The Last Line (47 page)

“None taken. I'm beginning to agree with you.”

“Oh?”

She sighed. “Last night you told me that U.S. intelligence is our last line of defense for this country, before we have to take overt action or get into a war. But from where I sit the Agency is a lot more worried about its bureaucratic turf than it is about an enemy attack. It's … discouraging.”

“Yeah, it is that,” Teller agreed. “All we can do is keep soldiering, and try to figure out the next best thing we should do. At this point
we
are the line.”

“So what
is
the next thing we do?” Walthers asked.

“We get in touch with INSCOM and NEST HQ,” Teller decided. “Let them know what we've come up with. Suggest NEST concentrate most of its search effort around the Pentagon, the Capitol Building and the nearby offices, the White House … maybe the Federal Reserve, too. That'll cut the search area down by a hell of a lot.”

“And us?”

Teller looked at the big screen, which showed yet another gray-tone image of a ghostly car and its naked passengers. No suitcase nukes. No weapons.
Nothing …

“Let's head downtown,” Teller said. “Who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky.”

REYSHAHRI

MARYLAND AVENUE NE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

0815 HOURS, EDT

“Okay, I admit it,” Moslehi said from behind the wheel. He was grinning. “You were right. Look!”

The stately white dome of the Capitol Building had just emerged from behind the trees and varicolored row houses lining the sidewalk. Reyshahri estimated that it was now less than a kilometer away. He glanced at his watch. It had been a long and exhausting drive—almost three hours to work through the traffic from outside the Beltway. On the car's radio, a morning news broadcast was talking about the ongoing riots in California, about declarations of martial law and the use of federal troops.

After passing the NSA, he'd ordered Moslehi to take an exit onto something called Powder Mill Road, winding tree lined across the Maryland countryside. Traffic here was still heavy—many other drivers, apparently, had had the same idea—but at least it was moving. Eventually, they'd reached Beltsville, Maryland, where they'd picked up an old friend—U.S. Route 1—and turned south.

They'd made a right onto Rhode Island Avenue shortly after that, to avoid the gridlock building up around the Washington Beltway. When they passed under the Beltway a short time later, they'd been able to see the mass of vehicles frozen motionless on the overpass. For the next hour and a half they'd zigzagged through the narrow streets of suburban communities like College Park, Mount Rainier, and Arboretum, still in bumper-to-bumper traffic, edging along from stop sign to stop sign, but at least
moving.

After working their way through a suburb called Trinidad, they'd turned right onto Maryland Avenue NE, just two and a half kilometers from their destination.

With Moslehi at the wheel, Reyshahri could study the people they passed on the sidewalks. It had occurred to him some distance back that all of the faces he was seeing were
black …
and that bothered him.

Although he'd been in the United States before, this mission was his first time in the country's capital. His training back in Iran had presented the United States as sharply divided between the rich whites, who controlled all business, all government, all banks and all religious institutions, and the vast ocean of black and Latino people at the bottom of the social and economic ladder. He'd seen the poverty, the stark desperation, of the Chicano population in California. In Tehran they'd taught him that the plight of American blacks was even worse, that not only were they were desperately poor but that the Muslims among them were prevented from following their faith.

Somehow, what he was seeing on the streets of northeastern Washington didn't match the image he'd carried in his head. The streets were clean and lined with trees, the houses neat, the people well dressed. Automobiles were parked end to end on the streets—few of them brand-new, but few rusted and worn, either. Compared to the poorest classes in his own country, these people were fabulously wealthy.

The thought that by tomorrow most of these people, these
innocents,
would be dead or dying was disturbing.

Past Stanton Park, more and more of the faces on the sidewalks were white. Now the Capitol Dome rose directly ahead—the seat of American political power both in America and throughout the world.

Constitution Avenue NE came in from the left. A man in shorts and a T-shirt and carrying a bottle of water jogged past on the right. On the other side of the street, a group of twenty or thirty kids straggled along the sidewalk, moving toward the Capitol Dome—part of a school field trip, no doubt. Reyshahri had heard the term “tourist Washington,” but never really understood it.

Reyshahri told himself that it was …
necessary,
sometimes, that the innocent die for the greater good.

“Start looking for a parking place,” Hamadi said. “We're close enough now.”

“No parking … no parking…” Moslehi said, reading signs. “No parking…”

The Senate office buildings went by on the right. Then they passed an entrance to the Capitol Building on their left—with stop signs, barriers, and a guard shack manned by several men in blue uniforms, bulletproof vests, and automatic weapons. More heavily armed guards were at the entrance to the offices on the right, watching the traffic. Security was tighter than Reyshahri had thought it would be. Was that because the city had been alerted? Or was it always this way?

Parking was allowed in front of Upper Senate Park, but every space was full. They kept driving, past heavily tree-lined parks. At First Street NW they turned left, driving slowly between the Capitol Building and the Capitol Reflecting Pool. No parking … and police up ahead were erecting some sort of barricade.

“We should just detonate now!” Hamadi said. “They are searching traffic!”

“This is not a suicide mission, Mohamed,” Reyshahri told him. “We plant the weapons, we walk away, we detonate them by remote control.
That
is the plan.”

The line of cars going south on First Street had stopped. A large white van was coming toward them on the left, moving north.

“Besides, the weapons must be armed,” Gallardo said.

“Turn right here,” Reyshahri said. It was the beginning of Pennsylvania Avenue. The street had only one lane going each way, but there were four lanes given over to diagonal parking, one to each side and two in the middle.

Better yet, there was a construction site on the right, at the corner of Constitution Avenue and Third Street NW.

With parking spaces. “There,” Reyshahri said. “Pull in there.”

As Moslehi parked, Reyshahri turned to face the two men in the back. “Underneath the front seats,” he said. “Pull out the plastic vests.”

“What are these?” Gallardo asked.

“Your disguises. Put them on, then get out of the car.”

Reyshahri could hear the fluttering roar of a helicopter nearby.

“Drop the weapon in that Dumpster over there, then get back in the car. We don't have much time.”

NEST 2/2

OVER HOUSE WEST FOUNTAIN

0852 HOURS, EDT

“Jackpot!” Walthers cried. “One of our units tagged them!”

“Where?” Teller demanded.

“Close! In front of the Capitol Building.”

The scan image was coming through on the screen, relayed from one of the ZBVs patrolling the area immediately around Capitol Hill. The target was a ghosted four-door sedan, with four male passengers. Two bright white masses, like thick, heavy suitcases or travel trunks, were riding side by side in the trunk.

“
Both
of them!” Dominique exclaimed.

“Get us over there!” Teller ordered.

Walthers talked to the pilot, and the helicopter started to rise.

“Damn it!” Walthers cried. “They
lost
them! The target turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue and they
lost
them!”

The Super Stallion was rising now, passing low above the Rayburn Building. They'd been flying south of the Capitol Dome, searching vehicles along D Street SE from the air.

“Did they get a license?”

“Negative! You can't
see
a license plate on the backscatter, or the color—and by the time they reached the police on the ground, the vehicle had disappeared!”

Teller looked out of a port-side window. The distinctive glass roofs of the United States Botanic Garden passed below, then the green waters of the Capitol Reflecting Pool.

“Get us over Pennsylvania Avenue,” Teller said, “and start scanning cars!”

REYSHAHRI

PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE NW

WASHINGTON, D.C.

0853 HOURS, EDT

They'd backed into one of the diagonal spaces, and Moslehi and Hamadi had gotten out of the car. Each was wearing a bright, yellow green plastic vest of the sort worn by D.C. construction workers, and a white helmet. Operation Shah Mat had never been intended to be a suicide mission. The idea was to plant a weapon, arm it, then drive off, using a cell phone trigger to detonate it later from a safe distance. Where the weapon was to be planted had been left up to the operatives. Favored hiding places included on the street underneath a parked car, tucked away in the corner of a public parking garage, or inside a Dumpster at one of the construction sites that so heavily populated official Washington. Because each weapon was so heavy and bulky—sixty-five pounds—Reyshahri had acquired the construction helmets and vests when he and Moslehi had passed through Washington a couple of days ago. His contact here, the man who'd called himself “Duke,” had gotten them somehow and passed them on to him in the yellow plastic bag at the park bench on the Mall.

It was a good disguise. Americans, Reyshahri had noted, never paid attention to people whom they assumed belonged there. Two men hauling a heavy case across a sidewalk or tossing it into a Dumpster would be suspicious—but if they looked like city workers, then passersby, even police or security guards nearby, wouldn't give them a second glance.

The helicopter's roar was getting louder. Looking back over his shoulder, Reyshahri saw the black aircraft coming low across the Reflecting Pool, its rotor wash lashing the water into a white frenzy. “Arm the bombs!” Reyshahri screamed.
“Arm the bombs!”

NEST 2/2

OVER THE CAPITOL REFLECTING POOL

0853 HOURS, EDT

“Damn it, I can't
see
!”

Teller wished he could be up in the cockpit, where they would have a decent view of Pennsylvania Avenue. The backscatter scanner was too slow to show what was happening in real time; Kaminsky touched a control, and three parked ghost-cars slowly drew themselves on the screen side by side … all empty.

“We need someone on the ground!” Teller said. “Tell the pilot to find a clear spot to hover, and drop the rear ramp!”

Dominique saw him draw his pistol and chamber a round. “I'm coming, too!” she said.

“No!” he told her. “I want you to coordinate with the police and other NEST units! Tell them we have the bad guys spotted, and where. Have them cordon the area off.” He looked at Walthers. “After he drops me off, have the pilot pull back. Two miles at least.”

“Damn it, Chris, that's sexist bullshit!”

“No. It's command-control bullshit! If this goes bad here, we need someone in the air to coordinate the search at the Pentagon.”

And yeah,
he thought,
I don't want you caught in the blast, Jackie.
He didn't say that out loud.

“I got them!” Kaminsky yelled. “On the big display screen, a ghosted car slowly appeared. Two men sat in front, while two bent over the opaque white suitcases in the trunk, comically nude.

“Get me down there, close as you can!” Teller yelled. He grabbed a startled Dominique with one arm, pulled her close, and kissed her hard. “See ya!” he said.

The rear ramp was grinding open, flooding the rear of the Super Stallion's cargo deck with morning light. Holding the pistol, Teller trotted down to the end, dropped to his knees, and peered out. He was over the broad, curving esplanade along the western edge of the Reflecting Pool. He took a moment to judge the helicopter's forward drift, then rolled off the ramp, dropping five feet to the pavement.

He hit with a sharp jolt but took the shock with flexing knees, collapsed into a roll, and nearly went into the pool. The helicopter thunder grew louder as the aircraft began moving forward and up once more, the rotor wash a living thing tearing at Teller's clothes and exposed skin.

Just ahead, the esplanade opened onto Pennsylvania Avenue NW. Teller turned left and jogged onto a patch of green parkland with scattered trees, a part of the landscaping surrounding the eastern end of the Washington Mall.

He could see all the way down the Mall from here, a distance of over a mile to the slender white needle of the Washington Monument thrusting into the morning light. Dodging in among the trees, he crested a low rise, jogging toward the intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue with 3rd Street NW.

And then he saw them—sixty yards ahead, two men in bright yellow vests and white helmets standing by the open trunk of a white four-door sedan. One was holding something like a large fat suitcase, balancing it over his shoulder. Both men were distracted, staring up into the sky as the Super Stallion peeled away toward the northeast.

He had to get closer. Sixty yards is a
long
reach for a handgun, with little guarantee of accuracy. Holding the .45 Glock in both hands, he bent into a crouch and started zigzagging between the parked cars.

One of the Tangos, the one without a suitcase nuke on his back, saw him and pulled a handgun of his own from beneath his shirttail. The other was lugging the heavy suitcase across the sidewalk, angling toward a construction Dumpster on the grass.