Mullins stepped into the hallway bathroom, flushed the commode, and braced himself for the ordeal ahead.
They ate slowly, first the salad of mixed greens, walnuts, and crumbled bleu cheese. Amanda seemed to be drawing out the evening, talking about old times at Treasury, asking Mullins about presidents and memorable assignments, and liberally refilling their wine glasses.
She had him stay at the table while she broiled the steaks, keeping the conversation going through the kitchen doorway.
When she rejoined him, Mullins tried to shift the conversation away from himself, although he understood Amanda’s need to prattle about anything other than the next day’s operation.
“What’s your husband’s next book about?”
“Four hundred pages.” She cut into her steak with undisguised ferocity.
“It’s set in Paris?”
“Maybe. At least one scene for sure so he can write off his living expenses. He spends almost as much time at the Odéon Saint-Germain as he does here.”
“I see his books everywhere.”
“Yeah. Especially on the remainder tables in front of the bookstores.”
Mullins looked puzzled.
“Remainders,” Amanda repeated. “When a book goes out of print and the publisher doesn’t even want to spend the money for warehouse space. The inventory is dumped on the market and the author receives no royalties for the bargain-basement clearance sales.”
Mullins chewed his steak. His mind jumped back to his book conversation with Sidney Levine. He swallowed, and then asked, “Shouldn’t they print fewer and then do POD?”
Amanda looked up in surprise. “POD? Print-on-demand? Where’d you learn that term?”
“Kayli researched it,” he lied. “She wants me to write my memoir. I figure a print run of two—one for Kayli and one for my grandson Josh.”
Amanda laughed. “Put me down for a copy. Unless you say bad things about me.”
“Never. So, your husband’s publisher doesn’t do print-on-demand?”
She shook her head. “They sell enough that even with a large number going to remainder, it’s still more cost-effective. And Curtis considers the remainders loss-leaders. Get readers to sample his writing for five bucks and then they might pay regular price for the next one. But POD eliminates impulse buys.”
“How?”
“They’re usually not in stock. Might be a five to ten day lag time.”
“Even for the big chains?”
“Curtis says they’re notorious for not keeping POD titles on the shelves.”
“How long’s he planning to be in Paris?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” She cast her eyes down at her half-eaten meal. “I’m afraid we’ve grown apart the past few years.”
“Sorry.” Mullins took another bite of steak, signaling he would ask no more questions about Curtis Jordan.
Later, he stood in the solarium off the living room with a cup of decaf in his hand. As he stared down at the traffic on Connecticut Avenue, he thought somewhere within easy driving distance, Asu held Zaina and Jamila Khoury hostage. Why?
Light footsteps sounded behind him. He felt an arm reach around his waist.
“Stay with me, Rusty,” Amanda whispered. “You can have Curtis’ room. I’ll find you a clean shirt in the morning.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
Amanda stifled a sob. “I don’t want you to be alone. Not tonight. Not until this is over. You’re safe here. You said the reporter had you on his computer. I feel responsible for getting you in this mess.”
“You? I’d have gone after Luguire’s murderer anyway.”
“No. I’m responsible because I recommended you as Luguire’s bodyguard. I thought you’d get along.”
“You know me too well.” Mullins took the final sip of his coffee. “All right, Amanda.”
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
On the sidewalk below, Curtis Jordan waited in the shadows. He saw the two silhouettes in the window four stories above him. Betrayed by a kiss, he thought.
He walked up Appleton to his SUV. Mullins was going nowhere and Jordan would spend the night at the Hay-Adams Hotel on Sixteenth Street. But first he would pay a visit to Mullins’ apartment. Turnabout was fair play.
At eleven, Mullins said good night and retired to the second bedroom. Amanda would make sure he was up by five-thirty so that they’d be at the Federal Reserve building by seven.
Mullins stripped to his boxers and crawled between the cool sheets. Maybe it was thirty minutes, maybe forty-five before he began drifting toward sleep.
He heard footsteps, bare this time on the hardwood floor. The bedroom door rattled, but he’d locked the knob. Two gentle raps, then silence for a few seconds. Mullins kept his breathing rhythmic, adding a light snore.
The sound of departing footsteps faded down the hall.
Mullins let the hot water pound the back of his neck. He showered to stimulate circulation to his brain more than to wash his body. For the final two minutes, he turned off the hot water and stood under a cold spray till the invigorating assault took his breath away.
Refreshed and revitalized, he wrapped a towel around his waist and returned to the bedroom. Amanda sat on the edge of the mattress. She wore a powder blue bathrobe cinched tightly at the waist. Mullins crossed to the opposite side of the bed.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked.
“It wasn’t five-thirty yet.”
“That’s when I was going to wake you.” She laughed. “I wanted to see if you slept with your gun.”
He nodded to the Glock on the nightstand. “Not exactly in the bed, but close enough for pillow talk.”
She stood and faced him. “While you were in the shower, I hung your suit pants in the closet hoping some of the wrinkles might fall out of them. You’ll find a clean white shirt beside them. I folded your dirty one and left it there.” She pointed to the shirt on the corner of the rosewood dresser.
“Thanks.”
An alarm sounded from the front bedroom.
“Five-thirty,” Amanda said. “So it begins, and God only knows how long it will last.”
When he heard the shower running in the master bathroom, Mullins pulled his suit pants from the closet. He checked through all the pockets, the waistband, and the cuffs. Nothing was amiss. He examined the dress shirt Amanda had pulled from her husband’s wardrobe. It was still in the protective covering of the cleaners. The sleeves were crossed over the front and held in place with a plastic clip. Mullins looked under the collar. Insertable stainless steel stays kept it firmly in place. He scrutinized each of the two stays carefully but could see no sign they were more than they appeared.
His dirty shirt still had his cheap plastic stays. He removed the metal ones from the clean shirt and went to the corner of the bedroom where he’d left his shoes. They had been moved slightly. He took a deep breath and then picked them up one at a time. To his relief, the fresh glue of the soles was undisturbed.
***
Zaina felt Jamila’s bony elbow jab her in the back. The child pushed away, whimpering in her sleep. She’d tossed and turned most of the night, keyed up by the promise of seeing her father.
Asu had made Zaina lay out Jamila’s best dress. He said Fares was meeting them at a special event the next afternoon. A Fourth of July celebration with other families whose homes had been returned. The children were bringing gifts to exchange.
Zaina opened her eyes. The digits on the bedside clock read 5:35. Without moving her head, she shifted her gaze to the figure in the chair by the motel room door. Asu sat motionless, staring at her through half-closed eyes.
He smiled and the glow of the clock tinged his teeth red.
***
Sidney Levine sat in his room at the Courtyard Marriott in Crystal City just across the Potomac from D.C. He’d checked in after midnight, after Colleen had left the recovery room following a four-hour operation. The surgeon said she was lucky. The bullet barely missed the heart and aorta, and if Sidney had arrived ten minutes later, she would have probably bled out. Sidney heard only one thing: Colleen had been saved by luck. There was no question in his mind that the intruder had intended to kill her.
Sidney channeled his anger into the assignment Mullins gave him. He studied the electronic gear on the desk in front of him. The GPS device seemed straight forward enough. The audio monitor would have to be adjusted on the fly, although the automatic gain was supposed to respond to voice-level changes within a few milliseconds. Despite the trauma of the previous day and only three-hours sleep, Sidney’s reservoir of energy had never been stronger. He was actually going to do something that would have an impact, something that would provide him with the greatest story of his life.
He rechecked the charges on both installed batteries and the spares, and then he repacked everything in the briefcase. He checked his watch. 5:45. Detective Sullivan would pick him up in fifteen minutes. Sidney was ready.
***
In the same Courtyard Marriott two floors higher, Kayli Woodson lay with her arm draped around Josh. The toddler slept soundly. She’d let him stay up and watch The Cartoon Channel till nearly ten the night before, knowing he’d sleep later in the morning.
Now she wanted to get up and pace around the room. Like her father, she thought better while moving. But she dared not wake Josh or the morning would become unbearably long trapped with a two-year-old. Kayli was agitated not only because she knew her father was in danger, but also because she was cut off from all communication. She’d removed both the battery and SIM card from her cellphone. Her dad said he’d contact Allen through military channels and tell him Kayli wouldn’t be reachable until Sunday. And she wasn’t to worry. She’d know when it was safe to emerge from hiding.
That meant his investigation would have a very public resolution. She would have to negotiate TV time with Josh. The Cartoon Channel wasn’t known for its news coverage.
Her one regret was leaving the condominium without letting Sandy Beecham know. The two mothers often went to the Saturday morning Eastern Market in the historic Capitol Hill neighborhood of D.C. They’d buy fresh produce from local farmers and the occasional handmade craft from a favorite artisan. Kayli suspected Sandy had tried to reach her. On the morning of the Fourth of July, Eastern Market would be brimming with bargains.
What harm could possibly come from talking to Sandy just long enough to let her know she and Josh were away for the weekend.
With that thought in mind, she drifted back to sleep.
***
Detective Robert Sullivan sat at his kitchen table and finished his first cup of coffee. Even though his wife was out of town, he’d changed into his street clothes in the guest bedroom. He’d followed the same routine thousands of times, but never when the stakes were so high.
Sullivan had been a policeman long enough to understand something went wrong with every plan. Success usually depended upon how you reacted to the unexpected. Rusty Mullins was a smart agent, one of the best Sullivan had met. Like Mullins, Sullivan believed what they didn’t know that they didn’t know created the greatest vulnerability. And Sullivan was confident there was something they didn’t know that they didn’t know.
Would they discover it in time? If not, what would be the cost of their ignorance?
He rinsed his cup in the sink, slipped on his suit coat, and left the house. As he locked the door behind him, he wondered if the world would be changed when he returned.
The Federal Reserve building in Washington, D.C., was an imposing structure. The white marble exterior projected a palatial presence, a rock-solid metaphor for the power and strength of the U.S. monetary system. Even the bruising financial turmoil of the global economic crisis couldn’t dislodge or even blemish a single stone. High above the mammoth doorway facing Constitution Avenue, a carved eagle perched under the Stars and Stripes, its wings extended and its gaze ever vigilant.
On Saturday morning, the Fourth of July, the Federal Reserve stood ready to receive the American public. U.S. flags lined the block—Constitution Avenue in front, C Street behind, and 20th and 21st Streets on either side.
Mullins took in the spectacle from the passenger’s seat as Amanda Church drove her BMW to a reserved spot in a nearby parking garage. Mullins noted the beefed-up security; 20th and 21st streets were blocked at their intersection with Constitution Avenue. Amanda had to flash her ID in order to access 20th Street.
Constitution was such a main thoroughfare that traffic normally couldn’t be rerouted, but the Federal Reserve’s expanse of lawn and grounds was greatest on that side. What looked like dark copper or bronze posts rimming the sidewalk were actually barricades against any vehicle attempting to crash through the building. Security on Constitution Avenue had another advantage. The Independence Day Parade would begin at 11:45 a.m. and proceed down Constitution from 7th Street to 17th Street NW, only a few blocks away. Thru traffic would be blocked for over two hours.
Along the side streets, only the width of the sidewalk separated traffic from the marble walls. A car bomb could get close enough to inflict tremendous damage. And C Street was no better. It ran between the main Board of Governors building and a second Federal Reserve office building. Guards were posted at either end of that block, allowing only authorized vehicles to enter.
“What size crowd are you expecting?” Mullins asked.
“We honestly don’t know. Since we only do group tours that have been arranged in advance, we’re not on the popular circuit of tourist attractions. The parade could generate more visitors, or siphon them off. People stake out viewing spots hours ahead of time.
“The ones who walk down here will be coming specifically for the Federal Reserve or the Vietnam War Memorial across the street. Regardless, we’ll be controlling admittance so that the lobby and cafeteria don’t get too crowded.”
Mullins turned in the seat to face her. “Cafeteria? You’re feeding them?”
“No. That’s the site of the main photographic exhibit. Guests will come in from Constitution Avenue.”
“That’s gotta be the first time that door’s been opened in a while.”
Amanda maneuvered into her parking spot. “Yeah. They probably had to make sure the hinges hadn’t rusted shut. But it’s the most impressive entrance and provides a better staging area on the lawn. We’ll have water and lemonade stations set up in case the wait gets too long. Be our luck to make the efforts for good PR and then have someone die of heat stroke.”
“Better than a bomb going off in the middle of the crowd.”
Mullins followed Amanda as she walked to C Street. He saw twice the usual number of security police at the crosswalk. “Will you have to re-screen everyone going from building to building?”
“No. They’ll come through the tunnel. The elevators to the top floor are the potential bottleneck so we’ll not only control the crowd entering the lobby, we’ll also control the number of people walking underneath C Street. When guests come down from the cafeteria, the elevator will stop to let them out at street level before descending to pick up a new group. Access to all the other floors has been blocked.”
Mullins liked the arrangement. The Federal Reserve security team had done a good job. One way in, one way out. The photographic exhibit would line the route without anterooms or separate display areas that turned a museum into a maze more difficult to monitor. The only problem he foresaw was getting the public to leave the top floor. The cafeteria had a wall of windows and stood higher than the original Federal Reserve building in front of it. One could see across Constitution Avenue to the open land containing the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the Reflecting Pool, and then beyond to the Jefferson Memorial.
Mullins nodded to the newer building fronting C Street. “Is there a time limit for staying up there?”
“No. But there’s also no food or water available. We figure people will finish the exhibit, admire the view for a few minutes, and then leave. The door on Constitution Avenue will close at three. The public exhibit will close at four.”
“Will security sweep the building afterwards?”
“Yes. But staff will be returning to the cafeteria at six.”
“Why?”
“For the Fourth of July party.”
Mullins stepped closer to her. “What party?”
Amanda looked at him with surprise. “There’s always a Fourth of July party for staff and families. The fireworks are set off on the Mall and the cafeteria offers the best seat in the city.”
“I didn’t know that. I’m not a staff member. Are there presents at this party?”
“No.” Her eyes widened. “You think the attack might be tonight? At the staff party?”
“Everyone’s so focused on this public event that when it goes off without a hitch, you’re back to business as usual.”
“The terrorists would still have to gain access.”
“But if it’s for families, there will be children. Unfamiliar faces. Children like Jamila Khoury.”
“I still don’t see it,” Amanda argued. “Staff and their families also come in through screening.”
Mullins nodded. “Unless they’re already here. Hiding from when they came in with the public three hours earlier.”
For a moment, Amanda stood quietly thinking. “Okay. I know we can’t dismiss the possibility. I’ll pass the word. Our job doesn’t change.”
“That’s right,” Mullins said. “We stay focused on finding Zaina and Jamila. The scenario of an attack happening at a Federal Reserve family event creates roles for them, roles that might be the heart of the terrorist plot.”
Amanda glanced at her watch. “It’s seven-fifteen. I expect the curious who really want inside to start arriving soon. I doubt that will include Asu. He’ll want to melt into a crowd, especially if he’s forcing Zaina and Jamila to accompany him.”
“Don’t forget Chuchi,” Mullins said. “They might split the mother and daughter up and try to come in separately.”
“Good point. You’re much better at this real world security than I am. How do you think we ought to position ourselves?”
“Let’s check the setup on Constitution.” Mullins headed down 21st Street.
They stopped on the sidewalk directly in front of the raised lawn terrace and the steps ascending to the great door beneath the carved eagle. Adjacent to one of the four square columns of the front facade, two technicians were setting up a podium and a PA system.
“Is there some sort of program?” Mullins asked.
“Chairman Radcliffe is going to make some welcoming remarks a few minutes before nine. Then the door will open.”
Mullins frowned. “Just that once or is he welcoming people throughout the day?”
“Just the opening. He’ll do the chat and greet in the lobby for a while, and then he’s going to watch the parade from a viewing stand a few blocks up Constitution.”
“Parade crowd control,” Mullins said. “Now there’s a nightmare.”
“The National Park Service and D.C. police check every float and you can bet Homeland Security is walking through the crowd. The good thing is that once the parade starts, spectators might be five or six deep along the sidewalks. Hard for anyone to move without drawing attention.”
“Is Radcliffe coming back for the fireworks tonight?”
“Yes. And he’ll have his personal security team in place all day and through the evening.”
Mullins turned his back to the Federal Reserve and surveyed Constitution Gardens, the tree-dotted land across Constitution Avenue. The space was open enough and the vegetation sparse enough that any sniper would be easily spotted. Maybe from a vehicle would be a threat, but there were no parking spaces offering a line of fire. Food and souvenir vending carts on the sidewalks had all been screened.
“Have the security teams seen pictures of Chuchi and the Khourys?” Mullins asked.
“Yes. Everyone was briefed yesterday, and they’ve been instructed not to flash the photos around. Not worth the chance Asu could be tipped off.”
Mullins faced the building again. “Okay. I’ll stay out here. Less chance of running into any of my Prime Protection colleagues. Why don’t you float near the tunnel? If I miss them outside and the screeners don’t pick them up inside the door, you’ll be where the narrowing passageway should make it easier to spot them.”
“And how should we stay in touch?”
Mullins pulled the pre-paid cellphone from his pocket. “At this point, I may as well burn the minutes. You’re supposed to be here anyway, so if they track your location, it won’t cause an alarm. We’ll talk only if there’s a major development.”
“Don’t be a hero. Call for help at the first sign of something suspicious.”
“You too.”
By eight-thirty, the temperature had climbed into the eighties. Mullins felt perspiration trickling down his back and under his arms. He wanted to remove his suit coat and sling it over his shoulder, but the holster under his left arm would be visible and unnerve the security officers more than it would the tourists. They’d just think he was some kind of guard.
The crowd around the Federal Reserve steps numbered between one hundred fifty and two hundred. A greater number strolled past on their way to secure prime spots for the parade. Watching little Tommy from Nebraska march by playing his trombone was a greater priority than entering the hallowed halls of the U.S. monetary system.
Mullins stood off to the side near the sculpture of what he took to be a large greenish bowl. The artwork and bordering shrubbery gave him some shade and some cover.
He tensed as he saw Chairman Radcliffe emerge from the door and walk to the podium. Mullins made a quick visual sweep of the area, reverting instinctively to his mode of presidential protection. His rule was not to watch the president but watch the people watching the president. Scan the faces for any sign that called for a split-second reaction—a split-second between life and death.
He noticed others do the same—turn away from the podium and search the crowd and nearby tree line. Radcliffe’s security team stood on full alert, and Mullins had no doubt it included a number of ex-Secret Service agents.
He let them do their job and returned his attention to Chairman Hugh Radcliffe.
“Good morning.” Radcliffe’s baritone voice echoed across the lawn.
At six-three, with steely gray hair and wearing a dark blue suit and muted gold tie, Radcliffe looked as solid and reliable as the building behind him. He could have had a successful career in politics. He was a Vietnam War veteran who led his platoon through a hellacious firefight and the return trek to safety, without leaving the wounded or even two dead comrades behind. Mullins smiled to himself. Hell, who was he kidding? Radcliffe was in politics. Like everyone else in this town.
“Welcome to your Federal Reserve. On behalf of the Board of Governors, the twelve regional Federal Reserve Banks, and our entire staff, we are honored to share this special Fourth of July celebration with you.”
Polite applause broke out. Mullins looked for groups of four, three, or two, hoping Asu, the one person without visual reference, wasn’t here solo.
“I’d like to introduce two special people in my life—my daughter Katrina and granddaughter Helena.”
Mullins took a closer look. He’d noticed the attractive brunette standing beside Radcliffe but hadn’t seen a little girl. He still couldn’t find her.
“Today is a very special day for Helena. Her fifth birthday. Yes, she was born on the Fourth of July. So, in honor of our country’s birthday, I’ve asked Helena to open the door for us all.”
Mullins saw that during the chairman’s remarks the door had been closed again.
“I’ll admit that the door looks imposing,” Radcliffe continued, “but our goal is to open the door of financial opportunity for everyone.”
The second round of applause was louder. Radcliffe stepped toward the door. A girl in a flowery print sundress clung to his hand. Mullins realized she’d been blocked from his view by the angle of the podium. She grasped the latch, and by pre-arranged signal, the door swung open. As she, her mother, and the chairman entered, security officers fanned out to shepherd the visitors inside to the screening devices ready to clear them through.
Mullins relaxed. If an exterior assault was planned, the best opportunity had passed.
He mingled with the crowd on the lawn and checked new pedestrians as they came from the sidewalks. After the first thirty minutes, one of the Federal Reserve security officers grew suspicious that Mullins didn’t join the line. As the man approached, Mullins broke his promise to his boss and flashed his Prime Protection ID. The man nodded, and from then on, no one bothered him.
The time neared eleven-thirty. If the theory of a coordinated attack at noon Eastern time was true, then some element, a truck, a van, a suicide bomber must be moving into place. The stream of visitors was steady, but not overwhelming. The lemonade and water stations kept people hydrated, and the wait to enter hovered between fifteen and twenty minutes. That meant the perpetrator of an interior attack would need to be in line within the next five to ten minutes.
His cellphone rang.
“Something’s happening. Meet me at the car now.” Amanda spoke the two sentences calmly, but her understated tone made them all the more ominous.
Mullins headed toward C Street. “Copy that.” As he dropped his phone in his coat pocket, he noticed the exterior security team still patrolling the lawn. He could see from the signs in their posture and movements that there was no heightened alert. “I’m meeting Amanda at her car,” he said to no one around him. “Whatever’s going down must be offsite. Repeat, offsite.”