With the Fourth of July falling on a Saturday, the business holiday would be celebrated on Monday. Most of Washington took that as clearance to bolt out of town Friday afternoon, getting a jump on the traffic and thereby guaranteeing traffic gridlocked several hours earlier than usual.
Amanda Church remained in her office until five-thirty. Then she locked her door and exited through the lobby of the Federal Reserve building. The photography exhibit of one hundred fifty years of July Fourth celebrations lined the walls. Extra security screening stations were being set up inside the main entrance. In short, the Federal Reserve was becoming an airport terminal, complete with body scanners and random pat downs. She felt confident no hand-carried bombs could make it through that perimeter of defense, and she’d recommended that vans and trucks be rerouted or screened before coming down the adjacent blocks of 20th and 21st Streets. Whatever happened, she wanted her ass covered. Now she just needed the final briefing with Mullins.
The plan was to meet him at her apartment at six-thirty. She could give assurances that the threat had been defused across the nation without a word leaking to the press. Eleven of the twelve terrorist cells had been identified. Federal agents were set to move in at the first sign that the attacks were being executed.
But she’d admit two remained undetected—the Richmond branch and Washington, D.C. Amanda would tell Mullins that Richmond might have been thwarted by the death of Fares Khoury, and his co-conspirators scattered to the four winds. Washington, if it was the thirteenth target, was being protected the best way possible. The next day, she and Mullins would monitor that operation together.
At five after six, she arrived at her co-op on Connecticut Avenue NW. Mullins would be prompt. The wine would need to breathe and the appetizers warmed. They would toast to breaking up the greatest terrorist plot since 9-11.
Curtis Jordan watched his wife’s BMW turn into the alley for their underground garage. He sat in a rented black Chevy Tahoe on Appleton, the side street next to their building. The SUV’s tinted windows concealed his identity, and no one gave the vehicle a second glance. There were only a million of them in the city.
He considered letting Amanda know he’d flown back from Paris. But she’d take it as a sign that he thought her collaboration with Mullins wouldn’t succeed and that he came to pick up the pieces. In her mind, his lack of confidence in her was tantamount to being unfaithful. And he understood her logic. It was Mullins who worried him.
Twenty minutes later, Jordan saw the blue Prius drive by. Reflexively, he turned his head from the window. If Mullins recognized him, the encounter would be awkward. He was supposed to be out of the country.
The Prius continued half a block before finding a parking space. Jordan’s first inclination was to drive off, make a U-turn and head in the opposite direction. But Mullins might notice the vacant spot and recall the missing vehicle. Jordan knew memory hinged on little things and drawing Mullins’ attention was the last thing he wanted to do. Better to stay put. So, not trusting the tinted windows, he slid down below the windshield line and waited five minutes, plenty of time for Mullins to walk past.
Mullins eyed Amanda’s building with appreciation. The five-story brick structure, known as the Ponce de Leon, was on the National Register of Historic Places. Mullins had been in the co-op only once. Amanda had invited Laurie and him to a private party celebrating the launch of one of her husband’s thrillers. It was the last event Laurie felt well enough to attend. She’d been impressed with the high ceilings and overall spaciousness of the three-bedroom residence. Curtis Jordan had told them Alben Barkley once lived on the top floor. Alben Barkley, Truman’s vice president. How obscure could you get, Mullins thought.
He stopped at the corner of Connecticut and Appleton and looked back up the side street for any sign that another vehicle had been following him. The road was quiet. The only sign of life, a man walking a schnauzer puppy along the opposite sidewalk.
Mullins turned to the building’s entrance. For the second time, his wife’s voice rang in his head. “Upside down.” He knew Laurie’s words were only in his mind, but the message was clearly coming from somewhere. Whether generated by his subconscious or beyond the grave, Mullins couldn’t ignore it. “Give me strength, Laurie,” he whispered, and ascended the front steps.
Amanda’s co-op was on the fourth floor close to the elevator. She heard the knock on her door as she pulled a tray of feta cheese and caramelized onion appetizers from her oven.
“What’s wrong? Can’t you pick the lock?” Amanda crossed the foyer and undid the deadbolt.
Mullins hesitated, sniffing the air that drifted across the threshold. “You’re cooking?”
“Why not? We have to eat.” She reached out and took his hand. “Come in before someone sees you. In that suit you look like a damn IRS agent. The neighbors will think I haven’t paid my taxes.”
As he stepped by her, she slid her hand under his lapel. “Let me hang up your jacket. And do you want to check that shoulder holster along with it? We can talk about work without looking like revolutionaries.”
“Okay.” He let her slip the coat off and then he unsnapped the holster and handed it to her. She arched her eyebrows as he removed his Glock and held it by his side.
“Expecting company or are you afraid of me?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
His smile vanished. “Do you know Sidney Levine?”
The question startled Amanda. She recalled her husband mentioning Sidney Levine the day before. She realized that her recognition had been seen by Mullins, a man trained in reading faces.
“The name sounds familiar. A reporter, right?”
“Yes. Freelance. He wrote a book taking the Federal Reserve to task.”
Amanda nodded. “That’s probably where I’ve heard of him. Why?”
“He tracked me down last Saturday. He wanted to know if I thought Luguire had been murdered.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I’d been surprised by the report of suicide, and I told that to the Arlington police. I was very interested to see what their investigation uncovered.”
“So, this guy was fishing for a story.” Amanda gestured for Mullins to follow her into the living room. “Can I bring you a glass of wine? I have a nice Pinot Noir, California. I stock it just to piss off my husband who’s an irrational Francophile.”
“All right.” Mullins sat on the white sofa and laid his pistol on a marble end table. He looked around the well-appointed room. “I don’t know, though. Red wine in this room could be dangerous.”
“This coming from a man who needs to keep his loaded gun beside him at a friend’s house?”
“I hadn’t finished telling you about Sidney Levine. He left a message on my home machine that I retrieved on my way here. This afternoon someone broke into his apartment and shot his girlfriend. We don’t know whether she’ll make it.”
Amanda’s face drained. “Jesus. You think it has to do with tomorrow’s attacks?”
Mullins saw she was genuinely shocked. He motioned for her to sit beside him. “Sidney posted speculation tying Luguire and Archer together. You and I know there’s a connection. I assume the only person you’ve told is Rudy Hauser.”
“Yes. I saw him alone at his office at Treasury. But I expect the Archer-Luguire link got passed up the coordinating chain as the anti-terrorism units were briefed.”
“Somebody saw Sidney as a threat,” Mullins said. “They stole his laptop and his hard drives. I think his girlfriend just walked in at the wrong time.”
Amanda sighed. “So our secrecy successfully kept the plotters from learning we were on to them. As far as they know, there’s still a secret to protect, a secret that got the woman shot.”
“Yeah. Hell of an irony, isn’t it?”
She cocked her head and studied him closely. “You haven’t told me the whole story, have you?”
Mullins got to his feet. “You said something about wine.” He picked up his gun. “This white sofa makes me nervous. Why don’t we sit at the dining room table?”
Amanda brought two crystal glasses and a full bottle of Pinot Noir, gave each of them an abundant pour, and then returned with trays of fruit and the warm Pastry Bites. “Trader Joe’s finest,” she said. “I’ve probably let them get too cool.”
Mullins sampled one. “Very nice. I could eat them all.”
“I also have two small steaks. Those and a salad will be dinner.” She sat in the chair directly across the table width. “After you tell me what’s going on.”
He took a sip from his glass and then ran his finger around the base. “I’ve had more than one conversation with Sidney Levine. He followed me to Roanoke.”
“What?” Amanda’s hand trembled so hard a trickle of wine fell across her fingers. “He knows you talked to Archer?”
“He suspects I did. Archer logged my appointment under a false name. I guess he didn’t want anyone knowing he was meeting with the Federal Reserve.”
Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I just found out about it.” Mullins said the lie with just enough defensive tone to aid its credibility. He didn’t want to get into an explanation of his parallel investigation into the disappearance of Khoury’s family or his collaboration with Sidney and Sullivan.
Amanda made the mental leap. “Your name is on that computer.”
“Yes.”
“What about me?”
“He has no knowledge of you or the information you gave me.” Mullins hesitated. “At least, if he does, it didn’t come from me.”
“Well, that’s not reassuring. Especially given the number of people who know we’re close.”
“Where do things stand on your end?”
Amanda gave him an encouraging account she said came straight from Rudy Hauser of the Secret Service. Eleven terrorist cells identified and monitored, Richmond’s was probably disrupted but the Reserve branch was under tight security, and an impenetrable net had been drawn over the Federal Reserve building in D.C. “If that’s the thirteenth target, there’s no way they’ll get close enough to execute an attack.”
“What’s the common denominator?” Mullins asked. “Al Qaida? Iranians? Syrians?”
“That’s the odd part. We’ve got Khoury a Lebanese, Asu a Syrian, and the other cells seem to be linked to the more extreme elements arising from the Occupy Wall Street protests.”
“Domestic? Who’s infiltrated whom? Are the protesters unwittingly harboring these terrorist cells?”
“We don’t know. At this point, we’re set to stop eleven of thirteen. Hauser’s betting noon for the trigger time.”
Mullins nodded. “Nine in the morning in San Francisco. Once one Federal Reserve Bank is hit security will clamp down on all of them. It has to be a nearly simultaneous attack. But strike too early and there’s not enough traffic or pedestrians.”
“Not enough casualties, you mean.” Amanda took a sip of wine and then shivered. “I’m scared, Rusty. I was confident until you told me about the reporter’s girlfriend. Their tentacles seem to be everywhere. What about your daughter? Is she safe?”
“Kayli and my grandson are away from their apartment. They’re to lie low until this is over.”
“A wise precaution.” She rose from the table. “Keep your seat. You can talk to me while I make our salads.” She headed for the kitchen. “Finish those appetizers.”
“Why do you think Asu would buy wrapping paper?”
Amanda froze in the doorway. Then she turned slowly. “Wrapping paper?”
Mullins popped one of the Pastry Bites in his mouth, chewed and swallowed.
Amanda stared at him, her forehead creased with furrows. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Asu bought gift-wrapping paper at Toys “R” Us in Woodbridge this morning. He also bought a cardboard cutout set called Cinderella’s Castle. I can understand him getting that for Khoury’s daughter but why the paper?”
“You should have told me at once.”
Mullins picked up his wine and shrugged. “Virginia state police found the receipt in a motel room Asu rented. I’m sure it went up on the network where Hauser’s people saw it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“There’s a lot of things I don’t know. And right now wrapping paper is top of the list.”
Amanda marched past him. “I need to call Hauser. My phone’s in the bedroom.”
“Does that mean you don’t have a theory?”
“My theories would be just that. Theories. Hauser and Homeland Security have the analysts in place to make real headway.” She left him alone in the dining room. He refilled their wine glasses.
Five minutes later, Amanda returned. “Sorry I snapped at you. Hauser had the information. They’re working on it.”
“That’s okay. I shouldn’t have assumed the Virginia report crossed to the feds. I thought the news about Sidney Levine’s girlfriend was more important.”
“And more of an immediate threat.” Amanda rested her hands on Mullins’ shoulders, and then gently massaged them. “That’s got me uptight.”
Mullins leaned forward out of her grip and picked up her wine. “Here. A second glass always works for me.”
She took it. “I’ll take out my frustration on the salad. Toss it without mercy.”
Mullins laughed. “You do that. Where’s the restroom?”
“Down the hall to the left past the middle bedroom.”
He looked in the first bedroom and noticed it had a distinctly feminine flair. A mirror above the bureau on the far wall reflected the doorway on the other side of the queen-sized bed. The bathroom for the master bedroom. Atop the bureau, he saw Amanda’s open purse. Quickly he crossed the floor and pulled the cellphone clear. He called up the log of outgoing calls. Within the previous hour only one number appeared, a 202 area code. He committed the Washington number to memory. Satisfied Amanda had made only the one call, he replaced the phone and returned to the hall.
The middle bedroom had a king-sized bed. Prints of Paris landmarks decorated the walls and an impressionist painting hung over the headboard. Mullins didn’t know much about art but the work looked like an original.
The third bedroom had been converted into an office. Bookshelves lined two walls. A chrome and glass desk faced double windows. A leather recliner sat where the bookshelves came together. The layout suggested a private office for writing and reading. There was no client chair or conference table. It had to be where Curtis Jordan created his thrillers when he wasn’t traveling around the globe or ensconced in his beloved Paris.