Liberty (46 page)

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Authors: Stephen Coonts

BOOK: Liberty
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The president stood, adjusted his trousers and tie. “I've got to talk to the nation. Find those goddamn bombs!”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The president reached for the doorknob, then paused. “I may have been the only elected person in that room a while ago who believes in the American people. Even if these things go off, the American people will endure. The survival of our republic isn't in jeopardy. The terrorists believe it is, but they are wrong.
“It's the survival of
their
way of life that will be on the block. If nuclear weapons explode in American cities,
we are headed straight for World War Three, and all the words in the world won't be able to stop it. The war won't be fought here—it will be fought
over there.
“If you thought the public was outraged after Pearl Harbor and September eleventh, you won't believe what will happen in America if Washington goes up in a mushroom cloud. The American people will elect some implacable bastard who will lead a holy war against Islam. The Romans tore Carthage down and sowed the earth with salt—this will be the twenty-first-century equivalent. Think genocide.”
With that he opened the door and went out.
A stunned nation watched and listened to the address that Thursday evening by the president of the United States. One of the people who heard it on the radio was Dr. Hamid Salami Mabruk, who was now back in the country. He had finished his classes for the day at the university and listened in his pickup on the way to Washington.
As he had predicted to his colleagues when this mission was being planned, the authorities had indeed been watching the cells of militants in Florida. One of the two weapons allocated to the cells had been seized by the FBI. Mabruk suspected the second warhead soon would be.
The success or failure of the entire operation now rested on his shoulders. He had thought that development also probable.
He had his work cut out for him tonight, and he knew it. The bomb had been delivered to the Washington Convention Center in the heart of the city. He had selected the Convention Center after weeks of searching and watching, for several reasons. The site was in the heart of the downtown between the White House and the Capitol, near the FBI's Hoover Building, the Treasury … When the warhead detonated, the explosion would cut out the heart of the American government. Even the buildings not flattened by the fireball, like the Pentagon, would be mere
shells. Secondly, the Convention Center was relatively deserted at night.
He had sent an encrypted e-mail to his contact in the Sword of Islam informing him of his choice, so that the container could be shipped there.
Tonight was Thursday, and tomorrow and through the weekend a trade show was being set up. The cover was perfect. He had credentials—he was William Haddad, an electrical equipment manufacturer from Philadelphia, he was an exhibitor, and he was here tonight to set up his exhibit early. He had already met the security staff, sprinkled twenty-dollar bills around. They were expecting him.
He drove slowly by the Convention Center looking for police cruisers and unmarked cars. Seeing none, he turned around and came back, then parked across the street from the loading dock, which sat behind a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The container was there, backed in against the dock on a truck chassis. The tractor that had delivered it was long gone. Two other containers were parked beside it.
Mabruk used his binoculars to scan the streets and roofs.
He saw no one. He assumed that if the authorities had discovered the weapon in transit, they would have confiscated it. Still, they could be watching the container to see if someone was going to come for it. Or they could be waiting inside.
It was a risk, one he could not avoid. He didn't have the evening to waste watching. He intended to arm the weapon and put it on a timer. He would be long gone, on his way to arm the second weapon in New York, when this one detonated.
He wasn't going to be in New York either, when that one exploded. Unlike the
jihad
soldiers, Dr. Hamid Salami Mabruk had no intention of heading for Paradise anytime soon. He intended to do a lot more damage to the infidels in the years ahead. God willing, he would live to see the Muslim world united under God's banner.
Had he heard the American president's private remarks to Jake Grafton and Sal Molina, Mabruk would have agreed with his assessment of the aftermath of a successful nuclear attack on America. Mabruk, too, thought that these explosions would ignite World War III. Bin Ladin and Dr. Zawahiri were absolutely correct: Nothing less than a world conflagration would force the vast bulk of the Muslim people worldwide to abandon their apathy, to choose sides. The explosions would prove that the infidels were vulnerable, and the wrath of the non-Muslim world would force them to defend themselves.
The possibility that the Muslims might lose the great war to come did not cross his mind. Allah was with them. If the true believers united in
jihad,
the forces of the devil would be defeated in the final war between good and evil. That he knew in the depths of his soul. Even the Christian Bible said so.
He locked the pickup and walked to the exhibitors' entrance of the convention center. The security guard, a black woman wearing a radio in a holster on her belt, looked at his credentials and searched a document on a clipboard for his name. “You have an early setup approved,” she said. “Got you right here.”
“I have some equipment in my truck,” he said. “How can I get it in?”
“I'll open the gate by the loading dock to let you in. Can you get your stuff in from there?”
“Yes. I would appreciate that.”
“Ten minutes. Let me get someone to stand here for me.” She began talking on her radio. Mabruk walked back to his pickup and drove it to the gate. He turned off the engine and sat waiting. A few people were on the street, but only a few. He heard a far-off siren that wailed for a time and didn't seem to be getting closer. Several jets could be heard, probably flying down the river into Reagan National Airport.
Hamid Mabruk sat calmly, listening and waiting. The
tension was extreme, but the payoff was close. As he sat there he prayed.
The guard appeared eleven long minutes later. She unlocked the padlock, swung the gate open, and he drove through. She locked the gate behind him.
He parked next to the container. “I'll unlock this personnel door and you can use that,” she said as she took a wad of keys from her belt.
“I really appreciate this,” Hamid Mabruk said warmly.
“Glad to help, honey. If there's anything else you need, just ask.” She walked back through the cavernous loading area, her footsteps strangely silent, until she disappeared around a turn.
He was alone.
The overhead door was not locked. He pushed the switch beside the door and it rose slowly, whining a little. He stepped out on the dock and opened the door to the container. This one was packed with boxes full of electrical equipment. Hamid Mabruk allowed himself a tight smile—the container looked exactly as it had when he had sealed it aboard
Olympic Voyager.
He now had a choice to make. Two cables were hidden behind the lower box on the right-hand side, as he stood looking in. Merely moving the box would give him access. If he carried the car batteries in, wired them to these cables using a timer, the whole thing would explode when the timer ran down. Rigging the setup shouldn't take much more than half an hour.
He could set the timer to detonate the weapon in three hours, giving him ample time to get out of the city.
Or he could unload the weapon with a forklift—there were three of them sitting near the door. He could hide it inside the Convention Center behind a pile of boxes, set it to detonate tomorrow, when downtown Washington was full of people. The explosion then would have the largest dramatic impact, might even make it onto television networks around the world. That wouldn't happen if it detonated during the night. Moving the weapon would also
protect it if the container were searched tonight or tomorrow morning.
He walked back through the huge storage bay looking for possible places to put the bomb.
It's a risk, of course,
he admitted to himself.
The truth of it is I feel lucky
.
Jake Grafton found Tommy Carmellini and Anna Modin sitting on the couch with Callie watching television when he returned home that evening.
“I thought you were going to keep her out of sight until the FBI had that new identity ready to go,” Jake said to Carmellini after the greetings, when they went to the kitchen to fix a pot of coffee.
“Well, yeah, but when we heard the news today, I figured I ought to get back here and see if there is anything I can do. Feel pretty useless strolling up and down the beach. And I've gained five pounds.”
“I can see you're porking up. Glad you came back. Callie tell you Toad was in a crash last night in Boston?” Carmellini nodded. Jake continued, “We're down to one Corrigan unit, and it's here in Washington. I just have time for a cup of coffee. They're swinging by in a half hour to pick me up.”
“Mind if I tag along? I haven't seen this thing in action yet.”
“Anyone outside pay any attention to you when you came into the building?”
“No. Everyone in North America is someplace watching television, even the terrorists.”
“Anna should be okay here,” Jake said, as the first of the coffee dripped through. “You two getting along okay?”
“Oh, sure,” said Tommy Carmellini.
“She hasn't been put off by your disgusting personal habits?”
“She hasn't complained.”
“Wonderful. The news here is that Zip Vance has a
new girlfriend. He's stepping out with one of the secretaries.”
“How's Zelda taking it?”
“Don't think she's noticed yet. She's been pretty busy.”
“He needed to get on with his life.”
“Don't we all.” Jake pulled the pot from the coffeemaker and stuck a cup in its place. When it was full he substituted another cup for it and handed the first one to Carmellini. “There's milk in the fridge.”
“Right.”
“So are you and Anna going to get married, or is she going to Europe or Russia when this is over?”
Tommy sipped the coffee experimentally before he answered. “Going somewhere,” he said, meeting Jake's eyes.
“Umm.”
Jake took cups of coffee to the women, then sat with them to drink his. Callie asked how things went that afternoon at the White House, and Jake didn't want to talk about it. The third time he glanced at his watch, she smiled and told him he had better get ready to go. She went with him to the bedroom, where he changed from his uniform into jeans, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes.
“Anna's going to stay here tonight,” he said, “while Tommy comes with me. Should be okay. Keep the doors locked, and if anything sounds or looks suspicious, call nine-one-one, then call me on my cell.” He took an old revolver from his sock drawer, loaded it, and stuck it in his hip pocket.
In the living room Carmellini took off his windbreaker and stripped off the shoulder holster. “Put this thing in your bag and keep it handy.” He explained how to work the pistol. “Just ear the hammer back, point it, and pull the trigger. It'll go bang.”
She held the pistol tightly against her chest with both hands. “These have been the best two weeks of my life,” she said.
He pulled her to him in a fierce hug. “Yeah.”
“So is this the way our lives are going to be?”
“I'm not the one on a mission from God, woman. I'm not going anywhere. You want to stay, just say so. You want to get married, we'll find us a judge.”
She buried her face in his shoulder.
They were standing like that when the Graftons came out of the bedroom.
“Kiss her and let's get outta here,” Jake said as he walked by. Carmellini obeyed the order.
Hoss Baker was a retired navy chief petty officer. He had grown up dirt poor on a worn-out tenant farm in Mississippi and joined the navy to get the hell out. Once out, he never went back. His last tour of duty had been in Washington, so he remained there after he retired. The city had a vibrant black community; he found a job at the Convention Center, and he and his wife fit right in.
Things happened in Washington. Conventions came one after another, the Wizards played at the MCI Center right down the street, there was music, art, political theater … all in all, it was a good town. Beats the living hell out of Mississippi, he thought, and chuckled.
Baker surveyed his little office. He felt pensive tonight, vaguely troubled. No doubt the news on television about the recovered nuclear weapon and the president's address this evening were part of it. He had watched the address before he came to work. God knows America had its troubles—every black man knew it was a damned long way from perfect—but the fact that there were people out there who wished to destroy all of it, the good as well as the bad, seemed somehow obscene.
Tonight his small, well-lit room seemed a safe sanctuary. The desk was oak, given to him by his son, who was a lawyer here in town. He liked the solidity of it, the smooth, grainy feel of the wood, the inherent strength.
On the wall were photos of him with some of the celebrities and politicians whom he had met while working here, as well as a photo of an admiral pinning a Navy
Commendation Medal on his shirt. He had been younger then, and skinnier.
He stood, adjusted his trousers and his pistol belt. Then Hoss Baker did something he rarely did—he removed his pistol from the holster and popped the magazine from the handle. He jacked the shell from the chamber and put the pistol on the desk. After thumbing all the cartridges from the magazine onto the desk, he carefully reloaded the magazine. He snapped it back into the pistol, jacked a new shell into the chamber and engaged the safety. Then he lowered the pistol into the holster and carefully put the strap over it, ensured the Velcro catch was engaged.

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