Detective Robert Sullivan logged onto the Roanoke Police Department’s secure site as directed by the lead homicide investigator in the Archer murder case. Sullivan’s counterpart had agreed to upload the video files from the Laurel Bank security cameras in the lobby and drive-through ATM.
Sullivan was forced to be more specific than he wanted in order to gain access to the footage. He said a key person in an Arlington investigation had claimed to be at the bank the previous Monday. If he showed up on-camera, then Sullivan could cross him off the list. When the Roanoke detective asked the suspect’s name, Sullivan gave him the first one he thought of that wasn’t Mullins. Sidney Levine.
Sullivan didn’t like playing games with a fellow officer, but he also didn’t want to get Mullins embroiled in a Roanoke fishing expedition. Reading between the lines, he could tell the Archer case was going nowhere. If he saw Mullins at the bank, then he’d alert the local police.
He typed his temporary password and found the folder labeled “Laurel Bank—Monday, June 29th.” The files inside were organized into two subfolders: lobby cameras and external cameras. Sullivan started with the lobby cameras. There were three, one angle above the front door facing the tellers and two behind the teller line, splitting the counter in two sections to allow closer framing of the customers.
The three cameras were designated A B C and their video files were broken into hour segments starting when the bank opened at nine.
The Roanoke Police Department internal website had a built-in playback window and all Sullivan had to do was drag the chosen camera hour into the viewer. He shuttled through the wide angle of the lobby, figuring if he saw someone resembling Mullins, he’d cut to the reverse angle for a positive ID.
He ran through the morning up to the bomb scare and evacuation. No one of Mullins’ build or age appeared. But after the bomb scare, the first customer walking into the bank caught Sullivan’s attention. He loaded the matching file from the teller’s viewpoint.
Sullivan froze the frame. Son of a bitch, he thought. I told the Roanoke police the truth.
Sidney Levine leaned close to the teller in earnest conversation.
“The little prick said he didn’t follow Mullins,” Sullivan muttered. He found Sidney’s cell number in the case folder and called.
As soon as the voicemail beep ended, Sullivan said, “Mr. Levine. Drop by the station as soon as you can. There’s been a break in the case and I want to show it to you in person.”
Sullivan reclined in his chair. He looked forward to making the reporter squirm, but the bigger questions still came back to Mullins. Had he or hadn’t he gone to Roanoke? Where was he now? And why had he disappeared?
Amanda Church dispensed with the elaborate maneuvers of leaving her BMW elsewhere and riding the Metro to her rendezvous with Mullins. Instead, she found a spot in the Clarendon public garage where he’d parked the previous Friday. She felt confident no one was following her, and since Mullins had ditched his personal cellphone, she knew he was traveling undetected.
She left the convertible unlocked. Better to have a looter simply open the door rather than slash through the roof. She walked to the nearest stairwell and descended to the ground level. Rusty Mullins stood leaning against the wall of the bottom landing.
“Change of plan,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Where to?”
“Whole Foods. Lots of noise, lots of people. And I’m hungry.”
He waited till she stepped beside him and then they strolled toward the grocery store across Clarendon Boulevard a block away.
“How have you been?” Amanda asked.
“Compared to what?”
“Compared to working with the full backing of the Secret Service.”
He laughed. “The paperwork’s a breeze but the pay leaves a lot to be desired.”
“When this is over, you should come inside the Fed. Your stock will never be higher.”
They stopped at the crosswalk to wait for the light. Mullins edged closer and lowered his voice. “If there is a Fed. This is much bigger than a trumped-up suicide.”
“I know. We’re talking about three murders.”
“We’re talking about a terrorist attack.”
Amanda snapped her head around. “What?”
Mullins stepped off the curb. The “Walk” light shone and to stand still would have drawn attention. “You think it’s too hot for soup?”
“I think it’s too hot period.”
“Then let’s get a salad. It’s the kind of meal you can draw out while we talk.”
Whole Foods bustled with activity. Amanda and Mullins found the section with hot entrees, sandwiches, and salads to the left of the grocery aisles. Even though the prime time for lunch had passed, traffic still moved through the food lines at a steady pace. They went down the salad bar across from each other.
Mullins loaded his plate in an intricate pattern that looked more like a construction project than a meal. “Go through the register ahead of me and tell the cashier I’m paying for both of us.”
“Wow, you are in disguise. Pretending to be a gentleman.”
“You do what you have to.”
They climbed a short flight of stairs to a mezzanine area where tables accommodated no more than four people each. Turnover was constant, and Mullins took the lead, heading to an open table in a back corner. He wanted to see if anyone else prolonged eating in the munch-and-move-on environment.
“So, can you talk now?” Amanda asked the question as she slid into the chair opposite him.
“Yes. Just ignore the lettuce between my teeth.” Mullins gave a brief summary of what they’d already discussed in detail over the phone: the meeting with Archer, the foreclosed home in Florida, and the conversation with the neighbor Mrs. Bernstein. When he got to the encounter with Fares Khoury earlier that morning, Mullins took Amanda through the events beginning with his hike across the field. He concluded with the phone call he made to the police from a pay phone at a BP station on I-81 twenty miles north of Staunton.
“And they found nothing,” Amanda said.
“What?” Mullins dropped his fork by his plate. “No body?”
“No body, no truck, no sign that Khoury had been in the house.”
“Well, I wiped down everything I touched and I took a few things I thought would be useful. This was before Khoury was killed.”
“Like what?”
“He had a copy of the Koran, a picture of his family, and his insulin pens. But his clothes should have been there.”
“I monitored the report the investigating deputies filed. They chalked it up to a prank call. What about the journal and expense ledger he mentioned?”
Mullins shrugged. “Nothing. He said he thought I’d picked them up the day before while he was away from the farmhouse, along with the fuel and fertilizer.”
“Twelve targets?”
Mullins nodded. “That’s what he claimed. I was to take the thirteenth, and he was upset that he was assigned the twelfth. He said it wasn’t part of the deal, and that no one was to be hurt. Oh, and there was an envelope with locks of black hair and a note with the single word ‘Remember.’”
“You’re saying he wasn’t a willing participant?”
“He might have started out that way. Lured into a plan with the hopes of keeping his home. But he was definitely a man under pressure and desperately fearful for the safety of his wife and little girl.”
Amanda stared at her plate of untouched salad and thought a moment. “Why bring him into it? Surely there are enough fanatics around who would line up to volunteer.”
“Two reasons. First, an Islamic extremist has a greater chance of being on the government’s radar. Second, Fares Khoury had the social and business experience that fit his assignment.”
“I understand the first point but why the second?”
Mullins leaned over his lunch and lowered his voice. “Someone had to pull off setting up the bank account. That person’s not a brainwashed zealot in a suicide vest. Then Khoury assembled quantities of the fertilizer through multiple small quantity purchases. He was a landscape designer. He would know what to buy and how to ask for it.”
“But he turned into a bomber, not in a vest but a van.”
Mullins shook his head. “I don’t know about that. He might have been just delivering it. Designing a detonator wasn’t within his skill set. Whoever was controlling him was worried whether Khoury would go to the next level. The threat to his family provided the leverage.”
“What was the target?”
“He didn’t say.” Mullins thought back to his final words with Khoury. “I asked him, but that was the question that spooked him.”
“Because you didn’t know?”
“I didn’t ask what they were. I asked if the targets had changed. The idea seemed so preposterous that he suspected I wasn’t Russell Mullins.”
Amanda gave up any pretense of eating and slid her plate to the side. “So your name is embedded in the conspiracy from financing to execution.”
“Yes. I think that must be because of my connection to Luguire. I’m somebody’s fall guy.”
“But why? You’ve got no ties to Islamic terrorists.”
“You know that and I know that, but who knows what kind of links have been fabricated. If the investigation stops with me, then I’m the buffer, the insulation protecting the real brains behind the operation.”
“Wouldn’t an extremist group want the credit?”
“Yes. But a foreign government wouldn’t.”
Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “You think this is state-sponsored?”
“I think it’s multi-layered, and your initial fear that there’s an inside element has to be taken seriously.”
“I hoped I was wrong.”
Mullins reached across the table and laid his hand on Amanda’s. “If it is inside, then you’d better be damn careful.”
“No one knows what we’re doing.”
“Which means we could both be set up.”
“Me? I’m the one who told Luguire about the fund transfer.”
“And who did he tell? And who can testify that your conversation with Luguire ever took place?”
Amanda took a deep breath. Mullins had zeroed in on the problem. “So we should go public?”
“And the rats will go back into the shadows.”
“But there’s a bomb out there.” Her voice rose in excitement.
Mullins glanced at the tables around them, but no one seemed to have overheard. “There are twelve bombs,” he whispered. “I believe Khoury’s is targeted for Richmond.”
“Richmond?” Her mouth dropped open. “It’s the twelve.”
Mullins saw that she understood. “Yes. The twelve branches of the Federal Reserve. A coordinated attack on the central banking system of America.” He rattled off the cities from memory. “Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Richmond, Atlanta, Dallas, Cleveland, Chicago, St. Louis, Minneapolis, Kansas City, and San Francisco. No corner of the continental United States will be untouched.”
“And the thirteenth target must be the Federal Reserve headquarters in Washington.”
“Maybe not.”
“But surely they’ll want that prize.”
Mullins nodded. “They want it, but you and I both know the security in D.C. is extremely tight. And the money doesn’t add up.”
“What do you mean?”
“A total of two hundred thirty thousand flowed through Laurel Bank, counting the Federal Reserve transfer and the initial deposit by Khoury, aka Fred Mack. That’s ten thousand for Khoury and twenty thousand for each of the other eleven cities.”
“Why only ten thousand for Khoury?” Amanda asked.
“I don’t know. Rural Virginia, or he might have received money earlier to rent the house and start his purchases.”
“So, D.C. is being funded some other way?”
“Maybe,” Mullins agreed. “Or maybe the thirteenth target is something else. Something that might be easier to pull off without the same cost or risk.”
“July Fourth. The day of the public exhibit.”
“That photography thing?” Mullins remembered Luguire said he had to be at the office for the holiday.
“Yes. The new, cuddly Federal Reserve dispensing with the procedure of prior approval for visitors. I spent the morning going over security arrangements.”
“So, it’s tight.”
“And it’s different. Extra guards, scanner installations, the perfect time for infiltration. No need for a truck bomb. They’ll smuggle it in somehow.”
Mullins’ throat went dry. “And somehow blame it on me.”
“Your name came up in the meeting. Osmond wanted to know if you’d be working security.”
“Did your boss want me banned from the premises?”
“On the contrary, he thought it would be a good idea for you to be part of the team.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but Ted Lewison said you were on vacation.”
“Lewison was there?”
“Yes. Prime Protection is providing additional security.”
“Good. Sounds like they’ll need it.” Mullins looked across the mezzanine. All of the tables had turned over since he and Amanda sat down. If someone was watching them, he wasn’t doing it nearby. Mullins decided they could sit a little longer.
“When I said the rats would run back into the shadows, I didn’t mean you and I could keep this to ourselves. If there are twelve bombs out there, then certain people need to know.”
“Certain people?” Amanda echoed.
Mullins weighed the options. The Fourth of July was less than three days away. Homeland Security and the FBI needed to be involved and their investigation had to proceed rapidly. But, uncovering the full extent of the conspiracy, especially if the government had been penetrated, required secrecy. Mullins believed the secrecy extended to the Federal Reserve itself. The fact that Neil Osmond, head of Federal Reserve security, asked for him to be assigned to Prime Protection’s detail could be a compliment or could be the final piece of the frame Mullins felt enclosing him.
“What people?” Amanda prompted.
“Outside the Federal Reserve. Take someone with you from the Secret Service whom you trust completely. Maybe Hauser.” Rudy Hauser was the deputy director, second in command, and Mullins had known and respected him for years. “Tell him you want access to meet with the highest levels of the Bureau and Homeland Security. Hauser’s got the clout to pull it off.”
“Are you coming with me?”
“No. You don’t need me. If I’m under surveillance, I shouldn’t be seen with any federal law enforcement.”
“Makes sense,” Amanda agreed. “So, what will you do in the meantime?”
“Concentrate on staying alive.”
“Good plan. You’ll want to be in on the takedown, won’t you? I’ll get the clearance.”
“Let’s see what kind of response you get from Hauser and the Bureau.” He pushed back from the table. “We’ll go to my car and I’ll give you the Koran, Khoury’s family photo, his insulin pens, and the hair with the warning. Maybe that will bolster your story.”
Amanda stood and picked up her salad. “I don’t think I’ll be eating much of anything between now and Saturday.”
“Make it business as usual and let the intelligence community take it from here.”
As Mullins’ carried his plate to the trash, Amanda caught his arm. “Thanks for all you’ve done.”
“Thanks for telling me about Luguire.”
They walked back to the garage without speaking. Mullins’ car was on the level above Amanda’s. He reached under the driver’s seat and pulled out a brown paper bag.
“I’ve sealed everything in a Ziploc. You can probably get fingerprints off the Koran, the insulin pens, and photograph. Maybe the envelope. If Khoury wasn’t in the system, then the prints won’t be of much use unless his body’s found. I doubt if whoever mailed the letter left prints, but you might get lucky. Be sure and have them check out the name Khoury mentioned. Asu.”
“Yes, sir.” Amanda took the bag and tucked it under her arm. “Are we safe to get together Friday night? Doesn’t matter how late. I’d like to bring you up to speed.”
“Where?”
“My place.”
“Will your husband mind?”
“He’s in Paris. But don’t get any ideas. I know twenty-one ways to kill you with my bare hands.”
“It only takes one.”
She smiled. “Believe me. I’m not worth dying for.” She spun on her heel and walked away.
Mullins admired the view. She’d spoken the truth. As alluring as her movements were, Amanda wasn’t worth dying for. Too much was at stake. For now, she was on her own.
Mullins had his game to play without her.
***
An ocean away, an old man sat in a wheelchair, a landline phone pressed tightly to his ear. He stared through split drapes at the clearing skies of evening. Rain left the streets of London shiny, reflecting the glow of the cosmopolitan capital of the United Kingdom.
“Remember Occam’s Razor,” he said. “Just like the simplest explanation will be the most plausible, the simplest plan will be the most effective.”
He listened in silence a few minutes, the wrinkles on his brow furrowed deeper with concentration.