she said.

  “No. This is family time.”

  She stepped into the dress and put her arms through the sleeves. “Family time? That’s a new one for you.”

  Lips pursed, Alexei zipped her dress. Mai put on the matching shoes and snatched her clutch from the dresser.

  “Mai, no arguing tonight, please. We’re having dinner and seeing a play, as a family. I’ve been looking forward to one night without this mission riding our backs.”

  “And Carroll is moving on his target, which is still a mystery to me.”

  “I want to go out with my wife, not the stranger who’s lived in the office the past few weeks. I don’t want John Carroll along.” She pushed past him, but he caught her arm. “Let me try again. You look beautiful, and I’ll be the luckiest man at the Kennedy Center tonight.”

  “I’m only dressed like a bimbo. No need to think me shallow.”

  “You have depths I’ll never plumb.”

  Her eyes became slits. “We’re going out, and we’re going to be happy, or hell to pay. Is that it?”

  “If I thought I could order happiness this house after the last year, I’d have done so by now. Mai, dushenka, I know our ups are always high and few and our lows deep and numerous. I know I’m often the cause of that. I want tonight to be an up for us and Natalia. Please, we need this. You need this. I’ve been worried about you.”

  “Rather, my obsessiveness.”

  “About you.”

  Her glare didn’t relent, but she said, “I’m ready for an evening on the town, and you’re wrong. All the women will envy me tonight.”

  He kissed her, happy to have it returned. Tha
t was promising, and he’d take advantage of it later. Now, the driver and an impatient teenager awaited them.

  John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts

  Washington, D.C.

  The one-night Phantom of the Opera charity performance was a sell-out on a Tuesday evening. While they waited to enter the Opera House, Mai and Alexei sipped bad wine from tiny, plastic glasses at nine dollars a pop. Hawkers pushed tacky Phantom souvenirs, and Natalia was enthralled. Mai waited until Natalia and Alexei were engaged in a discussion over which trinket to buy and drifted outside to the patio.

  The beautiful people of Washington, D.C., swirled around her, laughing, smiling. How many of them would be doing that tomorrow? Could they even anticipate what tomorrow might bring? No. She was the only one here who knew.

  Everything pointed to tomorrow, but she couldn’t figure out where to send the cavalry. Two years ago at Killeen, it seemed as if she had forever to figure John Carroll out. Now, her time had expired.

  The whiskey had left her morose with the realization of her inability to stop one needy man. The scene often replayed in her head: She pulled the trigger, first on Carroll, then on herself. How many times had that thought entered her head? More than anyone knew. Carroll hadn’t killed himself because Siobhan Dochartaigh had given him something to live for. She had nothing keeping her here.

  That wasn’t right.

  She looked over her shoulder and saw Alexei and Natalia, smiling the same smile at each other, looking at each other with the same eyes. Once, the sight of Alexei evoked powerful emotions in her, so powerful she’d decided she had to be with him. Now, only whiskey and mechanical sex moved her. She turned away to watch the sunset.

  Better than nothing.

  When he realized Mai wasn’t at his side, Alexei looked for her. There, on the patio. Her posture was perfect, erect, confident in a way that made her seem taller than her five and a half feet. He loved seeing her in a dress. It made her so womanly. But he’d never tell her that.