Memorial Day (35 page)

POTOMAC-RIVER

Saturday morning dawned with heavy gray skies and a steady rain that peppered the calm surface of the bay. The hypnotic effect of the rain falling on the water served as the perfect backdrop for their morning prayer. They'd made their way down the York River and out into the Chesapeake under the cover of darkness, and were now headed north. The thirty-seven-foot cabin cruiser owned by Mr. Hansen was more than up to the task, especially on calm seas. Its GPS navigation system helped them to maneuver through these foreign waters.

Like al-Yamani, Hasan and Khaled had also learned basic seaman-ship on the Caspian. They had been in charge of receiving and preparing the fresh martyrs who were shipped in from around the region. They would house them for a day or two, waiting for al-Yamani to return with the flat-bottom barge, and then they would have nothing to do until the next batch arrived. During those inactive times they were ordered to learn the ways of the water. Money was not an issue, so whenever the opportunity arose, they would rent a boat and practice on the calm waters of Gorgan Bay at the southeast edge of the Caspian.

Despite everything they'd learned, though, there was no way they could have memorized the craggy outline and bays and inlets of the Chesapeake. The GPS and chart that was onboard had been lifesavers, for they had never planned on navigating this body of water at all. The original plan had called for them to put in at Dahlgren on the Potomac River forty miles due south of Washington. The route following the river was a bit longer, but not significant compared to the 200 miles they now had to travel in the rain and with poor visibility.

Al-Yamani was on his knees, but he was not praying. He was in the head, throwing up yet again and it was not a pretty sight. He could no longer keep down even a morsel of food. His thirst was insatiable, but with every cup of water came more vomiting, and the fluid had gone from a pinkish tinge to dark crimson. He placed his hand on the edge of the tiny toilet and locked his elbows as he braced himself for another stomach-tearing hurl.

The wave of nausea passed, and al-Yamani was left hovering over the toilet, a thick dribble of blood and spit hanging from his mouth. His entire body was covered in sweat and he was shaking. This would be his last day on earth, whether they succeeded or not, but he did not believe they would fail. Not after yesterday. Allah was guiding them, showing them a safe passage to their destiny.

They were all going to die. He had been forced to lie to the scientist about that, but he felt no shame in doing so. Certain people were not strong enough to handle the truth. The scientist had spent most of the trip sitting in the bed up under the bow of the ship, as far away from the bomb as possible. Zubair had been adamant that the bomb be lashed to the fiberglass swim platform at the aft of the vessel. Even though they'd gone to great lengths to shield it, the weapon was still giving off significant radiation. Because of that it had to be placed downwind and as far away from them as possible.

The scientist had asked what the plan was once they got to Washington. Al-Yamani told him they would set the timer on the bomb, dock the boat, and then leave.How would they get away? the Pakistani wanted to know. Al-Yamani told him someone would be waiting for them. It was another lie, but one that the Pakistani would never know, because he would be dead before they reached the city.

Khaled came down the stairs into the small cabin and stood over al-Yamani. "We are nearing the river."

Al-Yamani barely had the strength to stand. He held up his arm so Khaled could help him to his feet. "Is it still raining?"

"Yes."

Even with the help of Khaled it was a struggle to stand. Al-Yamani began working his way up the stairs with Khaled both pushing and holding him from behind. When they reached the helm he sat down on the bench seat next to Hasan who was driving.

Al-Yamani peered through the rain-spattered windshield and waited for the wiper blade to come around and give him a glimpse of what lay ahead. "Any sign of trouble?"

"No, but we aren't quite there yet."

"Where is the river?"

"According to the GPS it's up there on the left about another mile."

Al-Yamani couldn't see anything but he trusted his fellow warrior.

"If you see any sign of trouble we will continue past the mouth and then decide whether we should proceed to Baltimore or try again."

"I know. Maybe we should have the scientist arm the weapon."

Al-Yamani had thought of this, but was reluctant. He did not know if the bad weather would end up forcing a postponement of the dedication of the memorial or not, and until he knew for sure he wanted to wait. "Have you learned anything of the weather?"

Hasan kept his eyes on the water, but pointed to the radio controls. "They don't know if it is going to clear or not. They are giving it a fifty percent chance by this afternoon."

Less than a minute later they came up on the channel marker to enter the Potomac. The going had been slower than anticipated during the night, and Hasan had had to compensate by running at a faster speed while they were out in the bay. He pulled back on the throttles taking the boat down from its cruising speed of thirty mph to around five mph. There wasn't a boat in sight.

Both men smiled. "How long until we lay our eyes on the city?" asked al-Yamani.

"We will be there by noon. A full hour before the ceremony is to commence."

Al-Yamani grinned with anticipation. "Good."

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was a long night, and morning brought with it more questions than answers. The president had boarded Marine One with the leaders of Great Britain and Russia and their wives and left for Camp David. Irene Kennedy, National Security Advisor Haik, Secretary of State Berg, and Chief of Staff Jones had all taken a separate helicopter from the Pentagon's heliport and met the president at the secure underground Site R, near Camp David, where they were now safely monitoring the situation. Before they all left the Situation Room, though, Rapp had forcibly commandeered Jones's mobile phone.

At daybreak Rapp had dispatched Secretary of Defense Culbertson to Site R to help bolster Kennedy and Haik's sway over the president and negate that of Berg and a diminished Jones. Even though Jones had been severely embarrassed at the midnight meeting, she was not the type of person to just quietly fade away. Rapp had a feeling before this was all over she would once again be chirping in the president's ear poisoning his judgment with her usual politically tainted advice. Rapp appraised Secretary Defense Culbertson of this concern, and Culbertson gave Rapp his word that he would deal with Jones harshly if she tried to pull anything. He also promised that the military would monitor all calls she made or received from Site R.

The remaining attendees of the midnight meeting in the Situation Room, FBI Director Roach, Attorney General Stokes, Peggy Stealey, McMahon, and Rapp, all left for the Joint Counterterrorism Center. Rapp made it crystal clear to everyone that there were to be no personal calls. Absolutely no one outside of the core group was to know the real reason why the president and his guests had returned to Camp David. If the press got wind of what was going on they would simply have to endure a repeat of what had happened earlier in the week. Only this time it might precipitate the premature detonation of the device. With that in mind he also commandeered Stealey's mobile phone.

When the president was safe at Camp David, Rapp honored his word and explained to him over the phone the details of what he'd discovered. The terrorist they had captured in Charleston had confessed that the bomb was to be detonated at noon this coming Tuesday in New York City, not Washington, D.C. It was to be the second act in a terrorist attack that was to wreak havoc on the American psyche, economy, and very soul. The first act was to take place at 1:00 p.m. today during the dedication of the WWII memorial. It was designed not only to destroy the city but to decapitate the federal government by killing the president and the other senior officials and politicians who were to attend the event. The allied leaders who were set to attend were a bonus. The follow-up attack on Tuesday was designed to make sure the American economy slipped into a depression. Shockingly, the planners of the terrorist attack had not taken into consideration a possible nuclear retaliation by America. Such was the thinking of martyrs.

Rapp, McMahon, and Reimer all argued forcefully that any evacuation of either city would hinder their search for the weapon and more than likely precipitate the attack. As morning approached, the Russians now found a second test site that had been excavated, despite their initial report that only one site had seen compromised. Records showed that this portion of the range had been used to test warheads for the Russian navy. This spot in particular had been the location of a failed test for a fifteen kiloton warhead to be used in a torpedo. Near the excavation they found a shallow grave containing at least fifty bodies and probably more.

Based on the radiation signatures at the site in Kazakhstan and those found on the trailer and truck in Atlanta, Reimer believed that they were dealing with a very unstable configuration of nuclear material, a warhead that was throwing off large doses of radiation. It would be much easier for his NEST teams to find than he had originally feared. That had been the assessment at three in the morning, but now as the clock inched toward midmorning Rapp's assuredness, at least, was beginning to wane.

A combat air patrol was up over the city, surface-to-air-missile batteries were activated at both the Pentagon and the Capitol, the no-fly zone around the city had been expanded to forty miles, and every airport within 200 miles was under close scrutiny by an airborne early-warning AWACS. The door-to-door search by the local law enforcement agencies down by Richmond had so far come up blank, and the NEST teams, contrary to what they had hoped, had yet to get a hit on the device. Reimer explained that it had something to do with the rain affecting the sensors that were carried aboard the helicopter that was patrolling the area south and east of Richmond.

On a more positive note, though, the rain was keeping people from coming into the city for the dedication of the new WWII memorial and the festivities that were to culminate with a rock concert and fire-works display after dark. The Park Police estimated that upwards of 500,000 people would attend the event from start to finish. It was slated to begin at 11:00 a.m. So far, the only people who had showed up on the Mall were the vendors, event security, and a handful of die-hard fans who wanted to stake their claim to a front-row seat for the various acts that were to start midafternoon and continue well into the evening.

Every law enforcement officer on the East Coast had the sketch of al-Yamani, the passport photo of the Pakistani nuclear scientist, the photo of the cab driver, and the fake driver's license that had been left behind at the traffic stop in Richmond. After pouring through the CIA's terrorist database with facial-recognition software, they were now confident that the man on the fake license was Hasan Abdul-Aziz, a Saudi national who hailed from the notorious al-Baha province.

The area between Richmond and Norfolk was flooded with cops, all looking for the fugitives. Nowhere though, were the wordsnuclear, orweapon of mass destruction mentioned. This was strictly a manhunt for a group of suspected terrorists who were considered extremely dangerous. The fact that they were terrorists was kept out of the press releases. The media were told only that the men were wanted for questioning in the attempted murder of a law enforcement officer. The tape of the deputy getting run over by the cab was getting a lot of air time and was the lead story on every local Saturday-morning newscast.

Despite all the news coverage and the blanket thrown down by local law enforcement, they had come up with nothing. Not a single break since yesterday evening. McMahon was standing by the eyewitness accounts of the two people who had seen the cab and the truck, but Rapp had his doubts. Eitherthey were mistaken or the police were. McMahon had relayed the fact that the local sheriff thought these guys were probably holed up in the woods somewhere.

Again, Rapp had his doubts, and he was growing more nervous with each passing tick of the clock. The president had laid down a noon deadline. If they hadn't found the weapon by then, he would implement Operation Ark to ensure full continuity of government and operations. Once that happened, the cat would be out of the bag. It was simply impossible to ask that many people to keep a secret.

Rapp was sitting in the conference room off to the side of CT Watch with his feet up on the table. The shower he had taken only an hour ago down in the locker room, and the change of clothes, helped revive him a bit. He'd ditched his suit and was wearing a pair of khaki cargo pants, a dark blue T-shirt, and a tactical vest stuffed with two mobile phones, spare batteries, a headset, and other important items. He was used to going without sleep, but he was starting to get a little jumpy. He was drinking a cup of coffee an hour on average and the gut rot was beginning to set in.

He ignored the jumpiness and told himself that either way this thing would be over in three to six hours. He scratched the thick black stubble on his face and looked at a fresh sheaf of documents in his other hand. Dr. Akram had just faxed him the transcripts from the session he'd had with al-Adel. Apparently, the man was cooperating. Akram had him hooked up to a polygraph while interrogating him and had so far only caught him lying once. The good doctor stopped the interrogation and told al-Adel that unless he wanted Mr. Rapp to take over with the questioning, he should refrain from any more lies. From that point forward Mr. al-Adel had chosen to tell the truth.

Rapp was in the midst of a section detailing how the attack in New York was to be carried out when McMahon and Stealey appeared in the doorway. They were an awkward-looking pair, McMahon in his short-sleeve white button-down shirt and dull tie that stopped a full inch above his belt buckle, and Stealey in her shimmering robin's-egg blue evening gown. She had tried to go home earlier to change, but Rapp had said no. CT Watch was under lockdown. He'd already taken her mobile phone, and he wasn't about to let her out of his sight. He'd finally relented an hour ago to send someone else to gather some things for her.

"We've got a problem," McMahon said.

Rapp laid the transcript on the table and asked, "What's up?"

"Tony Jackson," said Stealey, as she folded her arms across her chest, causing her breasts to swell. "Mr. al-Adel's attorney is raising quite a stink."

Rapp couldn't help but notice that this lawyer liked to show off her cleavage. "Right now I'm a little more concerned about finding a nuclear bomb. Mr. Jackson is not a problem."

"Yes he is," said Stealey in a combative tone. "I've already assured him three times since last night that his client is safe and unharmed. He is unharmed, isn't he?"

Rapp shrugged. "He's missing a few fingers, but other than that he's fine."

Stealey's eyes opened wide. "You're not serious?"

"No, I'm not. He's fine. Not a mark on him."

She tapped her foot on the ground, and glared at Rapp. "The attorney general's office is getting bombarded by calls asking where al-Adel is, and why we're not allowing Tony Jackson to see his client."

"Peggy, let me be real clear about this. I don't give a shit." There was an edge of irritation in Rapp's voice. "Tell this attorney to go fuck himself. I've got more important things to deal with."

Stealey glared right back at Rapp. "You can go ahead and tell him yourself, Mr. Big Shot. I told him you're the man in charge. Go ahead," she pointed at the phone, "he's holding on line three."

Rapp hesitated for only a second and then grabbed the phone and pressed the red blinking light. "Mr. Jackson, this is Mitch Rapp."

Stealey's stern face turned into a grin of anticipation. She could already tell that Jackson was unloading on Rapp. She watched eagerly, wanting to see how the notorious Mitch Rapp handled one of the best trial lawyers in the country.

"Mr. Jackson, if you shut your mouth for a second I'll explain. Are you recording this call?" Rapp listened to the lawyer's reply. "Good. Here's the deal. Your client is guilty. Come Tuesday morning certain information will be made public, and when that happens I can promise you that you will wish you'd never met Ahmed al-Adel." Rapp listened for a few seconds and then laughed. "No, Mr. Jackson, that wasn't a threat. If I thought you were a real problem, I wouldn't waste my time threatening you...you'd just simply disappear."

Rapp hung up the phone and looked up at Stealey. "There, are you happy?"

As Stealey looked back at Rapp she decided right then and there that she wanted to sleep with him. She had never seen anyone so confident and sure of himself, and at the same time so utterly reckless. There was a laserlike focus about him. He simply didn't care what anyone else thought. The fact that he was married didn't bother her in the slightest. In certain ways it made the proposition even more exciting, more dangerous. Before she had the chance to come up with a good line, one of McMahon's agents came running up.

The young female agent announced, "The New Kent County Sheriff's Department just called. They think they've located the cab and the truck."