Name of the Devil (23 page)

K
NOLL HURRIES TOWARD
me as I exit the parking garage elevator at Quantico. Something is wrong. “Follow me,” he says, without looking in my direction.

For a moment I panic and think word already got back about my trip to the confessional. It can't be. Nothing works that fast around here.

We take a turn across the Quantico campus toward the recently finished tactical operations building. You would think it was a New England college if it wasn't for all the trainees in FBI sweat suits running around while carrying guns.

The Tactical Operations Facility was previously located in the main building in downtown DC headquarters. It handles live operations around the world.

As we cross the sidewalk, I notice Knoll's eyes darting upward from time to time. I count at least eight men in sniper positions on surrounding rooftops. They're watching the sky.

Damn.

This isn't any drill I'm familiar with.

This is something serious.

An agent in tactical gear holds the door open for us and secures it after we enter. Once we're inside the lobby Knoll turns to me. “We've spotted a small drone flying over the campus. Sharpshooters are preparing to take it down.”

“A drone?”

“A small one. It looks like it's designed for surveillance. It could still be weaponized.”

“Who the hell sends drones over the FBI?”

“Exactly,” replies Knoll. “Could be a prank, but we're taking this very seriously. But we have a bigger problem.”

Bigger than someone penetrating FBI security? I get queasy just thinking about that. “Now what?”

He shakes his head. “Remember when I made the joke about you attracting the crazy types? Follow me.”

We take the elevator to the third floor, clear the security checkpoint and enter the operations theater.

Agents are gathered around a large wall screen displaying a map tracking some kind of trace from parts around the globe. The leader of the group turns to me. With buzzed gray hair and a squat, powerful build, he looks like a SWAT team veteran. “She's here,” he barks into a headset. “Put the audio on the intercom.”

“All right then. Let's get right to the point,” a voice booms over the loudspeaker. I freeze before I even hear him say my name. “Here's a puzzle for Ms. Blackwood and company. Pretend I've placed a half ton of plastic explosives inside an SUV, which is sitting inside a parking garage somewhere in the DC metro area. I'll give you the address in a moment, but you need to know a few things first.”

What the hell did I just walk into? I want to start asking questions, but have to keep my mouth shut. Knoll already knows what I'm thinking and writes something on a pad and shows it to me: “Call came in twenty minutes ago.”

“This is a game,” the speaker continues. “There are rules. Play by the rules and nobody gets hurt. Break the rules and I promise you, people will get killed. The name of this game is ‘Stop me from killing Jessica Blackwood.'”

I exchange glances with Knoll. Other people in the command center watch me from the corners of their eyes.

I feel the blood drain from my face as the nightmare continues. I want to sit down, but can't show weakness. Not here. Not in front of my peers.

“Rule number one: Nobody, and I mean nobody, should approach the vehicle and make me suspect that the bomb squad is about to try to deactivate the bomb. If I see someone act a little suspicious,
boom
. That said, this is a parking garage. People come and go. People doing things that look normal won't set off the bomb.

“Rule number two: If I see you evacuate the occupants of the building
,boom.

“Rule number three: If I see emergency vehicles, police or even hear a whisper of something on the radio,
boom
. You have to assume I'm watching everything.

“Rule number four: I'll let you in on a secret, I've been using a cell sniffer outside Bureau headquarters to listen in on mobile phone identifiers. If my sniffer near the bomb detects an unusual number of cell phones belonging to FBI agents,
boom
.

“Rule number five: This is the most important one of all. If I see Ms. Blackwood anywhere near the location,
boom
. I want you to assume that the goal of the bomb is to kill her. Although, after the bomb explodes, someone claiming to represent a ridiculous militant group will call and take the blame, saying there's no connection. But make no mistake, this purpose of the bomb is to kill Ms. Blackwood.

“So, to play this game right, when the bomb goes off I want to hear on the news you saved the people but she died helping the bomb squad. I need to hear she's dead.

“You have less than four hours. Any questions?”

His voice as calm as steel, a gray-haired agent speaks up. “This is Agent Winstone. To whom am I talking?”

“Call me Boy Scout. But that's not important right now. By my count there are one hundred and twenty-two people in that building. If you accept the rules, I'll give you the address and an unsecured IP for the security cameras in the garage and elevators.”

“If we don't accept?” asks Winstone.

“The bomb
is
going to go off. The question is, who has to die with it. Remember, if I see this on the news, hear a radio dispatch or even suspect this has been leaked,
boom
.”

“This game sounds stupid. Can we negotiate? Can you tell us why?” prods Winstone.

Negotiating a hostage situation is tricky. Winstone is trained how to find someone's weaknesses. Calling the game “stupid” is his way to see what kind of response he can elicit from Boy Scout. A more erratic, scattered mind would take this as a challenge and try to defend himself.

“I'm hanging up,” says Boy Scout, clearly in control.

“We need the address.”

“Do you understand the rules?”

“Yes.”

“2392 Kentucky Avenue.”

“Is there a chance we can negotiate some terms?” He's still matter-of-fact and as cool as ice. In most hostage situations only the negotiator has had prior experience. Winstone has been involved in dozens.

I don't have his nerve right now. It's too personal. I feel dizzy.

“He's off the line,” calls out a tech. “The call came in through an Internet phone service. We'll try to find the origin, but it's not likely.”

A map of the location fills the main screen.

I don't need the map.

I know exactly where it is.

2392 Kentucky Avenue is the address of the apartment building where I live.

Winstone turns to me. “Any idea what this is about?”

I'm still in shock.

The voice was modulated but familiar, very familiar.

Boy Scout is Damian.

S
ECURITY CAMERA FOOTAGE
of my parking garage is now visible on the command-center screen. A Toyota pulls into a space near an SUV and a pregnant woman gets out. We watch her as she struggles with the groceries in her trunk and then waddles to the elevator with her bags. I can't tear my eyes from the screen.

My heart is beating its way through my chest. A pin drop would probably give me a stroke right now.

The elevator door closes and she's gone. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Nothing happens. That's what we were hoping for.

Five minutes later we get a call in the ops center. Winstone has it patched through the loudspeaker. “This is Agent Bancroft,” says the woman we just watched.

“What's the status?” Winstone asks.

“We're hot for EMF. The truck is broadcasting. I repeat, the truck is broadcasting. Backup has picked me up from the lobby. I'm heading to the lab with the sample I got when I brushed up against the truck. The field sniffer says there's a high probability of explosives inside the SUV.”

“Did you get a look inside?”

“Negative. The windows were tinted.”

Dr. Chisholm, the head of behavioral analysis, is ushered into the room by one of Winstone's assistants. Winstone briefs him
on the latest details. Chisholm nods his head slowly, occasionally glancing at me.

Damian was a career liability before. Now . . . I can't even begin to process what I'm thinking. I thought I knew him, the real him.

Finally, Chisholm walks over. “This is rather . . . unexpected behavior.”

“No kidding.” I'm trying to understand why in the world Damian would do this and can't come up with an explanation. I heard what he said, but it just doesn't feel right. Maybe that's the wrong word. Nothing about him is “right.”

“Mad bombers don't usually call you and run through what they'll do in different scenarios and then advise you how to protect the target.” He pauses for a moment and looks directly at me with his analytical gray eyes. He lowers his voice just so I can hear him. “Is this real?”

“If Bancroft thinks there's a bomb in the car, then there's a bomb there.”

“Why?” asks Chisholm.

“I don't know. Damian is insane, but this doesn't make any sense.” There is something about the wording he used. Damian loves his wordplay. He chooses what he says carefully.

“Do you think he'll blow the bomb if he sees you go near it?”

“I don't know. I don't think this is an exercise in reverse psychology, if that's what you mean. The threat is real. I think the conditions are exactly as he stated them.”

Winstone steps over to us. “Any suggestions as to how your boyfriend expects us to pull this off?” I ignore the taunt. I can tell Winstone is on edge. It's a situation you can't prepare for.

This is a fucked-up place to be, and I'm right at the center. I can say Damian's obsession isn't my fault, but I haven't done everything under my power to stop him. And to be honest, if I had, I'd have died back in Mexico or in the caldera of a volcano.

Jesus. When this is over, I need to think seriously about going back to doing magic tricks for a living.

“We have to get the people out without anyone seeing. There are no open cameras in the building itself, just the garage.” I point to an aerial image of the complex in the corner of the screen. “However, assume the streets are being watched. We need to get everyone together and make sure they don't call for help.”

Winstone nods. “I can get a couple dozen people inside the building in the next half hour. We'll drive them in and have them walk in as residents and visitors. We'll use radio silence.”

“No cell phones either,” I remind him. “He was specific about that.”

“We can go door to door and have the building cleared in twenty minutes. But then what? How do we get them out?”

“There's a bus stop at the end of the street. What's the schedule? Can we park a city bus in front of there and just move everyone out?” asks Knoll.

Winstone shakes his head. “He'll be watching for that. It needs to be something more clever. We need a trick.” He turns to me. “That's your department, isn't it?”

“Solving them.” I gesture to the screen. “Not this.” Magic? Hmm, maybe I need to think this through like it's a trick? Is that what Damian wants me to do?

“This is an unconventional situation. We need an unconventional solution.”

Now I remember where I know Winstone from. He was one of the special operations people who rescued me from a similar situation in a Michigan warehouse. Only this time, I'm not the one in danger.

He shrugs dismissively then turns to his head of tactical operations. “We need to move people to the safest part of the building then prepare for an evacuation.”

“The roof? Helo them out?”

“It'll have to be fast.”

I can't believe they're going to do this. “They'll die! The moment a helicopter is spotted the whole building is going to get dropped!”

Winstone jerks back around to face me. His eyes narrow. “You have a better idea?”

It's a fair challenge. “Hold on.” I have to let my mind work on this in the background. “Any word on the drone spotted over the campus?”

Knoll lowers his phone. “Snipers took it out a few minutes ago. The thing was a smoking mess when they pulled it from the trees. We got some still shots of the thing. Big lens on it.”

“What about the cell sniffer?” Winstone glances up from a display.

“It could look like anything,” replies Knoll. “It could just be a plastic rock sending out bursts every twenty minutes.”

I hadn't factored in our campus being under surveillance. “If the bomb was meant for me, then we shouldn't touch it if we find it. It could be set for when I leave the campus.”

“What if you don't leave?” asks Winstone.

“I'm sure the bomb will still go off at some point. He was clear enough on that.”

Winstone gives me a suspicious look and grunts. “For fuck sake, who is this guy?” He's asking if I can be trusted.

Chisholm speaks up. “He's clever. I've been thinking it over. I don't think he wants to kill Agent Blackwood, but I wouldn't assume anything he said is an outright lie.”

He suspects what I do, that there's something more at play here. The one thing I know for certain is that all the people in my apartment building are in danger unless we figure out a way to get them away from the bomb as quickly as possible.

Assuming all the entrances and exits are being watched, which isn't too difficult with readily available fifty-dollar wireless webcams the size of lipstick cases, we have limited options.

A tactical specialist unfolds a large printout of sewer tunnels on the table. He points to a pipe conduit. “We could try to enter through here.”

“Is there access from the building?” Winstone leans over to study the plans.

“No. We'd have to blow a tunnel using a shape charge.”

“They'll know something is up,” I reply. “We can't go digging our own subway tunnels through there. The moment they see us trying that, they'll blow the whole building.”

“You keep saying, ‘they.' Do you believe he's working with someone?” asks Chisholm.

“I don't know any more than you do.” If I try to defend Damian right now in opposition to the facts at hand, they'll lose all respect for me. “And that's not relevant right now. We can't do anything that would suggest we're doing some kind of tactical operation.”

The tactical commander looks up. “We can take over the feed of the cameras and send it to a loop.”

I shake my head. “Any glitch and they'll know. We have to assume they'll be looking for that.”

“Are you sure?” asks Winstone. “It worked before.”

He's referring to my rescue from the Warlock's warehouse. “To be honest, I'm not sure it did. We don't have any room for error.

“We have to assume they're as smart, or smarter, than us. If we can think of a trick, they'll probably already have figured out how to watch for it.”

Knoll points to the garage. “What about loading people up into cars, packing them in, and taking them out that way?”

“All the cameras in the garage are on the same open network,” I reply. “There's one in front of the elevator. They'll see that happening.”

“We're running out of time,” says Winstone. He gives me a
sharp glare, “Unless you have any ideas, we're going to have to try running people out the front as quickly as possible.”

All eyes are on me. The pressure crushes down. The people in the building are my neighbors. I don't know them well, but I see their faces every day. One mistake and they're gone. All of them. “You can't . . .”

“Then how?” He needs a plan, not just a list of reasons why they all suck. There's an edge to his voice he didn't have before.

How?

How do I make one hundred and twenty-two people just vanish from a building when it's being watched from every direction?

Maybe I'm looking at the problem the wrong way.

I do it when I'm not being watched.

“I got it . . .”

“What?” asks Winstone.

“It's time for really out-of-the-box thinking.”

Sometimes your only choice is to destroy the box.

“Meaning what?”

“We blow it up ourselves.”