Inside Threat (36 page)

Friday, September 16, 11:50 a.m. EDT

It had been a night filled with blueprints, debates, and lukewarm coffee. The smell in the truck had taken on the sharp odor of tense perspiration, and the door was now kept open in the futile hopes of allowing some fresh air to mellow the funk. Everyone was on edge.

After seeing the execution of Senator Andrews, the president had finally given the go-ahead for a rescue attempt. “How much of that is because he thinks it's the right thing, how much is that the public is crying out for something to be done, and how much is him trying to keep this from turning into a multinational incident?” Scott wondered aloud to Riley.

“Whatever his motives, at least we're finally going to do something.”

The rescue was scheduled for eleven tonight. However, the strategy for the planned attack was in flux again. The initial operation involved four teams of twelve stealthily entering the cathedral through the crypt-level windows on the north and south sides of the building. Once they were in position, helicopters would drop into place above the high-peaked roof. On the go signal, the four teams would ascend the eastern stairway and begin the attack, while from the helicopters, two more assault teams would make their descent on zip lines through the high stained glass windows to the nave below.

Scott wasn't fully comfortable with the plan. There were so many holes and unknowns. His hope was that he could use these next eleven hours to fill some of those holes and answer some of those unknowns.

One of the night's few moments of levity had occurred when an observer from the National Register of Historic Places—part of the National Park Service—had raised a stink about the planned assault. Against everyone's protests, he had been forced into the truck by the secretary of the interior to ensure that the integrity of this national treasure would be maintained. Riley had watched the look on this man's face grow from shock to horror to rage as he grasped the details of the planned assault.

Finally, he could hold his tongue no more. “Objection,” he had cried. “Those windows are priceless. Works of art one and all. Why, Rowan LeCompte himself designed more than forty of them! There's even a moon rock embedded in one—a genuine, from-the-moon, moon rock! And you're going to just come crashing through them? No, sir! Not on my watch! I'm afraid I have to veto this plan.”

There was a barely controlled silence in the truck while everyone tried to determine whether Stanley Porter was going to verbally assail the man or just pull out his gun and shoot him.

When Porter finally spoke, it was with a calmness that belied the coloring of his face. “I appreciate your input, as ignorant and misguided as it may be. And I, too, think I'll throw my veto into the mix. But rather than vetoing this plan, which truly has significant merit, I think I'll veto you.”

He nodded to Scott, who nodded to Skeeter, who lifted the observer off the ground by his belt and collar and launched him out into the night air. Fifteen minutes later, Porter dealt handily with an angry protest call from the secretary of the interior.

The situation had ultimately ended quite unsatisfactorily for all involved in the assault when the vice president himself had called and said that the president hoped that, if at all possible, an alternative entry point could be made into the cathedral. Porter had cursed again, and the helicopter assault had been shelved.

Now Riley shifted with impatience. Scott was on the phone with whoever had taken the lead in the explosives analysis. If he heard the right word, the go light on tonight's assault would turn from yellow to green. If he didn't, it was back to square one.

The whole truck was silent as Scott listened through his recently restored earpiece. “You're sure? . . . Okay, now I'm going to repeat this back to you just for one last confirmation. The devices are electronically based. They are battery operated. They are triggered by remote device. There is most likely a manual trigger. There is most likely a tampering trigger. Any issues with what I've said? . . .” Scott turned to Riley and gave a thumbs-up.

“You guys are awesome,” he continued. “Oh yeah, one last thing—did you guys recover the note that Bryson read? . . . Impressive. What did it say? . . . Just ‘Boom'? One word; nothing else? . . . Man, that's cold! Hey, again, you guys are awesome. Go take yourselves out to a steak dinner and charge it to Homeland Security.” Porter cleared his throat. “Sorry, dude, I meant National Park Service, Department of Interior. . . . Of course, I'll sign the PO. Just send it my way. Later.”

“So?” Porter asked as soon as Scott hung up.

“We're go with the HERF. According to these guys, it should take the vests completely out of the equation.”

HERF, Riley knew from his research on electromagnetic-pulse weapons, was an acronym for High-Energy Radio Frequency. This still-developing science used high-intensity radio waves to fry electronics on a small scale much the same as an EMP weapon did on a large scale. The nation was still recovering from the EMP that had been detonated over New York just two years earlier. A pulse from a HERF device would be much smaller but still theoretically able to not only take out all the remote devices but disable the bombs themselves.

“So we're go at 2300?” Porter asked, looking at the men surrounding the table.

“Go,” FBI Director Castillo said.

“Go,” MPDC Chief Sprecker said.

“Go,” Secret Service Head LeBlanc said.

Porter looked at Scott, who said, “You're the queen bee; I'm just a worker. It's your call.”

Porter shook his head. “I'm looking at you for a reason, Scott. I trust your opinion on this far more than any of the rest of these schmucks because I know that your answer will be the only one that's absolutely, 100 percent free of any politics. So what'll it be?”

“Go.”

“Then it's a go. 2300. Let's nail down the final details of the operation; then you can go get your teams ready. The Defense Department already has a HERF on its way here. ETA . . .”

“1400 hours,” Scott said. “I really wish we could launch sooner, but sunlight is just too big a risk.”

“Agreed,” Porter said.

“Signal's gone live,” a tech called out.

Oh no,
Riley thought with fearful anticipation.
Please don't let it be her!

As before, Saifullah stood in the center of the screen flanked by his two executioners. Senate Minority Leader Bill Evert knelt in front. Relief flooded Riley's body when he saw who it was, and he hated himself for feeling that way.

“Greetings on this second day of Ramadan,” Saifullah said. Then, closing his eyes and lifting his hands to heaven, he prayed, “Allah, on this day, take me closer toward your pleasure, keep me away from your anger and punishment, and grant me the opportunity to recite your verses of the Koran, by your mercy, O most Merciful God.”

Turning back to the camera, he said, “Ramadan is a time for purification and a time for commitment. It is a time to examine ourselves and look for where we have allowed sin to have a foothold in our lives. Let me encourage you this day to purge yourself of all that is keeping you from drawing closer to Allah. As the Prophet—peace be upon him—has written in the holy book, ‘Indeed, Allah loves those who are constantly repentant and loves those who purify themselves.'

“And as you take the opportunity to purify yourselves, let us take the opportunity to help purify this nation. There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet.”

Riley watched as Saifullah stepped off screen, and the men in black stepped forward. It all had a nightmarish déjà vu feel to it—second verse, same as the first. But there was one major difference this time, something that was clearly evident to all who watched. Whereas Andrews had been sobbing and begging for mercy, Evert's face was hard and his eyes were steel.

The man on the left grabbed a handful of Evert's hair, and the second man held the paper in front of his face. The senator gritted his teeth at the pain.

“Read it,” he commanded.

Evert remained silent.

“Read it,” he said again, this time with a blow to the head.

Still Evert kept his mouth closed.

Riley was fascinated by this standoff. How long could he last? Would he break? He found himself rooting for Evert, even though he was a hopeless underdog.

The second man seemed unsure what to do, and he looked at his partner.

“Read it now,” the first one said. He yanked up on Evert's hair and drove his fist repeatedly into the side of the senator's head. The second man joined in.

Watching it was a helplessly surreal feeling for Riley. It was hard to grasp that this was actually taking place no more than a hundred yards from where he stood yet there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

“Stop it already!” Sprecker shouted out. Riley glanced at him and saw the anguish on his face.

When the first man finally let go of Evert, the senator fell to the ground. Reaching down, the executioner grabbed his hair again and lifted him up. Blood was streaming out of Evert's nose and from a long gash down his right cheek. No longer was there hardness in his face.

“Stay strong,” Riley said under his breath. “Finish well, buddy.”

“Are you ready to read the statement now?”

Evert nodded, defeated.

The second man held the paper in front of his face.

Evert took a deep breath, then rapidly began singing in a strong, trained tenor voice, “‘God bless America, land that I love . . .'”

With quick movements, the first man whipped out his knife.

“. . . Stand beside her, and—”

The rest of the song was lost as the blade opened the senator's trachea.

“No,” Porter cried out, shouting loudest among the many verbal reactions in the truck. He turned away from the screen and cinched his hands together behind his head. “What is wrong with these people? They're savages, pure and simple!”

Porter's outburst helped to drown out some of the sounds that were coming from the scene in the cathedral. But they couldn't mask the visuals. What Riley saw turned his stomach. Such raw, animal cruelty.

Oh, God, repay these men for what they're doing! Let them feel the full extent of Your wrath! I know You say to love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you . . . Sorry, Lord, I just can't right now. I have absolutely zero love for any of them, and my only prayer is that they burn in hell for eternity.

Finally, the head separated and the body fell. The executioner placed Evert's head in the small of the corpse's back facing the camera. The men in black walked off camera.

Riley turned away. He needed to get outside; it seemed like hours since he'd breathed fresh air. But as he reached the door, a voice stopped him. It was Saifullah's. He was back on the screen.

“Allah is a merciful God, but he is also a just God. Righteousness breeds peace, but sin breeds punishment. And the greatest punishment is reserved for those who commit the greatest sins—like the sins of betrayal of Allah and apostasy.

“The Prophet—peace be upon him—has written, ‘O you who have believed, do not betray Allah and the Messenger or betray your trusts while you know the consequence.' Let me show you what the face of betrayal looks like.”

Saifullah nodded offscreen, and a man walked in. He was leading Khadi.

“No!” Riley yelled. Khadi barely looked like herself—her face was swollen and one eye had half closed. Her hair was frizzed out in some places and matted down in others. But what frightened Riley most—the thing that sent his heart plummeting—was that the fire was gone from her eyes. The fire, the vibrancy, the sparkle that made her stand out from all the other women he had ever known; they had stolen it from her, beaten it out of her. What stood on that screen was not Khadi; it was simply her shell.

“We've got to go now,” Riley demanded. “We can't wait for tonight! We've got to go now!”

“Shut up, you fool,” Porter yelled. “He's still talking.”

Riley spun to face Porter, but Skeeter quickly moved up behind him and took hold of both his shoulders. He squeezed them tightly, and said calmly, “Just listen, Pach.”

“. . . this afternoon. Then you will see the just punishment of those who betray Allah.”

The screen went black.

“What about Khadi? What did he say?”

The truck was silent.

Riley turned to Scott. “Tell me, Scott! What did he say?”

Through water-filled eyes, Scott said, “Pach, man . . . He said that the punishment for the betrayer is the blade.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose hard. The handkerchief went back into his pocket, and Scott breathed in deeply and huffed it out. When he lifted his eyes back to Riley, all the sorrow was gone—replaced by pure rage. “It's her turn, Riley. One hour from now, at one o'clock, it's Khadi's turn.”